If you know me in person - really know me - then you know that I give and give and give and sacrifice for the people I love. You probably also know that I love an abundance of people from all walks of life. Your strata, skin color, mythological beliefs and clothes do not determine how much care I have for you. And despite the fact that I have been attracted to many people in my life, I still possess a capacity for commitment to others that is honorable and, sometimes, self-destructive. In the same token, I have known when to walk away and when to run - usually later than I should - but it's always been better than never.
And, while I've had two or three guys in my life at one time with whom I shared a mutual interest, I am a one-track woman, I don't seem to have the capacity to be REALLY attracted and into more than one person at one time. I wish I did. Often. Because it's so hard to know if I'm wasting my time or making the most of it when all I can think about is this one person.
And he's in my head right now. For months, it seems. And I don't know how it happened. I didn't think he was a big deal at first because I met someone else the same week that I liked WAY more. But then Yoko broke up the band, and the next thing I know, I can't stop thinking about him, even though I know he's probably not really a good fit for my life. Even though he's a flake. Even though he walked out on dinner. As I said that infamous night, "You don't get a second chance to make a fifth impression."
And you know what else I know? I probably should stop wasting my time with him, because when you know you know. And when you don't know, you know.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Type? Oh! Negative.
Recently, someone asked me what turns me on. I found this inquiry too complicated to respond to with any accuracy. You see, what I like and what I consider my "type" continues to grow as I do. And it becomes more simple and more indescribable as time goes on.
Here is my response:
"What turns me on is something that is neither quantifiable nor qualifiable. Chemistry is simply magic. If I were to name the things that make me like other human beings, it would take pages. The same likely goes for those qualities which I dislike.
I am a ridiculously lucky person, in spite of a series of tragedies. I am too smart for my own good, so I make stupid choices to spite myself. I am talented, but modesty is my best quality.
I cannot fit myself into some kind of special box that illustrates who I am or the person I might become. But you are welcome to get to know me despite my facts, foibles, failures and fortitudes. Just don't expect something so simple as an explanation of what my turn ons are. Life is far too complex for that."
What is my type? Oh, you know, your typical responsible-irresponsible-handsome, but not too pretty- tattooed, but clean-cut-intelligent without being nerdy-dorky without play WOW-athletic without playing professionally-funny without making me feel like a joke-sweetheart without being a total pussy-kind of dude. Good luck. Because I could go on and on.
What does he like? The music I do and the movements I follow. What does he love? Being in my presence and being kind to others. What does he keep? Sentimental treasures, but not secrets from me. What does he need? Me, but not in a desperate way. Why do I waste my time? Because I think he's out there, as much in need of my presence as I am of his.
Is he a "he?" I don't know. Some of the best dreams I have dictate otherwise. But still he haunts me. Ripping off my clothes, tearing at my heart.
And time flies as I sit here staring into this vast digital world. I wonder if I'm wasting it waiting for him to say all the right things. To wear the right cloak. To laugh at my jokes. To pull my heart strings. To tell me everything. But I've got nothing better to do. Except be myself.
What's your type? Oh, is it me? Fuck it.
I see a little of me in every one of you. And maybe that's what makes you so worthwhile to me: ME.
I get you. I understand you. I love you. Because, in some way, you are me and I am you.
Yet you all remain so totally different from who it is that I am, that you're still worth getting to know on some level. Because I'm totally my type, once I get to know me. And so are you.
Here is my response:
"What turns me on is something that is neither quantifiable nor qualifiable. Chemistry is simply magic. If I were to name the things that make me like other human beings, it would take pages. The same likely goes for those qualities which I dislike.
I am a ridiculously lucky person, in spite of a series of tragedies. I am too smart for my own good, so I make stupid choices to spite myself. I am talented, but modesty is my best quality.
I cannot fit myself into some kind of special box that illustrates who I am or the person I might become. But you are welcome to get to know me despite my facts, foibles, failures and fortitudes. Just don't expect something so simple as an explanation of what my turn ons are. Life is far too complex for that."
What is my type? Oh, you know, your typical responsible-irresponsible-handsome, but not too pretty- tattooed, but clean-cut-intelligent without being nerdy-dorky without play WOW-athletic without playing professionally-funny without making me feel like a joke-sweetheart without being a total pussy-kind of dude. Good luck. Because I could go on and on.
