If there’s one piece of sage advice you’ll let me give you as your trusted dating blogger, it’s this: Don’t date An Actor. That’s right. You heard me. The idea for this post came the other day while I was riding the L. There was a cute guy… talking to himself. Upon seeing no bluetooth lodged in his ear, and noting that he was relatively free of schizophrenic ticks, I concluded to myself that he must be (drumroll please) An Actor! Sure enough, as my eyes travelled down his rumpled shirt I came upon a lone sheet of paper resting on his lap, complete with scrawlings, highlighter smears, and stage directions, over which he furiously pored, drinking in the words then spewing them forth in a storm of barely muted whispers and grunts. Acting, my friends— that’s what he was doing. I watched, amused, for a while, as he tried different inflections, gestures, and eye darts. Burying his head in his hands, he seemed to give up somewhere between Fullerton and Belmont, but sure enough sprang to life again after a swig of the Jack Daniel's hidden in his shoulder bag. After a few more runs of his monologue, he looked up to see that he had missed his stop, and flinging curses through the L car, he alighted into the night.

I sighed. And not out of love, lust, nor admiration. But for my foolish youth; for a time when that would have been the hottest thing a guy could have been doing aside from [insert your own personal fetish here].

See, I’ve dated my share of Performance Artists, and over the years I’ve learned a few things. I laugh ironically to think of all the anguish and annoyance that might have been avoided had someone (besides my mother) warned me against the all-too-tempting dramatic set.

Because an actor seems ideal! They are passionate, attuned to their emotions and creative, right? Yes, I suppose so. But with great talent comes great responsibility. And some actors can’t get beyond their character flaws to show you the lovely, creative, passionate person underneath.

Prime example. I went on a date with an “improvisation artist” a couple of weeks ago. And upon our first meeting, he had all the qualities I’m drawn to. Open, friendly, confident, charming, etc. Ok, I thought, I haven’t really dated an improver per se, perhaps that doesn’t fall into the “actor” category. So I gave it a go.

And he was nice, and charming. However, I couldn’t get past a major character flaw that had undoubtedly grown out of his improv training. There’s a technique in improv entitled the “Yes, And” principle, where, as a cardinal rule, an improviser on stage is always supposed to support whatever their fellow artist has put forth (hence the Yes) and then add something, top it, bring the game to the next level (hence the And). It works like a charm— on stage. In a dimly-lit sushi restaurant, when my “My sister has narcolepsy” is met with a “Yes! And I used to talk in my sleep when I was little!” results are less entertaining. The conversation continued in that vain until I could be topped with random tidbits no more, and needless to say, dropped the curtain on the date.

And yet another recent example. I went on a date with a full- blown Actor. He seemed different, and was older (and therefore more mature?) so I rationalized giving this one a chance. Things seemed to be going well, so well in fact, that I may have fallen for him just a little bit. But after a week of no word, and a few unanswered text messages on his part, I approached him, looking for answers. This time, he had dropped the curtain on our short dating life, yet not for reasons to do with me (so he says... Actors are also very good liars, so I took this with a grain of salt) He claimed that he was in the throes of a severe identity crisis, drowning in a desperate late- 20s search for who HE was (and yes, he referred to himself in the third person. Really tugged at my heartstrings). I took it like a lady, thanked him for his honesty, and sauntered away, a little crushed, but mainly annoyed that I had been suckered in once again! An older actor with an identity crisis!! The worst kind! It took me a whole day to sweep away the fond memories of our single date and swear off The Actor yet again.

And I can hate because I Love. And because I Am. That’s right, I am An Actor myself, if you haven’t caught on. (And my mother wonders why I don’t meet I-Bankers. Because they don’t audition, Mom. Or hit up industry nights.) And as boldly as I have warned you ladies and gentleman against dating An Actor, I will equally warn you against dating An Actress. We crazy. We always want to know what you’re feeling, we can fake cry to win an argument or the last slice of cake, and all we really want is your constant adoration, attention, and praise. Aaaannd you have to come see our shows, no matter how crappy. Terrified? Thought so.

Yet now for my conclusive, self-redeeming final thought. It could be worse. You could be stuck with an utterly boring [insert personal nightmare job here]. Or alone? Or maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe I’m just jaded. But for now, I’m attempting an experiment: No More Actors. Currently looking for a creative, passionate, yet headshotandresume-less guy. Can you quote Ionesco? See ya. Wait tables? Been there done that. Was suckered into your high school musical because you were an off-season athlete who could sing a little? I’m wary. Oh, what’s this… You paint! Read biographies? Don’t know the difference between stage right and stage left!? Hold on, let me put on my most charming smile…

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