Rachel Machacek - The Science of Single: One Womans Grand Experiment in Modern Dating, Creating Chemistry, and Finding Love

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Table of Contents

For my sister, Sarah

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Gratitude, peace and love to:

Mary Anna and John Machacek, my parents. My template for love is rooted in your endless afterwork hugs in the kitchen when I was little and the fact that you still hold hands, even after four decades together. Im holding out for that kind of romance.

Michael McCarthy for being the kind of mentor and friend everyone should have at some point in her life.

Debra Leithauser for turning my half-baked, Merlot-ridden idea into a true assignment.

Bridget Wagner for having the brilliant idea for me to actually write a book about this, and making it happen.

Megan Lynch for calm guidance, and somehow (miraculously) prodding me into telling this story in less than six hundred pages.

The people who set me up with their friends, offered food and shelter when I traveled (and at home), put pen to paper and edited my drafts, rooted me on, and listened to me hash through every last detail as I made my way through this process, particularly: Ted Baker, Carey Burke, Cathy Chung, Margaret Foster, Jennifer Giesler, Tracy Glanton, Jeanne Glunz, Group, Josh King, Joshua Kohn, Liz Kuvinka, Fran Lovaglio, Rosa Lovaglio, Edie Mann, Sarah Machacek, Kristi McKeag, Jennifer Niederberger, Pia and Chris Nierman, Gina Schaefer, Carolyn Shutler, Ashby Strassburger, Heather and Craig Stouffer, Kathleen Sutter, and Nancy TeSelle.

The Sagalyn Agency, Riverhead Books, and

All of my boyfriends. Even if you never heard from me again, I think of you often.

INTRODUCTION

I can trace the origins of this book back to one nightthe night I went on a date with Mark, a man Id met online.

There were omens that could have predicted that the evening, with a razor-sharp breeze in the dead of January, would end the way it did.

Omen #1: Mark was shirtless in one of his profile pictures. He had a hunky chest, but the fact that he needed to show it to the world right off the bat smacked of overcompensation.

Omen #2: On the way to our rendezvous point, I ran into a guy Id broken up with in a heated email exchange a few months before. Actually, I saw the ex-whatever-he-was (whats the name for the emotionally unavailable guy you date for a few months but can never quite call your boyfriend?) coming toward me, pulled my wool cap low over my eyes, nipped my chin with the zipper on my puffer jacket, and feigned preoccupation with my cell phone so I wouldnt have to face him as he walked by not five feet away.

Omen #3: I was damaged goods. I forged into the bitter unknown and away from the harmony of my life, which includes a persistent orange cat called Bart and a studio apartment where I can survey my entire domain from every single corner and there are never any surprises. I was getting myself back out there after having my hopes of love and commitment shredded a few weeks before by yet another Ex-Whatever. He lived thousands of miles away, but had still managed to sequester a large percentage of my heart in the years wed been friends. After four years of intermittent phone calls, somehow, I got the idea that maybe it would work out between us. I was almost relying on it, perhaps because even though there were just phone calls, he was the most consistent man in my life. My first and last visit to see him, which included a wretched night spent in hostel bunk beds, solidified the fact that it actually wasnt going to work out. You have to wonder about someone whos willing to haphazardly toss her love and commitment eggs into a single basket 3,000 miles away, like I did. I was a clueless romantic, and after this experience, I toughened up and decided I would only date men in my area code.

Thats where Mark came in. Despite the omens, it should have been a perfect date. We met at LEnfant, a small and dark caf at the far end of Adams Morgan, the Washington, D.C., neighborhood where I live. It has exposed brick and the type of lighting that makes everyones complexion glow, and its a safe haven away from the short nightlife strip thats an odd conglomeration of hookah lounges, sports bars, and coffee shops.

Maybe it was first-date jitters, but Mark was a tough customer. Like a circus lackey, I jumped through hoops trying to get him to show a little teeth, or even curl up the corners of his mouth into a mere hint of a smile. And for two hours, I watched Marks face vacillate between a sour-grapes grimace and a deer-in-headlights freeze. I worked through two drinks, a salad, and a bowl of soup, and by the end of it, he made it painfully clear that he did not like me or my sideshow. He expressed this without uttering a single word. Instead, he ceremoniously opened the bill and set it between us so we both could seeand pay.

Ive found that not picking up the tab is a universal sign men use to express that there wont be a second date, though I was pretty sure Marks email said, Can I buy you a drink? So I let him struggle over the math of who owed what, we each paid for exactly what we consumed, and left.

That bit at the caf was the cakewalk, and it was the next ten minutes trudging home together that tested the boundaries of excruciating pain. Trying to get Mark to pull his conversational weight was like yanking wisdom teeth without an ounce of Novocain. By the time we reached my street corner, Id expended all of my energy and felt as deflated as a four-day-old Mylar balloon. Id tried with this man, and Id failed. But people are people, and were all trying to get by in this cold, harsh world, so I stopped to shake hands, hug, and offer a proper good-bye. Mark didnt stop. He picked up his pace into a trot, barely turning his head as his Nice to meet you was diced apart by the shards of ice blowing in the winter wind.

Id been dealing with mostly passive rejection up until then, so this was a sharp, stinging slap across my already frostbitten cheek.

Men were now, quite literally, running away from me.

I walked myself to my own door, plopped down on my floor-model Ikea couch, and downed half a bottle of three-dollar merlot while Bart headbutted my cheek with his wet nose. Frustration, confusion, and anger that needed avenging coursed through my veins. They funneled up to my heart, and by the time the emotions reached my brain, they had mixed themselves into a productive email to an editor pitching a story about dating that turned into an article reviewing dating self-help books that turned into an idea to write a book about dating. Not a dating-advice book, though. An investigationan experimentto see what happens when you use all the resources you possibly can to meet and date the opposite sex.

Ive always recognized dating as a necessary evil in life, even during my serial-monogamist phase back in high school and through my early twenties when I sashayed from one long-term relationship to the next, barely blinking an eye. I thank my mom for this wisdom. Just as my dad ingrained in me that a cars oil needs to be changed every three months or three thousand miles, she pounded into my head how important it is to see what and whos out there before committing to marriagelest I settle for someone out of convenience, I suppose. The problem has always been that Ive never thrived on meeting new people or making small talk with strangers, and this has made connecting with the opposite sex, let alone dating, about as compelling as getting a tetanus shot. So mostly, over the last seven years that Ive been without a boyfriend, Id taken to holing up in my apartment on Saturday nights, eating whole pans of chocolate chip cookies, never lifting a finger to find a date, and then complaining to my friends how there are no good guys left and how I hated dating. Its

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