Making Peace with the "N" Word

I was supposed to have a date tonight with a guy from an online dating site.  He had all of the trimmings a girl looks for:  engineer, home owner, handsome face, grown children. And he pursued me quite feverishly.  Sent me email after email, called, texted.  You know, made it known that he was really interested in getting to know me.

So, last night we set up our plan to meet for an after-work drink at a nearby sportsbar.

Easy enough.

Except that, about twenty minutes after hanging up, he sent a text message asking for more photos of me.  As if the pictures on my profile page presented some false me and he was worried that I would be ugly.

Trust me.  I get where he's coming from.  If I had a dollar for every time I went on an online date where I analyzed a man's face, trying to recognize even a hint of the man from the photos, I'd have enough money to buy myself a couple of nice bottles of wine.

This text asking me for more pictures threw me off-guard.  And gave me the heebie jeebies.  And so I texted him saying just that--that I was uncomfortable sending them, that the photos on my page were all taken within the past six months, and that he would see the "real thing" tomorrow.  A healthy, balanced response, in my eyes.

About ten minutes later, I got a response asking again for pictures.  No acknowledgment of my polite no.

Even more perturbed at this point, I put on my big girl pants and texted him a firm:  No.  I am not comfortable with that.

Do you know what the guy did?  He cancelled our date.  Just because I wouldn't send him additional photos.  Just in case I was ugly (And, just for the record, I am with you ladies who are shouting Amen and Hallelujah from your couches right now, because I sighed a big good riddance to myself, too.).

Okay, so this is just one story about my run-in with one online-dating chump.  And in the realm of online dating horror stories, this one ranks pretty far down on the list.  I realize that.

But there's a jewel in it.

A little grain of sand that has been molded into a pearl by my growing self-esteem.

I said NO.

For those of you who are people-pleasing-addicts like me, you know how hard it is to say the "N" word.  It brings a fear that those to whom we say NO will never again reach out to us, ask us for anything, or befriend us any further.

As author Brene Brown says in her book, Daring Greatly, we women are expected to do it all and make it look effortless.  And, although I realize this pressure is compounded for women who have children, this pressure is also difficult on us single ladies. We have pressure to do it all. Succeed at our jobs. Pay our mortgages and all of our bills. Be a supportive friend to everyone.  Keep our bodies in shape and our hair colored.  Make being single look like a ticket to freedom. And for those of us who have a disability, especially for those of us who are recovering perfectionists, this task is even harder.  In addition to doing all of the aforementioned tasks, we have to defy the odds stacked against us.  Or at least try to defy them...without so much as a grimace or a drop of sweat.

So, for all of these reasons and so many more, I have lived a life where I could not say no.  I have piled commitments onto my overflowing plate, and, instead of recognizing that the plate had reached max capacity, I have chided myself for not being strong enough and pretended that that plate was really a platter.  In the past, I found great pride in listing off all of my accomplishments.  All of the "things" I was doing.  As if it were they that gave me worth.

Over the past few months, I have learned to say the magic word.  As you can see, I'm still working on the confidence in the no, but I've come a long way.  I have whittled away at the tasks at-hand (even the fun ones) so that I can have a little more me time.  A few more candles-lit-and-me-on-the-couch nights.

Last night marked a milestone in my growth.  There was a time when I would have given in to pressure like this, especially from a man because I would have been afraid I would lose his attention.

In this present moment, though, I realize that my own comfort is most important.  That saying no protects that delicate core of who I am.  Who we all are.  It allows us to strip away distraction and settle in to the moment and just be good enough.  For who we are, not for what we do.

First, Let Me Air My Dirty Laundry

Dating with a disability is rough.  Especially when the disability is not always outwardly obvious.  I can get away with faking it for quite some time.

I am a master.

I know which restaurants are stairless.  Which ones have higher chairs (the easier to get out of).  Which parking spots to use so that the man can walk me to my car without me having to step off of a too-high curb.  I've learned how to politely decline dates that involve any activity more than a casual stroll where I could blame my snail's pace on wanting to breathe in a little more salty air.

The longest I've gone before revealing my "truth" is seven weeks.  Yes, I dated a man--saw him two to three times per week even--for seven weeks before my grand confession. In my mind, this "truth" was a fatal flaw.  The only reason I was unlovable.  We all have these.  In those recesses where we feel the most shame.

I would have kept the ruse up but I finally had to tell him because I fell.

And when I fall, there is no springing back to my feet.  I've always marveled at the able-bodied person's ability to do that. Not I.  I have to crawl to a chair or a curb or a tree stump (whatever raised surface I can find).  I then have to lean my body weight on that platform and inch my legs into standing position.  If there is no raised surface?  I shudder to think. I used to be able to do a sort of downward-dog in reverse and make my way to my feet, but time has stolen that gift.

And so, Mr. Seven Weeks saw what I deemed my ugliest scar.  And, I'm sad to say that things were never the same after that.  Although, I think it was my lying by withholding the whole truth that really bothered him and not the Muscular Dystrophy itself.

I have online dated off and on for the past ten years.  It's an interesting business, this presenting yourself for a world of strangers to browse your profile in some modern-day-dating-produce-stand.  I'll take that one.  Oh, wait, that one looks nicer. 

People put their best face forward on these sites.  Literally.  Choosing the best picture--or in some odd cases, the creepiest--as their profile picture and writing about  how they want to save the starving children and would do anything for their grandma.

In my past, I did the same, painting the best possible picture of myself.  I posted only the pictures I'd retouched.  I included only information that made me sound sassier and more worldly than I actually am. I did not include any mention of my disability, hoping to hypnotize the guy with my irresistible charm and then drop "the bomb" when he was so entangled in my beautiful snare that he wouldn't even blink twice at the mention of Muscular Dystrophy.  Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?

I'm both sorry and happy to say that this furtive plan never worked.

On these dates, I spent so much time avoiding the big reveal that I never truly got to be myself with any of these men.  During dinners, I worried about where he would want to go next.  About the curb access and chair height there.  I worried about whether or not he drove a lifted truck that I wouldn't be able to climb into.  And about what would happen if he invited me over and he lived on the second floor.

And so the relationships would end because the guy felt bored and I felt disconnected.

These times left me disenchanted with the whole love-thing.  I have to admit, I was more than a little bitter.  I always blamed my singlehood on not having met the right man.  But what I failed to see was that I was never the right woman because I was never happy being my whole self.  I felt like, in order to be loved, I had to compartmentalize the part of me that I deemed "dirty" and "unlovable".  I had to leave it off of my profile, if you will.

After taking almost a year off from the online dating scene, I recently rejoined it.  And this time I'm airing my "dirty laundry" right from the start.  It's right there--in the first paragraph of my "About Me" profile.  And you know what?  I'm getting a lot of attention.  And you know what's even better than that?  When I go on dates with these men, I finally get to be in the moment, as my broken and beautiful whole self, instead of living in the What-Ifs.

That, my friends, is freedom.