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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.