Boy 10: Renewed (Artist) Card

Boy 10, you are also an artist.

This is tough. I am suspicious.

You clicked me–you didn’t engage with the traditional Harry Potter icebreaker. You went with The West Wing. I think maybe that’s how you caught me off-guard ’cause I’m actively trying to avoid artists. It’s not a dealbreaker; it’s just a preference.

I insist that if we are both artists we must know each other. I do some stalking, and we do have a few friends in common, but the connections are pretty peripheral. You say you’ve never (to your knowledge lol) dated or slept with an artist… I drop my number like a true traitor to my kind.

I ask you to send me some of your work… am I the only person who can’t imagine getting involved with someone whose work I don’t respect? I like your work. I tell you so! Several Passover/Easter and musical jokes later… we settle on a date and time.

I’m a big fan of CAPS LOCK in my texting persona. I think it pretty accurately reflects my general exuberance. You are also only the second person I’ve encountered digitally who uses what I call the Emily Dickinson Capital Letters for Emphasis–not all the time, but strategically and well. It’s sexy.

And, here, Dear Readers, is The Sexiest Part: because we are both artists, we were able to meet up during the day! We decided on a stroll in Washington Square Park ’cause it turns out neither of us drinks coffee.

It gets better.

You say that you have to return your library books at some point. Would I be interested in accompanying you? Boy, would I. We stroll to the library and talk about what you just read. Turns out we went to a branch that is closed for renovation. You realize you knew that and lead us to another branch. A man who knows not one, but two, local library branches. Be Still, My Heart.

I ask you about your work. It’s shorter form. You ask me about mine. It’s longer form. We talk about identity politics in art… is an artist meant to work with what they know? With their own experiences? Or is there something to the outsider looking in? Providing a new perspective with aesthetic distance? In fact, you are very interested in writing about people you virulently disagree with. While processing your own privilege.

I tell you about some young aspiring artists I know who ask me for coffee and advice. I am reluctant to provide it (imposter syndrome), but I wish someone had provided me with guidance of any kind… so I do. And one young actor asked me once: “Isn’t it easier for female actors because they have their beauty?” And I took him to town. No, no, it’s not. In fact, the attention paid to their beauty (which is inherently fleeting) is a huge and horrible bottleneck in the industry that prioritizes and fetishizes women’s bone structures instead of their abilities.

You agree.

But you also provide a caveat; you say, “Maybe he was trying to compliment you on your aesthetics in a roundabout way.” Boy 10, are you complimenting my aesthetics in a roundabout way?

You walk me all the way to work.

I want to thank you:

You assured me that you’re not one to hold grudges, so should we ever encounter each other artistically, it’s ok. This is sweet, transparent and kind.
You’re a real creator. You inhale and surround yourself with literature and inspiration. You exhale and make work that you’re proud of and that reflects the questions you have about the world.
I renewed my library card while you returned your books. So productive.
You can meet during the day. Not a small deal. You, like me, do not have to stay on Muggle 9-5 hours. We are the magic makers with dumb/awesome schedules. Oh, that reminds me… Ode by Arthur O’Shaughnessy… Bolding mine. Not the author’s.

“We are the music makers,
    And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
    And sitting by desolate streams; —
World-losers and world-forsakers,
    On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
   Of the world for ever, it seems.”

Boy 10, goddamnit. I would totally go on another date with you. Yeesh. Artists, amirite?

UPDATE: You text me that afternoon to let me know that “despite or maybe because of” our artistic professions, you had a great time. We should meet again. Second date scheduled.

Boy 7: Quantum entanglement, black holes and other metonyms.

So, sometimes Hinge tries to play Yenta.

It sends a profile to me with a little note, insisting that we’re compatible.

I’m open-minded. I’ll play.

Boy 7, you are a theoretical physicist. You went to MIT. You play musical instruments. Hmm.

I start small. I message you about ukuleles.

