I did it. I didn't wimp out. I phoned Date #15 and explained in a kind but concise way that I didn't think we had a future together, not even short-term, like in a day.
Sure, I could have left his call unanswered, which I've been known to do. But my latest resolution is to be the kind of woman who speaks up. What to say was the only question.
My girlfriend Eustacia suggested I make it about me, like in: I'm just not ready to get involved again.
"But that's not true," I told her.
"Why make him feel badly? she said.
Since we'd only gone out twice, I couldn't imagine him feeling that badly. Still, I didn't want to lie. So I asked my son, who was reading Road and Track on the couch, for suggestions.
"I don't know," he answered.
"No, tell me what you'd say."
"I don't care. How about, 'no, I don't want to go out with you again?'"
"That's all?"
"Okay, no thank you. The girls I know, do it all the time."
"Do the boys feel badly?"
"Depends on the boy."
"You mean some boys don't?"
"Mom, let me read."
Fine, I said, then went into the next room, called Date #15, and trying to sound my sweetest said no thank you to going out again.
I think he said, 'okay,' but maybe not, because suddenly there was all this static sound followed by a strange beeping.
"Hello? Hello? Are you there?" I shouted. But he was already gone.
I felt terrible, but what could I do. Call him back? Wait to see if he phoned me? Or just face the facts: It's a cold, cruel world out there, and dating doesn't make it any easier.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Accident - Date #15
So Date #15 is this really nice guy - generous, kind, thoughtful, the whole shebang. Plus our meal together is delicious and the conversation pleasant. But I just don't feel it.
Knowing that feelings can be deceptive, however, when he asks me out again, to this trendy Mexican place, I agree and even have a great time. Mostly because we're double-dating with the friend who fixed us up and who is always fun to be around.
Until, that is, towards the end of the evening, when she and I are heading to the bathroom and she pops the question: "So what do you think?"
I look at her apologetically. "It's just not there."
"Not there?" she exclaims. "Not there! What's wrong with you? What are you looking for? He has a good heart. He wants to be in a relationship. If you don't watch out, you're going to end up alone."
Alone...Alone...The word reverberates through my bones. Or maybe it's the sound of the toilet flushing. Either way, by the time we get back to the table and my third margarita, a numbing chill is circulating into my heart.
What if what my girlfriend said is true? Am I too picky, too unreasonable, too unrealistic? My first husband, after all, was handsome and smart. My second wasn't bad either. But in the long run, does attraction really matter? Do you need to be intrigued with someone's brain? Or can goodness and kindness supersede everything?
Flummoxed, disheartened, not knowing what else to do, I down my drink and smile, then smile again and again.
Finally, the dinner ends. My date picks up the bill, then drives me home.
"Turn left at the light," I direct. And he does, as right behind us there is a tremendous CRASH and a Jaguar and a Chevy smashing into each other.
The Chevy driver is fine and immediately climbs out of her car. The other one isn't. Even with the Jaws of Life, it takes almost 30 minutes for some two dozen rescue workers to extricate the poor woman from the wreck.
My date doesn't talk much as we stand there watching. I try, but whatever I say misses the mark - or at least his mark. So instead I share my thoughts with a nearby stranger who landed on the accident while walking her dog.
Eventually, the ambulance, red lights flashing, tears off. My date walks me to my door. We chat a moment or two. Then he aims for a kiss. Which I deflect into a goodnight hug and a promise to stay in touch.
I know, I know, he's a very good man. And my girlfriend could be right, I might end up alone. But as I unlock my front door and turn on the lights, there's one thing I'm sure of -- nothing is lonelier than wittingly or not, settling for the wrong guy.
Knowing that feelings can be deceptive, however, when he asks me out again, to this trendy Mexican place, I agree and even have a great time. Mostly because we're double-dating with the friend who fixed us up and who is always fun to be around.
Until, that is, towards the end of the evening, when she and I are heading to the bathroom and she pops the question: "So what do you think?"
I look at her apologetically. "It's just not there."
"Not there?" she exclaims. "Not there! What's wrong with you? What are you looking for? He has a good heart. He wants to be in a relationship. If you don't watch out, you're going to end up alone."
Alone...Alone...The word reverberates through my bones. Or maybe it's the sound of the toilet flushing. Either way, by the time we get back to the table and my third margarita, a numbing chill is circulating into my heart.
What if what my girlfriend said is true? Am I too picky, too unreasonable, too unrealistic? My first husband, after all, was handsome and smart. My second wasn't bad either. But in the long run, does attraction really matter? Do you need to be intrigued with someone's brain? Or can goodness and kindness supersede everything?
Flummoxed, disheartened, not knowing what else to do, I down my drink and smile, then smile again and again.
Finally, the dinner ends. My date picks up the bill, then drives me home.
"Turn left at the light," I direct. And he does, as right behind us there is a tremendous CRASH and a Jaguar and a Chevy smashing into each other.
The Chevy driver is fine and immediately climbs out of her car. The other one isn't. Even with the Jaws of Life, it takes almost 30 minutes for some two dozen rescue workers to extricate the poor woman from the wreck.
My date doesn't talk much as we stand there watching. I try, but whatever I say misses the mark - or at least his mark. So instead I share my thoughts with a nearby stranger who landed on the accident while walking her dog.
Eventually, the ambulance, red lights flashing, tears off. My date walks me to my door. We chat a moment or two. Then he aims for a kiss. Which I deflect into a goodnight hug and a promise to stay in touch.
I know, I know, he's a very good man. And my girlfriend could be right, I might end up alone. But as I unlock my front door and turn on the lights, there's one thing I'm sure of -- nothing is lonelier than wittingly or not, settling for the wrong guy.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Me Jane
Maybe it's just the alignment of stars these days, but I seem to be attracting a cascade of...how should I put it...willy-nilly men.
Take Date #14. He called the other day and asked what was up over the weekend. Thinking he meant literally, I began outlining all the activities I had on my calendar, when it hit me that what he was really wondering was whether I wanted to do something with him.
"Is that right?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Oh, okay, sure," I responded then waited to hear what he had in mind. Then I waited some more, until finally asking, "Did you have anything in mind?"
"No," he said. "You choose."
Wait a second, I thought, you're asking me out. You should do the picking, or at least make a suggestion. And that's what I told him.
"But I don't care," he said. "A movie. Dinner. A drink. Whatever you want. Is it so hard for you to choose?"
"No," I replied.
But before I could continue, he said he had to get off the phone. "I'll call you back," he concluded, though guess what, he never did.
Probably, I shouldn't fault the guy. After all, a few weeks before, another fellow had asked me out or kind of did. He wanted me to tell him when, where, and what we were going to do, and he'd show up.
Then there was a third suitor who emailed saying that he was a friend of a friend, but I should know up front that he doesn't chase. By which I assume he meant that if anything was going to happen between us, I should get ready for some heavy lifting.
Now maybe these men thought they were being considerate. And I'm sure some people would say, I'm being a wimp. A strong, independent woman, after all, should know what she wants. Why should the man always have to decide? And it's a legitimate question.
But as a single, working mom who has chosen to freelance, my life sometimes feels like one never-ending, decision fest. I'm not complaining. Still, it would be kind of nice, sort of like getting flowers, to not have to be in charge when it comes to date night, at least right off the bat.
Which doesn't mean I want the hyper-dominant, take charge, me, me, me kind of man, whom I've known all too well in the past. But what about someone in-between. Not too short, not too tall. Not too fat, not too lean. Say, a Marlboro man who does Ikebana. Or even better, a Tarzan who likes to clean.
Take Date #14. He called the other day and asked what was up over the weekend. Thinking he meant literally, I began outlining all the activities I had on my calendar, when it hit me that what he was really wondering was whether I wanted to do something with him.
"Is that right?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Oh, okay, sure," I responded then waited to hear what he had in mind. Then I waited some more, until finally asking, "Did you have anything in mind?"
"No," he said. "You choose."
Wait a second, I thought, you're asking me out. You should do the picking, or at least make a suggestion. And that's what I told him.
"But I don't care," he said. "A movie. Dinner. A drink. Whatever you want. Is it so hard for you to choose?"
"No," I replied.
But before I could continue, he said he had to get off the phone. "I'll call you back," he concluded, though guess what, he never did.
Probably, I shouldn't fault the guy. After all, a few weeks before, another fellow had asked me out or kind of did. He wanted me to tell him when, where, and what we were going to do, and he'd show up.
Then there was a third suitor who emailed saying that he was a friend of a friend, but I should know up front that he doesn't chase. By which I assume he meant that if anything was going to happen between us, I should get ready for some heavy lifting.
Now maybe these men thought they were being considerate. And I'm sure some people would say, I'm being a wimp. A strong, independent woman, after all, should know what she wants. Why should the man always have to decide? And it's a legitimate question.
But as a single, working mom who has chosen to freelance, my life sometimes feels like one never-ending, decision fest. I'm not complaining. Still, it would be kind of nice, sort of like getting flowers, to not have to be in charge when it comes to date night, at least right off the bat.
Which doesn't mean I want the hyper-dominant, take charge, me, me, me kind of man, whom I've known all too well in the past. But what about someone in-between. Not too short, not too tall. Not too fat, not too lean. Say, a Marlboro man who does Ikebana. Or even better, a Tarzan who likes to clean.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Baring teeth - Date #14
I may have looked happy-go-lucky as I strolled down Michigan Avenue, but truth be told a litany of negative thoughts were rolling through my mind. "Why am I meeting this guy? I'm not going to like him." That kind of thing.
Fortunately, I tripped on a crack. I managed to stay on my feet, but still it woke me up to the fact that my current mode of thinking was only going to lead me to a miserable time.
Enough, I told myself, and heeding the advice of my girlfriend Lynn, plastered a smile on my face. Even a forced grin, she insists, lifts the spirits. So I bared my teeth a good ten seconds, and then did it again.
Next up, positive affirmations: I'm going to have fun; I enjoy dating; and similar self-talk.
Lastly, I sang. Not so loudly that passersby might think I was loony, but loud enough to let the syrupy lyrics of that upbeat classic, Oh What a Beautiful Morning, sugarcoat my soul.
Sure enough, something shifted such that by the time I came face-to-face with my date, I was, if not transformed, at least open to whatever happened.
And what happened was this. As anticipated, he wasn't The One, not even close. But as we took a walk along the lake, a soft breeze rolled in, and the moonlight seemed to leave a silvery luster wherever it fell.
The conversation wasn't half-bad either, plus I laughed twice, the deep-in-the-belly kind of laugh, which was worth the entire night.
Unfortunately, as we were about to part, he asked what should never be asked on a first date -- what did I think of him?
I considered for a long moment, remembering the easy laugh. "I think we could be friends," I finally said and really meant it.
I could tell by the sudden, glazed over look in his eyes, it wasn't what he wanted to hear. Nonetheless, he was polite and said he'd call.
To his credit, he did and even suggested seeing a film. When the time came to figure out exactly when and where, however, I received an email instead. He'd been stricken by a very bad cold, he wrote, and could barely move.
Truthfully, I wasn't surprised. But still I was glad we met. He'd taught me something important. That I always have a choice, even if all that's involved is a matter of perception.
Fortunately, I tripped on a crack. I managed to stay on my feet, but still it woke me up to the fact that my current mode of thinking was only going to lead me to a miserable time.
Enough, I told myself, and heeding the advice of my girlfriend Lynn, plastered a smile on my face. Even a forced grin, she insists, lifts the spirits. So I bared my teeth a good ten seconds, and then did it again.
Next up, positive affirmations: I'm going to have fun; I enjoy dating; and similar self-talk.
Lastly, I sang. Not so loudly that passersby might think I was loony, but loud enough to let the syrupy lyrics of that upbeat classic, Oh What a Beautiful Morning, sugarcoat my soul.
Sure enough, something shifted such that by the time I came face-to-face with my date, I was, if not transformed, at least open to whatever happened.
And what happened was this. As anticipated, he wasn't The One, not even close. But as we took a walk along the lake, a soft breeze rolled in, and the moonlight seemed to leave a silvery luster wherever it fell.
The conversation wasn't half-bad either, plus I laughed twice, the deep-in-the-belly kind of laugh, which was worth the entire night.
Unfortunately, as we were about to part, he asked what should never be asked on a first date -- what did I think of him?
I considered for a long moment, remembering the easy laugh. "I think we could be friends," I finally said and really meant it.
I could tell by the sudden, glazed over look in his eyes, it wasn't what he wanted to hear. Nonetheless, he was polite and said he'd call.
To his credit, he did and even suggested seeing a film. When the time came to figure out exactly when and where, however, I received an email instead. He'd been stricken by a very bad cold, he wrote, and could barely move.
Truthfully, I wasn't surprised. But still I was glad we met. He'd taught me something important. That I always have a choice, even if all that's involved is a matter of perception.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Look Ma, No Hands
As I sit here in hair curlers, getting prepped for this evening's date, I've decided to review a few of the suggestions I've collected from some of my more successfully coupled friends.
At the top of my list is Liz, who separated from her husband around the same time I did, but who has been seriously involved almost as long with the second man she went out with. Her advice: Become a good person. Then, guaranteed, a good person will find you.
I love it, on one hand. But then on the other, I can't help but wonder whether the converse would also be true. Because a "good man" hasn't yet found me, does that mean I'm "bad?"
Next up, my friend Casey, who was dead set on remarrying after her second divorce and sure enough has. She treated looking for a man as if she were looking for a job with the emphasis on LOOK. "There's a lot of competition out there," she'd often say, "so you got to look like a million bucks." Or in her case, make that a billion.
She's right, I suppose. But unfortunately, I don't have the time, the money, the skill, or even the interest.
Which is why I'm hoping that the way in which a model friend of mine met her husband, will happen to me. She was living in Paris then and one morning, without even brushing her teeth, she'd rushed outside to get a baguette, when voila, there in the boulangerie, standing in line behind her was...need I say more.
Granted, I'm not a model, but I definitely have other strengths which, a happily married friend who is a dean at a prestigious university insists, can work just as well for me.
If, that is, I do what his old girlfriend did. She joined Match.com and immediately pulled out all the intellectual stops, giving great thought to every email exchange, religiously doing her homework. Sure enough, she and her brain are today engaged to a Harvard professor.
Sound good? You bet. Like all my friends' advice, it's...well, advice. Whether I take it or leave it, I tip my hat and offer a hearty thank you.
At the top of my list is Liz, who separated from her husband around the same time I did, but who has been seriously involved almost as long with the second man she went out with. Her advice: Become a good person. Then, guaranteed, a good person will find you.
I love it, on one hand. But then on the other, I can't help but wonder whether the converse would also be true. Because a "good man" hasn't yet found me, does that mean I'm "bad?"
Next up, my friend Casey, who was dead set on remarrying after her second divorce and sure enough has. She treated looking for a man as if she were looking for a job with the emphasis on LOOK. "There's a lot of competition out there," she'd often say, "so you got to look like a million bucks." Or in her case, make that a billion.
She's right, I suppose. But unfortunately, I don't have the time, the money, the skill, or even the interest.
Which is why I'm hoping that the way in which a model friend of mine met her husband, will happen to me. She was living in Paris then and one morning, without even brushing her teeth, she'd rushed outside to get a baguette, when voila, there in the boulangerie, standing in line behind her was...need I say more.
Granted, I'm not a model, but I definitely have other strengths which, a happily married friend who is a dean at a prestigious university insists, can work just as well for me.
If, that is, I do what his old girlfriend did. She joined Match.com and immediately pulled out all the intellectual stops, giving great thought to every email exchange, religiously doing her homework. Sure enough, she and her brain are today engaged to a Harvard professor.
Sound good? You bet. Like all my friends' advice, it's...well, advice. Whether I take it or leave it, I tip my hat and offer a hearty thank you.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Next Round
Okay, okay. I know I've been gone, almost three months now. Just like that, poof, as if I'd given up on this whole thing, this searching seriously for a soul mate.
Not at all. It was just that my escapades with various man, dating willy-nilly this one and that, none ever evolving into so much as a passing fancy, got me wondering what was up with my inner workings.
Which in turn led to some serious investigation that earlier in the summer seemed too intimate to share. Better to stop cold, without even a simple goodbye.
Wimpy? Yes it was. Right when I was getting to the good stuff, the heart of the matter - that being my shtick - sure enough, then and there, I wimped out.
It's easy to see others' flaws, particularly those of the opposite sex. But to say, "Whoa, stop right there honey, and take a good look at yourself, blemishes and all," is another business entirely.
But I did it. And here I stand, makeup-free, ready to climb back into the ring. No running scared this time, or at least I'll try not to, when, as inevitably will be the case, I come face-to-face with the difficult task of being human.
Not at all. It was just that my escapades with various man, dating willy-nilly this one and that, none ever evolving into so much as a passing fancy, got me wondering what was up with my inner workings.
Which in turn led to some serious investigation that earlier in the summer seemed too intimate to share. Better to stop cold, without even a simple goodbye.
Wimpy? Yes it was. Right when I was getting to the good stuff, the heart of the matter - that being my shtick - sure enough, then and there, I wimped out.
It's easy to see others' flaws, particularly those of the opposite sex. But to say, "Whoa, stop right there honey, and take a good look at yourself, blemishes and all," is another business entirely.
But I did it. And here I stand, makeup-free, ready to climb back into the ring. No running scared this time, or at least I'll try not to, when, as inevitably will be the case, I come face-to-face with the difficult task of being human.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Circus Monkey
I've decided to lay off dating for awhile and instead go out with myself - to fun places, doing things I enjoy, or just hanging around and getting acquainted with who I am.
