Dating at Damn Near 50

There are certain pieces of information I feel like you should disclose BEFORE traveling across state lines to spend three days with a woman.

Food allergies.

Outstanding warrants.

Whether you snore like a fucking chainsaw.

And—

I don't know—

A WIFE.

Call me old-fashioned.

Welcome back to Dating at Damn Near 50: The Dating Chronicles, where if the date doesn't work out, at least the story will.

Today's contestant came courtesy of Facebook Dating.

Of course he did.

Part 3 Mr. Technically Separated

At this point, Facebook Dating should receive an executive producer credit on this series because that motherfucker keeps providing material.

When we matched, everything seemed normal.

Actually, better than normal.

He was attractive.

Conversation was easy.

He seemed mature.

He seemed established.

He had a career.

He was a massage therapist.

And most importantly, we clicked almost immediately.

Now, if you've been dating long enough, you know how rare that is.

You can match with 30 people and have the conversational equivalent of watching paint dry.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Wyd?”

“Working.”

“Cool.”

And then you stare at your phone wondering whether dying alone with a really nice comforter might actually be preferable.

But every once in a while, you meet somebody where the conversation just FLOWS.

That was him.

We talked.

We laughed.

We got to know each other.

There wasn't that awkward feeling of having to drag information out of somebody like you're conducting a deposition.

And after about two weeks of talking, he decided to come visit me.

He lived in Oklahoma.

I lived in Kansas.

So this wasn't:

“Hey, I'm around the corner. Want to grab coffee?”

This man was traveling to another state.

To see ME.

Okayyyyy.

I liked that.

Effort gets my attention.

He came down and spent three whole days with me.

And let me tell you something.

THIS MAN KNEW HIS PROFESSION.

When somebody tells you they're a massage therapist, there's always that tiny part of your brain wondering whether they're actually licensed or whether they watched six YouTube videos and bought some lavender oil from Walmart.

No.

This motherfucker knew what he was doing.

I got massaged from A to motherfucking Z.

At one point this man prepared me a whole bath situation with fruit and shit.

FRUIT.

I don't even know what all was happening.

I just knew I was sitting there thinking:

Oh, this is what we're doing?

Because apparently I'd accidentally checked into a resort.

Bath.

Fruit.

Massage.

Attention.

Affection.

Conversation.

And let's just say the rest of those three days was...

very adult.

We enjoyed each other's company.

Repeatedly.

That's all the federal government needs to know.

And somewhere during those three days, something dangerous started happening.

I started liking his ass.

Not planning-a-wedding liking him.

Nobody had ordered centerpieces.

But enough to think:

Wait a minute.

Could this actually be something?

Because sometimes you meet somebody and the chemistry is so natural that your brain starts quietly reconsidering the dating apps.

Maybe I don't need to keep looking.

Maybe I actually met somebody.

Maybe this could develop into something real.

Maybe—

And this is where life usually taps me on the shoulder and says:

Bitch, don't get ahead of yourself.

Because Day Three arrived.

His last day.

He's getting ready to head back to Oklahoma.

Before he leaves, we decide we're going to walk around a park.

We're sitting outside.

Beautiful little normal moment.

I'm probably still mentally reviewing my three-day luxury massage package.

And somewhere during this conversation, this man decides NOW would be the appropriate time to provide one tiny administrative update.

“Oh, I still live with my wife.”

...

I'm sorry.

Your WHAT?

Your wife?

WIFE?

Sir, I distinctly remember hearing the word divorced.

Divorced and “I go home to the house where my wife lives” are two extremely different relationship statuses.

One means the marriage is legally over.

The other means if I mail you a Christmas card, there is a possibility YOUR WIFE WILL OPEN IT.

So now I'm sitting in this park trying to figure out whether I misunderstood the English language.

“You still live with your wife?”

Yes.

Apparently he did.

With his wife.

And the kids.

At their house.

The same house he was about to drive back to after spending three days with me in Kansas.

Oh.

Well.

That's fucking fantastic.

And here's what pissed me off more than anything:

You knew this before you came.

You knew it when we matched.

You knew it during those two weeks of conversations.