My ukulele has been staring at me forlornly for months. I have been amateur-four-chord-playing guitar for a few years now, but once I hit the bar chords, my very small hands were offended. They can barely get around the neck of the guitar! Now I have to play bar chords!? So I Amazon-ed a ukulele. It’s smaller, I thought. After it arrived, I picked it up and was appalled that I could not play it. I can see the Onion headline now: WHITE GIRL WITH BANGS GENUINELY SURPRISED AND UPSET WHEN SHE DOESN’T INSTANTLY KNOW HOW TO PLAY UKULELE.

You explain that the ukulele is not that far from a guitar. Then you ask about Harry Potter. Easy nerd icebreaker strikes again. I’m tired of making “I do actual magic” jokes, I deflect and say it’s just meant to communicate what a dork I was and continue to be. And you say you can give me a run for my money there.

And you do.

(Please note: number not yet dropped.)

I ask you about artificial intelligence. You answer and distinguish it from general intelligence, settling on it’s a “quantitative way of studying what intelligence is” but that your background in theoretical physics may be warping your perspective. Then you make a meta-joke about one of my photos. At this point, I must meet you. I don’t care if we never speak again. Good god, I want nothing more than to sit down with a young theoretical physicist and to talk about what intelligence is.

I’ve been fascinated by this question forever. And I sort of write a small paragraph to you about this, starting with the disclaimer that, yes, I have a science degree but that my background is not nearly as rigorous as yours.

Basically, I have never believed in “talent” or in “intelligence.” I think they’re constructs. Meant to perpetuate semi-libertarian myths that are just misguided and misleading applications of the fundamental attribution error. Basically, talent and intelligence are just unconscious accumulations of environmental advantages and small, nurtured predispositions that we confuse with nature. Moreover, it doesn’t behoove me to believe in inherent talent or intelligence, does it? That would only encourage me to work less, wouldn’t it? And to rest on my genetic magical laurels?

I keep coming back to Miles Davis: “Man, sometimes it takes a long time to sound like yourself.” Yes. Because we’re born blank and strange and become something in opposition to and in love with everything and everyone around us. And then, yeah, it takes a fucking long time to figure out what stuck and how to sound like yourself. And usually, at the end of that shitty battle, people see you. And they might think you’re talented or intelligent. But mostly, they’re just responding to the fact that you’ve finally managed to be made by all the things that unmade you.

So, it doesn’t make any sense for me to believe in talent or intelligence. Same argument Voltaire made about believing in God, actually. It just makes sense for me to keep working.

Not that I always make sense.

Speaking of. I’ve been told over and over again, by my family, my significant others, my community, that I am wrong. About all of this. So, I’ve started to accept caveats to my worldview, e.g. the relevance of physical advantages. Certain voices sound a certain way and lend themselves to certain circumstances. And then the questions of brains and neurons come in… maybe there’s a question of processing speed. Do some process faster than others? As a fast talker, I wonder about this… This is all to say, the only arguments I’m willing to entertain on the questions of “talent” and “intelligence” and their provenances would be a scientific ones ’cause that’s how we roll over here.

I mention that one of my pieces of art uses a famous thought experiment as an elaborate metaphor for love and romance.

Obviously, I have dropped my number at this point.

You text right away. Turns out the quantum thought experiment in my play was based in large part on a principle that you studied. You also ask me to drinks. ALSO TURNS OUT that that that very same principle (entanglement) was presented by one of my actors during the research phases of my piece. I send you a picture lest you think I was pandering.

We jump into logistics. You’re busy. I’m busy. GOOD. I now know I can’t do things with people who aren’t busy. I don’t know what the rest of the Hinge world is like, but I’m noticing that lots of people just seem to be “around.” I am not around.

We find an AM date time. I’m flying out that same night after rehearsal, so I say I’ll have a carry-on bag, and you are flying out the next day, but you’ll have a guitar because you’re on your way to practice. Birds of a feather.

Normally I thank Boys for looking like their photo. But this is an extra special “what are the odds” moment. Which given our flights of physics fancy–well, let’s be honest, flights for me, but just every day patter for you–the odds are high, I guess.

I get on the subway. Plan is to check my makeup and fix my hair.

I look around for a place to sit.

Doors haven’t even closed yet…

I see a guitar case.

I look up.

You’re looking at me.