My friend, Eustacia, says she loves her own company. I can't say the same is true for me, which makes you wonder how I can expect anyone else to take a shine to me if I don't. I've put in a lot of years telling myself I'm not enough or conversely, that I'm too much, years of performing like a circus monkey in hopes of setting things right. Finally, I'm beginning to think there isn't any "right" out there. It's only "right" right here, now, where I am.
My son is with his dad this weekend which means I'm on my own. I have a loose plan to meet an acquaintance for coffee, but otherwise the next 36 hours our mine to shape any way I please.
There's a morning yoga class in Millennium Park that I could attend or later near the lake, there's an outdoor jitterbug class accompanied by live music. I have a long line up of magazine queries that need finishing and if I throw the windows open wide, I'll feel the fresh breeze as I write. Later I could bike to Whole Foods for fresh salmon, and then this evening teach myself how to grill.
All of the above sounds lovely. In fact, if I heard that someone else was spending their Saturday this way, I'd be downright envious. But it's not someone else. It's me. And I just have to remember that I'm the lucky one who gets to be with myself.
My friend, Eustacia, says she loves her own company. I can't say the same is true for me, which makes you wonder how I can expect anyone else to take a shine to me if I don't. I've put in a lot of years telling myself I'm not enough or conversely, that I'm too much, years of performing like a circus monkey in hopes of setting things right. Finally, I'm beginning to think there isn't any "right" out there. It's only "right" right here, now, where I am.
My son is with his dad this weekend which means I'm on my own. I have a loose plan to meet an acquaintance for coffee, but otherwise the next 36 hours our mine to shape any way I please.
There's a morning yoga class in Millennium Park that I could attend or later near the lake, there's an outdoor jitterbug class accompanied by live music. I have a long line up of magazine queries that need finishing and if I throw the windows open wide, I'll feel the fresh breeze as I write. Later I could bike to Whole Foods for fresh salmon, and then this evening teach myself how to grill.
All of the above sounds lovely. In fact, if I heard that someone else was spending their Saturday this way, I'd be downright envious. But it's not someone else. It's me. And I just have to remember that I'm the lucky one who gets to be with myself.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sweet Potato Vine
I've been on hiatus, taking a little respite. This searching business can get exhausting.
My friend, Eustacia, is more harsh. She calls it futile. She doesn't believe you can look for love. It comes looking for you and the trick, she says, is to be ready for it.
Even though I don't agree, I've been devoting these last few weeks to doing a good spring-cleaning. I fixed the fridge, got a new garbage disposal, planted impatience and sweet potato vines in the flower boxes on the balcony.
My closet witnessed a ruthless makeover with any item that didn't sing tossed into the Goodwill bag. My hairdresser gave me long bangs, then I went and got a pedicure.
Meanwhile, I've been weeding my social garden. It was long overgrown and seriously needed a thinning out, but instead of using a back hoe, a hand spade might have been a wiser choice. Or at least a less drastic one. From a dozen calls a day from friends, I'm now lucky if I get one.
But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I've decided to pretend as if I'd just moved in. As the stranger in town, I'd try all kinds of new things, be open to all kinds of new people. I'd be patient with myself and when come evening, I found myself on on my own, I wouldn't think, 'what's wrong with me?' but place my bets on change and maybe just for fun toss purple pansies into the dinner salad.
My friend, Eustacia, is more harsh. She calls it futile. She doesn't believe you can look for love. It comes looking for you and the trick, she says, is to be ready for it.
Even though I don't agree, I've been devoting these last few weeks to doing a good spring-cleaning. I fixed the fridge, got a new garbage disposal, planted impatience and sweet potato vines in the flower boxes on the balcony.
My closet witnessed a ruthless makeover with any item that didn't sing tossed into the Goodwill bag. My hairdresser gave me long bangs, then I went and got a pedicure.
Meanwhile, I've been weeding my social garden. It was long overgrown and seriously needed a thinning out, but instead of using a back hoe, a hand spade might have been a wiser choice. Or at least a less drastic one. From a dozen calls a day from friends, I'm now lucky if I get one.
But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I've decided to pretend as if I'd just moved in. As the stranger in town, I'd try all kinds of new things, be open to all kinds of new people. I'd be patient with myself and when come evening, I found myself on on my own, I wouldn't think, 'what's wrong with me?' but place my bets on change and maybe just for fun toss purple pansies into the dinner salad.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
The Snore - Date #14
Confession time: I fell asleep. Yes, in the middle of my date with #14, I took a little snooze. We were at Symphony Hall, a mere 20 feet from the resounding brass section, hearing Mahler's Fifth. Even so, I somehow nodded off.
What can I say?
Years ago when I lived in Bangkok, a girlfriend of mine liked to throw dinner parties. Every time, halfway through the evening, she'd invariably shut her eyes and emit a little snore. The other guests and I would hardly give it a thought. Instead we carried on, having a grand old time as if our host were wide-awake. She was tired, and that was that. No one took it personally.
The other night at the symphony, however, my nap was positively personal. Date #14 was one of those wrapped up in himself kind of guys, who shared the greatest of details about himself - including which TV shows he TiVo's - without once asking a question of me.
In fact, from the moment we met, the space between us was so vast, so void of energy, so enervating, that in comparison my catnap probably sparked things up. If, that is, he even noticed, which I doubt.
A few days ago, I ran into the husband of the friend who'd fixed me up with #14. "What was she thinking?" the husband exclaimed. "You two have nothing in common."
"It was fine," I countered. "It was totally fine. And anyway, the symphony was spectacular." At least, that is, the part I heard.
What can I say?
Years ago when I lived in Bangkok, a girlfriend of mine liked to throw dinner parties. Every time, halfway through the evening, she'd invariably shut her eyes and emit a little snore. The other guests and I would hardly give it a thought. Instead we carried on, having a grand old time as if our host were wide-awake. She was tired, and that was that. No one took it personally.
The other night at the symphony, however, my nap was positively personal. Date #14 was one of those wrapped up in himself kind of guys, who shared the greatest of details about himself - including which TV shows he TiVo's - without once asking a question of me.
In fact, from the moment we met, the space between us was so vast, so void of energy, so enervating, that in comparison my catnap probably sparked things up. If, that is, he even noticed, which I doubt.
A few days ago, I ran into the husband of the friend who'd fixed me up with #14. "What was she thinking?" the husband exclaimed. "You two have nothing in common."
"It was fine," I countered. "It was totally fine. And anyway, the symphony was spectacular." At least, that is, the part I heard.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The List
I did it. I finally said so long to Date #13, and he thanked me for being honest.
We've emailed a few times since, but there's a difference in how he writes - without hopefullness, humor or promise. More like a business exchange, which of course is to be expected.
Still, I miss the possibility and am tempted to fill in the empty feeling with the closest man around or even worse, an ex.
Instead, I make a to-do list: Clean closet, cut hair, run, plant garden, fix clogged sink, buy new mattress pad, meditate.
It's a start.
We've emailed a few times since, but there's a difference in how he writes - without hopefullness, humor or promise. More like a business exchange, which of course is to be expected.
Still, I miss the possibility and am tempted to fill in the empty feeling with the closest man around or even worse, an ex.
Instead, I make a to-do list: Clean closet, cut hair, run, plant garden, fix clogged sink, buy new mattress pad, meditate.
It's a start.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Sonata in G
Why couldn't I say no? I mean, what's so hard about, "thanks, you're a swell guy, just not the one for me."
Instead I hemmed and hawed, got all mealy mouthed, and in the end, despite every feeling to the contrary, agreed to a fourth time out with Date #13.
I know, I know. I should have stopped after two. And I tried, making up a muddy excuse about why I had to cancel out on dinner plans. But when, the next day, he shared a family sadness, my 'maybe we could be friends' mode took kicked in and I suggested we meet for a movie.
I was hoping if I set up clear parameters, I'd be okay. So I gave a nod to a drink before the flick, but said that afterward I had to get right home.
And it all would have worked out fine, if only we hadn't talked so easily together - a fact, I now realize, can easily be mistaken for 'connection.' Because sure enough, at the end of the night, he asked if I wanted to go out again.
And sure enough, I said...yes.
Why, why, why? Do I secretly like him? Nope. Do I feel guilty? I don't think so. Am I one of those types for whom any company is better than being alone? Hopefully not.
No, the best I can figure is that I don't want to make him feel bad, though in the long run, my stringing him along sure isn't going to make him feel good.
Awhile back, I fell for someone whom I was absolutely positive had fallen for me. But after what I thought had been a fabulous, falling-in-love kind of weekend, he phoned to say he hadn't been thinking of me much, which was a sign to him that we should end things.
Another man I went out with a couple of times set things straight via email. "Our specific incarnation doesn't seem to be working," he wrote. "I reckon ultimately we're just too different."
Meanwhile, the guy whom my niece recently invited out, told her halfway through the night that it was a really, really, busy time for him and...my niece stopped him right there. She'd gotten the message.
Yes, there are a million ways to say goodbye and it's time to finally choose one.
Instead I hemmed and hawed, got all mealy mouthed, and in the end, despite every feeling to the contrary, agreed to a fourth time out with Date #13.
I know, I know. I should have stopped after two. And I tried, making up a muddy excuse about why I had to cancel out on dinner plans. But when, the next day, he shared a family sadness, my 'maybe we could be friends' mode took kicked in and I suggested we meet for a movie.
I was hoping if I set up clear parameters, I'd be okay. So I gave a nod to a drink before the flick, but said that afterward I had to get right home.
And it all would have worked out fine, if only we hadn't talked so easily together - a fact, I now realize, can easily be mistaken for 'connection.' Because sure enough, at the end of the night, he asked if I wanted to go out again.
And sure enough, I said...yes.
Why, why, why? Do I secretly like him? Nope. Do I feel guilty? I don't think so. Am I one of those types for whom any company is better than being alone? Hopefully not.
No, the best I can figure is that I don't want to make him feel bad, though in the long run, my stringing him along sure isn't going to make him feel good.
Awhile back, I fell for someone whom I was absolutely positive had fallen for me. But after what I thought had been a fabulous, falling-in-love kind of weekend, he phoned to say he hadn't been thinking of me much, which was a sign to him that we should end things.
Another man I went out with a couple of times set things straight via email. "Our specific incarnation doesn't seem to be working," he wrote. "I reckon ultimately we're just too different."
Meanwhile, the guy whom my niece recently invited out, told her halfway through the night that it was a really, really, busy time for him and...my niece stopped him right there. She'd gotten the message.
Yes, there are a million ways to say goodbye and it's time to finally choose one.
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Question
I wonder if in every venture, there's a moment when you're tempted to call it quits.
You might not tell anyone, or even utter a word to yourself. But still, it's there, that infamous seed of doubt, ever present but papered over by innocence and hope.
Or is it the other way around? It may seem like flurry and worry dominate, but in truth they are marshaled about by a kernel of faith so boundless, so inextinguishable, that there's only one way to move - forward.
In other words, the half-full, half-empty question, which lately seems to be popping up a lot.
I mean, usually I'm a good sport, game for most anything. Yet in the last month or so, I seem to be turning down as many invitations as I accept.
Don't get me wrong, I still follow through on my two-date minimum rule, but not once since I began this search, have I been even close to wanting to up the number to three.
Am I giving up? admitting defeat before anything's really started? Or is it a good sign I'm choosing my own company and dinner leftovers from the fridge, over going out to some nuevo-fusion resto, making halfhearted chatter?
Last night, my friend Eustacia, who has trailed my romantic capers literally around the world (after a particularly bad break-up in the middle of the South Pacific, she was the first person I called - collect), emailed me a copy of an interview with a famous actress. It covered the range of topics, but the quote Eustache highlighted was this: "A woman needs to love herself more than she loves a relationship.
Then this morning in my inbox was a message from my friend Molly in Toronto. "I'm preparing for a huge yard sale," she wrote, "going through the entire house. It's all back-breaking work, but good...Cleaning out from the basement up, so to speak, getting rid of the old....welcoming in the clear, open, cleansed space.
"Same with you...get rid of whatever clutter you have...including doubt, that is the worst one. Make a goal and surge forth...onward!! Don’t count on any man to fix your life...it never works that way. If he comes...he comes...If he doesn’t, he is not supposed to - at least for now...I always think, later. And why not!"
Two friends. Two messages. Same advice. I think I have my answer.
You might not tell anyone, or even utter a word to yourself. But still, it's there, that infamous seed of doubt, ever present but papered over by innocence and hope.
Or is it the other way around? It may seem like flurry and worry dominate, but in truth they are marshaled about by a kernel of faith so boundless, so inextinguishable, that there's only one way to move - forward.
In other words, the half-full, half-empty question, which lately seems to be popping up a lot.
I mean, usually I'm a good sport, game for most anything. Yet in the last month or so, I seem to be turning down as many invitations as I accept.
Don't get me wrong, I still follow through on my two-date minimum rule, but not once since I began this search, have I been even close to wanting to up the number to three.
Am I giving up? admitting defeat before anything's really started? Or is it a good sign I'm choosing my own company and dinner leftovers from the fridge, over going out to some nuevo-fusion resto, making halfhearted chatter?
Last night, my friend Eustacia, who has trailed my romantic capers literally around the world (after a particularly bad break-up in the middle of the South Pacific, she was the first person I called - collect), emailed me a copy of an interview with a famous actress. It covered the range of topics, but the quote Eustache highlighted was this: "A woman needs to love herself more than she loves a relationship.
Then this morning in my inbox was a message from my friend Molly in Toronto. "I'm preparing for a huge yard sale," she wrote, "going through the entire house. It's all back-breaking work, but good...Cleaning out from the basement up, so to speak, getting rid of the old....welcoming in the clear, open, cleansed space.
"Same with you...get rid of whatever clutter you have...including doubt, that is the worst one. Make a goal and surge forth...onward!! Don’t count on any man to fix your life...it never works that way. If he comes...he comes...If he doesn’t, he is not supposed to - at least for now...I always think, later. And why not!"
Two friends. Two messages. Same advice. I think I have my answer.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
The Space Between
My niece emailed me this morning all excited about some guy she had recently met. They're getting together tonight, she wrote, and her fingers are crossed.
A friend lives a grand story, even flying around with presidents. But he always sounds most happy when he talks about being with his grandson.
This past week, my son and I seemed to be at each other all the time - over homework, his teenage tone with me, how he'd purposely stuck his thumb into my coffee after I, unthinkingly, had used my finger to scoop out some mashed potatoes.
After one row, I got so frustrated, I jumped into the shower to cool off. Another time, my son stomped off, and for a good few minutes, wouldn't tell me where he'd gone.
Eventually, of course, we always made up. One of us would apologize. The other would follow suit, and as the space between us collapsed, even the air seemed keen on doing a little gig.
Years ago, while living in Asia, I met the rabbi in charge of Hong Kong's Jewish community. He was gnome-like in size, ducky in character and seemed less like a religious leader than a wonderful, wise friend.
We talked easily about everything, including love. "It's the only thing that keeps you going," he insisted.
"How do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean that love, and love alone, gives you reason to live. And I don't mean being loved, but loving - a person, a dog, god, your garden, it doesn't matter what, so long as you love." The rabbi paused a moment, then looked at me closely. "Never forget that."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
I nodded my head.
"Good," said the rabbi. "A promise is a promise."
A friend lives a grand story, even flying around with presidents. But he always sounds most happy when he talks about being with his grandson.
This past week, my son and I seemed to be at each other all the time - over homework, his teenage tone with me, how he'd purposely stuck his thumb into my coffee after I, unthinkingly, had used my finger to scoop out some mashed potatoes.
After one row, I got so frustrated, I jumped into the shower to cool off. Another time, my son stomped off, and for a good few minutes, wouldn't tell me where he'd gone.
Eventually, of course, we always made up. One of us would apologize. The other would follow suit, and as the space between us collapsed, even the air seemed keen on doing a little gig.
Years ago, while living in Asia, I met the rabbi in charge of Hong Kong's Jewish community. He was gnome-like in size, ducky in character and seemed less like a religious leader than a wonderful, wise friend.
We talked easily about everything, including love. "It's the only thing that keeps you going," he insisted.
"How do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean that love, and love alone, gives you reason to live. And I don't mean being loved, but loving - a person, a dog, god, your garden, it doesn't matter what, so long as you love." The rabbi paused a moment, then looked at me closely. "Never forget that."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
I nodded my head.
"Good," said the rabbi. "A promise is a promise."
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Conference
I don't know what possessed me, but the other morning while madly dashing about the house to get to a conference I was already late for, I donned a pink, little Jackie O. dress that fit snugly to my torso.
Perhaps this sartorial fact had nothing to do with what happened later that day. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. But perhaps not. Either way, several hours later when I stepped into the conference's ballroom for a pre-dinner cocktail reception, and saw everyone else there outfitted in shades of black and gray, I knew, bottom line, that I stood out - if not like a sore thumb, than like one of those pink, marshmallow Easter peeps - as I sashayed (at least I didn't hop) over to the bar.
Fortunately, I had other things to worry about. Like the fact that I didn't know a soul in the room, so where was I going to stand while I kicked back my chardonnay?
In another mood, I might have sought out a spot by the wall, or sidled up to a post. Alternatively, I might have planted myself near a friendly-looking group with the hope that eventually I could weave my way into their conversation.
Instead, who knows why, I chose the wide, open, empty space in the middle of the room, where the nearest person to me was a good six feet away.
