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.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
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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