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.
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