Seemed Great on Paper

Things often are better on paper than in reality… especially when you are dating.

I was a hopeful young college grad starting my career in public relations in the 1980s.

My boss wanted to set me up on a blind date with this guy that worked for her husband.

I wouldn’t normally have thought this was a good idea, but this was in the shadow of the dastardly 1986 Newsweek cover story that claimed they had data to prove that if you were a college-educated career woman and weren’t married by age 30, you’d have a less than 10% chance of making it to the altar.

Even worse? If you were still unmarried by age 39, you were more likely to be killed in a terrorist attack than find true love.

That article cast a long, long shadow on single gals. Which is the main reason that I agreed to a blind date. My boss made a great case for Jeff, who seemed ah-mazing on paper: Harvard undergrad, Columbia law school. Worked for a state senator, clerked for Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Who could say no to that?

Our first date was at the Harvard club, which seemed like a super-posh beginning. Jeff had some odd character quirks that weren’t included on his resume. Small things, at first. He peed in the shower and called his mother constantly.

He was Italian and articulated wildly with his hands. Which was fine as a stand-alone trait. However, he used fingers nonstop when eating, which meant that as he spoke passionately, he’d fling food willy-nilly. Even stranger is when we attend a college reunion brunch and as Jeff starts talk excitedly about the newly minted ADA law, our brunch mates all push their chairs away from the table, readying for the flinging of hollandaise.

It struck me as odd that no one in this group of Ivy Leaguers ever mentioned Jeff’s flinging problem. Then again, I don’t say anything either, mostly because I’m flirting with age 30 and if I don’t seal this deal, then I’ve got death-by-terrorist on the horizon. I decided to dig in and make this so-so relationship work.

Jeff proposes and I say okay, though there’s no song in my heart. When our one-year dating anniversary arrives, Jeff thinks it’d be amazing to celebrate by going on a trip. He doesn’t have any interest in planning the trip – he just gives me his credit card and says, “surprise me.”

Now, I have always loved being on the water, preferably in a kayak. Which isn’t an easy hobby to maintain in New York. But a trip! I had noticed Jeff had a small tent, a life jacket, and a kayak paddle in his closet. It’s kismet! A sign that we are meant to be.

I book this awesome kayaking adventure in Canada, ten days of white-water kayaking followed by four days in a posh Montreal hotel. Even though this was an outdoorsy trip, I still prefer some creature comforts and was excited that I snagged the last deluxe cabin which had electricity, bunk beds, a small sink, and a bathhouse nearby.

Funny how a trip can really magnify a relationship’s flaws. Initially, when we first started dating, I was impressed with how devoted he was to his mother, calling her daily. She often joked that really, she was fine, he didn’t need to call her so much.

It wasn’t until we set foot in Canada that I was able to see that his need to call his mom was borderline OCD. The first failed payphone call home set off a panic attack. Worse yet, the easy 2-hour drive north to the kayak camp became a 5-hour odyssey in search of payphones and proper Canadian coins.

As irritated as I was about calling mom, there are a few more surprises ahead. When we get to the deluxe cabin, Jeff comes unhinged. First off, he has never peed outdoors and secondly, he’s never been able to defecate when away from home. This seems like something he should have mentioned before we left.

Our first day is off to a bumpy start, what with the early morning start time and, did I mention? Someone couldn’t pee outdoors. Even when in the bathhouse! I’m convinced paddling will turn things around.

We load up the van with eight of us and head to a warm lake to work on basic paddling skills and also how to Eskimo roll the kayak. By the end of the first hour, he says “It’s really cold and wet. I don’t like this. I want to go back to our cabin.”

“Give it a little time. After lunch, when the sun comes out in full force, you are gonna love paddling down a river!”

But he’s not having any of it and I become incensed that he is just giving up after two hours. He says he can tell he won’t like being on a river. I say he hasn’t been on a river yet, so how would he know whether he’d like it?

To my embarrassment, he persists with the whining until the two kayak trip leaders pause the entire morning less just to drive Jeff an hour back to the cabin.

Is this a good reason to break up? Maybe. But then, I’m reminded about Newsweek’s odds: I’ll be unmarried and 30 the coming year, which gives me a 10% chance of making it to the chapel. With those odds, can I afford to be picky and toss away a perfectly good college grad – did I mention Harvard? – simply because he has odd toileting hangups?

I enjoy kayaking while he pouts in the cabin, often driving for hours to find a working pay phone to call his mom.

Driving into Montreal, he’s still being snarky with me and I’m at a breaking point. He breaks the silence.

“Why on earth did you sign us up for a kayaking trip? What were you thinking?”

“You said ‘surprise me.’ Which I did. We were both quite surprised this trip. Also, you have a paddle, tent, and life jacket in your closet. Why would you have those if you aren’t a paddler?”

“That was for a play.”

Horrible, awkward, stunned silence.

“What play did you do?”

“Huck Finn.”

“I don’t think Huck Finn wore a life jacket … “

“We wanted to stress the importance of water safety.”

So that was my tipping point. That's when I realized it would be okay to not make it to the wedding chapel, it would be okay if I died in a terror attack, because I could not stomach a lifetime with a man who couldn’t pee in the woods.