PDA

Many times I’ve sat alone, watching happy couples snuggling together, laughing and holding hands. I don’t need to spell this out—everybody has seen something like this while sitting alone. It stinks. Everything I see that’s shared between two other people adds up to all the things I’m missing out on: shoulder-rubbing, hair-tousling, cheek-pinching, eyes-gazing. I pretend like I don’t want it, but of course I do. On my worst days, I’ve wondered if other people’s happiness juxtaposed with my loneliness means I’ll be alone forever. (As if strangers’ lives have anything to do with mine.) You know what I’m talking about: this is the beginning of the bad plot line in every bad romantic comedy (and I think all romantic comedies are bad). I’ve bitched and moaned and lamented my singlehood until even I am sick of myself.

What doesn’t happen often enough is the PDA I enjoyed this afternoon while sitting near a large window at a casual restaurant. Here, however, PDA would stand for Public Display of Anger. When I sat down, I noticed a couple sitting at a table outside, talking. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the conversation was punctuated by pointing, which developed into grandiose arm gestures, then standing askance behind their chairs. By the time I left the restaurant, where there weren’t many people, they’d moved to another space outside and were still obviously having a heated conversation.

I’d been dining alone, enjoying my own company and the pleasant, sunny day from a comfortable, air-conditioned space. I don’t wish ill on anyone, of course, but I wanted to thank this hapless couple for reminding me, in their own way, how happy I am that I’m not sharing such a heated conversation. Free to go my own way, free to do whatever I want, completely free. On my next less-confident day, when I’m feeling less free, I might wonder where they are and wonder whether they’re still arguing…and then I’ll take a moment to be thankful for the things I’m missing out on.

Here’s to you, Angry Couple. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go lay out in the sunshine. With myself. Try not to be annoyed by the smile on my face.

Not my type.

When I lived in Tokyo, it was the little old Japanese ladies at church who used to ask me what type of guy I was interested in. This question puzzled me. It didn’t seem beneficial to restrict myself to only certain types of guys. I thought it better to cast a wide net of interest. It made sense numerically: the more guys I could be potentially interested in, the larger the pool from which I could find the right one. Besides, there seemed to be plenty of love stories about people who never imagined they’d end up with the person they were with. Or people attracted to someone who is their “opposite,” whatever that means. Or fixed up on a blind date by someone else—it’s as if they didn’t even choose their mate at all! How could I possibly settle on mere categories to determine the love of my life?

This vagueness wasn’t acceptable to the Japanese ladies. Isn’t there a particular phenotype or ethnicity that interests me? Did I need a man who is a Christian? The very thought of narrowing down my options seemed crass and unfair. All men are special in their own way! Any man who crossed my path was a potential suitor; I thought it was my business to discover what was special about him. “I don’t like his shoes, but how important are shoes, anyway?” “He has tattoos on his face, but he’s probably nice to his mother.” “He looks kinda old/kinda young, but I can overcome that.” “He has great hair, even if he has terrible taste in clothing.”

Any guy could be fixed up to be the right guy for me; in the same way, I could adapt to fit any guy. This made the possibilities endless! Is it possible to quantify love? I could fall in love with anybody, just as anybody could fall in love with me. Is he a business-type who wears nice suits? Well, I also like to dress nice and be a professional. Is he casual and laid back? I like that, too. Does he like music? That’s the kind I like, as well!

I actually prided myself on my ability to see romantic possibilities even in men who weren’t interesting to me. It made me feel holy and egalitarian. Maybe this is how Jesus would date, if Jesus were to do such a thing. Being open to wherever God would lead me, I thought my attitude was entirely laudable. Surely this is the kind of faithful behavior God would reward—I would be obedient, and I would get the life I wanted, with the perfect man, whoever he is.

So every step in public was a step into my destiny, I thought. The man of my dreams could be anywhere: walking down the street, waiting in line at the airport, shopping at the supermarket, behind the counter at the convenience store. I was perpetually readying myself, constantly posing and trying to look great so I could catch his eye, whoever he is. I was still old-fashioned, after all—I wanted to be chased down by this amazing man. And I had to be ready to fit him, since he could be anybody—he could be right under my nose and I didn’t even know it. This love could change my life immediately, so I couldn’t really commit to long-term future plans, since I’d need to be ready to get married, to whoever he is.

Looking around to find him, my head swiveling around and around like a woman desperately in need of an exorcist, I was dizzy. And exhausted. The possibilities were endless, but my patience was not. “Where is he? Why hasn’t he showed up yet?” I wondered.

Not having a "type" was the least of my problems.

You never know.

“I’m getting married next year,” I said. It was 2005, and I was leaving Tokyo, where I’d been living for the past two and a half years, where I’d been—as far as I could tell—wasting my time since I hadn’t dated anyone while all of my closest friends had gotten married or engaged. I was not going to be left out of this rite of passage. Marriage is something grown-ups are supposed to do; I needed to prove that I’d grown up. It was time to collect the gifts bestowed upon those who grow up and get married: the nice towels, the real plates, the fancy bedding, the beautiful china, the strong spoons that don’t bend in half when you go to scoop the ice cream. Besides, upon returning to the States, I would enter a four-year seminary program and eventually become a Lutheran pastor, and I didn’t think I was called to serve the church by myself; I needed a partner. It’s right there in the creation story: God created man and woman to work together. I was prepared to receive what I rightfully deserved. I mean, society ordains it and God made it that way, right? My only goal was to be faithful, and God would provide the right man. Bible stories proved me right, romantic comedies proved me right, everyone else’s experiences proved me right. My two best friends had married each other the year before; we’d all been friends for a long time before a romance developed rather quickly between the two of them. “A lot can happen in a year,” my friend told me. “You never know.”

Darn right, you never know, I thought. Which is why I told everyone I would be married in a year; no one could tell me for certain that it wouldn’t happen, because they didn’t know. So as I left Tokyo, I told my English students and fellow church members that we’d see each other soon, at my wedding the following year. The inevitable following question, “To who?” never threw me off. The “who” or the way I would meet him was of little importance to me; I just knew it would happen, because I had faith that God would provide. “I’m getting married next year,” I told people I met when I started seminary. I told my family. I told my friends, and I continued developing the standard wedding narrative with the delightful courtship, the perfect proposal, and the glorious marriage ceremony with the beautiful wedding gown, the dramatic march down the aisle, the bridesmaid dresses, the triumphant exit of the bride and groom. Then, afterwards, the reception with the meaningful song and the teary first dance between Mr. and Mrs.--whoever, it didn't matter, I was ready to surrender myself to a new name, a different identity. I prayed and told God, over and over, “I’m getting married next year.” I made a great case for myself, and everywhere I looked, no one disagreed with me. Why shouldn’t a young, beautiful, faithful, intelligent, well-traveled woman be getting married and living happily ever after?

The moral of so many stories is that if you really believe in your dreams, if you really believe and work hard for your dreams, they’ll come true.

That is also the moral of this story.

Although the casualty in this story is that dream. It had to die. A long, slow, spectacularly painful, embarrassingly ugly death.

But don’t be misled. The heroine still lives happily ever after.

And more than that: a life abundant.