I was hanging out with my friend Patrick, comparing notes about our love lives. We were talking about red flags and whether we had any.
“Well,” Patrick said, “I feel like I'm kind of an aerospace cliché. … I’m an engineer, I drive a Subaru and I rock climb.”
“How is that a red flag?” I asked. “That sounds more like humblebragging.”
“Well, then, what exactly is a red flag?” Patrick asked.
“A red flag,” I said, reading on Reddit, “is a warning sign that a person may be dealing with a toxic, manipulative, or psychotic person.”
“So what's your red flag? Do you think you have one?
We all have unpleasant parts of ourselves, those inner demons that we try to corral and keep out of the public eye. But every once in a while, one of those demons sneaks into the outside world, plants a red flag, and maniacally shouts, “Dwaaaagaahaha!”
“Actually,” I said, “I might have a red flag.”
I told my story light and airy, but it was heavy when it happened.
I had been stuck on dating, feeling as stuck as the 405 freeway on a Friday afternoon. It was time for a new hobby.
“How do you like rock climbing?” I asked Patricio.
“It's great,” he said. “However, there is a downside: it is quite male-dominated.”
They sold me.
I joined the local climbing gym, prepared to meet my future climbing boyfriend.
I noticed it after a few days. He was an incredible climber, but he was indifferent; fiery but unpretentious; and mysterious but simple, according to my tarot cards.
It took him a couple of months to realize I existed, but he finally did. I was belaying my friend when he came over and said, “Hello.”
I greeted awkwardly, too nervous to speak.
“So,” said the dream climber, “you really need to have both hands on the rope when you belay. It's not safe the way you're doing it. You’ll get in trouble with the gym staff.”
I nodded, mortified. And for the next month, I avoided eye contact with him, hoping the humiliation would subside.
Then we talked again and out of nowhere he asked me to come up. We climbed, went out for drinks, and climbed more, and suddenly we weren't just hanging out, we were going on climbing adventures together. I followed him on a multi-pitch route in Idyllwild, rappelled down a cliff in Joshua Tree, and then had the most daunting adventure of all…a conversation about “us.”
We were driving from Joshua Tree back to Los Angeles. “I really like you,” I said.
He let out a long sigh, eyes fixed on the road. An excruciating pause followed, pregnant enough to suggest triplets. “There are a lot of red flags,” he said.
My chest tightened.
“It's strange that you have so many friends,” he continued. “And it's weird that you're friends with your ex. Why do you need so much male attention? It's a huge red flag. I mean, haven't you seen 'When Harry Met Sally'? “There will always be some level of attraction between you and these guys, whether it be one way or both.”
I argued against this point and he responded. We spent the next hour talking in circles, getting nowhere, all while stuck in traffic on the westbound 10 Freeway. Being stuck in traffic seemed metaphorical to me.
Once we hit Highway 91, the traffic calmed down and so did my flow of thoughts. He wanted us to be on the same page and so I convinced myself that he was right. By the time we reached the surface streets, I had become a superficial thinker. My main goal was to save the fragile and questionable relationship, whatever the cost.
I distanced myself from my friends and told my ex that we should end our friendship. I was outraged. “We have been friends for 10 years. I've known you for 14 years. And you're excluding me? Do you know how painful that is?
I did, but I deleted it anyway. I was so desperate to make things work with the dreamy climber.
One afternoon, Patrick asked me to come up. I hadn't seen him for a while because I was trying to limit my time with my friends. But I wanted to reach for it and I didn't think it was a big deal.
Then the dream climber texted me to see what I was up to. When I told him I was climbing, he said, “Who are you climbing with?”
“My friend Pat,” I responded, choosing the gender-neutral version of Patrick’s name.
“Is Pat a boy?”
I cursed at my phone and a parent scolded me, pointing at the youth competition team.
“Yes,” I texted back. “But it's completely platonic. Or should I say…Patonic.”
The exchange of texts and the horrible pun sparked a huge fight. Things didn't work out. I wanted them to, but in the weeks that followed, I exhausted myself trying to navigate our endless, thorny conversations. By the end, I was exhausted and suffered from some depression. Not only had we ended our relationship, but I had damaged important friendships and lost control of who I was. I was embarrassed. The question I kept asking was, “What's wrong with me?”
I stopped climbing for a while and went hiking instead, often alone.
The sun was low in the sky when I reached the top of Mount Baldy. I was the only one there, with the entire peak to myself. Looking at the mountains, I had a moment of clarity.
My climbing that day was for me and no one else. He didn't need the acceptance of a dream climber, conforming to an unnatural shape to satisfy someone else's needs. I just needed to be myself. And if that's a red flag, I'm not afraid to raise it.
Dwaaaagaahaha!
The author is a Los Angeles native, writer and yoga teacher. She is on Instagram: @taytay_eff
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