Red Flags

If you’ve been following along at home, you are likely aware of the following:

• I have been ‘window shopping’ the dating sites for quite a while.
• For various reasons, some of which stem from me and others from the persons with whom I have communicated, I have made very little progress.
• I have One Very Good Reason to be extremely wary when vetting potential romantic partners, which does tend to make it marginally more difficult to even try in the first place--and while I know that this is on me, it’s not going to change a damn thing because it is important.

That said, I recently had a bit of a flutter in the ‘someone’s actually willing to talk to me’ department on an app where the lady has to make the first move. Now, my usual tactic is to find something in the other person’s profile that I can spin out into a starting point that proves I’ve put some thought into it, rather than just saying, “Hi!”

I’m going to sidetrack here for a second and revisit an old train of thought which in part consists of the below:

• As concerns online dating profiles, I sincerely doubt that anyone does as much outdoorsy shit as they would have you believe.
• I also sincerely doubt that anyone has the bandwidth to do as much traveling as they would have you believe--unless of course they travel for work or are a trust fund baby.

Sidetrack over, back to your regularly scheduled nonsense.

This particular person mentioned that their next trip was likely to be to Machu Picchu in Peru. (An unquestionably interesting--if magnificently clichéd--destination.) My opener was mostly me stating that any trip to the ancient Incan city should include many, many llamas with colorful kit, and could this person please not shatter that dream. They very politely pointed out that it was much more likely that there would be horses or mules doing the pack-animal-ing than llamas, but perhaps there would be llamas along the way. I was satisfied with this response. Then they went on to say that their big dream was to go somewhere there were giraffes, and ride one. I directed them to Giraffe Manor in Kenya, a place on my personal bucket list ever since I saw a mini-documentary on it on PBS years ago.

Mini-sidetrack: Elizabeth LOVES giraffes. Seriously. They’re just so dopey and adorable.

Anyway, I sent the link to Giraffe Manor and said, “I doubt they let you ride them, but they will stick their noggins in and share breakfast with you!”

Their response? “I’d find a way to jump on the back of one.”

My reply: “Don’t you think the giraffe might object? YMMV, but I personally wouldn't want to be told off by a giraffe. There’s a lot of power behind those long legs. Ow.”

Them: “Giraffes are my spirit animal. It would want me on its back.”

At this point, friends, I stopped and read, and re-read, and re-re-read, and clicked out, and haven’t said anything since.

You may be sitting there thinking why, though? They’re probably just being funny. And perhaps they are. I don’t know. But what I do know is how that statement struck me as possibly being indicative of something deeper. Something that made me very uncomfortable indeed. To me, it read as a warning regarding this person’s view of consent.

“Whoa. Hang on, crazy lady. This is a hypothetical giraffe. Not even a hypothetical person, but a hypothetical animal. It’s doubtful that any sane person would actually follow through on a plan as ludicrous as trying to ride an enormous African quadruped bareback. And this connection you’re making? Equally ludicrous. Relax.”

Well, yeah, maybe. But we develop opinions about people by watching their interactions with others, right? If someone is a dick to waitstaff, or they don’t hold doors for old ladies, or they kick puppies, we don’t usually think, oh, that’s a person I want to share my life with.

At least I don’t.

So I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to draw the parallel between this person possibly disregarding the interests of a giraffe in order to satisfy their own wishes and doing the same to another human being.

AND THAT FUCKING TERRIFIES ME.

Should it terrify me? Am I overreacting? It’s possible. But here’s the thing--I’m not particularly keen to allow logic to apply in this particular instance.

GASP! SHOCK! I can just hear my therapist right now. “You? The Queen of Logic? You’re going to throw that out the window and concentrate on a feeling?! Have I finally managed to get through to you? Oh, frabjous day!”

Yes, it’s true. Logic doesn’t even enter into it right now. All the logic in the world can’t rid me of the memory of the instant chill that pair of sentences gave me. All I know is that there was a feeling of cold, shuddering fear that washed over me. It was physical. It was visceral.

I did not like it, Sam I Am.

Maybe I’m willfully walking away from something with the potential to be more based on one off-the-cuff remark. But you know what? That’s a gamble I’m willing to take.