Did I look conspicuous? Probably. But on this day, I didn't care. I was okay with my own company and rather than trying to attach myself to this person or that one, I was content with waiting to see if anyone approached me.
Sure enough, it didn't take long before a distinguished-looking man ambled over and introduced himself as the president of the university that was sponsoring the conference.
Wow, I thought, as we chatted about this and that. But when he was called away, and another gentleman - this one a captain of industry and the conference's other co-sponsor - immediately took his place, I suspected something was up.
Maybe it was the pink dress. Or that nature abhors a vacuum. Or maybe I was having some strange, lemming-like affect. Whatever the case, when the captain departed, a third fellow - the philanthropist who was funding funded the entire event - instantly showed up at my side.
And so the cocktail hour progressed. Until, come the dinner hour, I found myself at the very front of the ballroom, seated with the conference's most important guests, and engaged in delightful conversation.
Obviously, the evening could have ended up vastly different. In fact, if anything, it was odd that it turned out so splendidly. All I can figure is that by not giving a hoot how things went, I inadvertently left plenty of room for the unexpected to show up.
Which leaves me wondering whether I can carry this let-go-and-be experience over into my love life. Just imagine, to search without searching, or better yet, to find without looking. Now that would be grand.
Perhaps this sartorial fact had nothing to do with what happened later that day. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. But perhaps not. Either way, several hours later when I stepped into the conference's ballroom for a pre-dinner cocktail reception, and saw everyone else there outfitted in shades of black and gray, I knew, bottom line, that I stood out - if not like a sore thumb, than like one of those pink, marshmallow Easter peeps - as I sashayed (at least I didn't hop) over to the bar.
Fortunately, I had other things to worry about. Like the fact that I didn't know a soul in the room, so where was I going to stand while I kicked back my chardonnay?
In another mood, I might have sought out a spot by the wall, or sidled up to a post. Alternatively, I might have planted myself near a friendly-looking group with the hope that eventually I could weave my way into their conversation.
Instead, who knows why, I chose the wide, open, empty space in the middle of the room, where the nearest person to me was a good six feet away.
Did I look conspicuous? Probably. But on this day, I didn't care. I was okay with my own company and rather than trying to attach myself to this person or that one, I was content with waiting to see if anyone approached me.
Sure enough, it didn't take long before a distinguished-looking man ambled over and introduced himself as the president of the university that was sponsoring the conference.
Wow, I thought, as we chatted about this and that. But when he was called away, and another gentleman - this one a captain of industry and the conference's other co-sponsor - immediately took his place, I suspected something was up.
Maybe it was the pink dress. Or that nature abhors a vacuum. Or maybe I was having some strange, lemming-like affect. Whatever the case, when the captain departed, a third fellow - the philanthropist who was funding funded the entire event - instantly showed up at my side.
And so the cocktail hour progressed. Until, come the dinner hour, I found myself at the very front of the ballroom, seated with the conference's most important guests, and engaged in delightful conversation.
Obviously, the evening could have ended up vastly different. In fact, if anything, it was odd that it turned out so splendidly. All I can figure is that by not giving a hoot how things went, I inadvertently left plenty of room for the unexpected to show up.
Which leaves me wondering whether I can carry this let-go-and-be experience over into my love life. Just imagine, to search without searching, or better yet, to find without looking. Now that would be grand.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
The Auction - Date #13
I came home last night after meeting Mr. Big (see The Lesson) vowing I was done with dating. My son was at his dad's, so no one was there to hear me, but still I ranted aloud. "Over. Finished. I'm twice-divorced and single. So be it."
What sent me off? Date #13, who turned out to be smart, interesting, easy to talk with, as well as nice-looking. Our son's are nearly the same age. We share similar interests. Plus, he wants to be in love and my guess is, he'd be willing to work at it.
Of course, there were differences. Like the fact that he owns a dozens guns which he keeps in his bedroom closet. And that he's apolitical, leaning towards right wing.
Still, I probably could live with these things if I'd fallen for the guy. But last night, at least, I didn't. Instead, while driving home from the bar where we'd met for a drink, I was flooded with sadness - about how this funny, clever guy had been trying to sell himself to me. And how I, in a somewhat more subtle way (only because I didn't enumerate my quirks), had been trying to sell myself to him.
I mean really, how sad. That at this age, instead of celebrating ourselves, here we are, decked out in dating finery, voluntarily climbing onto the auction block for prospective buyers to poke and prod us and even inspect our teeth.
No wonder, I hurled my casual, first date, just-sexy-enough-but-not-too outfit into the wash as if it were the enemy. Yuck and good riddance!
Thankfully, life looks different in the morning light. And the first thing I did today after brushing my teeth, was retract my words.
I had to. If I want to love again, giving up is not an option. Like it or not, it just isn't. Or to quote my girlfriend Eustacia, "Forward ever, backwards never."
What sent me off? Date #13, who turned out to be smart, interesting, easy to talk with, as well as nice-looking. Our son's are nearly the same age. We share similar interests. Plus, he wants to be in love and my guess is, he'd be willing to work at it.
Of course, there were differences. Like the fact that he owns a dozens guns which he keeps in his bedroom closet. And that he's apolitical, leaning towards right wing.
Still, I probably could live with these things if I'd fallen for the guy. But last night, at least, I didn't. Instead, while driving home from the bar where we'd met for a drink, I was flooded with sadness - about how this funny, clever guy had been trying to sell himself to me. And how I, in a somewhat more subtle way (only because I didn't enumerate my quirks), had been trying to sell myself to him.
I mean really, how sad. That at this age, instead of celebrating ourselves, here we are, decked out in dating finery, voluntarily climbing onto the auction block for prospective buyers to poke and prod us and even inspect our teeth.
No wonder, I hurled my casual, first date, just-sexy-enough-but-not-too outfit into the wash as if it were the enemy. Yuck and good riddance!
Thankfully, life looks different in the morning light. And the first thing I did today after brushing my teeth, was retract my words.
I had to. If I want to love again, giving up is not an option. Like it or not, it just isn't. Or to quote my girlfriend Eustacia, "Forward ever, backwards never."
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Tar Baby
I can't believe it. A simple email exchange with the ex-boyfriend, and here I am a veritable logjam of emotions.
Why do I do this to myself?
It had all seemed harmless enough. I had a business question that I knew he could answer, and anyway, I was sure I was over him.
Obviously I wasn't, given that here I am, for a good hour now, dithering about this feeling and that one, unable to focus let alone get any work done.
And all he wrote was, "Call me." Two words. That's it. But it was enough to send me in a tailspin, trying to decide whether I should.
The best I can figure is that my inner tar baby took over. And just like Br'er Rabbit in the Uncle Remus stories, who got himself hopelessly stuck on a doll of turpentine and tar, I too could end up forever entangled if I don't watch out.
A wise source, aka Wikipedia, suggests that if you find yourself in a sticky situation that is aggravated by additional contact, the only way to solve the situation is by separation.
Makes sense to me. But now I have to do it.
Why do I do this to myself?
It had all seemed harmless enough. I had a business question that I knew he could answer, and anyway, I was sure I was over him.
Obviously I wasn't, given that here I am, for a good hour now, dithering about this feeling and that one, unable to focus let alone get any work done.
And all he wrote was, "Call me." Two words. That's it. But it was enough to send me in a tailspin, trying to decide whether I should.
The best I can figure is that my inner tar baby took over. And just like Br'er Rabbit in the Uncle Remus stories, who got himself hopelessly stuck on a doll of turpentine and tar, I too could end up forever entangled if I don't watch out.
A wise source, aka Wikipedia, suggests that if you find yourself in a sticky situation that is aggravated by additional contact, the only way to solve the situation is by separation.
Makes sense to me. But now I have to do it.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Lesson
I have another date in the works and according to the person who fixed me up, he's smart, funny, and couldn't be nicer.
So what's the catch? Me.
I googled his image and unless it's out-of-date, he appears to be, how should I say it, a tad heavy-set.
I know. How limited and shallow can you be?
In my case, I guess a lot. And I know why. My mother was, to put it mildly, a big woman. Perhaps if we'd had a healthy, loving, mother-daughter relationship, I'd view overweight people differently. But we didn't. And consequently, here I am, long after she's passed, still, to my regret, judging people by their poundage.
Last week, I was having a heart-to-heart with a girlfriend and asked if she minded that her hubby leaned towards the chunky.
She looked at me like I was crazy. "Of course I want him to be healthy, but I love his body. Every single inch of it."
Another friend's husband is an enormously talented guy, who is also physically enormous. Think Peter Ustinov, Pavarotti, or hello, one of the most charismatic people you know.
So what am I waiting for? I can stand here on the sidelines, weighing peoples' worth forever, or say to heck with that, toss neuroses to the wind, and finally, at long last, have a little... no, a lot more fun.
So what's the catch? Me.
I googled his image and unless it's out-of-date, he appears to be, how should I say it, a tad heavy-set.
I know. How limited and shallow can you be?
In my case, I guess a lot. And I know why. My mother was, to put it mildly, a big woman. Perhaps if we'd had a healthy, loving, mother-daughter relationship, I'd view overweight people differently. But we didn't. And consequently, here I am, long after she's passed, still, to my regret, judging people by their poundage.
Last week, I was having a heart-to-heart with a girlfriend and asked if she minded that her hubby leaned towards the chunky.
She looked at me like I was crazy. "Of course I want him to be healthy, but I love his body. Every single inch of it."
Another friend's husband is an enormously talented guy, who is also physically enormous. Think Peter Ustinov, Pavarotti, or hello, one of the most charismatic people you know.
So what am I waiting for? I can stand here on the sidelines, weighing peoples' worth forever, or say to heck with that, toss neuroses to the wind, and finally, at long last, have a little... no, a lot more fun.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Pearls
What can I do? It's just not there. That ineffable, magical feeling, aka the spark, continues to elude me.
I tried with Date #11, even extending my two-date minimum rule to three, in case the problem was mine and I was unconsciously self-sabotaging or simply looking the wrong way.
Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. And I mean "unfortunately" because wouldn't it be grand if I was done with this whole dating thing and instead could report, "Yippee, I found him. My Dreamboat. My Sweet Pea."
But in fact, after a good three months of searching, I'm not any closer to walking down the aisle (albeit for a third time) than when I began. Which is not to say it's been a waste. Far from it. All along the way, I've learned a multitude of things, about myself, about others and the world-at-large including:
1) Scoop-neck tops are for girls. Anyone older should stick with V-necks, particularly those that show a little cleavage.
2) To walk in 4-inch stilettos and not waddle like a walrus, tilt your upper body slightly forward and lead with your head.
3) Whole Foods sells a tinted, facial moisturizer that takes less than three seconds to apply and really does even out the skin tones --or so said my son after staring at my pores, before and after.
4) Always look a man straight in the eye, unless he's married, in the throes of divorce, or hates being alone.
And 5) That a lot of men (at least among the ones I meet) are on medication. But don't let this be disconcerting. As a psychiatrist friend asserts, the men who aren't probably should be.
I tried with Date #11, even extending my two-date minimum rule to three, in case the problem was mine and I was unconsciously self-sabotaging or simply looking the wrong way.
Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. And I mean "unfortunately" because wouldn't it be grand if I was done with this whole dating thing and instead could report, "Yippee, I found him. My Dreamboat. My Sweet Pea."
But in fact, after a good three months of searching, I'm not any closer to walking down the aisle (albeit for a third time) than when I began. Which is not to say it's been a waste. Far from it. All along the way, I've learned a multitude of things, about myself, about others and the world-at-large including:
1) Scoop-neck tops are for girls. Anyone older should stick with V-necks, particularly those that show a little cleavage.
2) To walk in 4-inch stilettos and not waddle like a walrus, tilt your upper body slightly forward and lead with your head.
3) Whole Foods sells a tinted, facial moisturizer that takes less than three seconds to apply and really does even out the skin tones --or so said my son after staring at my pores, before and after.
4) Always look a man straight in the eye, unless he's married, in the throes of divorce, or hates being alone.
And 5) That a lot of men (at least among the ones I meet) are on medication. But don't let this be disconcerting. As a psychiatrist friend asserts, the men who aren't probably should be.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Done is Done
Two friends on the same day posed identical questions. Why didn't you go out for coffee with the guy you met in Kinko's (Date #12)?
I had work to do, I explained.
So, you could have gone for ten or fifteen minutes.
Yeah, but...would you have gone, spur of the moment like that?
Absolutely. And normally you would have too. Why didn't you this time?
What can I say? I don't know. Was I being responsible? Following my instinct? Or was I simply afraid?
And if I was afraid, then of what? That I'd get bored? Have nothing more to say? Or that maybe he had potential?
And if he had potential, then what about the fact that his nose was a tad big and his lips thin? Or that he was a doctor and not a politician or a poet, like the last two men I'd fallen for? Or that he actually listened when I spoke and even asked questions?
And if this guy could carry on a thoughtful, two-way conversation, then that might mean I'd enjoyed myself, and want to see him again, and maybe even, dare I say it, like him. Yes, like him.
Oh my.
What's done is done. Still, yesterday after thinking awhile, I shot off an email. "Since you didn't follow up on that cup of coffee, thought I would." That was all. Nice and simple.
Minutes later, he wrote back. "Thanks for writing. Out of town...Crazy busy...Glad to have your email...Talk soon."
Will we? Who knows. We may have missed the moment. But I did learn something, as seen by the fact that later in the day when Date #11 phoned, I said yes to getting together, even though I could have drummed up a million and one reasons why not to.
I had work to do, I explained.
So, you could have gone for ten or fifteen minutes.
Yeah, but...would you have gone, spur of the moment like that?
Absolutely. And normally you would have too. Why didn't you this time?
What can I say? I don't know. Was I being responsible? Following my instinct? Or was I simply afraid?
And if I was afraid, then of what? That I'd get bored? Have nothing more to say? Or that maybe he had potential?
And if he had potential, then what about the fact that his nose was a tad big and his lips thin? Or that he was a doctor and not a politician or a poet, like the last two men I'd fallen for? Or that he actually listened when I spoke and even asked questions?
And if this guy could carry on a thoughtful, two-way conversation, then that might mean I'd enjoyed myself, and want to see him again, and maybe even, dare I say it, like him. Yes, like him.
Oh my.
What's done is done. Still, yesterday after thinking awhile, I shot off an email. "Since you didn't follow up on that cup of coffee, thought I would." That was all. Nice and simple.
Minutes later, he wrote back. "Thanks for writing. Out of town...Crazy busy...Glad to have your email...Talk soon."
Will we? Who knows. We may have missed the moment. But I did learn something, as seen by the fact that later in the day when Date #11 phoned, I said yes to getting together, even though I could have drummed up a million and one reasons why not to.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Indigestion - Almost Date #12
I met a man at Kinko's yesterday while vocalizing my surprise that I'd have to use a credit card to cover 22 cents worth of photocopies.
My incredulity must have been a tad, dare I say, loud, because out of the blue this man on the other side of the store offered to let me use his machine and pay him the quarter.
How could I refuse? Thanking him, I made my copies, then asked what he was xeroxing. He asked me the same. I answered. And soon enough, one thing led to another, and I learned he was a doctor, originally from out East, with a couple kids and an amiable ex-wife, and did I want to grab a cup of coffee?
Yes, I did. But I had to get to work. Could we make it for another time?
Which was when it happened - that look of confusion mixed with guilt, flashing across his face. Within seconds, he regained his composure and entered my number into his phone. But the deed was done. I'd discovered his secret: He was unavailable.
My guess is he already had a girlfriend. A cup of coffee on the fly would have been nothing more than just coffee. But what I was suggesting constituted a date. And he wasn't going there.
Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe at the moment I suggested we meet another day, he'd been hit by a blast of heartburn or indigestion and that accounted for his strange expression. But until I hear otherwise, I'm sticking with my gut. This guy is taken and good for him.
My incredulity must have been a tad, dare I say, loud, because out of the blue this man on the other side of the store offered to let me use his machine and pay him the quarter.
How could I refuse? Thanking him, I made my copies, then asked what he was xeroxing. He asked me the same. I answered. And soon enough, one thing led to another, and I learned he was a doctor, originally from out East, with a couple kids and an amiable ex-wife, and did I want to grab a cup of coffee?
Yes, I did. But I had to get to work. Could we make it for another time?
Which was when it happened - that look of confusion mixed with guilt, flashing across his face. Within seconds, he regained his composure and entered my number into his phone. But the deed was done. I'd discovered his secret: He was unavailable.
My guess is he already had a girlfriend. A cup of coffee on the fly would have been nothing more than just coffee. But what I was suggesting constituted a date. And he wasn't going there.
Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe at the moment I suggested we meet another day, he'd been hit by a blast of heartburn or indigestion and that accounted for his strange expression. But until I hear otherwise, I'm sticking with my gut. This guy is taken and good for him.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Promise - Date #11
My thirteen-year-old son has fallen for Date #11.
Yesterday, the three of us flew kites at Buffalo Rock State Park, then went for a hike along the Illinois River. Afterward, we stopped for dinner in some tiny, rural town where my son ordered a heaping portion of shepherd's pie and a giant glass of chocolate milk. The guy told jokes, had a hearty laugh and good-naturedly poked fun at me.
What was not to like?
"I don't know," I said as my son and I were driving back home, "but it just wasn't there."
"But he's so nice," my son insisted. "You have to give him another chance. At least two more times. It's the only way to know."
"You think?"
"Definitely." Then he went on to share his own dating philosophy: To go out with any girl who asks you, because once you get to know them, you'll probably end up liking them.