You knew it while you were planning the trip.

You knew it while you were driving from Oklahoma to Kansas.

You knew it when you arrived.

You knew it on Day One.

You knew it on Day Two.

You knew it during my damn fruit bath.

But somehow the appropriate disclosure window didn't open until you were practically loading your shit back into the car?

Sir.

Absolutely the fuck not.

Because this is the thing people don't understand about withholding information.

You can call it whatever you want.

“I didn't lie.”

“You didn't ask.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“I was waiting for the right time.”

No.

You withheld information that you knew could affect my decision.

That's the problem.

Had you told me BEFORE coming:

“Hey, I need to be completely transparent. I'm separated from my wife, but financially I haven't been able to move out yet, so we're still living in the same house.”

Now I have information.

I get to decide what I want to do with it.

Maybe I say:

“Okay, I understand. Let's keep talking.”

Maybe I say:

“Absolutely not. Call me when you have your own address.”

Maybe I ask questions.

Maybe I don't.

But that decision belongs to ME.

Instead, you let me believe I was dealing with a divorced man.

You allowed the relationship to progress based on that understanding.

You came into my home.

You spent three days with me.

You got access to parts of me—emotionally and otherwise—that I might not have given you had I known the entire situation.

THEN you told me.

That's not transparency.

That's a fucking post-credit scene.

And naturally, once the bomb dropped, here came the explanation.

Because there's ALWAYS an explanation.

He told me the relationship was over.

They weren't really together.

He was genuinely interested in me.

He wanted something with me.

The reason he hadn't moved out yet was financial.

He couldn't afford to immediately get another place.

And listen.

Life happens.

Divorce is complicated.

Separation can be messy.

Housing is expensive.

People can absolutely be emotionally finished with a marriage before their living arrangements catch up.

I understand all of that.

What I didn't understand was why I had to find out on fucking Day Three.

That's what he couldn't fix.

Because now everything before the confession had an asterisk beside it.

Every conversation.

Every explanation.

Every story.

Everything he'd told me about himself.

Now my brain was going:

Was THAT true?

What about THAT?

Did he leave something out of THAT story too?

Trust is funny like that.

It can take weeks or months to build, and one sentence can knock the legs out from underneath the entire table.

Eventually, he drove back to Oklahoma.

Back home.

Where his wife lived.

Just saying that sentence sounds ridiculous.

And once he got there, he started trying to repair the damage.

I'll give the man this:

He put in some effort.

Flowers started arriving.

Not random grocery-store flowers either.

He remembered what I liked.

Roses.

Sunflowers.

My favorites.

He'd order them through DoorDash from Oklahoma and have them delivered to me in Kansas.

Sometimes he'd send me food.

Little gestures.

Things meant to say:

I'm thinking about you.

I'm serious about you.

Please don't throw my application directly into the trash.

And under different circumstances?

That would've been sweet.

Hell, it WAS sweet.

But flowers cannot answer the question I kept having:

Why didn't you tell me before you came?

A sunflower can't explain that.

A rose can't fix it.

DoorDash can't deliver restored trust.

You can send me every entrée in the restaurant, but eventually I'm going to finish eating and remember:

Oh yeah. This motherfucker still lives with his wife.

He was supposed to come back to Kansas a couple of weeks later.

That visit never happened.

Because I couldn't get past it.

And eventually I stopped dealing with him altogether.

That first trip became his first AND last visit.

Not because he lived in Oklahoma.

Not because he had children.

Not even necessarily because he was still sharing a home with the woman he said he was separated from.

It was because he took away my ability to make an informed decision about what I was walking into.

He decided when I deserved to know.

And conveniently, I deserved to know AFTER he'd already gotten what he wanted from the weekend.

That's what made it impossible for me to trust him afterward.

Maybe everything he told me about the marriage was true.

Maybe they really were separated.

Maybe finances genuinely were the only reason they still lived together.

Maybe he really did see something special in me.

All of that could be true.

But once somebody shows you they're willing to leave out a major piece of information until it benefits them to reveal it, you start wondering what else lives in the fine print.

And I'm too grown for fine print.

I'm damn near 50.

If you're married, say you're married.

