Opposites Detract

I once dated a guy who was my polar opposite. He was a professional snowboarder and surfer—an extreme sports fanatic whose idea of fun involved hurling himself off cliffs while strapped to planks. He was hot in a way that made nothing else matter: not his obsession with death-defying stunts, nor the fact that he owned zero furniture because he was “never home long enough to use it.” On our first date, he showed up in cowboy boots, unwashed hair that screamed I’ve lived in a van, and hands so calloused they could double as sandpaper. He told me he’d just finished “building something”—code for I’m so much better than your ex. He was in New York for a month to chill before “training” began (unclear for what. An avalanche? A Red Bull commercial?) and I was immediately obsessed. He was everything I wasn’t: athletic, disciplined, capable of surviving in the wilderness, a person who lived in his body, not his head. Meanwhile, I get winded climbing the stairs at the Ralph Lauren store, and my inner monologue buzzes in my brain 24/7 like background noise.

“I’m religious about working out,” he said over dinner.

“Same,” I lied, slightly choking on my vodka soda.

The last time I worked out was in high school gym class. I was the girl who “walked” the mile while talking about boys and had a talent for inventing ailments to get out of any field or court activity—vertigo, twisted ankles, Norovirus. But I really, really liked him. So for three weeks, I fully committed to the bit: my new athletic, outdoorsy girl persona. (For me, that meant walking to restaurants instead of calling an Uber.)

Week three, he invited me to join him in Venice, California, where he was living in a short term rental. We’d spend a day at his place, then go camping in Death Valley with his friends. Camping had never been on my bucket list. But when you like someone, you’ll do just about anything. Plus, by then, I was already deep in character.

I told him I’d camped before and “loved the Adirondacks” (I’ve never been to the Adirondacks). Hiking was my therapy, nature my happy place. (Does Bridgehampton count as nature?) Organic beer was now my “favorite drink,” even though it made me feel like a bloated Pike brother.

In Venice, I met his roommates: two other athletes who smelled like sweat and woodsmoke and appeared to subsist solely on protein powder and great vibes. He suggested we ride bikes to dinner.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I have one for you.”

I froze. I don’t know how to ride a bike. Yes, I’m an adult. Yes, I’ve somehow made it this far without learning this and other basic skills, like driving or ironing. Instead of confessing, I faked a migraine. He bought it and brought me back a soggy quesadilla, which I ate in bed while reevaluating every decision that had led me to this moment.

The next morning, we woke up at 6 a.m. and headed to Death Valley. The car ride might’ve been romantic if his car had air conditioning, if I wasn’t wedged between two guys whose biceps were larger than my head, and if the conversation hadn’t consisted of 90 minute speeches on paracord tension. By the time we arrived, I was already fantasizing about faking my own death or throwing myself off a cliff.

They picked a spot near a rocky outcrop because it offered “some semblance of shade” a phrase they repeated like we were on Survivor. The guys started setting up the tents with the enthusiasm of knot tying fanatics. I stood there in oversized sunglasses, a tank top, and jeans—jeans, because “it gets cool at night.”

“Here, hold this,” my sort of boyfriend said, handing me a tent pole.

I stared at it like he’d just asked me to defuse a bomb.

“I thought you’d done this before?” he asked, now suspicious.

“Of course!” I lied again, fumbling with the pole like it was a cheerleading baton. I faked another migraine and sat on a rock, holding back tears.

For dinner, they unpacked Spam—something I thought only existed in WWII films. I took one bite and gagged. While they raved about how “Spam is underrated,” I inhaled an entire bag of Lay’s.

As the sun set, the desert turned from blinding inferno to pitch-black void. Coyotes howled in the distance, and I decided it was time for my emergency sleeping pill.

“You brought makeup?” he asked, watching me zip up my Prada cosmetic bag.

His friends lost their minds laughing. You’d think I’d packed a curling iron for Everest.

“Are you sure this is safe?” I asked, clutching my beer, scanning the pitiless dark.

More laughter. I realized I was the group’s comic relief—and not even the Benzos could save me.

“You look kind of miserable, dude,” my situationship said. Uh oh. He was catching on.

“Fine,” I blurted. “I’ve never camped before. I can’t ride a bike. And I hate Spam.”

His friends gawked. He looked at me like I’d confessed to arson. In our tent, he spat, “You lied to me,” then turned his back. We didn’t speak for the rest of the night. (It’s really not that deep. You were hot and a good kisser.)

The next morning, I watched them pack up the tents like I was auditioning for a reboot of The Simple Life. On the drive back, I tried cracking jokes, hoping to charm my way out of it. It didn’t work. They had a religion—and I was a heretic.

I booked the first flight home to New York. He unfollowed me on Instagram and we never spoke again.

Sure, the differences between us were fun and sexy at first. He taught me how to use a pocket knife; I showed him how to use a ring light. But eventually, those differences stopped feeling romantic and started feeling like a group project I didn’t sign up for.

I had to face the truth: I’m not cut out for the grime lifestyle. I like a little shine. The only knots I want to tie are the ones on my satin robe. The only thing I’m pitching is dinner reservations. I need air conditioning, a functioning shower, and a duvet that feels like a cloud. Don’t even get me started on my skincare routine.

So, the moral of the story is this: opposites don’t attract. Not long term. Compatibility isn’t just about chemistry; it’s about lifestyle. Most relationships don’t end over cheating or money. They die slow, painful deaths over hobbies. Yes, hobbies. Relationships fall apart because one person loves hiking while the other loves functioning AC. One person loves outdoor showers while the other is passionate about long, eucalyptus infused baths.

If you’re anything like me: a chronically online, high maintenance girlie who treats her Dyson like a child, can’t ride a bike, and thinks camping is just poverty with extra steps, don’t date the outdoorsy guy. You aren’t compatible. You never will be.

There’s quiet beauty in dating someone who’s like you—or at least written in the same font. You can be boring together. Relish the joy of never having to explain why you need three serums and a silk pillowcase to sleep.

It’s better than sweating through your tank top in the desert, pretending to care about paracord tension while secretly Googling “nearest Marriott.”

It’s not just about enjoying the same Hulu shows (though that helps). It’s about seeing the world through a similar lens. It’s about both wanting to spend Saturday night dressed up, sipping martinis, not one of you hiking a mountain while the other cries on a rock.

Similarity creates flow. You’re not constantly compromising your comfort or sanity. You’re not negotiating to meet in a middle no one wants. You’re just… happy. You don’t have to apologize for who you are. Either they accept it, or they can swipe left and find someone who thinks composting toilets are romantic.

And besides, If I’m going to sleep in a desert, it’ll be at Amangiri.