"You really could like any girl in your school?"
"Well," he said after thinking a moment or two, "maybe not _____ because she's always complaining, or _____ because she's too loud, but otherwise, probably yes. So, will you go out with him again?" he finished.
I glanced at my son, so optimistic and full of promise. "Yes," I said, "if he asks."
"Good. He will. Now tell me a story."
And so I did for the rest of the ride home.
Yesterday, the three of us flew kites at Buffalo Rock State Park, then went for a hike along the Illinois River. Afterward, we stopped for dinner in some tiny, rural town where my son ordered a heaping portion of shepherd's pie and a giant glass of chocolate milk. The guy told jokes, had a hearty laugh and good-naturedly poked fun at me.
What was not to like?
"I don't know," I said as my son and I were driving back home, "but it just wasn't there."
"But he's so nice," my son insisted. "You have to give him another chance. At least two more times. It's the only way to know."
"You think?"
"Definitely." Then he went on to share his own dating philosophy: To go out with any girl who asks you, because once you get to know them, you'll probably end up liking them.
"You really could like any girl in your school?"
"Well," he said after thinking a moment or two, "maybe not _____ because she's always complaining, or _____ because she's too loud, but otherwise, probably yes. So, will you go out with him again?" he finished.
I glanced at my son, so optimistic and full of promise. "Yes," I said, "if he asks."
"Good. He will. Now tell me a story."
And so I did for the rest of the ride home.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Who Art Thou
It's discouraging. Even my dream life is letting me down.
Take the other night. I'm in a house near some stairs, when my ex appears. He's shorter and thinner than in real life. His bottom teeth are more crooked. And he's so uptight, he can barely say hello.
He suggests we meet another day.
I look at him incredulous. Yeah, sure, another day.
Then we try kissing, but there is nothing left. What was between us has disappeared.
The dream went on a while longer, but that was the gist of it and when I woke up, I was downright blue. In fact, all day long, I kept thinking about my ex and wondering whether....
...Love really does just vanish?
...Or is the fact that love vanishes, a sign that it wasn't love at all?
...And if the latter is true, does that mean, more often than not, all the energy and thought-time we expend on love just ends up down the tubes?
Unless, as my friend Nicole who is a therapist insists, love is personal. By which she means, if it's real for you, then it's real, regardless of whether it's reciprocal.
That would explain why someone I know can be obsessively in love with a fellow she met online, even though they've never spoken let alone ever met.
Or why a friend could pine after her true love - a married man - for twenty years, even though she sees him at best once a year.
Or I how I could go on for a good year thinking my ex-husband truly loved me, even though hello, obviously he didn't.
I suppose Nicole's view of love offers more room for optimism, but none of it is exactly cheery. Which may be why on a day like this, the best I can say about love is hopefully it's not only blind but deaf and dumb.
Take the other night. I'm in a house near some stairs, when my ex appears. He's shorter and thinner than in real life. His bottom teeth are more crooked. And he's so uptight, he can barely say hello.
He suggests we meet another day.
I look at him incredulous. Yeah, sure, another day.
Then we try kissing, but there is nothing left. What was between us has disappeared.
The dream went on a while longer, but that was the gist of it and when I woke up, I was downright blue. In fact, all day long, I kept thinking about my ex and wondering whether....
...Love really does just vanish?
...Or is the fact that love vanishes, a sign that it wasn't love at all?
...And if the latter is true, does that mean, more often than not, all the energy and thought-time we expend on love just ends up down the tubes?
Unless, as my friend Nicole who is a therapist insists, love is personal. By which she means, if it's real for you, then it's real, regardless of whether it's reciprocal.
That would explain why someone I know can be obsessively in love with a fellow she met online, even though they've never spoken let alone ever met.
Or why a friend could pine after her true love - a married man - for twenty years, even though she sees him at best once a year.
Or I how I could go on for a good year thinking my ex-husband truly loved me, even though hello, obviously he didn't.
I suppose Nicole's view of love offers more room for optimism, but none of it is exactly cheery. Which may be why on a day like this, the best I can say about love is hopefully it's not only blind but deaf and dumb.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
On Holiday - Date #10
Poor Date #10.
From the outside, he had a lot going for him. He was smart, handsome, financially well-off, and easy to talk with. Too, like most people when they're in the middle of a mess, he was vulnerable - a very attractive quality when combined with inner strength, or perhaps more aptly put, faith. Faith that things will get better and that you will get through this, whatever this might be.
In Date #10's case, it was a divorce. For Charlotte, a lovely, 40-year-old woman whom I met on a plane to Vancouver a few years back, it was the death of her husband. There she'd been, a happy-go-lucky wife and mother one day, then boom, her husband had a brain aneurysm, and the next day she was a widow.
By the time we met high in the sky, she'd been on her own for 18 months and seemed to be getting on with things. I, on the other hand, four months after the demise of my marriage, was an emotional meatball.
Needing answers, I peppered her with questions: Are you lonely? How's your daughter doing? Do you want to be with someone again?
I don't remember all she said, but I do recall this. That she was sure one day she'd find another partner.
Wow, I said, you're lucky you know that. But in the meantime, how do you cope?
Charlotte thought for a moment. If I told you that in a year's time you'd meet the man of your dreams and be with him the rest of your life, what would you do?
Probably enjoy myself, I said, and do all kinds of crazy, fun things, knowing this would be the last year I'd get to spend on my own.
Exactly, she replied. Like a year on holiday with yourself.
Twelve months on holiday with myself -- what a great notion! And yet I keep putting it off. For a good while, the details of my divorce consumed me. Then there was this boyfriend, and that one. At other times, I've simply been afraid.
But after dinner the other night with Date #10, who has no idea where he's going but whom I'm positive will get there anyway, I finally heard the wake-up call. It's time, hon. Pack your bags and don't forget sunscreen. Cause guaranteed there'll be blue skies whichever way you head.
From the outside, he had a lot going for him. He was smart, handsome, financially well-off, and easy to talk with. Too, like most people when they're in the middle of a mess, he was vulnerable - a very attractive quality when combined with inner strength, or perhaps more aptly put, faith. Faith that things will get better and that you will get through this, whatever this might be.
In Date #10's case, it was a divorce. For Charlotte, a lovely, 40-year-old woman whom I met on a plane to Vancouver a few years back, it was the death of her husband. There she'd been, a happy-go-lucky wife and mother one day, then boom, her husband had a brain aneurysm, and the next day she was a widow.
By the time we met high in the sky, she'd been on her own for 18 months and seemed to be getting on with things. I, on the other hand, four months after the demise of my marriage, was an emotional meatball.
Needing answers, I peppered her with questions: Are you lonely? How's your daughter doing? Do you want to be with someone again?
I don't remember all she said, but I do recall this. That she was sure one day she'd find another partner.
Wow, I said, you're lucky you know that. But in the meantime, how do you cope?
Charlotte thought for a moment. If I told you that in a year's time you'd meet the man of your dreams and be with him the rest of your life, what would you do?
Probably enjoy myself, I said, and do all kinds of crazy, fun things, knowing this would be the last year I'd get to spend on my own.
Exactly, she replied. Like a year on holiday with yourself.
Twelve months on holiday with myself -- what a great notion! And yet I keep putting it off. For a good while, the details of my divorce consumed me. Then there was this boyfriend, and that one. At other times, I've simply been afraid.
But after dinner the other night with Date #10, who has no idea where he's going but whom I'm positive will get there anyway, I finally heard the wake-up call. It's time, hon. Pack your bags and don't forget sunscreen. Cause guaranteed there'll be blue skies whichever way you head.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Loose Change - Date #9
I feel guilty. Date #9 emailed last week asking if I wanted to go out again, and I still haven't answered.
If a man did that to me, you can bet I'd be blasting him as a self-centered bum, unworthy of my attention. Yet here I am, acting equally bum-like, but unable to email this fellow back.
I don't know why except to say that our whole encounter was...strange. Where he chose to lunch - at a grimy sandwich counter with plastic tables, where we were the only two customers. How he paid for our tuna subs - with a handful of coins. The vaporous way he explained the end of his marriage - it just drifted off. Not to mention how he was always touching my arm, even though each time he did, I'd inch my chair further from his reach.
So why don't I just write back and say, no thanks, I don't think we're a match? The only think I can figure is that he reminds me too much of...myself.
Ask my son, and he'll tell you outright that we've eaten in any number of dives, although I like to think of them as authentic, down-home kind of spots. Just the other week, the two of us went to the ice cream store and I paid for the cones with the loose change I'd been saving in a bottle. Any of my friends will tell you that I'm touchy. And in my twenties, I ended a relationship for no reason other than the fact that the guy had written me a letter on a paper towel.
Yes, the only way to become spiritually healthy and strong is to look inside yourself. And I try to, a lot. But today, call me a chicken. Cluck cluck.
If a man did that to me, you can bet I'd be blasting him as a self-centered bum, unworthy of my attention. Yet here I am, acting equally bum-like, but unable to email this fellow back.
I don't know why except to say that our whole encounter was...strange. Where he chose to lunch - at a grimy sandwich counter with plastic tables, where we were the only two customers. How he paid for our tuna subs - with a handful of coins. The vaporous way he explained the end of his marriage - it just drifted off. Not to mention how he was always touching my arm, even though each time he did, I'd inch my chair further from his reach.
So why don't I just write back and say, no thanks, I don't think we're a match? The only think I can figure is that he reminds me too much of...myself.
Ask my son, and he'll tell you outright that we've eaten in any number of dives, although I like to think of them as authentic, down-home kind of spots. Just the other week, the two of us went to the ice cream store and I paid for the cones with the loose change I'd been saving in a bottle. Any of my friends will tell you that I'm touchy. And in my twenties, I ended a relationship for no reason other than the fact that the guy had written me a letter on a paper towel.
Yes, the only way to become spiritually healthy and strong is to look inside yourself. And I try to, a lot. But today, call me a chicken. Cluck cluck.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Out The Door
Talk about bloopers. Here I've been, going on about searching for Mr Right, but hello, did I ever put it out there that I'd like to find him?
No, not even close. Which may explain why my flurry of dating has come to naught. And why in all this time, I haven't felt anything remotely related to a zing, except once after being told that a certain married man-about-town had just separated from his wife.
Bingo, I thought, until hearing that the lout had been extra-maritally hooked up for nearly a year. Pshew...there went that spark, right out the door.
Speaking of which, my son, who thinks I don't have a life, has taken to literally pushing me out the door, insisting I let down my hair and have a little fun.
His tactic seems to be working because yesterday morning, at the last moment, I decided to head downstate and tag along with an environmental group that was lobbying at the state capital.
I'd been hesitant to go because it was a 3 1/2 hour ride. But in the end, I was glad I did. I'd never been in Springfield before. The folks I met were pleasant, and the weather delightful.
The best part, however, was when I stopped for gas in some depressed, farming community in the middle of nowhere. Half the town's shops were boarded up. Litter was everywhere. The warning bells and flashing red lights at the main railroad crossing may as well not have been there, considering the way locals ignored the signals and drove willy-nilly across the tracks.
Wow, I suddenly realized, am I ever lucky. I don't have to live here. I don't have to pump gas for a living. I can zip across the state in a car that's all paid for, pretty much whenever I please.
Sure, I'd like to fall madly in love, and even get married again someday. But for now, call it gratitude or counting your blessings, I'm sending a shout-out to good fortune.
No, not even close. Which may explain why my flurry of dating has come to naught. And why in all this time, I haven't felt anything remotely related to a zing, except once after being told that a certain married man-about-town had just separated from his wife.
Bingo, I thought, until hearing that the lout had been extra-maritally hooked up for nearly a year. Pshew...there went that spark, right out the door.
Speaking of which, my son, who thinks I don't have a life, has taken to literally pushing me out the door, insisting I let down my hair and have a little fun.
His tactic seems to be working because yesterday morning, at the last moment, I decided to head downstate and tag along with an environmental group that was lobbying at the state capital.
I'd been hesitant to go because it was a 3 1/2 hour ride. But in the end, I was glad I did. I'd never been in Springfield before. The folks I met were pleasant, and the weather delightful.
The best part, however, was when I stopped for gas in some depressed, farming community in the middle of nowhere. Half the town's shops were boarded up. Litter was everywhere. The warning bells and flashing red lights at the main railroad crossing may as well not have been there, considering the way locals ignored the signals and drove willy-nilly across the tracks.
Wow, I suddenly realized, am I ever lucky. I don't have to live here. I don't have to pump gas for a living. I can zip across the state in a car that's all paid for, pretty much whenever I please.
Sure, I'd like to fall madly in love, and even get married again someday. But for now, call it gratitude or counting your blessings, I'm sending a shout-out to good fortune.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Mr. Saturday Night
Two dates last week, or almost. Mr. Saturday Nighter canceled out two hours before we were supposed to meet. He said he wasn't feeling well and that he'd even missed a day of work.
Why he didn't call earlier to tell me he was sick, who knows. Nor did he apologize. But he did offer to make it up to me, twice.
Interesting. Someone I've never met, whom I've talked with on the phone maybe five minutes, is going to make it up to me? How, I'd like to know. Send flowers? Take me to a nicer place than we originally were planning to go, if and when, that is, we do indeed ever meet?
Nope. When he said, "I'll make it up to you," I think he must have been having a momentary blip and thought he was talking to his soon-to-be ex-wife.
I can just imagine the rest of their conversation. "Yes, I'd say I was 'fine,' even when I wasn't, but I'll make it up to you...Yes, I said, 'needing to talk about emotions is your problem,' but I'll make it up to you...Yes, I was sleeping around, but I'll make it up to you. Really, sweetie. Honest."
Promises, promises. Like clouds in the sky, how they drift by.
Why he didn't call earlier to tell me he was sick, who knows. Nor did he apologize. But he did offer to make it up to me, twice.
Interesting. Someone I've never met, whom I've talked with on the phone maybe five minutes, is going to make it up to me? How, I'd like to know. Send flowers? Take me to a nicer place than we originally were planning to go, if and when, that is, we do indeed ever meet?
Nope. When he said, "I'll make it up to you," I think he must have been having a momentary blip and thought he was talking to his soon-to-be ex-wife.
I can just imagine the rest of their conversation. "Yes, I'd say I was 'fine,' even when I wasn't, but I'll make it up to you...Yes, I said, 'needing to talk about emotions is your problem,' but I'll make it up to you...Yes, I was sleeping around, but I'll make it up to you. Really, sweetie. Honest."
Promises, promises. Like clouds in the sky, how they drift by.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
The Golden Rule
I keep making the same mistake.
The first time, I was at a Bar Mitzvah party and after chatting with this fabulous woman a while, I blurted out how lucky she was to be such good friends with her husband.
Her response: silence. Then she confided that a few years back, she and her husband had separated for seventeen months.
Yesterday, I was at a roller rink helping chaperone a school field trip, when for some reason I felt compelled to tell the parent I was talking with - another terrific woman - how lucky she was to enjoy her husband's company.
This time there was a long pause before she shared how there'd been numerous times in her twenty-year marriage when she'd been ready to run.
On the bus ride home from roller-skating, I sat with my friend Kimberly. We've gone through a lot together including our second divorces. But on this trip, the talk turned to her parents' marriage and what it did or didn't teach her about how to be a wife, a mother, and a friend.
"So you think you did a lot wrong in your marriage?" I said.
"Oh yes," she replied. "But I didn't know differently. It was how I thought you could treat a husband."
The Golden Rule says, "Treat other people as you would have them treat you." But do we? Did I in my first marriage? in my second? Of course not. And look at the results.
The sun is finally out this morning. My son is at his dad's. This evening I'm meeting the man Kimberly fixed me up with for a drink. In the meantime, I think I'll go for a walk along the lake where, alone with myself, I'm hoping I'll get a little break before encountering my next blunder.
The first time, I was at a Bar Mitzvah party and after chatting with this fabulous woman a while, I blurted out how lucky she was to be such good friends with her husband.
Her response: silence. Then she confided that a few years back, she and her husband had separated for seventeen months.
Yesterday, I was at a roller rink helping chaperone a school field trip, when for some reason I felt compelled to tell the parent I was talking with - another terrific woman - how lucky she was to enjoy her husband's company.
This time there was a long pause before she shared how there'd been numerous times in her twenty-year marriage when she'd been ready to run.
On the bus ride home from roller-skating, I sat with my friend Kimberly. We've gone through a lot together including our second divorces. But on this trip, the talk turned to her parents' marriage and what it did or didn't teach her about how to be a wife, a mother, and a friend.
"So you think you did a lot wrong in your marriage?" I said.
"Oh yes," she replied. "But I didn't know differently. It was how I thought you could treat a husband."
The Golden Rule says, "Treat other people as you would have them treat you." But do we? Did I in my first marriage? in my second? Of course not. And look at the results.
The sun is finally out this morning. My son is at his dad's. This evening I'm meeting the man Kimberly fixed me up with for a drink. In the meantime, I think I'll go for a walk along the lake where, alone with myself, I'm hoping I'll get a little break before encountering my next blunder.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Red Flags
I have two dates lined up. One today for lunch. Another on Saturday evening. I'm feeling hopeful. One's a scientist who's raising a kid on his own. The other is a fix-up and even though the ex-husband of the girlfriend who set me up, spoke ill of him (they work in the same business), I liked the timbre of the guy's voice when we spoke over the phone.
Plus as my girlfriend pointed out, a lot of people in the industry in which her ex-husband and this guy work, can be jerks now and then. Don't let that count him out.