What does he like? The music I do and the movements I follow. What does he love? Being in my presence and being kind to others. What does he keep? Sentimental treasures, but not secrets from me. What does he need? Me, but not in a desperate way. Why do I waste my time? Because I think he's out there, as much in need of my presence as I am of his.
Is he a "he?" I don't know. Some of the best dreams I have dictate otherwise. But still he haunts me. Ripping off my clothes, tearing at my heart.
And time flies as I sit here staring into this vast digital world. I wonder if I'm wasting it waiting for him to say all the right things. To wear the right cloak. To laugh at my jokes. To pull my heart strings. To tell me everything. But I've got nothing better to do. Except be myself.
What's your type? Oh, is it me? Fuck it.
I see a little of me in every one of you. And maybe that's what makes you so worthwhile to me: ME.
I get you. I understand you. I love you. Because, in some way, you are me and I am you.
Yet you all remain so totally different from who it is that I am, that you're still worth getting to know on some level. Because I'm totally my type, once I get to know me. And so are you.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
R-O-L-A-I-D-S
Relief.
Priceless.
I talked to the guy that left the other night when we were still eating dinner. I may have misconstrued his actions to mean more than they did. He says was tired - not terrified. But I was still mortified at the time.
Timing is everything. Along with kindness, consideration, respect, confidence, trust and beer, of course. And it seems that given his timing, I may have taken his behavior to mean that he had taken my words to heart and completely panicked.
Dating is a funny thing. And by funny, I mean that it sucks and hurts and scares the bejeezus out of me. And I love it. I love the uncertainty. I love the heartbreaks and high points. I love the thrill, the opportunity, the self-love that it fosters. Because, if you don't love you in spite of the discomfort that is bound to come when you put your name in the hat, you can never love another person in a satisfying manner. And if you can't love them (and by that I mean you), how on earth can they love you (and by that I mean them) back?
When I thought he didn't like me anymore, I shook off the rejection and chose to revel in how wonderful I think I am, and how amazing my friends that I think are amazing say I am. And, sometimes, liking yourself more than anyone else does is just what the doctor ordered. There's nothing narcissistic in being okay with yourself no matter how foolish you may feel, and giving yourself a mental hug every now and again is good for the soul.
Sometimes in my lucid dreams, I find myself running from things I can't put my finger on in a lucent state; I just recall my need to escape and the knowledge that I am in control. I am generally successful in barely eluding my lifelong captor, who, oddly enough, happens to be me. That running-running-running that has haunted my subconscious existence often segues into reality. So it goes with dating. I expect the unexpected, the gratifying and the disappointing all rolled into one tall glass of water. And, boy, am I thirsty!
With experience comes wariness. With trusting comes doubt. With love it often seems there is a dose of hate from some wound in the past waiting to ruin everything good. And when one shoe drops, I inevitably wait for the second reassuring thud that never ceases to reinforce that I was meant to fail; that it is my destiny.
Tonight, however, I'm just thankful that despite all of dating's complications and calamities, I haven't become bitter or jaded. Because that would totally suck. And I might unintentionally make a mountain out of a molehill.
"What? Me worry?"
Yes. But just this one time.
Priceless.
I talked to the guy that left the other night when we were still eating dinner. I may have misconstrued his actions to mean more than they did. He says was tired - not terrified. But I was still mortified at the time.
Timing is everything. Along with kindness, consideration, respect, confidence, trust and beer, of course. And it seems that given his timing, I may have taken his behavior to mean that he had taken my words to heart and completely panicked.
Dating is a funny thing. And by funny, I mean that it sucks and hurts and scares the bejeezus out of me. And I love it. I love the uncertainty. I love the heartbreaks and high points. I love the thrill, the opportunity, the self-love that it fosters. Because, if you don't love you in spite of the discomfort that is bound to come when you put your name in the hat, you can never love another person in a satisfying manner. And if you can't love them (and by that I mean you), how on earth can they love you (and by that I mean them) back?
When I thought he didn't like me anymore, I shook off the rejection and chose to revel in how wonderful I think I am, and how amazing my friends that I think are amazing say I am. And, sometimes, liking yourself more than anyone else does is just what the doctor ordered. There's nothing narcissistic in being okay with yourself no matter how foolish you may feel, and giving yourself a mental hug every now and again is good for the soul.
