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.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
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."
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