So what should count someone out? Which are the red flags to pay attention to? One of the men I went out with, Date # , said he was the CEO of some company. Yet when I googled the company, nothing turned up. At the bar where we met, he showed me his card, but then took it away so quickly, claiming it was his last one, that I didn't have time to read a thing. To top it off, he berated the waiter for being slow with serving our drinks.
Red flags? I should say so. But that evening, as well as the next day when he called, I overlooked everything. People are different, after all. People are different.
Like a former boyfriend of mine, whom I always thought was strange but nice. He turned out to be a murderer. My guess is he had some kind of psychotic snap. But I'm sure certain signs were always there. Certain signs that I chose to ignore.
The first time I met my post marriage ex-boyfriend, he went on and on about himself. My son, who was with me, even commented that the guy never asked one question about us. The first time I went out with my former husband, I had coffee while he ate lunch. Nonetheless, when the bill came, he asked me to chip in.
Did the ex-boyfriend always talk about himself? No. At times he was a very good listener, although true, given the choice, he preferred to be center stage. Was my ex-husband always cheap? No, when we were together his approach to money was to spend it. Yet during the divorce, he went after what I had, and since the divorce, counts every penny he's obliged to pay.
If we are who we are in the littlest moments, no wonder first impressions count. Yet in retrospect, would I have handled things differently with either of my ex's? Probably not. Both men had other qualities that I fell for hard and which overshadowed all else.
So do we ever learn anything? I'd like to think so. But you have to scale back your standards. Forget leaps and bounds. Or even baby steps. Use the measurement my girlfriend Heidi swears by: eyelash by eyelash.
Plus as my girlfriend pointed out, a lot of people in the industry in which her ex-husband and this guy work, can be jerks now and then. Don't let that count him out.
So what should count someone out? Which are the red flags to pay attention to? One of the men I went out with, Date # , said he was the CEO of some company. Yet when I googled the company, nothing turned up. At the bar where we met, he showed me his card, but then took it away so quickly, claiming it was his last one, that I didn't have time to read a thing. To top it off, he berated the waiter for being slow with serving our drinks.
Red flags? I should say so. But that evening, as well as the next day when he called, I overlooked everything. People are different, after all. People are different.
Like a former boyfriend of mine, whom I always thought was strange but nice. He turned out to be a murderer. My guess is he had some kind of psychotic snap. But I'm sure certain signs were always there. Certain signs that I chose to ignore.
The first time I met my post marriage ex-boyfriend, he went on and on about himself. My son, who was with me, even commented that the guy never asked one question about us. The first time I went out with my former husband, I had coffee while he ate lunch. Nonetheless, when the bill came, he asked me to chip in.
Did the ex-boyfriend always talk about himself? No. At times he was a very good listener, although true, given the choice, he preferred to be center stage. Was my ex-husband always cheap? No, when we were together his approach to money was to spend it. Yet during the divorce, he went after what I had, and since the divorce, counts every penny he's obliged to pay.
If we are who we are in the littlest moments, no wonder first impressions count. Yet in retrospect, would I have handled things differently with either of my ex's? Probably not. Both men had other qualities that I fell for hard and which overshadowed all else.
So do we ever learn anything? I'd like to think so. But you have to scale back your standards. Forget leaps and bounds. Or even baby steps. Use the measurement my girlfriend Heidi swears by: eyelash by eyelash.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
To Be Loveable, Or Not To Be
To be loveable, as Ovid advised, is harder than I thought. Yesterday morning when my son woke up, he asked for a glass of orange juice as well as his book. A short while later, he wanted breakfast. Figuring I'd be a good mom, I served him a bowl of Rice Krispies in bed.
While he ate, I got myself ready to take him to the History Museum, where he had to learn about Al Capone for school. Afterward, I drove him to his orchestra rehearsal, then to REI to return the three shirts he didn't like, and finally to Trader Joes, where I only had time to grab a couple of items because he was in a rush to get back home
By the time we did, I'd had enough. I told him if he wanted dinner, there was soup in the fridge. Otherwise, he was on his own. I had learned my lesson. Doing for others doesn't make you loveable. It makes you a martyr.
The dictionary defines loveable as "having qualities that attract affection." I was definitely attracted to my ex, but he often wondered why. He also wondered whether I'd have liked him if we'd met while he was working in his former job, and whether I'd continue to like him as I got to know him better. Considering how gaga I was about him, his questions didn't seem to make sense. But obviously he knew more than I did about who he was or wasn't, and in the long run, his view of himself and his own loveability made all the difference in the world.
If I were asked to make a list of "attracting qualities," I'd include kindness and generosity, listening well and curiosity, perhaps having a nice smile or a good, hearty laugh. Yet if I think about displaying these attributes myself, my first impulse is to run the other way. They make being loveable sound like a "to do" list or even worse, like being a drone.
Better, I think, to take each moment as it comes. Like this moment in my living room, sitting in a big, blue chair with a fire on in the fireplace and a vanilla-scented candle burning nearby. My son, still in his pajamas, lies on the couch, using his old stuffed tiger as a pillow while he finishes his book. Our aquarium gurgles. Outside, a city bus rumbles. Does it sound loveable? You bet. And without my having to lift a finger.
While he ate, I got myself ready to take him to the History Museum, where he had to learn about Al Capone for school. Afterward, I drove him to his orchestra rehearsal, then to REI to return the three shirts he didn't like, and finally to Trader Joes, where I only had time to grab a couple of items because he was in a rush to get back home
By the time we did, I'd had enough. I told him if he wanted dinner, there was soup in the fridge. Otherwise, he was on his own. I had learned my lesson. Doing for others doesn't make you loveable. It makes you a martyr.
The dictionary defines loveable as "having qualities that attract affection." I was definitely attracted to my ex, but he often wondered why. He also wondered whether I'd have liked him if we'd met while he was working in his former job, and whether I'd continue to like him as I got to know him better. Considering how gaga I was about him, his questions didn't seem to make sense. But obviously he knew more than I did about who he was or wasn't, and in the long run, his view of himself and his own loveability made all the difference in the world.
If I were asked to make a list of "attracting qualities," I'd include kindness and generosity, listening well and curiosity, perhaps having a nice smile or a good, hearty laugh. Yet if I think about displaying these attributes myself, my first impulse is to run the other way. They make being loveable sound like a "to do" list or even worse, like being a drone.
Better, I think, to take each moment as it comes. Like this moment in my living room, sitting in a big, blue chair with a fire on in the fireplace and a vanilla-scented candle burning nearby. My son, still in his pajamas, lies on the couch, using his old stuffed tiger as a pillow while he finishes his book. Our aquarium gurgles. Outside, a city bus rumbles. Does it sound loveable? You bet. And without my having to lift a finger.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Ovid's advice
The woman who wrote a book about wishing her way into a relationship spent a lot of time waiting. Somehow she must have known her beloved would show up one day, because sure enough he did, literally turning up on her stoop after reading something she’d published.
But searching connotes action. And now that I’ve turned my back on the online world, I have to figure out what to do next. A friend in D.C. is going out with a woman he met in a bar. But he’s in his twenties. He went there with a bunch of friends. Do I really want to meet a man who picks up single women in a bar? Even more to the point, do I want to be that woman?
My friend Anne suggested I start attending lectures at the Council on Global Affairs with the idea that the men in attendance would at least be fairly smart.
My preference would be to simply meet someone through work. As a journalist, I’m always encountering new men. In the last few weeks alone, I’ve met at least a dozen. The problem is that my latest article has to do with the Catholic Church. Everyone I’ve talked to is either a priest or a former priest, who is now married. How the latter met their wives, god only knows. Surely they couldn’t have been looking, yet it happened, like a miracle.
In Anatomy of Love, author Helen Fisher suggests that love is triggered by smell. That we all have “odor prints” which somehow attract our beloved toward us. I suppose I could turn this bit of info into a plan of action by dumping my lavender-scented deodorant and letting my natural perfume exude. But I wonder if I dare.
Nope, I think this weekend I’m going to go with Door # 5 and follow the Latin poet Ovid’s advice: “To love, be loveable.” It’s active, ripe with possibility, and best of all means I can just kick back and do nothing special except be me.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Into Oblivion
Phew! I'm off the dating site. What a relief. The pressure to be a walking advertisement, going out with some man whenever my son was at his dad's, on the off chance that this man might be the one, made me feel like some insecure, no sense of self, 16-year-old girl. In other words, horrible. So thank you all for the dinners, movies and drinks, but meeting a man online is not for me.
Yet even as I write this, I feel guilty for bashing the new norm. By now, after all, internet matchmaking sites are a billion if not trillion dollar business. If, as they say, money talks, then what it's saying to me is that I'm a failure. I might like to think of myself as a cool mom with friends nearly half my age, but the truth is I'm a cyber fuddyduddy, unable to participate in a little internet dating fun.
On the other hand, I've never been a joiner. Except for six months working at a newspaper in Vermont, three months at a Boston paper, and one week in Rolling Stone's New York office, I've always been been a freelancer. And as a New Yorker cartoonist friend once said, "You work long enough as a freelancer, and you become damaged goods."
I always thought he meant "damaged" in terms of the work world. Now, however, I'm beginning to think he was talking about my personal life. How else to explain why I don't belong to any club. Why I was kicked out of the only book group I ever belonged to (I kept trying to change the rules). Why, I can't even stick with a Sunday School for my son, switching temples every few years.
So to have to follow a prescribed dating protocol - first emails, then phone calls, then maybe meeting in person - well, it makes me feel like a caged tiger, and one which behaves badly at that.
Like the way I acted towards the last guy who contacted me online. What he wrote, "U have a smile that stretches from Chi-Town to Cleveland..." was very sweet, no doubt about it. But then he asked if I wanted to talk.
"No," I wanted to scream. "I'd rather not talk. I don't even know who you are, so why in the world would I want to have a conversation with you. And for that matter, why would you want to talk to me?"
But instead I held my tongue, took a deep breath, wrote back, "thank you," then hit the delete button and poof, sent my entire dating profile into oblivion.
Yet even as I write this, I feel guilty for bashing the new norm. By now, after all, internet matchmaking sites are a billion if not trillion dollar business. If, as they say, money talks, then what it's saying to me is that I'm a failure. I might like to think of myself as a cool mom with friends nearly half my age, but the truth is I'm a cyber fuddyduddy, unable to participate in a little internet dating fun.
On the other hand, I've never been a joiner. Except for six months working at a newspaper in Vermont, three months at a Boston paper, and one week in Rolling Stone's New York office, I've always been been a freelancer. And as a New Yorker cartoonist friend once said, "You work long enough as a freelancer, and you become damaged goods."
I always thought he meant "damaged" in terms of the work world. Now, however, I'm beginning to think he was talking about my personal life. How else to explain why I don't belong to any club. Why I was kicked out of the only book group I ever belonged to (I kept trying to change the rules). Why, I can't even stick with a Sunday School for my son, switching temples every few years.
So to have to follow a prescribed dating protocol - first emails, then phone calls, then maybe meeting in person - well, it makes me feel like a caged tiger, and one which behaves badly at that.
Like the way I acted towards the last guy who contacted me online. What he wrote, "U have a smile that stretches from Chi-Town to Cleveland..." was very sweet, no doubt about it. But then he asked if I wanted to talk.
"No," I wanted to scream. "I'd rather not talk. I don't even know who you are, so why in the world would I want to have a conversation with you. And for that matter, why would you want to talk to me?"
But instead I held my tongue, took a deep breath, wrote back, "thank you," then hit the delete button and poof, sent my entire dating profile into oblivion.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Born Again - Date #8
After dinner on Friday with Date #8, who became a born-again Christian when his son aimed a rifle at him and said he was going to shoot; and after waking up last night in the middle of a dream in which Date #7 admitted he was married, I think I'm getting the signal. It's time to change tactics. It's time to end my foray into online dating.
I know it's terrific for some people. Like the couple at the Bar Mitzvah party on Saturday. They met six weeks ago on Match, and there they were, acting like, well, 13-year-olds, unable to keep their hands off each other the entire night. Hats off to them, I say. But it's not going to happen to me that way. It's just so clear-cut it won't.
The most obvious sign was after the temple service, when I bumped into the Rabbi. Without even trying, we fell into conversation about love, life and spirituality. After a couple of minutes, it was clear I had more connection with this young, married cleric than I'd had with Dates 1-8 put together.
Which doesn't mean I'm going to give up my search. I'm just going to go about it in a different way. What that is, I'm not sure. But I figure if I'm patient another sign will lead the way.
I know it's terrific for some people. Like the couple at the Bar Mitzvah party on Saturday. They met six weeks ago on Match, and there they were, acting like, well, 13-year-olds, unable to keep their hands off each other the entire night. Hats off to them, I say. But it's not going to happen to me that way. It's just so clear-cut it won't.
The most obvious sign was after the temple service, when I bumped into the Rabbi. Without even trying, we fell into conversation about love, life and spirituality. After a couple of minutes, it was clear I had more connection with this young, married cleric than I'd had with Dates 1-8 put together.
Which doesn't mean I'm going to give up my search. I'm just going to go about it in a different way. What that is, I'm not sure. But I figure if I'm patient another sign will lead the way.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Mystery, Where Art Thou - Date #7
It's strange. I'm starting to notice a pattern to the men I meet on-line. Whether they're wealthy or out-of-work, a social worker or a top business exec, like Date #7 whom I got together with last night, they all share something in common: A need to know midway through our initial meeting whether I'm having a good time.
Men whom I've met naturally, or even those I've been fixed up with, never asked first time out whether I liked them. It was left unsaid. The uncertainty - will he call again? won't he - might have made me feel vulnerable or all hopped up, but it lent an air of mystery. It was part of the game. This way, I feel like I'm negotiating a deal.
Perhaps it just comes with the territory. In on-line dating, with thousands of people to choose from, everybody is so disposable. Time is money, after all. Are you in or are you out? Last night's date was just more direct about it than other had been. Plus he had a business dinner to get to. He had slotted me in for an hour and it was nearly over.
"So," he said, "do you think there's anything between us?"
I hesitated a moment, not sure how to respond.
"Well, do you," he repeated.
"I don't know," I said finally. "At least I don't feel like I need to get away from you. That's something, don't you think?"
I don't remember his answer, but it was complimentary. Then he asked for the check.
Will he call again? Probably. Do I want him too? I don't know, though if he asks me out again, my guess is I'll go. Do I sound all tepid and namby-pamby? Definitely. But what can I say. Maybe this is what happens when you take the drama out of dating and turn it into a consumer business.
Men whom I've met naturally, or even those I've been fixed up with, never asked first time out whether I liked them. It was left unsaid. The uncertainty - will he call again? won't he - might have made me feel vulnerable or all hopped up, but it lent an air of mystery. It was part of the game. This way, I feel like I'm negotiating a deal.
Perhaps it just comes with the territory. In on-line dating, with thousands of people to choose from, everybody is so disposable. Time is money, after all. Are you in or are you out? Last night's date was just more direct about it than other had been. Plus he had a business dinner to get to. He had slotted me in for an hour and it was nearly over.
"So," he said, "do you think there's anything between us?"
I hesitated a moment, not sure how to respond.
"Well, do you," he repeated.
"I don't know," I said finally. "At least I don't feel like I need to get away from you. That's something, don't you think?"
I don't remember his answer, but it was complimentary. Then he asked for the check.
Will he call again? Probably. Do I want him too? I don't know, though if he asks me out again, my guess is I'll go. Do I sound all tepid and namby-pamby? Definitely. But what can I say. Maybe this is what happens when you take the drama out of dating and turn it into a consumer business.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Pause Button - Date #6
I need to hit the pause button. I need a day of rest. I've been trying so hard to think positively, take care of myself, up my beauty regimen, and just overall be good that frankly, I'm exhausted. Especially since, despite the best of intentions, many of my actions have been questionable.
Like two days ago, when I committed the big no-no and took my son along on Date #6. But it was to see "Avatar," for goodness sake. How could I go without him?
And then there was last week, when I met up with the leader of the Celibacy Support Group, a former priest turned married psychotherapist, and found myself, for a few minutes at least, getting all hot and bothered.
It wasn't that he was so attractive physically. In fact, when I first spotted him in the restaurant, sipping a cup of coffee, I thought he looked awfully odd. But as we began talking about the emotional and spiritual challenges of celibacy - whether it's possible to be celibate, have emotional feelings and still trust that god loves you - things between us started heating up.
Then when he began sharing the story of his personal journey from young seminarian with a profound love relationship with god, to young man with a profound love relationship with a woman, the conversation became so honest, so authentic, that I found myself thinking in ways I shouldn't about this gangling, goofy-looking man.
I didn't let my thoughts go too far. I've done the married man thing once and I've promised myself I'd never do it again. Still, it was both fascinating and scary to think that all it took was a little emotional nakedness to make me want to jump into the nearest bed.
Which is why I'm here today, still in my pj's, ready to call it quits. Of course I won't. After all, in a few hours, I have to pick up my son from school. But in the meantime, I've decided. I'm taking a break. This is my Sabbath. For these next few hours, I get to put aside all noble intentions, even think ill thoughts, and hopefully get away with it, without feeling any guilt.
Like two days ago, when I committed the big no-no and took my son along on Date #6. But it was to see "Avatar," for goodness sake. How could I go without him?
And then there was last week, when I met up with the leader of the Celibacy Support Group, a former priest turned married psychotherapist, and found myself, for a few minutes at least, getting all hot and bothered.
