Starving Artists

You know those girls who are total goners for the painter in the garret who uses packets of stolen mustard and ketchup instead of those fancy oil-based paints he can't afford; the novelist so destitute he's using paper towel lifted from the Harvey's bathroom in lieu of real paper; the song-writer who lives in his guitar case under a bridge? It appears that I'm no longer one of those girls.

Am I a jerk for because the Starving Artist now makes me weak with hunger instead of weak in the knees? Probably. But my Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Hold has recently been usurped by my HEY-let's-be-practical brain, who insists that The Dude is someone who will be able to pay his half of the mortgage in the foreseeable future. Either that, or the Slightly Blackened Heart-of-Gold has finally grown weary of having the shit kicked out of it via the parade of inappropriate pairings it's been subjected to and has finally put its foot down. Okay, hearts don't have feet. Whatever. It's a metaphor, just go with it.

So okay, before everyone gets up on their high horses about economic elitism and Women Who Want a Free Ride, let me be clear about something: I'm not on the lookout for some über-rich guy who will fling me across the globe in his private jet, inside which we'll have money fights using pillow-sacks filled with one hundred dollar bills and snack on diamond encrusted crackers smeared with gold-plated caviar. For one thing, that scenario can hardly be good for one's digestion. For another thing, I like taking care of myself. You know that feeling you get when you pay your all your bills and still have some cash leftover to go hog-wild at the iTunes store, or you use your bonus to book a week on the beach with a perpetual margarita melting in your hand, or you slap down a down-payment for a condo - and you know that YOU are the hard-working bad-ass who made that all happen? I LOVE that feeling. I'm not looking for a fancier life or someone to shower me with riches beyond my wildest dreams. If I want more money, I'm pretty sure I can make it myself.

So then, what's the big problem with the Starving Artist, you ask? Excellent question, internet. Let's use Screenwriter Guy, a recent OKCupid match, as an example. This guy is great - funny, articulate, intelligent, ambitious, cute. We met for drinks at The Yellow Griffin, and I was completely charmed by Screenwriter Guy's sparkling personality. But as the evening progressed, he revealed that although he thinks of himself as a screenwriter, his prolific efforts have yet to produce any actual film footage. At 33 years old, screenwriting is his only game plan - he supports himself by working part-time at a video store and part-time at a coffee shop. Screenwriter Guy has been so intent on this goal that he has eschewed post-secondary education and steady employment; all of his energy and focus has been devoted to his creative outpourings. And you have to respect that kind of tenacity.

On the other hand, aren't there some pretty major compromises involved in teaming up with someone whose dream career, 15 years in the making, is still in its infancy? Isn't it okay to think about my own hopes for the future - the ones that involve kids and family and building a life with someone - and understand that unless Screenwriter Guy changes his goals, mine will probably be shelved until he gets "his big break"? Isn't it a good idea to choose someone whose plans for the future sort of line up with your own?

We went on a second date last night (I really do like this guy), and over our cashew chicken and meekrob at Young Thailand he told me that he's dated women who've wanted him to give up on his writing aspirations in exchange for a degree and a steady paycheque. Those relationships never lasted long. And who can blame him? While I'm still a complete idiot when it comes to relationships, I'm pretty sure you don't go in hoping the other person is going to change - and especially when the thing you want to change is a defining element in who that person is.

As great as he is, Screenwriter Guy and I both headed for home last night with the tacit understanding that a third date wasn't going to happen. Still, it was nice to hang out with a guy who wasn't addicted/terrified/dead inside/trying to lure me into a one-night-stand with promises of hotel-room tea. And when I see a shot of Screenwriter Guy accepting his Academy Award ten years from now, I'm totally bragging to my kids about how I went on a date with him once.