Ladies, say you meet someone in your local coffee shop. Not just someone, him. You’re not trying to meet him. Hell, you’re not attempting or prepared to meet anyone on this rainy Wednesday morning with your hair in shambles. You continue trying to look over the presentation on your tablet but you keep looking back and he’s staring at you. . . . intensely as if he’s trying to read your mind and your bra size. You give in, embrace his admiration of your form, and this beautiful chocolate approaches you and begins to engage in light conversation. You feel your knees beginning to give way because everything about him is sexy. You get so lost in his lips covering your breast until you can’t respond when he asks you your name. After blaming the moment on age, you calmly give your name and want to know more about him. You give him your business card with your cell number on the back. He does the same.
After some texts and surface conversation, a first date is scheduled. You have time to prepare and put on a cute outfit. Nothing too revealing but casual. You meet him at the place agreed upon because although he’s charming, you still don’t know him. After a few drinks, he begins to divulge that he has a Doctorates and works for a pharmaceutical company. He expresses his desire to become vice president of the company in five years. He has goals and his ambition has you aroused in ways that you could have never imagined! The more you talk to this chocolate god, the more you are compelled to make sure he doesn’t look at anyone else but you. Before you can stop yourself, your hormones invite him over for coffee tonight and breakfast tomorrow morning. . . . . . .
You’ve given him all your Girl Scout Cookies. . . . . . all of them as many times as he liked. And he’s still interested! So two weeks turn into two months, then three, then six. He’s everything that you’ve envisioned of but there’s that secret you have yet to tell him. You arrange a trip out of town to break the news. After another cookie exchange, you finally get the nerve to tell him that you are still technically married. . . . . . . You don’t make enough money to pay for health insurance and you need it for yourself and your teenage son. You’ve been having health issues that now require surgery. You tell Mr. Perfect that you didn’t want to disclose your personal affairs until you felt it was serious. Feeling betrayed, Mr. Perfect turns away and puts on his clothes. With tears in his eyes, he reaches under your pillow and places the ring box in his pocket as he walks away in silence. . . . . . . .
Wow right? How do you tell someone that you are technically still married for the health insurance but you consider yourself single? In today’s dating matrix, there are so many protocols. Don’t talk about your ex on the first date. Don’t talk about sex or politics on the first date. Never go see a movie on the first date. Never give up the cookies on the first date. But what about the dates thereafter? What if the conversation lends it’s way to talk about sex and politics? When do we talk about those hidden areas that may or may not be deal breakers? Since we’re keeping it “one-hundred”, shouldn’t you unload all of your baggage on the first date?
Everyone of us has a past. Some of it is great. Other parts . . eh . . . not so much. You see, our past experiences have shaped us into who we are today, but we don’t necessarily want to shout out all of them from the rooftops! With information literally at our fingertips, our past can be discovered through Google and social media forums at a moment’s notice. And did I mention that every person is a videographer for TMZ? This is what makes dating the feared beast that it is and why many of us refuse to go inside the Coliseum . . . . . .
So my question for this Wednesday is when should you talk about your past/potential deal breakers? Is it too early to say that I still live with my mother and I want her to continue to live with me once I’m married? Is it too early to say that I have a criminal record? I would love to hear from you all today. I really need the help . . . . .