The Seven-Week Itch…

…and why there’s NEVER, EVER a right time to say goodbye.

Fellas, remember that instant hard-on you’d get when you approached a gorgeous woman at a bar, and she’d smile back at you? You’d buy her a drink, get into some mild flirtations, and you’d feel the sexual tension start to build? She’d give you her number and you knew right then and there that you were “IN”?

I used to LOVE that feeling—until it all went to shit three years ago.

Up until that point, going on first dates was the best because (surprise, surprise) they were always the most fun—the intercourse-equivalent to an orgasm!

You’d get to know the person better over a fine bottle of wine in a dimly lit lounge on a quiet Monday night, and everything was new…exciting. And best of all: No baggage!

Sometimes, the first date would be so good, I’d schedule a follow-up without hesitation (hey, why not!).

But then something happens, usually around date number three, where I literally start to feel the metaphorical noose around my neck. I run out of things to say, find myself calling or texting because I have to—not because I want to—and, well, let’s just say I rarely get to date number  four.

So for me to hit the seven-week, 10-date mark in any “relationship” would be a huge milestone; she would have to be really special. But it did happen, and she was as close to flawlessness as any girl could be. Great looks, awesome personality, phenomenal kisser, and filled with the wholesome values of a nice Portuguese family. Aside from a weird eye twitch, a damn near perfect 10.

The fourth date with her felt like my relationship training wheels had finally come off. Was I finally going to introduce someone as my “girlfriend”?

Uh, no, because her perfection was NO MATCH for my inability to get serious about getting serious. (Side Note: Even the guy from my cell phone company told me I had commitment issues after seeing my anxiety over signing a three-year contract). By the time she asked me if I’d swing her nephew’s birthday party, I knew it was over.

Needless to say, ending this doomed courtship was going to be a little trickier than normal, since I had crossed the delicate line that separates “casual dating” from “seeing someone.” But I was safe enough, I figured, since I made sure to avoid any references to “our future” in any conversation and—more importantly—we hadn’t yet slept together (thank you Jesus for girls who still want to take it slow).

I told her over dinner, in the most honest, sincere way I knew how, that long-term just wasn’t for me. And I’d say her reaction was pretty close to that of a little girl who just found out there’s no Santa Claus. She mentioned something about me “dumping her” without giving it a chance.

Dumping? Did I mention that it had only been SEVEN WEEKS? I’ve seen friends go through divorces that were less painful!

By the end of it, I was left with a barely-touched bottle of wine and no ride home. (Tip: Always make sure you’re the one driving the night you end it with someone.)

Since this debacle, I’ve found it harder to go out on dates because it almost feels like dating is reserved for people who are looking for something serious. Am I leading a girl on when I ask her to share a pizza and bottle of Chianti? And whatever happened to casual, no-strings-attached get-togethers? Am I doomed to a life of one-night-stands and dead-end texting? Is the universe trying to tell me to stick with the MILFs?

So many questions, and not enough answers. Moving forward, I see three possible scenarios, and each one is doomed to fail:

• I end it after the third date, and am accused of not giving the relationship a chance.
• I let it ride for six months, and become the asshole who strung her along and wasted her time.
• I tell her right up front that I’m only a three-date kinda guy, and risk getting an odd, “Easy there, buddy” look.

Thoughts?

Ah, the bachelor life. So simple, yet so complicated.