Sometimes in my lucid dreams, I find myself running from things I can't put my finger on in a lucent state; I just recall my need to escape and the knowledge that I am in control. I am generally successful in barely eluding my lifelong captor, who, oddly enough, happens to be me. That running-running-running that has haunted my subconscious existence often segues into reality. So it goes with dating. I expect the unexpected, the gratifying and the disappointing all rolled into one tall glass of water. And, boy, am I thirsty!
With experience comes wariness. With trusting comes doubt. With love it often seems there is a dose of hate from some wound in the past waiting to ruin everything good. And when one shoe drops, I inevitably wait for the second reassuring thud that never ceases to reinforce that I was meant to fail; that it is my destiny.
Tonight, however, I'm just thankful that despite all of dating's complications and calamities, I haven't become bitter or jaded. Because that would totally suck. And I might unintentionally make a mountain out of a molehill.
"What? Me worry?"
Yes. But just this one time.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Humilidashun
humilidashun
hum-il-i-da-shun
[hyoo-mil-ee-dey-shuh
n]
-noun
the painful loss of pride, self-respect or dignity experienced when a person is shunned by someone they have been dating
hum-il-i-da-shun
[hyoo-mil-ee-dey-shuh
n] -noun
the painful loss of pride, self-respect or dignity experienced when a person is shunned by someone they have been dating
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Still Crazy After All These Tears
"Dating." The word alone strikes terror in the hearts of both the young and old, male and female, straight and gay, wealthy and impoverished, short and tall, thin and obese. It evokes uncertainty and discomfort whether you're the beauty or the beast.
It's hard for me to believe, but I recently realized that I've been dating for twenty years. To you kids, that may seem like a long time. And to you happily-ever-afters, it might sound like a lot of dating. And you're both right.
In those two decades, I've spent close to fifteen formidably formative years in serious relationships with five different guys, two of which resulted in marriage and divorce. In the meantime, I've easily gone on a hundred first dates with a variety of prospects, most of whom offered nothing aside from mild to severe disappointment, and, in the best cases, a good friendship here and there.
Although I have never had a problem meeting people in person, there was a time when I broadened my horizons with the assistance of the internet. It only led to being let down in more geographically diverse locations than I could have ever imagined without actually VISITING those places first. My internet dating days went so badly that I have sworn it off completely. I always say that internet dating is like shooting a fish in a barrel... and then going on a date with it.
In my quest for Mr. Right, I have happened upon a thousand Mr. Maybes and at least as many Mr. Maybe Nuts. I have dated actors, athletes, atheists, Bible beaters, bartenders, brainiacs, chemical engineers, chemical dependents, co-dependents, car salesmen, contractors, con men, detectives, dealers, deadbeats, dorks, deejays, emcees, environmentalists, evolutionists, esoterics, fanatics, freaks, givers, heavy hitters, homosexuals, instigators, jerks, jokers, kooks, lawyers, liars, loners, losers, musicians, mechanics, models, manic depressives, nerds, optimists, pessimists, perverts, philanderers, political activists, punk rockers, professionals, preps, quacks, revolutionaries, rejects, rebounds, starving artists, social butterflies, sociopaths, students, teachers, talkers, takers, unacceptable behaviors, victims, winners, writers, waiters, xenophobes, yellow bellies, Zen Buddhists, Boy Scouts, frat boys, beardy boys, pretty boys, skater boys, surfer dudes, tattooed guys, funny guys, younger guys, older men, wealthy men and mooches.
I have disregarded countless warning signs. I have followed my heart, my mind, my gut, the advice of friends, the wisdom of strangers, self-help books and the Yellow Brick Road. I have waited, watched and wondered why he didn't call. I have put out, put up and played putt-putt. I tried Buddhism. I tried prayer. I tried acting like I just don't care. And it all has led to the same outcome.
The thrilling highs and inevitable lows on the romance roller coaster are nothing new to me, but I always seem to hold onto my hope. And, occasionally, when I meet someone in particular, I wonder the age-old question: "Are you the one?"
Astoundingly, the response has always been a resounding, "NO!" And still I try.
After an unfortunately brief, painful marriage, I find myself single once again. But this time, I'm not alone. I have an incredible son.