It wasn't that he was so attractive physically. In fact, when I first spotted him in the restaurant, sipping a cup of coffee, I thought he looked awfully odd. But as we began talking about the emotional and spiritual challenges of celibacy - whether it's possible to be celibate, have emotional feelings and still trust that god loves you - things between us started heating up.
Then when he began sharing the story of his personal journey from young seminarian with a profound love relationship with god, to young man with a profound love relationship with a woman, the conversation became so honest, so authentic, that I found myself thinking in ways I shouldn't about this gangling, goofy-looking man.
I didn't let my thoughts go too far. I've done the married man thing once and I've promised myself I'd never do it again. Still, it was both fascinating and scary to think that all it took was a little emotional nakedness to make me want to jump into the nearest bed.
Which is why I'm here today, still in my pj's, ready to call it quits. Of course I won't. After all, in a few hours, I have to pick up my son from school. But in the meantime, I've decided. I'm taking a break. This is my Sabbath. For these next few hours, I get to put aside all noble intentions, even think ill thoughts, and hopefully get away with it, without feeling any guilt.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Two Cards - Date #5
I went on a first date with #5 last night, to a black tie fundraiser. For safety's sake, I'd taxied there on my own. He'd left my ticket out front, so I took myself into the ballroom, scouring the crowd for someone who resembled the photo I'd seen online.
It didn't take long to find him because of his shoulder-length hair, although in person he looked more like an undercover cop, than what he actually was - a social worker. The first thing he said was, "Here, this is for you." Then he handed me a red flower.
He was a very nice guy and we proceeded to have a very nice time, viewing the items in the silent auction, chatting with his colleagues. I looked like a million bucks in a tight, bright pink, sleeveless, satin dress that I'd borrowed from my friend Kimberly. A photographer even asked if he could take a photo of us together. But for all the pleasantries, all the niceness, for me at least, the magic just wasn't there.
With my ex it was there the moment I saw him, even though I'd been with my son. Even though, outfitted in two pairs of long underwear and a bulky down jacket, I had probably resembled a sausage.
We were meeting for breakfast, and while he talked about something or other, all I thought about was how much I liked the way he looked. Afterward, outside, I noticed the space between us, and how right it felt to be walking side-by-side.
Unfortunately, magic isn't everything. Eventually, after "mystically" coming together, we practically went our separate ways.
But last night, even before dinner was finished, I knew what was what. I told my date I had to get home. My son was staying on his own for the first time, and I knew he wouldn't go to sleep until I got back.
My date was a gentleman and insisted on driving me home. When we got to my house, I thanked him for the evening as well as the flower. He nodded, then handed me a tiny white envelope. There were two cards inside, he said. He wasn't sure which one to give me. So I should choose. And with that, he waved goodnight.
A short while later, after checking in on my son, I opened the envelope. The cards were the kind that come with flowers. At the top of one, embossed in gold, were the words, "With Deepest Sympathy." Beneath it, my date had hand-written, "At least there were drinks."
The other card was decorated with little colored circles. On it, he had written, "Happy Valentines Day." I looked at it for a long moment, then went to my cupboard, found a long, thin green vase, filled it with water and slipped the red flower he'd given me inside it.
It didn't take long to find him because of his shoulder-length hair, although in person he looked more like an undercover cop, than what he actually was - a social worker. The first thing he said was, "Here, this is for you." Then he handed me a red flower.
He was a very nice guy and we proceeded to have a very nice time, viewing the items in the silent auction, chatting with his colleagues. I looked like a million bucks in a tight, bright pink, sleeveless, satin dress that I'd borrowed from my friend Kimberly. A photographer even asked if he could take a photo of us together. But for all the pleasantries, all the niceness, for me at least, the magic just wasn't there.
With my ex it was there the moment I saw him, even though I'd been with my son. Even though, outfitted in two pairs of long underwear and a bulky down jacket, I had probably resembled a sausage.
We were meeting for breakfast, and while he talked about something or other, all I thought about was how much I liked the way he looked. Afterward, outside, I noticed the space between us, and how right it felt to be walking side-by-side.
Unfortunately, magic isn't everything. Eventually, after "mystically" coming together, we practically went our separate ways.
But last night, even before dinner was finished, I knew what was what. I told my date I had to get home. My son was staying on his own for the first time, and I knew he wouldn't go to sleep until I got back.
My date was a gentleman and insisted on driving me home. When we got to my house, I thanked him for the evening as well as the flower. He nodded, then handed me a tiny white envelope. There were two cards inside, he said. He wasn't sure which one to give me. So I should choose. And with that, he waved goodnight.
A short while later, after checking in on my son, I opened the envelope. The cards were the kind that come with flowers. At the top of one, embossed in gold, were the words, "With Deepest Sympathy." Beneath it, my date had hand-written, "At least there were drinks."
The other card was decorated with little colored circles. On it, he had written, "Happy Valentines Day." I looked at it for a long moment, then went to my cupboard, found a long, thin green vase, filled it with water and slipped the red flower he'd given me inside it.
Friday, February 12, 2010
The Art of Answers
Books. They're coming at me left and right. "Love Lessons" by the New York Times reporter who writes the Vows column; "The Path to Love" by Deepak Chopra. "Spiritual Divorce" by Debbie Ford. And now yesterday, "The Attraction Distraction - Why the Law of Attraction Isn't Working for You and How to Get Results."
My girlfriend, Anne, sent it to me unannounced, I'm guessing because she's heard me go on and on about my ex (whom, to her regret, she introduced me to) as well as the ex before him. I haven't started the book yet, but on the back cover it says I'll find out what I'm doing wrong, why I keep sabotaging myself, and thankfully, how I can turn that around.
My friend Susan, who's been on her own almost thirty years, and is the happiest person I know, says I should toss all these books out and get back to reading real literature. Love comes out of friendships, she insists, and only after you've first learned to love yourself.
Another friend, on the other hand, who like me has been married twice and is quite determined to make it three, treats these kinds of books like they're her closest companions. Her current relationship is holding steady so she doesn't turn to them as much she used to, but not too long ago, she'd spend many of her Saturday nights in bed, surrounded by stacks of self-help tomes.
Me...I fall somewhere in-between. I keep a pile of "spiritual" books, as I call them, close by on my nightstand, but go in and out of reading them, scouring them intensely for a day or two, then losing not just interest or my place, but the entire book.
Like this morning when I went looking for my copy of Lao-tzu’s "Tao Te Ching," or Book of the Way, with its 81 brief chapters on the art of living. Anne gave me this one too and just like she sometimes does, I thought I'd open it to a random page and see what piece of advice turned up.
After searching through my bookshelves, under my bed, and all around the house, however, Tao Te Ching was not to be found. For a moment, I was unsettled. Then I decided, what the heck, today I'll go it alone. I'll step out on faith and handle life's important questions on my own.
And that's just what I've been doing. Eating leftover Thai food for breakfast. Playing gin rummy with my son instead of getting to work. Hang self-improvement, I say. It's time to have a little fun.
My girlfriend, Anne, sent it to me unannounced, I'm guessing because she's heard me go on and on about my ex (whom, to her regret, she introduced me to) as well as the ex before him. I haven't started the book yet, but on the back cover it says I'll find out what I'm doing wrong, why I keep sabotaging myself, and thankfully, how I can turn that around.
My friend Susan, who's been on her own almost thirty years, and is the happiest person I know, says I should toss all these books out and get back to reading real literature. Love comes out of friendships, she insists, and only after you've first learned to love yourself.
Another friend, on the other hand, who like me has been married twice and is quite determined to make it three, treats these kinds of books like they're her closest companions. Her current relationship is holding steady so she doesn't turn to them as much she used to, but not too long ago, she'd spend many of her Saturday nights in bed, surrounded by stacks of self-help tomes.
Me...I fall somewhere in-between. I keep a pile of "spiritual" books, as I call them, close by on my nightstand, but go in and out of reading them, scouring them intensely for a day or two, then losing not just interest or my place, but the entire book.
Like this morning when I went looking for my copy of Lao-tzu’s "Tao Te Ching," or Book of the Way, with its 81 brief chapters on the art of living. Anne gave me this one too and just like she sometimes does, I thought I'd open it to a random page and see what piece of advice turned up.
After searching through my bookshelves, under my bed, and all around the house, however, Tao Te Ching was not to be found. For a moment, I was unsettled. Then I decided, what the heck, today I'll go it alone. I'll step out on faith and handle life's important questions on my own.
And that's just what I've been doing. Eating leftover Thai food for breakfast. Playing gin rummy with my son instead of getting to work. Hang self-improvement, I say. It's time to have a little fun.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Box
Just when I'm ready to pull the plug - or more accurately delete my internet dating profile - Mr. Next shows up and invites me to a black tie event.
We haven't met yet. In fact, we haven't even talked. When he asked for my number, I said I'd rather just meet. Sure enough, he went along with it, asking me to join him at an HIV fundraiser this Saturday night.
I said yes. But I keep thinking I should say no. My son is with me this weekend. I could spend the evening with him, playing Axis & Allies or a long game of Monopoly. Too, not having anything appropriate to wear, I'll have to borrow a dress from a friend, if she even has one to share. Not to mention that my son has orchestra rehearsal that afternoon. By the time we get home, I pull myself together, and grab a taxi to the hotel (he offered to pick me up, but like I taught my son, never climb into a car), the dinner could be halfway through.
Oh, how easily reasons not to go stream in. Is it fear? Apathy? Nope, I think it's about being vulnerable. About standing in the middle of a tuxedoed crowed, watching everyone laughing gaily, while I, with a gin and tonic in one hand and maybe even holding a gentleman's hand with the other, end up feeling alone.
And yet I know I'll go. I'll say yep. I always do. Because I always tell myself 1) you never know...2) it'll build up my stepping-out-of-the box muscles, and 3) when it comes right down to it, what's the worst that can happen? In this case, I spill on my friend's dress.
We haven't met yet. In fact, we haven't even talked. When he asked for my number, I said I'd rather just meet. Sure enough, he went along with it, asking me to join him at an HIV fundraiser this Saturday night.
I said yes. But I keep thinking I should say no. My son is with me this weekend. I could spend the evening with him, playing Axis & Allies or a long game of Monopoly. Too, not having anything appropriate to wear, I'll have to borrow a dress from a friend, if she even has one to share. Not to mention that my son has orchestra rehearsal that afternoon. By the time we get home, I pull myself together, and grab a taxi to the hotel (he offered to pick me up, but like I taught my son, never climb into a car), the dinner could be halfway through.
Oh, how easily reasons not to go stream in. Is it fear? Apathy? Nope, I think it's about being vulnerable. About standing in the middle of a tuxedoed crowed, watching everyone laughing gaily, while I, with a gin and tonic in one hand and maybe even holding a gentleman's hand with the other, end up feeling alone.
And yet I know I'll go. I'll say yep. I always do. Because I always tell myself 1) you never know...2) it'll build up my stepping-out-of-the box muscles, and 3) when it comes right down to it, what's the worst that can happen? In this case, I spill on my friend's dress.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Color Me
I sit here, gritting my teeth. I hate internet dating. I do. I think because I'm not good at it. Oh, I get plenty of emails. But even the ones that sound interesting...I just don't know what to write back. So mostly I ask questions. Like what do you do? where do you live? Invariably, after a couple of exchanges in which they write verbosely and I return with one-word answers, they comment that for a writer, I don't write very much.
Which is exactly what my mother used to say. Especially to strangers. She'd be visiting wherever I was living and we'd be out at some restaurant, maybe in a buffet line, when out of the blue she'd turn towards the person next to us and say, "My daughter is a writer. Have you gotten a letter from her? I haven't." Invariably the stranger would smile, then quickly move way.
My mother had always been different, but in her last few years she became even more so. Never a big talker about anything personal, she became even less so. Still I'd try, hoping with each attempt that this time I'd pull something out of her.
Once, yearning for conversation, I asked her something silly like, what's your favorite color? Her response: "Don't ask me that. I don't know. You just make me feel like I have the wrong answer."
"There is no wrong answer," I replied. "Whatever you like, you like."
But she was done, leaving me feeling badly for having made her uncomfortable.
A painter friend, who has met her last several boyfriends through the internet, takes time in answering her emails, really thinking through each message before sending it out.
But I don't want to think too much. I don't want to consider whether what I like to do, or what I like to read, or for that matter, my favorite color, will be simpatico with anyone else in the world, let alone some stranger.
Maybe in that way, I am like my mother. Although if she were alive today, I think she'd flourish on the internet. She'd be in her element, putting herself out there, not caring whom she was talking to, saying whatever entered her mind without even noticing the consequences, let alone worrying about them.
Which is exactly what my mother used to say. Especially to strangers. She'd be visiting wherever I was living and we'd be out at some restaurant, maybe in a buffet line, when out of the blue she'd turn towards the person next to us and say, "My daughter is a writer. Have you gotten a letter from her? I haven't." Invariably the stranger would smile, then quickly move way.
My mother had always been different, but in her last few years she became even more so. Never a big talker about anything personal, she became even less so. Still I'd try, hoping with each attempt that this time I'd pull something out of her.
Once, yearning for conversation, I asked her something silly like, what's your favorite color? Her response: "Don't ask me that. I don't know. You just make me feel like I have the wrong answer."
"There is no wrong answer," I replied. "Whatever you like, you like."
But she was done, leaving me feeling badly for having made her uncomfortable.
A painter friend, who has met her last several boyfriends through the internet, takes time in answering her emails, really thinking through each message before sending it out.
But I don't want to think too much. I don't want to consider whether what I like to do, or what I like to read, or for that matter, my favorite color, will be simpatico with anyone else in the world, let alone some stranger.
Maybe in that way, I am like my mother. Although if she were alive today, I think she'd flourish on the internet. She'd be in her element, putting herself out there, not caring whom she was talking to, saying whatever entered her mind without even noticing the consequences, let alone worrying about them.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Doggie Bags - Date #4
Tall and handsome, Date #4 had potential. Until, that is, he opened his mouth and started singing a religious prayer in the middle of the restaurant.
We hadn't ordered yet, so I could have said goodnight then and there. Someone I know did just that, even after placing his order. Clear that he and his blind date were going nowhere, he asked the waiter to pack up their dinners in doggie bags.
But I stayed. I was curious to hear more about my date, who mid-life had decided to become a church singer, flying to New York every week to study with a master.
"Yes," he said, "these church jobs pay a lot. Over the holidays, you can earn 6000 bucks, easy. On a normal weekend, you can pull in a thousand."
Meanwhile, he explained, he sells life insurance, which dovetails nicely with the choir work. Last year, for instance, while filling in with one of the local church choirs, he'd sold a million dollar policy to the conductor and a half million term policy to the tenor next to him.
He also went on about his other interests, like yoga, which he did religiously until breaking his leg a few months back. In fact, he said, if you want, I can show you it. Without waiting for my response, he whipped out his blackberry, pulling up a photo of the x-ray of his fibula.
"There, where it's cloudy," he said, then proceeded to show me several close-ups of the break from different angles.
He was a fast eater. But I kept up with him, which may be why when the bill came, he asked if I would split it. Then he checked his watch. "Got to dash," he said. "My parking meter is about to run out."
We left the restaurant together and got as far as his car, a 1999 Avalon that he'd paid $5000 for. He didn't offer to give me a lift. But as he'd explained earlier, he had an 8 a.m. church gig the next day, so he had to get right home, or rather right to his apartment, which, by the way, only costs $650 a month. Definitely, he said, a real steal. With that and a quick handshake, he hurried into his car and drove out of my life.
We hadn't ordered yet, so I could have said goodnight then and there. Someone I know did just that, even after placing his order. Clear that he and his blind date were going nowhere, he asked the waiter to pack up their dinners in doggie bags.
But I stayed. I was curious to hear more about my date, who mid-life had decided to become a church singer, flying to New York every week to study with a master.
"Yes," he said, "these church jobs pay a lot. Over the holidays, you can earn 6000 bucks, easy. On a normal weekend, you can pull in a thousand."
Meanwhile, he explained, he sells life insurance, which dovetails nicely with the choir work. Last year, for instance, while filling in with one of the local church choirs, he'd sold a million dollar policy to the conductor and a half million term policy to the tenor next to him.
He also went on about his other interests, like yoga, which he did religiously until breaking his leg a few months back. In fact, he said, if you want, I can show you it. Without waiting for my response, he whipped out his blackberry, pulling up a photo of the x-ray of his fibula.
"There, where it's cloudy," he said, then proceeded to show me several close-ups of the break from different angles.
He was a fast eater. But I kept up with him, which may be why when the bill came, he asked if I would split it. Then he checked his watch. "Got to dash," he said. "My parking meter is about to run out."
We left the restaurant together and got as far as his car, a 1999 Avalon that he'd paid $5000 for. He didn't offer to give me a lift. But as he'd explained earlier, he had an 8 a.m. church gig the next day, so he had to get right home, or rather right to his apartment, which, by the way, only costs $650 a month. Definitely, he said, a real steal. With that and a quick handshake, he hurried into his car and drove out of my life.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Tantric Sex - Date #3
Went out with Date #3 last night. On the plus side, where we met, The Park Grill, overlooking Millennium Park's ice skating rink, is a pleasant place. Too, he said I look better in person than in my photo. And he also said I have a sexy walk.
On the other hand, the first thing he wanted to know was which high school I went to. Then he noted that we're both Aries. And pretty soon after that, he listed his deal-breakers: 1) if our sons didn't get along; and 2) if I didn't share his interest in tantric sex i.e. "reaching the attainment of ecstasy through esoteric, sometimes erotic techniques."
