I was hanging out with my friend Patrick, comparing notes on our dating lives. We were talking about red flags and whether we had any.
“Well,” said Patrick, “I feel like I’m sort 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 a humble brag.”
“Well, then, what exactly is a red flag?” Patrick asked.
“A red flag,” I said, reading from 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 unsavory parts of ourselves, those internal demons we try to corral and keep out of public view. But now and then, one of those demons sneaks into the outside world, plants a red flag and screams out maniacally, “Dwaaaagaahaha!”
“Actually,” I said, “I might have a red flag.”
I told my story light and airily, but it was heavy when it happened.
I’d been in a rut with dating, feeling as stagnant as the 405 Freeway on a Friday afternoon. It was time for a new hobby.
“How do you like rock climbing?” I asked Patrick.
“It’s great,” he said. “One downside, though: It’s pretty male-dominated.”
I was sold.
I joined my local climbing gym, prepared to meet my future climber boyfriend.
I noticed him within days. He was an amazing climber but nonchalant about it; hot but unassuming; and mysterious but straightforward, according to my tarot cards.
It took a couple of months for him to realize I existed, but eventually he did. I was belaying my friend when he came over and said the word, “Hi.”
I waved awkwardly, too nervous to speak.
“So,” said the dreamboat climber man, “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, waiting for the humiliation to subside.
We later spoke again, and out of nowhere, he asked me to climb. We climbed, went out for drinks and climbed more, and suddenly not only were we dating, but we were going on climbing adventures together. I followed him up a multipitch route in Idyllwild, rappelled down a sheer 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 L.A. “I really like you,” I said.
He let out a long exhale, his eyes focused on the road. An excruciating pause followed, pregnant enough to suggest triplets. “You have a lot of red flags,” he said.
My chest tightened.
“It’s weird you have so many guy friends,” he continued. “And 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’s always going to be some level of attraction between you and these guys, whether it’s one way or both ways.”
I argued against this point, and he argued back. We spent the next hour talking in circles, getting nowhere — all while stuck in gridlock on the 10 Freeway headed west. Being stuck in traffic felt metaphorical.
Once we got onto the 91 Freeway, the traffic smoothed out, and so did my flow of thoughts. I wanted us to be on the same page, and so I convinced myself that he was right. By the time we hit surface streets, I’d become a surface-level thinker. My main goal was to save the questionable, fragile relationship, whatever the cost.
I distanced myself from guy friends and told my ex we should end our friendship. He was outraged. “We’ve been friends for 10 years. I’ve known you for 14 years. And you’re cutting me out? Do you know how hurtful that is?”
I did, but I cut him out anyway. I was so desperate to make things work with the dreamboat climber man.
One afternoon, Patrick asked me to climb. I hadn’t seen him for a while because I was trying to limit my time with guy friends. But I wanted to catch up with him and didn’t think it was a big deal.
Then the dreamboat climber man texted me to see what I was up to. When I said I was climbing, he texted back, “Who are you climbing with?”
“My friend Pat,” I replied, choosing the gender-neutral version of Patrick’s name.
“Is Pat a guy?”
I cursed at my phone, and a parent scolded me, gesturing at the youth competition team.
“Yes,” I texted back. “But it’s completely platonic. Or should I say … Patonic.”
The text exchange and horrific pun triggered a huge fight. Things didn’t work out. I had wanted them to, but in the weeks that followed, I got burned out trying to navigate our endless thorny conversations. By the end, I was exhausted and ran into some depression. Not only had we ended our relationship but I had damaged important friendships and lost my grip on who I was. I was ashamed. The question I kept asking was: “What’s wrong with me?”
I stopped climbing for a while and instead went hiking, often by myself.
The sun was low in the sky when I reached the summit of Mt. Baldy. I was the only one there, with the whole peak all to myself. Looking out at the mountains, I had a moment of clarity.
My climb that day was for me, and no one else. I didn’t need the acceptance of a dreamboat climber man, molding into an unnatural shape to fit someone else’s needs. I just needed to be myself. And if that’s a red flag, I’m not afraid to wave it.
Dwaaaagaahaha!
The author is an L.A. native, writer and yoga teacher. She’s on Instagram: @taytay_eff
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