If you're separated, say you're separated.

If you're divorced, say you're divorced.

If you're separated but still living together, say the WHOLE damn sentence.

Don't give me the relationship status appetizer and wait until dessert to bring out the wife.

Because I might still choose you.

That's the part some people don't understand.

The truth doesn't automatically mean rejection.

Sometimes the lie is what creates the rejection.

Give me the truth and let ME decide whether your circumstances are something I'm willing to deal with.

Don't make the decision for me by hiding the information.

Because eventually the truth always clocks in.

And this particular truth apparently waited until the final day of a three-day visit to start its shift.

So what do we call him?

Mr. Technically Separated.

Because apparently “divorced” now comes with roommates.

And one of them is your wife.

I genuinely hope he eventually figured his situation out.

Maybe he moved.

Maybe the divorce became official.

Maybe he met somebody else.

Maybe he's somewhere right now preparing fruit baths and giving world-class massages to a woman who actually knows his correct marital status.

Good for them.

As for me?

I learned something.

Chemistry can be incredible.

Conversation can be effortless.

Flowers can be beautiful.

Massages can have you seeing Jesus.

And somebody can still be completely wrong for you.

Because none of those things matter if I can't trust what comes out of your mouth.

So Mr. Technically Separated went back to Oklahoma.

I stayed in Kansas.

The flowers eventually died.

The food got eaten.

And whatever possibility I thought we'd found during those first three days disappeared right along with my trust.

But, as always, he left me with one thing.

A story.

And you already know the rule around here:

If the date doesn't work out, at least the story will.

Part 4 Mr. Culture Shock

Welcome back to Dating at Damn Near 50: The Dating Chronicles, where every failed romantic connection has one last opportunity to be useful:

Become content.

And today's contestant?

Oh, this one is complicated.

Because technically, we only went on ONE DATE.

One.

Uno.

Singular.

There are free trials longer than our dating history.

And somehow this man managed to create enough material from that ONE date to stretch across YEARS.

Meet Mr. Culture Shock.

We met on Facebook Dating.

Because apparently Facebook looked at my peaceful existence and said:

You know what Dakota needs? Material.

We matched.

Started talking.

Everything seemed fine.

He was a Black man.

I am a Black woman.

Nothing particularly groundbreaking there.

Except eventually I learned something interesting.

Mr. Culture Shock didn't date Black women.

Not occasionally.

Not “I haven't dated many.”

He had apparently NEVER dated one.

White women were his dating history.

His comfort zone.

His résumé.

His area of expertise.

And apparently I was about to become the diversity initiative.

Wonderful.

No pressure.

Before our first date, he told me he wanted to take me to one of “his spots” in Lee's Summit.

His spot.

Okay.

I like when a man has a plan.

I got dressed.

He arrived.

And immediately I noticed something.

His face.

Now, he didn't technically SAY anything about my outfit.

His mouth behaved beautifully.

His FACE, however, submitted a written complaint.

You know that look somebody gives you when they're trying desperately to make sure their internal monologue doesn't escape through their eyebrows?

That.

Suddenly, the itinerary changed.

His beloved spot in Lee's Summit?

Apparently no longer necessary.

“Oh, we can just go somewhere closer.”

Oh.

Interesting.

Because five minutes ago, Lee's Summit was apparently the fucking promised land.

Now we're staying in the neighborhood?

Okay.

I filed that away.

We went and got barbecue.

Then we went to Main Event, which was right around the corner from where I lived at the time.

We played pool.

Had food.

He had some drinks.

We talked.

We laughed.

And here's where this gets annoying.

The chemistry was actually good.

Like...

Really good.

And neither one of us expected that.

Because sometimes you meet somebody and everything looks compatible on paper, but in person there's nothing.

Then sometimes you meet somebody where you're both probably thinking:

This isn't my person.

But something underneath the conversation keeps going:

Are we sure?

That was us.

There was something there.

Not enough to build a relationship on.

But enough that neither one of us ever completely forgot about it.

Ultimately, we both realized whatever we thought this might become...

It wasn't becoming that.

Fine.

One date.

Nobody died.

Everybody goes home.

End credits.

