Christa Ann Banister

Chapter 1: In Serious Need of Therapy

“My darling girl, when are you going to learn that ‘normal’ is not necessarily a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage.” —Aunt Frances (Stockard Channing) in Practical Magic, 1998

When Daniel told me he was “in between jobs,” I believed him.

And when Michael told me that I was the only girl for him, I believed him too. Well, until I found out he was also dating Jenn, Allison, and Jordyn. Then there was Taylor, who was more in love with his own reflection and his favorite Diesel jeans than he could ever be with me. And Tyler, who didn’t have much self-esteem and always wondered if he was good enough. With Ben I was the girl friend, never the girlfriend. See, he was dating Lauren, and while they had almost nothing in common, he wanted to go out with her and have me as a confidant on the side. Now isn’t that a nice arrangement?

Yeah, nice for everyone except me.

After I got over Ben, there was Travis. Tall Travis. He was six-foot-eight, impossibly sweet, and a medical missionary in training. For once, it wasn’t him—it was me, in fact. Or rather, my ambitions. He told me when I was done with “my little writing thing” he’d consider dating me for the long haul. I guess I could see his point: if I was going to have that family of ten he’d dreamt about ever since he was a kid, I was going to have to start as soon as possible. Trouble is, I really loved writing. And I still do.

So good-bye Travis, hello Daniel.

Confused yet? Yeah, so am I, and it’s my story. As we speak, it’s six days after my twenty-seventh birthday, and as I was polishing off the rest of the delicious marble cake my friend Kristin made, I realized that after more than ten years of dating, I’m still a serial dater. I don’t know how this keeps happening, but frankly, it’s getting old. Really, why isn’t there some kind of support group for my condition? Why are there weekly meetings for Weight Watchers, mystery novel fans, and even knitting enthusiasts (believe it or not, there’s a Thursday night knitting club that meets in my church’s basement), but not for excessive daters?

In fact, I can just picture it now. I’m sitting in a circle in a small, sweat-soaked room at a nearby YMCA with other guys and girls just like me: “Hi, my name is Sydney Alexander, and I’m a serial dater.” “Hi, Sydney!” they chime back enthusiastically, their sympathetic eyes fastened on my brown ones, wondering how it all went wrong for me. Then one by one, we tell our traumatic tales of love gone wrong.

And even as difficult as that would be to do in front of complete strangers, it would be strangely comforting to know you’re not alone.

Now if you knew me well, which you will very soon, you’d understand the serial dating route wasn’t exactly the plan I’d envisioned. And since we’re in the process of becoming such good friends, I’ll go the full disclosure route and tell you that I once devised what I thought was a pretty amazing future for myself. Unlike the majority of my Christian college friends, I decided I could forgo the husband for the first couple of years after graduation. Instead, I’d date casually, concentrate on my career, get more involved in church and pay off that pesky student loan. And since I was being so responsible, maybe I’d save up for a down payment on a renovated downtown loft. And maybe the latest Prada bag. Or a trendy Fendi clutch, depending on my mood.

Of course, after all that was accomplished, and I’d traveled to some of Europe’s best sights, I’d consider settling down and getting married. Now of course, there’s nothing wrong with having goals. But mine were a bit presumptuous, even if I didn’t believe it at the time.

And like most man-made plans (or in this case, woman-made!), things didn’t exactly go the way I hoped. Quite the opposite, actually. Even if I’d wanted to get married right after graduation, I probably wouldn’t have had time. After all, I barely had time to sleep. See, it took me a little longer than I’d scheduled to land a respectable job in journalism, and I was forced to work three not-so-glamorous ones to make ends meet. So when I wasn’t sporting a hideous green smock while working the late shift at Walgreens or answering phones and copy-editing at an upstart music magazine, I was trolling the temp agency circuit to see if I could pick up a gig or two to supplement my less-than-stellar income.

So as you can probably guess, I didn’t spring for the loft, a designer purse, or a trip to Paris. But somehow, each month, God provided enough funds to pay the rent and stock up on Lean Cuisines, luxuries I learned to appreciate in a hurry.

Three years later, even though I’ve managed to pay off the majority of my student loan, drive a responsible, fuel-efficient Toyota Prius instead of the Lexus SUV I really wanted, and proudly own my first condo in the warehouse district of downtown Minneapolis, I can’t seem to break the casual-dating cycle I once thought was perfect. It’s just date after date without any hope of a future. And frankly, I’m beginning to think that prearranged marriages aren’t such a bad idea. Seriously.