Settling

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Single in Sandpoint: On settling

     I’ve had a boyfriend for about a year now. When I started writing this column two years ago, I was convinced I’d never find a remotely suitable date (let alone boyfriend) in this area. As a single person, your options are naturally limited by population; if you grew up in Sandpoint you either date people you went to high school with or transplants that have been suckered into moving here for work, snow, or peace and quiet. I’m not saying that Sandpoint is a horrible place to live, but if you’re single and between the ages of 20 and 45, it may take a lot longer than the national average to land a decent date.

     I mention the word decent because it’s pretty easy to find an inappropriate match, and “date” them because you’re sick of watching “Law and Order” with your cats on Friday night. Boredom is the Devil’s playground in the dating world. About a year ago, before I started dating the object of my affections, Board Shorts, my faithful readers may remember that I had a long distance relationship.

     Most people hate the long distance relationship. I do not. I can work with it, mostly because I really like being alone. In fact, I occasionally take a day off work to lie on my couch, eat salami and watch “The Today Show.” Try it yourself – it’s the poor man’s spa.    

     I admit it’s not a very attractive activity and if you reach relationship status you can kiss salami and Regis goodbye. This is due to the fact when you’re dating locally you must be prepared for the chance that he or she will drop in at any moment – just trying to catch you in your high school sweats with the tight ankles, lounging, with a sink full of dishes.

     I’m just throwing this out there, but don’t be too quick to curse your single status. It does come with perks.

     But I digress. The real theme of this article is about the phenomenon that commonly occurs when you have few options: otherwise known as settling. Take it from me; you don’t have to settle for a man in his ninth year of college, with hair prettier than yours, eager to bust out in a 15-minute speech about legalizing marijuana, unless you want to.

     I, for one, was embarrassingly desperate at that point (obviously). I am liberal, but by no means a “hippy.” In fact, I love shaving, bathing, eating processed food, drinking domestic beer and owning a vehicle. Why on earth would I choose someone whose values were clearly in direct opposition to my own?

     Fear. I was convinced that my perfect match didn’t exist; and, even if he did, there was no way in Hell I’d find him in Sandpoint. I would have to date a “fixer upper.” Not nearly as fun, or potentially lucrative, as remodeling a house.

     I was convinced that being single was an illness, and that dating freaks (harsh word, but true description) would alleviate the symptoms. Did it? Not even a little bit. Was my dating life in the big city soooo much more satisfying and plentiful?  No. I met and dated my fair share of freaks there as well.

     The difference between small and large city dating isn’t just a simple math equation; in fact, the freak-to-nice-guy-ratio is probably equal. The real difference is anonyminity. The best part of being single in the city is that you can go anywhere, and chances are no one will remember you.

     For example, let’s say you went out to a club or bar in Seattle. Maybe you drank too much (or maybe it was just enough, depending how you look at it). Regardless, you had just the right combination of liquor and anonyminity to make some bad decisions. Maybe you made out with a random stranger, or a security guard, and you woke up the next day, laughed at your adventure, sighed and smiled to yourself “I guess I’ll never go there again.”

     The only people who will know about your little indiscretion are those you tell. Those who were eyewitnesses didn’t know your name, so no harm no foul.

     Now let’s talk about the same scenario in Sandpoint. For this type of occurrence to happen you will be in one of three places: The 219, Synergy or A&P’s. The same people who were at these places for the last 10 or so weekends will still be there; the only difference will be a smattering of tourists or visiting family members. 

     You will decide to drink hard alcohol – because you’re convinced that it’s the beer, not the trips to The Point that are making you fat. Pretty quick your liquid courage is at an all time high and you decide that life’s to short, walk up to a familiar face (you’ve seen this person before, you just don’t know where), take the chance and engage in a little tonsil hockey. Maybe some dirty dancing.

     The next day will haunt you for months. If your parents are local they’ll be calling you around 8 a.m., to ask about your new-found love. Your “friends” have all been in similar situations and will offer you absolutely no pity. They’re the ones who called your parents.

     You know you won’t be able to go out again for at least six months for fear of seeing that person again. Only time will erase the memories.

     Finally it will be Monday morning. When you get to work everyone will be smiling at you, and you won’t have to ask where he or she heard it, because every single person that you work with saw what you did, arrived at work promptly and gladly filled their married co-workers in on your adventure.

     Married people live for this gossip, it all sounds so exciting (after all, they spent the weekend elbow-deep in baby excrement or fixing the roof).

     Embarrassed and discouraged you will decide to go to The Home Depot to pick up a few home improvement items. Since your weekends will be free for the next few weeks, you might as well make them productive. 

     At this point you will be seriously considering finding out who your tongue-dance partner was. Maybe if you start dating them for real your reputation will be repaired. You might be able to have a social life.

     It is at this point when the Seeds of Settling are being sprinkled into your vulnerable mind. You come to this realization in the lumber aisle. You ring the bell for service and who do you see? It’s a familiar face. The face of your Saturday night revelry. The reason he looked familiar was because he works at Home Depot. Damn you, small town. Damn you, Dating Gods. Now you can never go to Home Depot ever again.

     True story. I swear.

     So there you go: In a small town, one slight dating indiscretion can be social suicide. But you can relax single people; there are opportunities everywhere if you’re willing to take a chance. Your very best, most fantastically perfect match might be right under your nose at this moment. Maybe it’s your neighbor or coworker. Or maybe he or she works at Home Depot. You have to be open to the possibility.

     You have to paint a hundred works before you’re considered a master; dating can be the same way. The patient and studied will prevail. That and a little bit of good karma can go along way. So don’t be an ass to those you leave along the trail to finding your one and only.

     There is hope. I swear. Just think of how much you’ll appreciate it when it does happen. It’s like rain in the desert. Trust me, I know.

     There’ll be all kinds of new faces around this holiday season, if you’re going to stand a chance against the rest of the locals you better get your game face on.

I love you and I mean it,

Scarlette Quille