He agreed that we should hold off on introducing our kids. But he thought we should confront #2 straightaway. In fact, next time we met, he'd bring his copy of "Knowing God Through Tantric Sex" so I could see for myself what he was talking about. "See" being the operative word, since I'm pretty sure the tome is largely a picture book of naked men and women cavorting about.
Now I'm definitely open to the idea that there is a spiritual link to human intimacy. But do I really want to sit with a stranger and peer at pictures of couples going at it in weird positions? No thanks.
But did I did tell him that? Nope. Even when he asked whether I found him attractive, I didn't answer truthfully, instead saying something vague like, 'it takes me time to be attracted to someone," and 'I need to go slow.' His response: 'Can I have a kiss?"
Of course the guy had some nice qualities. Like after I told him I had to go, he offered to walk me home. I acted as that was okay until I saw my bus. Then I made a dash for it without even offering a proper goodbye.
As it turned out, it was the wrong bus. A few minutes later, while standing at a bus shelter waiting for the right one, I called my friend who met his girlfriend on J-Date. "At least you're out there," he said after I told him about the evening. Then he repeated it again, just in case I hadn't heard.
On the other hand, the first thing he wanted to know was which high school I went to. Then he noted that we're both Aries. And pretty soon after that, he listed his deal-breakers: 1) if our sons didn't get along; and 2) if I didn't share his interest in tantric sex i.e. "reaching the attainment of ecstasy through esoteric, sometimes erotic techniques."
He agreed that we should hold off on introducing our kids. But he thought we should confront #2 straightaway. In fact, next time we met, he'd bring his copy of "Knowing God Through Tantric Sex" so I could see for myself what he was talking about. "See" being the operative word, since I'm pretty sure the tome is largely a picture book of naked men and women cavorting about.
Now I'm definitely open to the idea that there is a spiritual link to human intimacy. But do I really want to sit with a stranger and peer at pictures of couples going at it in weird positions? No thanks.
But did I did tell him that? Nope. Even when he asked whether I found him attractive, I didn't answer truthfully, instead saying something vague like, 'it takes me time to be attracted to someone," and 'I need to go slow.' His response: 'Can I have a kiss?"
Of course the guy had some nice qualities. Like after I told him I had to go, he offered to walk me home. I acted as that was okay until I saw my bus. Then I made a dash for it without even offering a proper goodbye.
As it turned out, it was the wrong bus. A few minutes later, while standing at a bus shelter waiting for the right one, I called my friend who met his girlfriend on J-Date. "At least you're out there," he said after I told him about the evening. Then he repeated it again, just in case I hadn't heard.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Wishing World
I read a book last year about a woman who wished her way into a relationship. She'd go around all day imagining that the right Mr. Next would show up, and sure enough one day, there he was, out of the blue knocking on her door.
After reading her book, I did what she had done. I wrote on a slip of paper the type of partner I wanted to find, then folded it up into a little square and hid it under my mattress.
I guess in a way it worked. My ex did reappear last year after an hiatus of four months and everything reignited, wildly and passionately, until it didn't. With my logical side of my brain, I can identify many tangible reasons why it eventually sputtered out. But with my magical side of thinking, I wonder if the problem was that I wasn't specific enough with my wish.
Yes, I wrote what I wanted in a relationship - a man who is bold, generous, playful, spiritual, curious, political, who loves children and the outdoors. But what I forgot to put down was that I also wanted him to stick around. My bad, as my son used to say. In this world, as well as the wishing world, I guess you can't take anything for granted.
So I'll try again. And while I'm at it, I might as well throw in a couple of more things like... smiles a lot, passionate about his work, owns a house in the south of somewhere, and just to be on the safe side, that my son will also really like him.
After reading her book, I did what she had done. I wrote on a slip of paper the type of partner I wanted to find, then folded it up into a little square and hid it under my mattress.
I guess in a way it worked. My ex did reappear last year after an hiatus of four months and everything reignited, wildly and passionately, until it didn't. With my logical side of my brain, I can identify many tangible reasons why it eventually sputtered out. But with my magical side of thinking, I wonder if the problem was that I wasn't specific enough with my wish.
Yes, I wrote what I wanted in a relationship - a man who is bold, generous, playful, spiritual, curious, political, who loves children and the outdoors. But what I forgot to put down was that I also wanted him to stick around. My bad, as my son used to say. In this world, as well as the wishing world, I guess you can't take anything for granted.
So I'll try again. And while I'm at it, I might as well throw in a couple of more things like... smiles a lot, passionate about his work, owns a house in the south of somewhere, and just to be on the safe side, that my son will also really like him.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Hexagram 35
I think it must be a sign. Five days after receiving an email from my ex, saying "maybe we'll talk this week" and then not hearing a word, I got an email from Selective Search, an elite matchmaking service. I'd sent my info in a couple of years ago, but hadn't heard a thing and even forgotten about it, until yesterday when I glanced at an old email account and saw the message inviting me to come to their office to meet in-person.
I'm ready. Match-making services have thrived for centuries so there must be something to them. Admittedly, all my attempts to fix up friends have failed miserably, but my only criteria was that everyone was available. These people have a pool of 900,000 women, according to their website. Plus they charge the men (women don't pay anything) tens of thousands of dollar. You'd think that more often than not, they must come up with something, otherwise, they couldn't still be in business.
So with two internet dates and a match-making meeting lined up for next week, I can't help myself. I throw the I Ching. It lands on Hexagram 35, "Progress." Terrific. But then I read further. "...It may be that we meet with no confidence. In this case we ought not to try to win confidence regardless of the situation, but should remain calm and cheerful and refuse to be roused to anger..." Not exactly the best prognosis, but hey, it's only a date or two. Or possibly three.
I'm ready. Match-making services have thrived for centuries so there must be something to them. Admittedly, all my attempts to fix up friends have failed miserably, but my only criteria was that everyone was available. These people have a pool of 900,000 women, according to their website. Plus they charge the men (women don't pay anything) tens of thousands of dollar. You'd think that more often than not, they must come up with something, otherwise, they couldn't still be in business.
So with two internet dates and a match-making meeting lined up for next week, I can't help myself. I throw the I Ching. It lands on Hexagram 35, "Progress." Terrific. But then I read further. "...It may be that we meet with no confidence. In this case we ought not to try to win confidence regardless of the situation, but should remain calm and cheerful and refuse to be roused to anger..." Not exactly the best prognosis, but hey, it's only a date or two. Or possibly three.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Stasis
I did it. I didn't wimp out. I phoned Date #15 and explained in a kind but concise way that I didn't think we had a future together, not even short-term, like in a day.
Sure, I could have left his call unanswered, which I've been known to do. But my latest resolution is to be the kind of woman who speaks up. What to say was the only question.
My girlfriend Eustacia suggested I make it about me, like in: I'm just not ready to get involved again.
"But that's not true," I told her.
"Why make him feel badly?" she replied.
Since we'd only gone out twice, I couldn't imagine him feeling that badly. Still, I didn't want to lie. So I asked my son, who was reading Road and Track on the couch, what he thought.
"I don't know," he answered.
"No, tell me what you'd say."
"I don't care. How about, 'no, I don't want to go out with you again?'"
"That's all?"
"Okay, no thank you. The girls I know, do it all the time."
"Do the boys feel badly?"
"Depends on the boy."
"You mean some boys don't?"
"Mom, let me read."
And so I did, then went into another room, called Date #15, and basically said no thank you to going out again.
I think he said, 'okay,' but maybe not, because suddenly there was this horrible static sound followed by a strange beeping.
"Hello? Hello? Are you there?" I shouted. Then I looked down at the phone and saw he was gone.
For a moment I felt terrible, and considered calling him back. But what would I have said except something lame like maybe we could get together as friends, which I really didn't want to do.
So instead I just sat there, felt badly a while longer and crossed my fingers that the next time the karma's finger wouldn't be pointing at me.
Sure, I could have left his call unanswered, which I've been known to do. But my latest resolution is to be the kind of woman who speaks up. What to say was the only question.
My girlfriend Eustacia suggested I make it about me, like in: I'm just not ready to get involved again.
"But that's not true," I told her.
"Why make him feel badly?" she replied.
Since we'd only gone out twice, I couldn't imagine him feeling that badly. Still, I didn't want to lie. So I asked my son, who was reading Road and Track on the couch, what he thought.
"I don't know," he answered.
"No, tell me what you'd say."
"I don't care. How about, 'no, I don't want to go out with you again?'"
"That's all?"
"Okay, no thank you. The girls I know, do it all the time."
"Do the boys feel badly?"
"Depends on the boy."
"You mean some boys don't?"
"Mom, let me read."
And so I did, then went into another room, called Date #15, and basically said no thank you to going out again.
I think he said, 'okay,' but maybe not, because suddenly there was this horrible static sound followed by a strange beeping.
"Hello? Hello? Are you there?" I shouted. Then I looked down at the phone and saw he was gone.
For a moment I felt terrible, and considered calling him back. But what would I have said except something lame like maybe we could get together as friends, which I really didn't want to do.
So instead I just sat there, felt badly a while longer and crossed my fingers that the next time the karma's finger wouldn't be pointing at me.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Hannibal's Elephants
Took myself to a State of the Union Watch party last night, walking the mile and a half past a park filled with ten-foot high, snow pillars in preparation for the weekend's snow sculpture competition.
Immediately, I called my son, who earlier in the month had stood for hours in zero degree weather watching a block of ice evolve into a rhino. "Remember how in 'Lost,' one of the characters was staring at a metal door and talking about how Michelangelo could see “David” in a block of stone. It’s just like that with these ice pillars. You can almost see what's about to come out.”
"Good," said my son. Then he added, “Bye.”
Brevity is my son's trademark when he's at his dad's. I've come to expect it. Still, I continue to call. After all, change is always lurking in the background and I don't want to miss it if it happens.
A dozen of us had signed up for this State of the Union party. Except for the host and her son and daughter-in-law, no one knew anyone. Still, the conversation was lively and the snacks, delicious. The host had set out green grapes and French cheeses. One guest baked chocolate chip cookies. An intriguing, dark-skinned man brought cashews. It almost felt like we were family, gathered around the living room TV waiting for Bing Crosby to sing his way through "White Christmas."
After the speech, I made my way over to the cashew man. He told me he's from Tunisia - the country which Hannibal crossed on his way to battle the Romans, employing 300 elephants.
"Amazing. My son was just talking about how elephants were used in ancient wars," I said and eagerly, jumped into the conversation. Until, that is, a woman with a long ponytail joined us. Straight-away, Mr. Cashew told her he's from Tunisia, then started in again about Hannibal and his elephants.
Definitely, it's a good story. But I didn't stay to hear it a second time. Thanking the host, I said my goodbyes and trundled out the door. Bottom line, I had a good time, plus an elephant tale to regale my son with when he came back home.
Immediately, I called my son, who earlier in the month had stood for hours in zero degree weather watching a block of ice evolve into a rhino. "Remember how in 'Lost,' one of the characters was staring at a metal door and talking about how Michelangelo could see “David” in a block of stone. It’s just like that with these ice pillars. You can almost see what's about to come out.”
"Good," said my son. Then he added, “Bye.”
Brevity is my son's trademark when he's at his dad's. I've come to expect it. Still, I continue to call. After all, change is always lurking in the background and I don't want to miss it if it happens.
A dozen of us had signed up for this State of the Union party. Except for the host and her son and daughter-in-law, no one knew anyone. Still, the conversation was lively and the snacks, delicious. The host had set out green grapes and French cheeses. One guest baked chocolate chip cookies. An intriguing, dark-skinned man brought cashews. It almost felt like we were family, gathered around the living room TV waiting for Bing Crosby to sing his way through "White Christmas."
After the speech, I made my way over to the cashew man. He told me he's from Tunisia - the country which Hannibal crossed on his way to battle the Romans, employing 300 elephants.
"Amazing. My son was just talking about how elephants were used in ancient wars," I said and eagerly, jumped into the conversation. Until, that is, a woman with a long ponytail joined us. Straight-away, Mr. Cashew told her he's from Tunisia, then started in again about Hannibal and his elephants.
Definitely, it's a good story. But I didn't stay to hear it a second time. Thanking the host, I said my goodbyes and trundled out the door. Bottom line, I had a good time, plus an elephant tale to regale my son with when he came back home.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Something Odd
Tonight, my son is with his dad. I can go hear Gary Wills talk about his new book, "Bomb Power." Attend a panel discussion and film screening about "Complicit Destruction: Money Mines and Militarization in the Democratic Republic of Congo." Join a State of the Union Watch party. Or do what I really want to do which is to stay home, light some candles, and catch a couple of episodes of "Lost."
That watching TV is my first choice is indeed odd given that haven't I watched TV in decades, and our set doesn't even work. A few weeks ago, however, a friend suggested that if I was serious about writing a blog, I need to become more savvy about popular culture. The quickest way to do it, she said, was by watching TV. So I clipped a list from the local newspaper of the top ten TV shows of 2009 and started viewing the initial episode of each - Chuck, Sons of Anarchy, Modern Family, 24, and then Lost.
I didn't get any further. Now, evenings after my son (who until a few weeks ago wasn't allowed to watch TV except for Saturday morning cartoons) finishes his homework, we sit on the floor in my bedroom with the laptop on a foot stool, working our way through Lost. After last night's viewing, we're at Season 1, Episode 13.
I'm not sure what it is about the show that's hooked me, but it might be something as simple as its title. After all, if I'm truly searching seriously, doesn't that imply something is lost. Carry that to its logical conclusion and the most obvious something is me. Of course, my daily dramas are a bit more tame than those the characters face. But lost is lost whether you're on an island or in your own home.
I recently read that "It's natural to feel lost. Especially if you're not looking in the right places." What a hopeful thought. It means that being found is simply a matter of perspective. And isn't that what happens in "Lost?" A character finds strength when he's at his weakest; love when surrounded by evil. It's perfect and simple and just what I need after a messy day.
That watching TV is my first choice is indeed odd given that haven't I watched TV in decades, and our set doesn't even work. A few weeks ago, however, a friend suggested that if I was serious about writing a blog, I need to become more savvy about popular culture. The quickest way to do it, she said, was by watching TV. So I clipped a list from the local newspaper of the top ten TV shows of 2009 and started viewing the initial episode of each - Chuck, Sons of Anarchy, Modern Family, 24, and then Lost.
I didn't get any further. Now, evenings after my son (who until a few weeks ago wasn't allowed to watch TV except for Saturday morning cartoons) finishes his homework, we sit on the floor in my bedroom with the laptop on a foot stool, working our way through Lost. After last night's viewing, we're at Season 1, Episode 13.
I'm not sure what it is about the show that's hooked me, but it might be something as simple as its title. After all, if I'm truly searching seriously, doesn't that imply something is lost. Carry that to its logical conclusion and the most obvious something is me. Of course, my daily dramas are a bit more tame than those the characters face. But lost is lost whether you're on an island or in your own home.
I recently read that "It's natural to feel lost. Especially if you're not looking in the right places." What a hopeful thought. It means that being found is simply a matter of perspective. And isn't that what happens in "Lost?" A character finds strength when he's at his weakest; love when surrounded by evil. It's perfect and simple and just what I need after a messy day.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Any Which Way - Date #2
I was supposed to meet Date #2 last night but canceled on the guy when, at the last minute, I got a ticket to see a dance performance by Taiwan's Cloudgate. I know it was a rotten thing to do, and my karma will undoubtedly catch up with me, sooner rather than later. But I guess when it came down to choosing, I preferred my own company at the concert to meeting Mr. "New Freedom."
He sounded nice enough. And of course, it was absolutely fair that he wanted to meet halfway at a bar in a strip mall in one of Chicago's western suburbs. But there was something about his emails, so loaded with acronyms, that I felt like I was reading my 13-year-old's text messages.
I'm not faulting the man. The problem, I think, is in the system. There's something about the process of getting to know someone in a vaccuum that brings out my most judgmental self. Take "Tall and Handsome" who went on and on about himself without asking one question about me, then concluded his missive by asking if there was anything else I'd like to know about him. Delete. Or the guy who can't stop bragging about his kid, who has straight A's, won the national debate contest, raised a million dollars for Haiti, plus is on the Junior Olympic Fencing Team. Yes, I'm sure he's a chip off the old block, but no thanks.
Likewise, I'm sure I've been unfairly judged. When I wrote the "Hairdresser" that "I've always wondered what hair stylists are really like, since when you go to a salon, everyone who works there is always so concerned about how they look, that you always end up feeling second-rate no matter how many beauty services you've purchased," did I hear back? Not a word. And that was one of my more interesting messages. Most of the time, I tend towards the boring. I just can't seem to get into the swing of writing about myself when I have no idea whom I'm writing to.
That's why I think internet dating etiquette needs to be revised. Yes, I know there's a safety reason behind the recommended procedure - first emails, followed by phone conversation, and only then face-to-face - but when I follow the program, my interest invariably wanes.
I once went out with a man who later murdered someone. So I can't say I have great radar. But the way I figure, dating is a risky business any matter which way you look at it.
He sounded nice enough. And of course, it was absolutely fair that he wanted to meet halfway at a bar in a strip mall in one of Chicago's western suburbs. But there was something about his emails, so loaded with acronyms, that I felt like I was reading my 13-year-old's text messages.
