Sparky

Last week, I went on a date. I’m okay at first dates—not amazingly charismatic and sexy, but I hope not get-me-out-of-here dull. In a way, first dates are the easiest part of dating: You have little to lose and endless boring shit to talk about provided you’re reasonably non-awkward. During an inevitable lull, revert to college majors, siblings, favorite bars, hometowns, your jobs, yak yak yak and yak. If a first date is bad, you’re done in two hours, eating chips and salsa in your kitchen like it never went down. It’s the subsequent dates that tell you something—for better or for worse.

If anything, first dates are Spark-o-Meters.

So I went on a first date. At a cute bar on Atlantic that I’d never been to before. He was Dan, a half-Jewish law student who wore flannel and funky Pumas, and I was (in fact, I still am, though he is past tense) Lauren, a full-Jewish teacher who also prefers to wear flannel and funky Pumas, though I avoid that look on a first date so there’s no confusion about sexual orientation. We had a nice time drinking IPA (I love snobby beer) and talking about the West Coast and education reform (only my two favorite topics). During the date, I was perfectly content, even enjoying myself. We said goodbye, hugged, and his hand lingered a beat long on my lower back.

A few days later, he called. TV shows tell me that’s what I want: for him to call. Thank you, vaguely-misogynistic sit-com. But I saw his name flash on my iPhone screen, and I practically cringed. I did not slide my index finger across the screen and say hello, nor did I politely call back. This storyline repeats itself.

So what's wrong with me?

No spark. Spark-o-Meter rests firmly at zero. Not really worth a call back. Nice dude, great on paper, but I already have more friends than free time. That’s not what I’m after on a first date.

I’m hunting Spark.

I have no idea what Spark is or how to describe it, but I know it when I got it. And it’s damn good. When you Spark with someone (and Spark is mutual, partner work. You really can’t Spark alone), you just know. Things suddenly change; the lines get a little brighter. Of course when you’re with him, but even when you’re not. PDA on the 4 train is no longer nauseating. Working out feels better than it should, and you want to walk outside listening to nineties pop music on your headphones even when it’s only partially sunny. When you’re Sparking, you get little done at work, but you don’t care that much. You stay up too late and make poor choices. Spark feels worth it. When you’re riding high, you want more where that came from. Spark is more addictive than nicotine, only there’s no patch. No gum.

I’ve had Spark a few times. Notably, dear diary:

I Sparked in Central America underneath an active volcano, and it felt so good that I wanted to quit my teaching job before it started, rent a motorcycle and drive all the way to the Panama Canal. He was the organic chef at an organic ranch and he was organically spicy. I walked to town in my blue Chacos to call Majken on a dusty Spanish Teléfono with the last of my pesos. For advice. She said no dice—come home. Duh.

I Sparked during the first few months of college when I was barely a grown-up and had a bad diet coke and vodka habit. The Spark felt so Sparky, that I wound up in a janitor’s closet surrounded by purple Lysol and dirty mop buckets.

I Sparked at an Irish bar in Boston on St. Patrick’s Day with a guy from Philly whose eyes were the exact same color as mine, but I only saw him that one night.

Most recently, I Sparked on Superbowl Sunday on a Brooklyn rooftop covered in ice. With a man who deals in words, and I certainly can’t be held accountable when there are men with words involved.

I’ve felt Spark come and go. Like waves at high tide on the Oregon coast, Spark recedes quickly. Back where it came from, to be captured by someone else.

I’m getting increasingly concerned about Spark. I crave it, but I’m not sure it’s any good for me. I can’t help but notice that none of my Sparks (aforementioned or omitted) have lasted. Sparks are easily crushed beneath a high heel, putting out the potential for a perilous fire. Once the spark is gone, what are you left with? The men with whom I’ve Sparked are not the same men who’ve been right for me or good to me. I’m left to wonder if true Spark is dateable or if Spark only exists in a parallel universe that is mostly bad news. I’m afraid that time and real life may corrode spark. And fast. Turns out, Spark might have issues.

By that same token, Spark doesn’t seem to grow with time. Hence, I don’t pick up the phone when Dan the flannel Man calls. Instead of going with the safe bet, I continue to hunt spark with my trusty bow and arrows, short skirts and banter, banter, banter. I hold out hope, though, that sparkability and dateability (words just recently added to the OED. By me.) are not mutually exclusive. That they can exist peacefully side-by-side—each slightly dulled by the other, but beautifully symbiotic nonetheless.