A Little Dating Wisdom: How to Avoid Crack Dealers
Thursday, August 19, 2010 at 03:22PM A staggering number of dating disasters can be traced to unconscious (automatic) choices. Self-awareness is crucial when it comes to changing bad attraction patterns, and very few forces push us to the edge of romantic disaster quite as quickly as reflexive, mindless decision making—except, of course, stubborn, conscious decision making.
I’m speaking of the recalcitrant belief that the perfect partner will look past your given, “superficial” choices and see what a great catch you are. It goes something like this: When you really meet “the one,” they’ll lock eyes with you, ignore the alfredo sauce drooling down your face—and the fact that you’re eating salsa with your hands—and fall deeply, madly in love.
One version of this troublesome idea—a corollary of “it’s what’s on the inside that really matters” –might even land you a drug-dealer if you’re not careful. (If you’re looking to find a drug dealer, you’ll probably find this next story especially useful. Just ignore all the parts that seem cautionary in any way.)
Once, when I was 19, my mother and I visited New York together. I took her to all my favorite sites—a cheap, tasty, hot dog stand just off the Lexington line, a fantastic Northern Italian restaurant that I could afford now my mother was buying, and, last but not least, glorious Washington Square Park.
To truly appreciate this choice, you’ll need a few more details. First, at the time, Washington Square Park was a bit of a dicey area. Maybe it’s worse now; maybe it’s better. I haven’t visited in a while, so I’m not sure. At any rate, the first thing you should be asking yourself is, Why was I walking my mother through Washington Square Park? But if we’re playing what’s wrong with this picture, my notion of “interesting-sites-to-take-your-mother-to” might have been the least of my worries.
There was also the problem of how I dressed.
How Mom Met the Crack Dealers
At the time, I had absolutely no fashion sense (note to friends: I’m fully prepared for obvious cracks about how that hasn’t changed much). In all fairness to the fashion-clueless everywhere, though, I have to admit, this way of describing my problem might be far too generous.
When I say I had no sense, you’re probably picturing mismatched colors or highwaters or some such egregious fashion choice. Nope—my condition was far worse. Somewhere along the line, I’d proudly owned my lack of insight into color or style and now, at the age of 19—especially in the summer, when I also sported a Tom Selleck mustache—I wore it like a badge.
My deficit would become my strength (or so I’d convinced myself). There weren’t enough colors in the world, so “jewel tones,” as I called them, would be a standard feature in my closets— bright turquoise tank-tops with purple Moroccan balloon pants, more linen clothes than any man or woman should own, shiny gold and silver chains galore—and on this particular day, accompanying my mother through the seediest corners of Washington Square, I sported my favorite crushed linen, purple Liz Claiborne suite and jaunty black fedora. What a wonderful afternoon for a walk in the park: crisp azure sky, resplendent summer sun, and… oh yeah, eager crack dealers at every turn.
Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed them at all but, me, I brought them out of the woodwork.
The first guy was subtle, tagging along behind us, winking at me now and then in a way that seemed both practiced and creepy. Finally, he approached me from the side, a paper bag in one hand, and strangely, a pen in the other (for bookkeeping?). “You want something?”
“Uh, no thank you.” I shrugged. My mother scowled, then glanced at me, confused.
Moments later, the next approach—a tall thin, pale looking man, in a dirty black suit.
“Smoke?” He asked
“Uh. We’re fine, thanks.” Now my mother looked worried, and we both walked a little faster.
We hadn’t quite made it to the street yet—I could see our exit, just ahead—when another dealer made his approach. This third and final man—short, stocky, wearing a track suit—was by far the boldest. “Want to buy some crack?” He seemed to have bellowed it.
“No!” I yelled, alarmed and flabbergasted that he’d have the audacity to ask with my mother standing right next to me.
What he said next rang in my ears for months.
“Well then what the fuck you doing dressed like that walking through Washington Square Park?”
What I Learned about Romance from a Drug Dealer
WTF? Yes, good question.
Until that moment, it isn’t one I’d asked myself. In my mind, everyone should have understood my choice as creative expression, my daring mission to paint the world, one cheesy linen suit at a time, in bright bold colors. In truth, I’d had plenty of feedback from friends about the message I might be sending: “Dude, people aren’t always gonna get it—girls won’t for sure.” (It was the 80’s, and people said 'dude' and 'for sure' a lot). Without realizing it, though, I’d dismissed all that and made a stubborn choice. People would get to know the real me. Clothes are just clothes. What does it matter? It’s what’s on the inside that counts.
Maybe. But no one has access to our intentions—just the outward choice. If you’ve had feedback that you’re sending a message that might attract the wrong type because of how you dress, how you talk, where you spend your time, pay close attention. It’s your choice, in the end, to cling to the belief that people should simply see past your outward choice to who you are, but realize that every choice has a specific meaning in your culture—and by making that choice you’re choosing the impact you have, especially during the often blink-of-an-eye decision-making world of attraction. You’re choosing your experience. You’re choosing who finds you attractive.
In my own life, I’d also fallen for a common trap: I'd made a false distinction between inside and outside.
In reality, my outward choice said a lot more about what lay inside me than I’d ever realized. On the surface, I told myself the choice remained all about quirky clothes and unique color choice, but I’d also had more than a few hints that my clothes had some specific, established meanings I’d simply chosen to ignore: more than once, people had been confused about my sexual orientation. This, too, I simply dismissed as their problem—poor, confused souls who’d conflated gender role-expectations with sexual orientation (granted, some girls might have thought I was gay, but any gay man could tell you they wouldn’t have been caught dead in half the stuff I wore). I dismissed the evidence of my experience and, in doing so, I sacrificed control over who was attracted to me—in and out of Washington Square.
What I said with my choice was simple: I don't care. I don't care what this means to you. So when women were confused, they were right to see it as reflective of my inner life. I didn't care--at least, not at the time. Call it a preemptive romantic strike: I'm afraid you won't find me attractive, so I'll act like that doesn't matter to me. Worked wonders in my dating life.
Only later, after reflecting on my experience in Washington Square for a very long time, did I realize my mistake: by ignoring who my choices attracted, I also chose to hide behind a kind of passivity. I was in charge of the whole experience, as surely as if I'd politely asked the drug dealers to approach me: “Excuse me sir? Do you by chance have any crack today?” I’d just done it all with my clothes. What other experiences had I pretended not to be in charge of so I wouldn’t have to change them? How else had I passively controlled my romantic life with my choices?
Remember how crucial proximity is in attraction research. What impact do you think it has on your romantic life if your outward choices bring some people close (and send others away)? How do you think that affects who you’ll end up with?
For my part, I retired most of the jewel tones, along with the Liz Claiborne suit. Who was I to ignore the wisdom of a crack dealer?
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Reader Comments (7)
This was a very interesting anecdote and really helped to show your point. Thanks.
I love it! thanks for the reframe on the importance of taking charge of what signals we send out to people about ourselves through outward appearance. And thanks even more for the belly laughs! I hope you present a talk in your purple suit someday :-)
Thanks, Busta and Jennifer. So glad you enjoyed it. I'll try to find the suit, I promise.
Brilliant as always (and colorful!). While this is great dating advice, I can see how it plays out in my own life when I choose to wear certain clothes...it's got me thinking.
[...] if I can draw inspiration from a crack dealer, how hard is it to believe I’d hear romantic wisdom in the words of a [...]
Thanks Lisa! Glad you liked it, too.
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