I was talking to a single friend about our respective love lives a while back when she casually mentioned that a guy she knew from church had recently been pursuing her romantically. I was just about to ask for all the juicy details when she extinguished my excitement by saying she wasn't interested.
From her description, he sounded like a nice enough guy, so I asked why she wasn't into him.
"Well," she said dismissively, "he doesn't make my toes curl."
This conversation perplexed me—and haunted me for months as I tried to factor it into my ongoing internal debate over how much time to give romance to blossom in any given relationship.
When I tried out eHarmony some time ago, I was similarly struck by one of the multiple-choice questions you can ask of a match: How important is chemistry to you in a relationship? The answer options ranged from needing an instant spark with someone to being OK if it grows over time. I remember looking at the four options and trying to figure out the "right" answer.
How long do we give feelings to birth as we get to know a new date? And perhaps even more important, what sort of feelings should we expect anyway?
Much has been made of the curling toes. Of butterflies, tingles, and "I just knew" sentiments. Of love, or at least intense attraction, at first sight. Of "you had me at hello."
While these things are certainly fun and are usually a sign of genuine attraction (certainly a needed component of a healthy romantic relationship), they're also, I've come to learn, quite fickle. And, I suspect, the expectation of these instant feelings stem largely from romantic sitcoms, movies, and novels.
I was reminded of this recently when I was watching a romantic flick on TV while packing for a business trip. When I was finished packing and needed to run some errands, there were still 45 minutes of movie left. I was tempted to stick around for the conclusion, to find out if the two romantic hopefuls finally landed in each other's arms. That is until I found myself blurting out, "C'mon, you know what happens. They end up together. You knew that the first time they locked eyes in the first 15 minutes of the movie!" I knew I was right, so I left.
And I have a feeling I was the better for leaving. Not just because I got my errands done, but also because I saved myself from another unrealistic Hollywood love story of an instant connection that allows the couple to leap every hurdle the scriptwriters can throw in their path. I've come to expect this instant chemistry from my entertainment selections—and sometimes subconsciously from my romantic relationships.
I didn't realize this thinking had invaded my personal life until a romantic potential landed in my path a couple years ago. A friend introduced us, saying she thought we'd really hit it off. When friends asked how the first date went, the most accurate description was a one-word answer: fine. Not great, not awful. Fine.
I was tempted to call it quits right there, and to be honest, if he hadn't called me for a second date, I probably wouldn't ever have seen him again. But something compelled me to say yes to date two, and it ended up being better than fine. And the third date was better still.
Turns out, this guy's an introvert who takes a while to warm up to new people—especially dates. So with each get-together, he warmed some, and I got a better peek at who he really is. Even though things didn't work out in the end, I was so glad I didn't follow that initial "but there are no fluttery feelings here" reservation; I would have missed out on getting to know a great guy.
When I look at where those butterfly feelings have sometimes led me, I should realize they're not so reliable. Last month I wrote about a guy I met on a plane with whom I shared an instant click. Unfortunately, it turns out he'd had a similar kind of click with someone that trumped our little interaction — with his wife.
