I Dated The Perfect Woman & It Was Awful
Photo by Max
The f-word effed-up everything
—
She was:
A Russian fashion model
Wicked-smart
Bikini-clad
…and rubbing every inch of my body with purifying black mud
I felt like James Bond as I lay on the massage table.
We were at a rural spa deep in the Ecuadorian jungle, which further begged the question:
“How the hell did I end up here?!”
If this was a James Bond flick, the casting director should be promptly fired. I’m the wrong guy.
She outclassed me in terms of looks, brains, and cool stories to tell.
Even better, she liked me very much and was paying for everything that day.
It was great. But, as I laid face down, enjoying her touch and the gentle breeze, I knew this wouldn’t last long.
A few days later, it was over.
She kicked me to the curb like trash.
And I was glad.
In response to our fling, her Tinder profile quickly changed to include a new rule:
NO FEMINISTS!!!
She was full of shit. I laughed.
Here’s why.
Superwoman vs. feminism
The experience prompted some insights into relationship dynamics and gender roles.
Let me explain…
Our first eye contact was magical. We watched the sunset on the beach and lay in each other’s arms. Blah, blah, blah.
I told her about my recent writings (the virtues of feminism, healthy masculinity, etc.).
She dismissed it as hogwash.
“Feminism is destroying the family. Men and women aren’t equal. A woman’s role is to support the man in the home,” she said. (Her exact words: “aren’t equal”)
She demanded patriarchy, which was pretty hypocritical because she was crushing gender roles left and right.
This woman navigated the world with super-human assertiveness.
She had 35 stamps in her passport — and could barter a business transaction in six languages.
She worked as a cryptocurrency manager (or something like that).
She was selling her eggs to a Chinese millionaire who wanted to marry her but was happy to settle for her genetics a la carte.
Despite all this, she was waiting for a brass-balled man to wrestle her into her place… in the kitchen.
Her intelligence, chutzpah, charisma, and femininity made her the ultimate human — capable of leading the free world. And feminist social reforms enabled her lifestyle choices at every turn.
Yet she wanted to “feel like a woman in the relationship.” I think she wanted to feel the excitement of gender polarity, and to her that meant patriarchy.
Never mind that she was running around the jungle like a bohemian playboy doing plant medicine ceremonies.
She wanted patriarchy — and to cook me breakfast.
I told her I make a great omelet.
Me vs. Superwoman
If we were to date, I needed to take all the initiative — and pay — while she constantly tested my masculine abilities to plan, protect, provide, and execute decisions.
I needed to stay one step in front of her expectations to be manly.
Otherwise, she’d do it herself. Or leave me. It was clear.
Yet she jumped at every opportunity to negotiate discounts with Spanish-speaking cab drivers. Or send back food at restaurants. Or commandeer the massage table to rub me down with black mud.
These were tests for me. And at one point, she admitted it. She was testing me.
I needed to outperform her manic masculine side if I was going to access that radiant woman I saw on that first date.
But with her masculine energy always cranked up to 11, her ideal manly-man guy wasn’t going to have a place in her life. She wasn’t going to attract that guy because she was already him — and a helluva woman too.
I told her she was impossible
And I told her if we were going to see each other again, I wanted her to buy me a cup of coffee.
I wanted her to “wear the pants” because it was exactly what she didn’t want to do. Ironically, that put me in command of the situation.
And that’s how I ended up on the massage table, covered with black mud, with her paying for the date. She’d outdone herself. And me.
The “coffee date” exceeded all expectations — it was honeymoon-level cool stuff from start to finish. Ultimately, she was demonstrating how she wanted to be treated — like a queen, always.
Planning an equally impressive date would be impossible.
I was hosed. Our short relationship ended up feeling like a casting call, and I didn’t want the part after all.
Gender roles failed us miserably
Ultimately, I couldn’t hang with her BS masculinity tests. I didn’t want to constantly be on-point, commanding every situation, and executing our romance like a drill sergeant. (And paying for everything too.)
That’s a lot of work to have somebody cook you breakfast in return. Playing the role of “alpha male on steroids” is not my thing.
My thing is honest communication — and it was absolute fire on that first date.
Honest, open communication connected us deeply. Gender expectations tore us apart.
She said I “saw her” in ways other men never had. But, by our fourth date, her expectations for uber-manliness had soured her opinion of me.
A lot of the stuff she cared about didn’t really matter in the course of day-to-day life. At least not to me. A woman can order her own food at a restaurant. She can flag her own taxi. She can hold her own hand when descending the steps of a hot spring. (Or do backflips into the deep end.)
My version of me — my natural masculine self — was someone she liked instinctively but quickly dismissed when I didn’t fit her limited definition of manliness.
She demanded patriarchy and role play — but actually seemed more excited by authenticity.
She blamed feminism.
So it goes.