Part Thirteen: Double Dipping

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One thing I've always found amazing is the guy or the gal who can successfully and without guilt pull off dating two, three, even more people at the same time. Apparently, this is perfectly acceptable behavior. The word "dating" in and of itself implies an open-ended relationship of sorts, a test-drive, if you will. I've known people who have major hang-ups about cheating who see nothing wrong going out with Ted on Thursday night, Fred on Friday night and experimenting with Sally on Saturday night--as long as it's only DATING.

And, typically, as long as these people live in different zip codes and/or area codes. I'm sure you've all heard a variation of that rule. If you are in the midst of test-driving more than one person, it's best for reasons of sanity and simplicity, that those people live in a different "code." Not so oddly, the fact that people do this seems to suggest that even the folks who are okay with dating around realize there's something not quite kosher about dating around.

Me? I can't do it. Try as I might, I can't do it. Don't get me wrong. If I'm catting about, if I'm in one of my "running-ass" cycles, I've got no problem with SLEEPING around with different people. But as with the Friend Zone and Friends with Benefits, sleeping around and dating around are two entirely different things.

And dating around is really difficult for me. There are two reasons distinct reasons for this.

The first is that typically, I'm a romantic sort of fool who puts all of his little dating eggs in one little dating basket. When I crush, I crush hard and I've got little interest in some other girl. By the end of the first date, I'm planning both the wedding and the divorce, but until then, I've got very little interest in other chikadees.

The second is, simply, the fear of getting "busted." Sure, maybe you have an "understanding" with the other person, maybe you've sat there and both said "We're free to date other people." But let's be real, you've probably both avoided any such conversation and one party assumes he or she still has a grace period, that since it's "dating" it's not an exclusive relationship. (And the other party is drawing up the list of wedding invites.) Even if you say you're open to an open relationship, you think it's all fine and dandy if you're allowed to cat around, but the thought of the other person possibly finding pleasure in someone else's company--while a completely rational thought--bugs the shit out of you. And, because THAT bugs the shit out of you, you assume it would bug the shit out of the other person, so when out a date with Girl or Guy No. 2, you secretly pray NOT to run into Girl or Guy No. 1. Because you're a decent person and don't want anyone to get hurt. Or, probably, you just don't want to get "caught" and fear looking like a jerk.

I don't know if I've ever had to deal with this in my life. I typically keep myself out of these situations. Guilt, fear of getting caught ... as someone born and raised Catholic, those things can't be underestimated (Can I get a shout out from the Jews, too, my brothers and sisters in Guilt as a Fundamental Building Block of your upbringing? HOLLA!)

Case in point (imagine wavy, Wayne and Garth flash-back lines here). A few years back, a new coworker came into the office (and I can't begin to tell you how depressing it is to say "a few years back" in relation to a job), a sassy young tart, who liked to flirt with yours truly. Okay. She was an intern at the time. Half of you assume I cruise the local high schools for jailbait anyway, so fine, she was the intern.

At any rate, after a couple months or so of flirting and whatnot, a Friday night finds us at a bar in Park Slope around the corner from her house. And, after a few drinks, we went back to her place where some relatively PG-13 action went down. I slept over, went home and we went back to our typical office behavior.

Nothing much was said about the night except that it was fun and there seemed to be an understanding that that's all it was. Of course, "seemed to be an understanding" left plenty of room in my mind for the old ego to start working a little. Just a little. Just a "yeah, she digs you" and "just be careful, you don't need a coworker falling in love with you" sort of thing.

So, the next Friday finds me at another bar in Park Slope, this time with my friend Jason. Jason is married and the sole purpose for this night of drinking was to sit there, get drunk and rant and rave about politics and the idiots we work with who yammer on about "root causes" after watching a special on MTV News or something. But at some point in the evening, I make eye contact with a girl. Then conversation with the girl. Then Jason decides to leave. And, eventually, the girl and I decide to leave, go back to her place.

There we are, walking up the street, chatting away about her adoptive parents, and then we make one turn. And then another. And a little voice in my mind starts to get a little louder as coincidence and building numbers meet perfectly to find us standing in front of the building immediately next door to, you guessed it, the coworker. I didn't just violate the zip code and area code rules. I'm at risk of getting fined for violating same-side-of-the-street parking rules.

At this point in the evening, the alcohol was enough to drown out the guilt. After all, coworker and I decidedly weren't dating. Still, I didn't want to get caught ... see the alcohol only inflamed the ego and part of my mind was saying "We must get inside, because coworker would be crushed. CRUSHED." (Never mind the fact that coworker was probably, at that minute, drunkenly making out with someone else.) So into the house we go and neither the guilt or the ego had an impact on that night's doings ... which were decidedly NOT PG-13.

But the next afternoon. There was the perfect storm of hangover and guilt and ego and that unique stupidity that men get after they've had a fair amount of the old in and out (as if we've spent actual brain cells). The young lady is walking me out and I just know what will happen is that she, coworker and I are going to have a meeting out on the stoop and there will be a scene of sorts and fur will fly and...

of course absolutely nothing of the sort happened. I escaped with my life and without hurting anyone in the process. And, as it turned out, as it became clear that coworker was sort of a mirror image of me, that she had NO emotional designs on me and sort of climbed this particular mountain because it was there, I told her about the neighbor and my sort of freak out. And she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

Which, you know, was a little disappointing, because while I was scared of theatrics, it's no fun for the ego when a girl DOESN'T cry and get pissed and act as if the sun set and rose above your big noggin.

And that, my friends, is just an example of me dealing with a catting about situation. You can only imagine what a basket-case I turn out to be if I've got an emotional investment going on. I've been told over and over again not to put all my eggs in one basket--that I too often lock myself into one girl, and usually the one girl who's least interested in me at the time. But really, it's the only way I can keep my sanity. And sometimes, in something as nasty and dirty and punishing as the single life is, your sanity is all you've got ... because lord knows you've already given up on your dignity.


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