When I met the boys who gave me no butterflies
There is a myth that I’ve believed for my whole life: the spark.
It’s the newfangled “love at first sight.” It’s the thing people say is missing when they aren’t attracted to you. It’s the feeling you get in your stomach when you miss a step but are standing perfectly still. It’s the most exciting and wonderful nonsense that even the most rational, logical, and intelligent of us have bought into.
Recently, I had a bit of an epiphany when it came to the spark and dating. It struck me that all those dozens of men that I thought I had a spark with—that I had some kind of deep and meaningful connection with—never turned into anything good, or worse, ended quite badly. In fact, I’ve probably forgotten half of their names and could have done without meeting the ones I most vividly remember.
Part of this epiphany comes out of my new approach to dating for 2017. It’s an approach where I make decisions based on the short-term (did I have enough fun and was I treated in a way that makes me want to see this person for one more date?) rather than the long-term (do I see myself introducing this person to my friends and family someday?).
My new approach has led me to date people who evoke no butterflies in my stomach whatsoever.And, for the first time in my life, I view that as a good thing, because the lack of butterflies means that I’m not nervous, which means that I’m comfortable being myself, that I can relax, and that I have a whole lot more fun on dates.
Prior to this approach, the fun I had dating was always reserved for after my dates, which was when I’d tell my best friends about said dates. Sparks always led to long, drawn-out, detailed conversations about a guy who I think is so great. When, in reality, the only qualities I have established are his above-average looks and roughly-average smarts; which means that the only reason I’m smitten is the nervous feeling I get in the pit of my stomach.
As I talked to my friends about Mr. Spark, I would manufacture evidence to back up this nervous feeling, drawing on a bunch of signs based on deeply unscientific observations; gems like: “He smiled at me,” “He remembered a thing I said,” “He touched my arm for a full Mississippi-second,” “He talked about me on his podcast,” and so on and so forth.
All of these amazing signs shockingly—and by that I mean not-at-all shockingly—amounted to a grand total of nothing substantial because sparks are meaningless. Analyzing interactions with your friends—while so much fun—is also meaningless (besides the quality bonding time you get with your amazing friends). The only thing that means anything are the plans and decisions you make with someone; the key one being the decision to actually date each other.
I now know that the exciting spark that I interpreted as a sign of something special has revealed itself as a warning sign that something isn’t right.A feeling I get when I think I need to be a certain way for someone to like me; a feeling that creeps up as I want approval from someone who has made an off-hand comment about my weight, who has stood me up, or who tells me I’m too nice, too smart, too much of something that ultimately means I’m not enough.
I’m not sure why we put ourselves through these things based on a spark. I don’t know if it’s because we want what we can’t have, because we like a challenge, because we’ve heard too many romantic stories, because we like the drama, or because experience has taught us that this is the best we can do. What I do know is that I’m done putting myself through this.
I don’t know if one of the boys who doesn’t give me butterflies will someday be someone special to me, but I do know that I’ll decide that by actually getting to know people and by keeping an eye on how their behaviour makes me feel.
I don’t know a lot of things, but I do know that I’m finally breaking up with the spark.
Photo by Mariah Bridgeman/The Ontarion.