Except Mr. Culture Shock apparently does not believe in end credits.

Because shortly after our little experiment ended, he got into a relationship.

With a white woman.

Of course he did.

Sir returned immediately to his regularly scheduled programming.

And ordinarily, that would've been the end of my involvement.

Except there was one tiny problem.

THIS MAN KEPT EMAILING ME.

Throughout their relationship.

Not just:

“Hey, hope you're doing well.”

No.

We developed an emotional connection.

So while this man was physically in a relationship with another woman, he was coming to ME for conversations.

Thoughts.

Feelings.

The shit apparently missing somewhere else.

And I kept telling him the same thing.

“You are scared to date a Black woman.”

Because in my opinion, this wasn't simply about attraction.

He was extremely comfortable existing in one particular social and dating environment.

And being publicly involved with me would've raised questions within that environment.

I used to tell him:

“You're so scared to be Black that if you show up somewhere with a Black woman on your arm, you're going to have to answer questions.”

Because apparently everybody around him was accustomed to one version of him.

And here comes me.

Hello.

Plot twist.

He'd swear that wasn't true.

“If I was with you, I'd flaunt you all over Facebook.”

“I wouldn't care what anybody said.”

“I'd answer the questions.”

Sir.

That's a beautiful hypothetical relationship you've built.

Unfortunately, there is a small Caucasian administrative issue standing in the middle of it.

YOUR GIRLFRIEND.

Because while you're telling me everything you WOULD do if you were with me...

YOU ARE STILL WITH HER.

And eventually I realized something.

I had become the emotional side relationship.

There was no physical affair between us.

We weren't sneaking into hotels.

We weren't having sex.

We weren't meeting behind anybody's back.

But emotionally?

This man kept reaching across the fence.

And eventually I got tired of being the woman receiving relationship-level conversations from somebody else's boyfriend.

So I did something.

I sent his girlfriend the emails.

Now before anybody gets excited:

I removed my identifying information.

My contact information was blocked out.

I wasn't trying to start a Lifetime movie.

I wanted her to see what HER boyfriend had been saying.

And then I removed myself.

Good luck, everybody.

God bless.

Please exit through the gift shop.

Mr. Culture Shock and I stopped talking.

Time passed.

Months.

Life continued.

I went back to writing.

Because that's what I do.

I'm a freelance writer, and eventually an opportunity came up involving a television project.

There was interest in using a version of this relationship dynamic as part of the material.

Okay.

Now THAT is funny.

Because this is precisely why you don't behave badly around writers.

Everybody else gets mad.

WE TAKE NOTES.

Suddenly this ridiculous one-date relationship that somehow developed a two-year emotional appendix might actually make me some money.

Look at God.

Except approximately eight or nine months after I'd stopped communicating with this man, something bizarre happened.

His girlfriend appeared.

On my PROFESSIONAL profile.

Under the story.

And commented:

“Cheating looks good on you.”

...

Ma'am.

WHAT?

Cheating?

WHO IS CHEATING?

Because unless somebody had been using my body without notifying me, I hadn't done shit with that man.

We went on ONE date before you were together.

One.

And during your relationship, we emailed.

Was the emotional connection inappropriate?

Absolutely.

That's precisely why I eventually removed myself and gave you the receipts.

But physically?

Baby, there was nothing to investigate.

No secret apartment.

No motel.

No sneaking around.

Nothing.

So why are you on my professional page almost a YEAR later?

Then she emailed me.

And THAT confused me even more.

Because how the hell did you get my email address?

Remember:

I had deliberately removed my identifying information from what I'd previously sent.

So either Inspector Gadget had taken over the investigation...

or somebody gave her information.

And there were only so many people who could've done that.

So now I'm dealing with drama from a relationship I'M NOT EVEN IN.

Do you understand how irritating that is?

I wasn't sleeping with her man.

I wasn't dating her man.

I wasn't trying to steal her man.

At this point, I wasn't even TALKING to her man.

And somehow I'm still appearing in Season Three.

Girl, CANCEL THE SHOW.

MY CHARACTER LEFT LAST SEASON.

Unfortunately, the situation surrounding all of this affected the professional opportunity I had been working on.