I'm not faulting the man. The problem, I think, is in the system. There's something about the process of getting to know someone in a vaccuum that brings out my most judgmental self. Take "Tall and Handsome" who went on and on about himself without asking one question about me, then concluded his missive by asking if there was anything else I'd like to know about him. Delete. Or the guy who can't stop bragging about his kid, who has straight A's, won the national debate contest, raised a million dollars for Haiti, plus is on the Junior Olympic Fencing Team. Yes, I'm sure he's a chip off the old block, but no thanks.
Likewise, I'm sure I've been unfairly judged. When I wrote the "Hairdresser" that "I've always wondered what hair stylists are really like, since when you go to a salon, everyone who works there is always so concerned about how they look, that you always end up feeling second-rate no matter how many beauty services you've purchased," did I hear back? Not a word. And that was one of my more interesting messages. Most of the time, I tend towards the boring. I just can't seem to get into the swing of writing about myself when I have no idea whom I'm writing to.
That's why I think internet dating etiquette needs to be revised. Yes, I know there's a safety reason behind the recommended procedure - first emails, followed by phone conversation, and only then face-to-face - but when I follow the program, my interest invariably wanes.
I once went out with a man who later murdered someone. So I can't say I have great radar. But the way I figure, dating is a risky business any matter which way you look at it.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
In Space and Time
I've decided. Enough of my wishy-washy meandering. It's time for the three-prong plan. Fourth and fifth prongs can be added as needed, but for now, here it is:
1) Nights when my son is with his dad, I take myself out - to concerts, classes, lectures, even just for a run. It doesn't matter where or what I do. Everything counts.
2) Enforcement of the two-date-minimum rule with anyone who asks.
3) Opening my heart to whatever feelings come my way. And that means anything.
Number 3f will be challenging. In fact, this morning, it already was. It happened while I was putting my son's overnight bag in his dad's car. "Have fun," I called out.
My ex-husband didn't reply, so I said it again. Finally, without looking up, he answered, "We will."
A nothing response that I'm sure he wouldn't even remember. But for me, the guillotine dropped. Maybe it was the combination of melting snow, gray skies, the smell of 35-degree weather. But in the instant after he'd uttered that innocuous, throw-away line, I was carried back to our time together in Vermont, when he'd be sitting in the Subaru while I buckled our son into his car seat. Careful not to slam, I'd shut the back door then climb in up front, alongside my husband, our bodies fitting together in space and time, without either of us uttering a word.
It was just a momentary flash, but the feeling lingered and didn't go away till I got back upstairs, grabbed a can of Comet and started scouring the stove that hadn't been cleaned in months.
An older friend, a widow, whom I met in Vermont, once told me that at night, when she couldn't sleep, she'd get up and scrub the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush. This morning I understood why.
1) Nights when my son is with his dad, I take myself out - to concerts, classes, lectures, even just for a run. It doesn't matter where or what I do. Everything counts.
2) Enforcement of the two-date-minimum rule with anyone who asks.
3) Opening my heart to whatever feelings come my way. And that means anything.
Number 3f will be challenging. In fact, this morning, it already was. It happened while I was putting my son's overnight bag in his dad's car. "Have fun," I called out.
My ex-husband didn't reply, so I said it again. Finally, without looking up, he answered, "We will."
A nothing response that I'm sure he wouldn't even remember. But for me, the guillotine dropped. Maybe it was the combination of melting snow, gray skies, the smell of 35-degree weather. But in the instant after he'd uttered that innocuous, throw-away line, I was carried back to our time together in Vermont, when he'd be sitting in the Subaru while I buckled our son into his car seat. Careful not to slam, I'd shut the back door then climb in up front, alongside my husband, our bodies fitting together in space and time, without either of us uttering a word.
It was just a momentary flash, but the feeling lingered and didn't go away till I got back upstairs, grabbed a can of Comet and started scouring the stove that hadn't been cleaned in months.
An older friend, a widow, whom I met in Vermont, once told me that at night, when she couldn't sleep, she'd get up and scrub the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush. This morning I understood why.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Rule - Date #1
This is bad. Last night, I went out on my first date since the start of my soulmate search and what happened? It sent me reeling into "ex" land. If it weren't for my self-imposed "Wait for 24-hours Before Doing Anything Stupid" rule, I'd probably have dialed his number before even getting back into my house.
Not that my date wasn't perfectly nice. In fact, while sitting at the bar in a trendy, nuevo-Latino joint, he went on about just what a nice guy he was. He even gave an example. It occurred near the end of his recent ski trip to Colorado. He'd arranged for a taxi to take him back to the airport, but an hour or so before it was scheduled to arrive, a friend offered to give him a lift. Did my date take the free ride and save $178? Nope, because it would have meant stiffing the taxi driver out of an afternoon's worth of work.
What a nice thing to do, no doubt about it. Plus, without being crass, he let me know that he's loaded. So why did going out with him make me miss my ex more than I have in a long time?
Probably for any number of unhealthy reasons. But I think a friend explained it best. Your ex is your pint of chocolate chip ice cream. If you had eating issues, you'd be heading to the fridge.
Not that my date wasn't perfectly nice. In fact, while sitting at the bar in a trendy, nuevo-Latino joint, he went on about just what a nice guy he was. He even gave an example. It occurred near the end of his recent ski trip to Colorado. He'd arranged for a taxi to take him back to the airport, but an hour or so before it was scheduled to arrive, a friend offered to give him a lift. Did my date take the free ride and save $178? Nope, because it would have meant stiffing the taxi driver out of an afternoon's worth of work.
What a nice thing to do, no doubt about it. Plus, without being crass, he let me know that he's loaded. So why did going out with him make me miss my ex more than I have in a long time?
Probably for any number of unhealthy reasons. But I think a friend explained it best. Your ex is your pint of chocolate chip ice cream. If you had eating issues, you'd be heading to the fridge.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Chapters
Last night, for the second time, I dreamt that my ex's phone number appeared on my cell. Neither time, did I pick up. I just stared at the digits trying to decide what I wanted to do. I knew that if I answered, things would start all over again. And eventually end all over again. On the other hand, the in-between time would be wonderful, at least until it wasn't.
A writer friend once suggested that relationships are like books. They have however many chapters - the exact number you never know until you get to the end - and even if you want to, it's impossible to skip to the last page.
On one hand, it's a comforting notion: things run their course. Like what happened to this acquaintance of mine. She'd hadn't seen her ex-boyfriend for more than a year, when one night, right in front of her house, she was robbed and stabbed. Who was the first person she called? Her ex. Immediately, he came over, took her to the hospital and sure enough, one thing led to another, and now they have two kids.
On the other hand, are the two of them happy? Not from what I've heard. Which gets me thinking about fate, as well as whether my ex would show up if something cataclysmic happened to me.
Truthfully, and I hate to admit this, but I don't think so. I think he'd be busy with one thing or another -- a terribly sad thing to admit, but also the reason I broke up with him.
A therapist friend, who lived through my relationship and its many reversals, says my dream was a good one. It showed I'm making progress. That I'm getting over my ex and finally ready to leave him behind.
Maybe. Probably even. But today at least, I wish this book would have gone on for another thousand pages
A writer friend once suggested that relationships are like books. They have however many chapters - the exact number you never know until you get to the end - and even if you want to, it's impossible to skip to the last page.
On one hand, it's a comforting notion: things run their course. Like what happened to this acquaintance of mine. She'd hadn't seen her ex-boyfriend for more than a year, when one night, right in front of her house, she was robbed and stabbed. Who was the first person she called? Her ex. Immediately, he came over, took her to the hospital and sure enough, one thing led to another, and now they have two kids.
On the other hand, are the two of them happy? Not from what I've heard. Which gets me thinking about fate, as well as whether my ex would show up if something cataclysmic happened to me.
Truthfully, and I hate to admit this, but I don't think so. I think he'd be busy with one thing or another -- a terribly sad thing to admit, but also the reason I broke up with him.
A therapist friend, who lived through my relationship and its many reversals, says my dream was a good one. It showed I'm making progress. That I'm getting over my ex and finally ready to leave him behind.
Maybe. Probably even. But today at least, I wish this book would have gone on for another thousand pages
Friday, January 15, 2010
A Squid Thing
Could it be that this searching for a soulmate business is really an hormonal thing? At every other age, hormones have their way with us, why not now. How else to explain the uniformity in our thinking. I mean, take adolescents. Specifically my son
This morning as we were rushing around the house to get out the door, he tells me that yesterday a classmate posed an interesting question: Which would you rather have a penis that could lift 30 pounds or a detachable penis? Before I could ask what he'd answered, he explained that it was really a very serious question because elephants have the former and squids have the latter, like in whoops - there it goes.
Who knows whether he's right, but it's curious that a 13-year-old boy would even think to ask that question, let alone that I didn’t find it bizarre? I know why. It's because he’s an adolescent and that means hormones.
So why shouldn’t I cut myself the same kind of slack. I’m sure there’s some divorced, single mom kind of hormone that would explain some of my strange new behavior - like slathering extra virgin olive oil all over my face, or asking my old boyfriends who are married, if they know anyone good to fix me up with.
My very first boyfriend didn’t, but offered a piece of advice: “The problem is 'handsome' guys. They're full of themselves and unwilling to commit, especially as they get older. You'd be better off looking for an ordinary guy who is a keeper.”
Maybe he's right. But not what my hormones wanted to hear.
This morning as we were rushing around the house to get out the door, he tells me that yesterday a classmate posed an interesting question: Which would you rather have a penis that could lift 30 pounds or a detachable penis? Before I could ask what he'd answered, he explained that it was really a very serious question because elephants have the former and squids have the latter, like in whoops - there it goes.
Who knows whether he's right, but it's curious that a 13-year-old boy would even think to ask that question, let alone that I didn’t find it bizarre? I know why. It's because he’s an adolescent and that means hormones.
So why shouldn’t I cut myself the same kind of slack. I’m sure there’s some divorced, single mom kind of hormone that would explain some of my strange new behavior - like slathering extra virgin olive oil all over my face, or asking my old boyfriends who are married, if they know anyone good to fix me up with.
My very first boyfriend didn’t, but offered a piece of advice: “The problem is 'handsome' guys. They're full of themselves and unwilling to commit, especially as they get older. You'd be better off looking for an ordinary guy who is a keeper.”
Maybe he's right. But not what my hormones wanted to hear.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Picayune
Growl, growl.
My to-do list seems endless. My doing-the-right thing list even more onerous. Take work. Yesterday, finally finish a magazine piece I've been working on. Send it off to the editor, who likes it, then boom, immediately start thinking about whether it was right to use the word "new" with someone's job title when he's been in the job over a year. It's so picayune, who even cares? Obviously me, cause late last night, I write my editor to let him know I might have made a mistake.
Then there's my son. Or rather his father. I call to tell him that our son wants to go to summer school. Yes, wants to, like in begging to go, because he's interested in learning, even if it means giving up camp. I think it's great, but my ex's response - what's it going to cost?
Next, I get invited yesterday on an all expenses paid trip to Georgia. Okay, it's just Georgia, but I'm thinking, wow, I could use a little pampering. So I tell my friend Susan about the invite, thinking she'll say, you go girl, literally, but what are the first words out of her mouth - watch it, my friend, as you of all people should know, there are no free lunches.
And take these "internet" men. I mean, am I wrong to not write the truck driver back because I think we might not share all that much in common? Or to stop corresponding with the salesman who sounds smart but has lost his job because of company downsizing. Or with the one who seems very intelligent and has a very good job, but wears a waist-length beard that he's been growing since he was 17.
Who knows? Growl growl. Today, surely not me.
My to-do list seems endless. My doing-the-right thing list even more onerous. Take work. Yesterday, finally finish a magazine piece I've been working on. Send it off to the editor, who likes it, then boom, immediately start thinking about whether it was right to use the word "new" with someone's job title when he's been in the job over a year. It's so picayune, who even cares? Obviously me, cause late last night, I write my editor to let him know I might have made a mistake.
Then there's my son. Or rather his father. I call to tell him that our son wants to go to summer school. Yes, wants to, like in begging to go, because he's interested in learning, even if it means giving up camp. I think it's great, but my ex's response - what's it going to cost?
Next, I get invited yesterday on an all expenses paid trip to Georgia. Okay, it's just Georgia, but I'm thinking, wow, I could use a little pampering. So I tell my friend Susan about the invite, thinking she'll say, you go girl, literally, but what are the first words out of her mouth - watch it, my friend, as you of all people should know, there are no free lunches.
And take these "internet" men. I mean, am I wrong to not write the truck driver back because I think we might not share all that much in common? Or to stop corresponding with the salesman who sounds smart but has lost his job because of company downsizing. Or with the one who seems very intelligent and has a very good job, but wears a waist-length beard that he's been growing since he was 17.
Who knows? Growl growl. Today, surely not me.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Mama's Boy
It almost happened. My first internet-induced date. In fact, it was all lined up. We'd picked the time and place - 6:15 p.m. at a nice bar not far from my house. And I'd even, coincidentally, just gotten my haircut. I am now the proud wearer of long side bangs, which my son says look good on me because they cover up part of my face. Thank you, son.
Yes, everything seemed ready to roll. And then the phone rang. It was him, explaining that he had to cancel, sorry, because he has to pick up his mother at the airport this evening. He hoped I understood
Of course I did. How could I not. It's a very nice thing for a mama's boy - oops, I meant nice son to do. And sure, we could reschedule for next Wednesday - the one night a week my son's with his dad.
Actually, in a way, it's a good thing because... I ended up making a big pot of split pea soup, which is healthy, and I'll have time to do my stretches, and the bathrooms really need cleaning, and I can catch up on some work...hey, chez moi, the fun list is endless.
Yes, everything seemed ready to roll. And then the phone rang. It was him, explaining that he had to cancel, sorry, because he has to pick up his mother at the airport this evening. He hoped I understood
Of course I did. How could I not. It's a very nice thing for a mama's boy - oops, I meant nice son to do. And sure, we could reschedule for next Wednesday - the one night a week my son's with his dad.
Actually, in a way, it's a good thing because... I ended up making a big pot of split pea soup, which is healthy, and I'll have time to do my stretches, and the bathrooms really need cleaning, and I can catch up on some work...hey, chez moi, the fun list is endless.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
How Goth
I probably shouldn't be turning internet dating into a family affair, but when my son saw me scrolling through the photos of men who'd tagged me as a favorite, he immediately plopped down next to me and insisted he get a say in who I wrote.
Which is why the first person I contacted was this long-haired guy who used to be Goth and play in a rock band and now wears a long, black cape.
I wasn't quite sure how to introduce myself, so my son helped out: "Sorry for the delay in getting back...I have a 13-year-old who sings and wants to learn to play bass. He'd like to meet you." Not the most romantic message, but truthful.
Sure enough, the guy wrote back. And he was truthful too. Right up front, he told me he had a girlfriend. "But she knows I talk with women online," he wrote. "She's pretty cool with me having what we call, 'Paul's Pickled Harem.'" Then he asked if I wanted to join it.
I'm not sure how to answer. Obviously with some kind of culinary metaphor. Like...
Which is why the first person I contacted was this long-haired guy who used to be Goth and play in a rock band and now wears a long, black cape.
I wasn't quite sure how to introduce myself, so my son helped out: "Sorry for the delay in getting back...I have a 13-year-old who sings and wants to learn to play bass. He'd like to meet you." Not the most romantic message, but truthful.
Sure enough, the guy wrote back. And he was truthful too. Right up front, he told me he had a girlfriend. "But she knows I talk with women online," he wrote. "She's pretty cool with me having what we call, 'Paul's Pickled Harem.'" Then he asked if I wanted to join it.
I'm not sure how to answer. Obviously with some kind of culinary metaphor. Like...
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Invitation
Woke up last night from a dream about a giant, black lab that was clinging to me like a baby, its legs wrapped around my chest, and immediately, started obsessing about a Xmas party I'd been invited to and pointedly did not attend, and whether I should have.
Here's what happened. In November, a recently divorced friend invited 100 of his best friends and me to a holiday gala he was throwing with his new girlfriend. Great. But then a week later, I received an email from my friend saying sorry, but he had to disinvite all attractive, single women.
Whoah. Immediately I wrote back asking if everything was okay, but what I was really thinking was, oh baby, what kind of relationship have you gotten yourself into.
A few days later, another email arrived, this one from his girlfriend, who wrote that she was mortified and furious when she heard what my friend had done. Minutes later, the other single, attractive invitee (apparently there were only two of us) answered back, saying she was mortified and furious that she'd been subjected to this conversation.
So who had the right response: a) me, to feel sorry for my friend; b) the other single, attractive woman, to be furious; or c) my girlfriend Susan, who on hearing the story wanted to know whether single, unattractive women got to go to the party or not.
Here's what happened. In November, a recently divorced friend invited 100 of his best friends and me to a holiday gala he was throwing with his new girlfriend. Great. But then a week later, I received an email from my friend saying sorry, but he had to disinvite all attractive, single women.
Whoah. Immediately I wrote back asking if everything was okay, but what I was really thinking was, oh baby, what kind of relationship have you gotten yourself into.
A few days later, another email arrived, this one from his girlfriend, who wrote that she was mortified and furious when she heard what my friend had done. Minutes later, the other single, attractive invitee (apparently there were only two of us) answered back, saying she was mortified and furious that she'd been subjected to this conversation.
So who had the right response: a) me, to feel sorry for my friend; b) the other single, attractive woman, to be furious; or c) my girlfriend Susan, who on hearing the story wanted to know whether single, unattractive women got to go to the party or not.
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