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.

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.

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.

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.

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."