We both go: HEY.

So we ride the subway up. We talk about my plays and your defense during which you wore a cloak and used a dagger instead of a laser pointer. When I describe my play, you ask me if I’ve read Arcadia by Tom Stoppard which you quoted in your defense… I mean. Hello, gorgeous. And, yes, I’ve read it, and the pope is Catholic. In my explanation, I start to give spoilers from my play, and you ask me not to. You’d like to read it. You are the second boy to immediately engage with my work right off the bat. (For those of you keeping score, Boy 2 attended one of my pieces on the first date. I guess Boy 4 engaged in a healthy Google search. Boy 5 googled afterwards.)

I ask you about black holes and your research… we get into what you call modeling and I call metonyms (a literary term you were not familiar with). I also meta-date and say how lovely it is to have so much content between us and ask do other women engage with you on this? You say, no, they usually say “I was so bad at physics” but that you just use it as an opportunity to ask them questions and try to learn something.

Learning, people. Learning people. Learning learning people.

By now we’re on to gravity in other universes. And criticizing academic papers (or quite frankly, any writing at all) that lacks a sense of humor. I’m curious to talk about quantum stuff in my play, but it would be a spoiler, so we just talk about it abstractly. Besides, “reality is quantum” or so you say. We spend a while on the Sleeping Beauty problem, and we realize you’re late. I walk you. At the door, you say you’d like to see me again… if I want to see you again, you add awkwardly.

Boy 6, I want to thank you:

We never got around to the question of intelligence, but whatever you are, you seem to be a brilliant, kind creature obsessed with truth. And, ironically, when I asked how you got into physics, you said you just never outgrew the questions kids ask.
The passion with which you text matches the passion with which you talk. I don’t mean the quips and the flirting. I mean the actual content. There’s lots of sweet-nothing dialogue out there via text. I sometimes feel uncomfortable in monologue though… you can monologue and dialogue.
I’m feeling a little bit sheepish asking you questions about physics. Unlike yours, my work is meant to be at least somewhat accessible by definition; you never made me feel dumb.

Boy 6, I would go on another date with you. I know this is already an excellent meeting of minds. Let’s see what else meets. To quote your defense and Stoppard… “it’s the wanting to know that makes us matter.”

UPDATE: That night you text, hoping my flight was all right and would I text and send you my play if I’d still like to hang out.

I explain that sending my play is more vulnerability than nudity, but sure. And, of course, we’re hanging out! We hadn’t even discussed the nature of intelligence yet.

Boy 2: The Sweet Walker

Boy 2, I almost didn’t meet you because I was reeling from the aggressively mediocre disappointment of Boy 1. I’m glad I met you though, Boy 2. You’re a really sweet guy.

I actually hearted a picture of you running, so you’re one of the few boys in this machine that I reached out to first in my big initial heart/x-escapade. We proceeded to sort of message on the app about running… half marathons, marathons, training etc. And then about what we both do. And then I dropped my number in. I just send the following message: “btw ########## if that’s easier”

Apparently, I have now learned. This is a thing. If we manage to have a semi-normal conversation in our initial interaction, I’ve just been dropping my number ’cause I don’t want to hang around on this buggy Hinge app forever. Turns out there is a moment when the guy can ask for the girl’s number? Which begs the question that I asked in my Boy 1 post… how much digital-before-human interaction is there? Why are we prolonging the amount of time on Hinge? And then we have to deal with texting? Or is all the texting happening on Hinge and then once the number drops you move straight to arranging the date?

So far, it’s just been me dropping my number casually after a day or two. And if the initial conversation is riveting, I’ll drop it at the end of that convo. The only exception is one guy who actually pulled a me and did what I did. He just dropped his number to me casually at the end of a great first interaction on Hinge. He and I haven’t met yet. I’ll let you know how that goes, too.

