On making it special

Last night, I took myself on a date for the first time in two years or so.

The last date I went on with myself happened by default — I had planned to go with a friend who I was trying desperately to make a lover, and they backed out on me last-minute. That night, I had planned to bring my book to the bar mostly as a prop, strategically arriving ten minutes early, allowing them to come up behind me and tap me on the shoulder. Then, I imagined, I would turn around, allowing them to glimpse just past my shoulder (and the delicate snatch of hair that fell flawlessly upon it) at the open book illuminated by flickering candlelight. She’s so smart, they would think, before sidling up in the seat beside me, our ankles brushing together beneath the bar. This is the kind of romance I concocted for someone who, in the end (and from the beginning), really just thought I was a bit amusing and liked to casually flirt with no intention.

I still went to the bar that night and still brought my book, reading it begrudgingly under candlelight (which is actually really fucking inconvenient to read under, no matter how romantic in theory), hunched over one of those stupid low tables they put everywhere in LA outdoor bars. I ordered a purple drink and tried not to think about how pathetic I felt, trying desperately to be engrossed in my book. Unfortunately, my book of choice was a certain Joni Mitchell biography written, it seems, by someone who thought they were writing a Joni Mitchell encyclopedia (droning on and on about the history of the grounds of certain studios she recorded a song or two in, detailed family trees of her casual acquaintances…). It was almost funny, how poorly everything was going.

The general manager stopped by my table to ask me not what, but why I was reading since “no one has ever read a book in a bar in Los Angeles.” Even given that I was still relatively new to the city, the remark struck me as strangely archetypical — something a man might say in a comic about Los Angeles. My opportunity was here, to be the Other Girl, Unlike the Ones Who Usually Sit In My Place, Filled to the Brim With Botox and Laughing Crassly Over Something Too Stupid to Be Found Truly Funny. It said something about my deflation that evening that I wasn’t even up for playing the game, not even perked up by the idea of being selected from a crowd, by a strange man, as being particular or special. Usually this would have done the trick for me.

I have to admit that the mere phrase “took myself on a date” gives me some kind of internal recoil. It inspires images of TikTok wellness gurus, advertising a solo dinner as the calming, simple solution to bigger things — like a shitty job or the fact that you don’t have health insurance. It reminds me of the narcissism I feel is all-too pervasive in our culture, especially youth culture, around “protecting your peace,” alienating oneself from society and using your own damage as a defense.

But, actually, I think the real reason the phrase rubs me the wrong way is the idea that people would go through all the fuss of pomp and circumstance for themselves. The idea that one could feel, instead of constantly exhausted with their own company, the need to carve out time to be present with it. The idea that one is special.

My boyfriend and I have been dating for nearly two years, and we’ve recently started going on weekly date nights. I used to think that a calendar-marked weekly date was for the particularly anal-retentive or sexless couples, but I no longer think that’s true. We go on our dates to remind ourselves that we find each other, and our relationship, special. Since moving in together and both working self-directed jobs, we spend a lot of “un-special” time together. This time is, of course, still reverent. I love reading and, from across the room, hearing him sing to the cat. Or showering together and laughing at the way he contorts his face to shave the edges of it. So, I see the value in dressing up, feeling sexy together, and dedicating time to honor that I still find our relationship to be special, even now that I live with him in normalcy.

The hangup came when trying to apply the same logic to myself.

Yesterday, I realized that a local theatre was showing a movie I’d been meaning to see for weeks — The Zone of Interest. My boyfriend was going to be at work, so I just bought one ticket. It occurred to me that I had the opportunity to make this evening a bit special for myself, but I immediately thought: why?

I spend a lot of time by myself. During the week, I’d estimate that there are probably only one or two days that I’ll see a friend in the daylight hours. Mostly, I read and write and work — sometimes forcing myself out for a jog or a lazy sprawl in the park. I get bored of myself and feel lonely often. I’m not a busy mom, constantly juggling the lives of others and fielding off grubby hands from grasping, asking, whining. I don’t work in an office or in customer service, where time for myself is a reprieve from the general mayhem of humanity. Why would I need to dedicate more time to myself when it feels like my whole life is dedicated to spending time with myself?

Have you ever been hanging out with a kid while you’re on your phone and they keep trying to get you to look at something? And you say, “I’m looking, I’m looking,” with your eyes splitting time between the block tower and the screen? Every kid will notice that you are not actually looking, that you don’t even care to look, really, that you are simply tolerating being pulled away from the space you actually want to be. It’s sad to look at that kid’s face, when they realize.

With myself, I feel like the kid and the block tower. Most of the time I’m wanting to be somewhere else, even when I’m right here with me. So many times, especially as a teenager, I would look myself in the mirror and think, “I can’t believe I have to spend my life with you.”

Last night, while I picked out an outfit I liked, while I sat with myself in the wine bar, while I walked myself to the theater, while I ordered myself a small popcorn and a Root Beer, while I wiped away my own tears at the end of the film, I was, the whole time, affirming that I was the person I wanted to spend my evening with. I was maybe even the person I wanted to spend my whole life with. It’s too early to say — we’ve really just started seeing each other. But I’m hopeful about it.