And that's where the shit stopped being funny to me.

Because now we're not talking about dating drama.

We're talking about my work.

My writing.

My money.

My professional reputation.

And the person at the center of the entire situation?

Mr. Culture Shock.

Surely he stepped in.

Surely he clarified what happened.

Surely he apologized.

Surely the man who'd spent all that time telling me how much he cared about me said:

“Hey, you shouldn't have been dragged into this.”

...

You must be new here.

Because no.

To this day, I have never received what I consider an actual, direct apology from him for the entire mess.

He says he's apologized.

Maybe he sent that apology by carrier pigeon.

Maybe it's sitting beside my invitation to the Met Gala.

Maybe USPS lost it.

Because I have yet to receive the apology I would've considered appropriate for what happened.

And somehow—

SOMEHOW—

this story is STILL weird.

Because Mr. Culture Shock has told me they're no longer together.

Been broken up for months.

Finished.

Done.

Over.

Okay.

Except every time I turn around, she's uploading another picture of this man.

Sir.

What definition of “broken up” are we using?

Because apparently y'all broke up but forgot to stop being together.

Maybe they're old pictures.

Maybe they're friends.

Maybe their situation is complicated.

And frankly, at this point, I don't care enough to conduct discovery.

Whatever they've got going on belongs to them.

But looking back, the funniest part is that this entire saga began with ONE DATE.

ONE.

I didn't move in.

Didn't meet anybody's mama.

Didn't get a toothbrush.

Didn't get a drawer.

We ate barbecue and played pool.

That's it.

And somehow that one date created:

Chemistry.

An emotional connection.

A girlfriend.

Emails.

Screenshots.

A confrontation.

A professional complication.

A television-project storyline.

And years of confusion.

I've had actual relationships with less plot.

But Mr. Culture Shock did teach me something.

Sometimes people think they want something different because they're attracted to the IDEA of something different.

Then different actually shows up.

Different has opinions.

Different asks questions.

Different challenges the version of yourself you've gotten comfortable presenting.

And suddenly different isn't quite as exciting anymore.

I don't think being a Black woman made me “too much” for him.

I think I was outside his comfort zone.

There's a difference.

Because I wasn't auditioning to become anybody's first Black-girlfriend experience.

I'm not the cultural exchange program.

There will be no certificate of completion.

You don't get continuing-education credits.

And I damn sure wasn't about to shrink myself into something more familiar so somebody else could feel comfortable dating me.

Maybe he genuinely thought he was ready to step outside what he'd always known.

Maybe he wasn't.

Either way, after our one-date experiment, he went straight back to what was familiar.

And honestly?

Fine.

Date whoever makes you happy.

White.

Black.

Purple.

Polka-dotted.

I genuinely do not care.

Just don't emotionally park yourself in my driveway while you're living at somebody else's house.

Because THAT was the problem.

You can't tell me what you would do with me while actively choosing somebody else.

You don't get to make me your emotional fantasy while another woman gets your actual relationship.

And I don't want to hear about how boldly you WOULD love me in some alternate universe.

Baby, I'm busy living in this one.

So Mr. Culture Shock went back to his comfort zone.

His girlfriend apparently kept my name somewhere in the emergency contacts.

And I went back to doing what I do best:

Writing.

Which means that one little date at Main Event finally became exactly what it was always destined to become.

A fucking story.

And if Mr. Culture Shock ever reads this, I hope he knows I genuinely wish him well.

Whoever he's with.

Whoever he's not with.

Whoever thinks they're with him.

Whoever Facebook says he's with.

That is between y'all, God, and the relationship-status button.

I'm retired from the investigation.

Because Dating at Damn Near 50 has taught me one thing:

Sometimes Mr. Right turns out to be Mr. Wrong.

Sometimes Mr. Divorced still lives with his wife.

Sometimes Mr. New Leaf is the same damn tree.

And sometimes a man thinks he's ready for something completely different...

until different walks through the door, dressed exactly how the fuck she wants.

Then suddenly—

Culture shock.

But that's okay.

Because you already know the rule:

If the date doesn't work out, at least the story will.