So, Boy 2, you were traveling for work ’cause you’re basically in management, and I had bronchitis, so scheduling was all kinds of weird, but you were very good at sort of checking in without excessive texting banter. This week, I’m actually performing a show I wrote that is largely autobiographical. And graphic. Sort of Jenny Slate in Obvious Child and/or Mike Birbiglia style. So I mentioned offhand that I could invite you to that if that wasn’t weird, and you said you didn’t think that was weird. Also, after the (wildly inefficient) week and a half of overly involved texting from (the very misleading) Boy 1 pre-actual-meeting, I was eager to clap eyes ASAP and nip things in the bud if needed.

You came to my graphic autobiographical show.

You said hi to me before, and you were cute. You actually looked like your picture. Thank you.

You waited afterwards while I dealt with my people. You were super gracious about the whole thing, and you loved it, you said. I believed you.

And then we started walking uptown. And you said something very charming. You said, “Well, we’re like on the fifth date now that I’ve seen your show. And by the way, you can ask me anything!”

You carried one of my bags, and we walked all the way from the village up to upper Manhattan. It was pretty wonderful. We stopped for a pee break at one point, and then when we got uptown, we walked into an Eastern European bakery and bought rugelach. So Jew-y. I know. I know. I pulled out my wallet, and you said this was on you though I offered again to “contribute to the cause.” That’s always my line 🙂

You seem pretty date/Hinge savvy. So you were also a fun person to have some meta-Hinge conversations with. I mentioned that I wish there were a button you could push when you first see a person that says either “Yes, pheromones are present” or “Nope, sorry, you’re beautiful, but not for me.” I happen to think that if we’re working with this kind of algorithmic digital stuff, we should get as practical as possible, and chemistry is instant. You countered that there should also be a feedback button about whether or not the profile actually reflects what the person looks like. That would be brilliant. You get to click a button saying: “Yes, s/he looks like this!” or “Nope, not even remotely close!” You commiserated with me about Boy 1 and the awkwardness of inviting someone over to watch something without a specific viewing suggestion… you told me about a date who chose to watch Dallas Buyer’s Club.

But enough meta-Hinging. You also told me about the first time you had sex and the bits you love about your job and your two brothers and a small funny genetic defect you have. Good stuff, Boy 2, good stuff. You mentioned that you’re not a fan of Harry Potter and was that a dealbreaker for me? I was like, nope. Apparently I had sent a text asking if you were on a “muggle schedule” and that made you wonder. I don’t know… I think it’s a funny line? Calling a 9-5 a muggle schedule? It isn’t meant to belie a deep dealbreaking obsession with Harry Potter. ‘Cause I’m not… like I really genuinely wish I could just date people in the AM hours. It would make my life so much easier. And you did give me a little shit about my educational background… and then I said, oh, do you not like intelligent women? So, you know… I guess two can play that game?

We finished our rugelach on a bench, and you asked me about my dietary restrictions… are you thinking of asking me to dinner? And we were near where I lived by then, so you walked me home. You mentioned you’d like to see me again. I also wore the same outfit for the show as I did for our walk, and you asked me what was I going to wear for my next performance. And I said, oh, yes, this is my… and you finished the sentence… “date outfit?” And I said, yep, my director liked it so much I didn’t change for the performance. That made you smile.

Boy 2, I want to thank you.

You texted me every 24 hours or so, but it was basic and simple so we hadn’t built a strange digital relationship before meeting.
You met me on my turf, graciously and kindly. You waited for me to deal with my audience, and then you literally walked almost the entire length of Manhattan with me. I mean… way to just play by ear.
You can hold a conversation. We talked the entire time. At one point when we were debating the do-we-sit-down-at-a-bar question, you said, “Well, what I don’t want to do is sit across from each other and hold an interview.” I salute you, Boy 2.
You’re deeply sweet and cool. I feel like you are an expert at Dates 1-8. I am curious about how you are beyond that? And I wonder if you’re just a very sweet dater? Like I’m not sure you’ll contact me? But I’ve learned now that I’m bad at predicting this (see: UPDATE on Boy 1).
You paid for my rugelach. You didn’t have to. I appreciated it though. It felt like a sweet gesture. And you didn’t make a physical move either which felt respectful.

Boy 2, I would go on another date with you.

UPDATE: You have texted me. You want to see me before you leave for the weekend. Date 2 has been arranged.