Having a child can be death in the dating world. It's pretty rare for a guy to NOT date a woman because she doesn't have children, but it's quite the opposite once kids are involved. And it's scary. I mean, in the past I was a picker and chooser of users and abusers, but now who I date isn't just about me anymore. It's about him. It's about us.
Dating has become an even more complicated, potentially brutal journey that, for me, takes more than a little courage combined with a boatload of amnesia. Honestly, after all of the horrible relationships and first/second/third dates I've experienced, I don't know how I continue this quest. I don't know what intangible quality or quackery it is that fortifies me to face another face. But it's still there laying in wait. And even when I tell myself that I'm just going to be single and work on me and that I can't handle another heartbreak and that I can't trust my judgment when it comes to the opposite sex, it remains within my being, barely latent, waiting for that someone special to lock eyes with me, to make me laugh, to take me to new heights of ecstacy, to be my best friend, to share the rest of my life in such a fulfilling way that it makes every other person that's ever crossed my path seem trivial... which is why I still shave my legs.
Years ago, I often intentionally didn't shave on a first date - an old wives' prescription for chastity (which is usually the best first date bet for a second date) - and every once in a while I would embark on one that went so well that I'd think, "I can't believe I didn't shave for this." How embarrassing.
However, that was not the case last night. Instead, I was left wondering why I bothered meticulously shaving at all. I was left with soft, smooth legs and a look of sheer shock and disgust etched on my face, staring at my not-quite-finished plate as I tried to digest the fact that my date had gotten up and left before I was even done eating the meal that I had prepared for us.
To be fair, up to that point, it had gone rather well, considering that a friend in dire straits had come over in the middle of our evening together because she was upset about being pregnant. Whatever amorous endeavors we might have engaged in disappeared into thin air. Needless to say, the topic at hand caused some discomfort and, after I said something about not having unprotected relations on a regular basis with someone you couldn't imagine having a family with, he bolted. Magical.
This morning, I woke up with that hopeless/hollow/something-in-my-world-is-painfully-not-right feeling that I realized I get when I've been dumped or when someone I care for deeply has passed away. I find the similarity in sensation fascinating, and by fascinating, I mean that it sucks. Especially since I hardly even KNOW this guy. And, I mean, he's JUST a guy for Heaven's sake! It's not like someone important in my little world had died.
Yet I was beside myself. I suppose it's because I realized that if things aren't going to work out with him, then I'm going to continue to be subjected to the disheartening possibilities of rejection, disappointment, socially awkward moments and occasional loneliness that come with being a single person hoping to meet their match in a world filled to the brim with people that AREN'T "the one." From a statistical standpoint alone, looking for the mythical "one" amongst the billions of people on this lonely planet is far more hopeless than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Sometimes all of the planning in the world can't prepare you for the world's plans. And last night's disaster was no different. It was a cutting reminder of how very sensitive I remain after surviving a series of exceptionally horrible events and relationships. I realized how quickly I can still let someone into my heart and how easy it is for them to bust it up once that door is cracked. And it made me wonder once again how it is that I can still put myself out there. I guess I'm still crazy after all these tears.
It's hard for me to believe, but I recently realized that I've been dating for twenty years. To you kids, that may seem like a long time. And to you happily-ever-afters, it might sound like a lot of dating. And you're both right.
In those two decades, I've spent close to fifteen formidably formative years in serious relationships with five different guys, two of which resulted in marriage and divorce. In the meantime, I've easily gone on a hundred first dates with a variety of prospects, most of whom offered nothing aside from mild to severe disappointment, and, in the best cases, a good friendship here and there.
Although I have never had a problem meeting people in person, there was a time when I broadened my horizons with the assistance of the internet. It only led to being let down in more geographically diverse locations than I could have ever imagined without actually VISITING those places first. My internet dating days went so badly that I have sworn it off completely. I always say that internet dating is like shooting a fish in a barrel... and then going on a date with it.
In my quest for Mr. Right, I have happened upon a thousand Mr. Maybes and at least as many Mr. Maybe Nuts. I have dated actors, athletes, atheists, Bible beaters, bartenders, brainiacs, chemical engineers, chemical dependents, co-dependents, car salesmen, contractors, con men, detectives, dealers, deadbeats, dorks, deejays, emcees, environmentalists, evolutionists, esoterics, fanatics, freaks, givers, heavy hitters, homosexuals, instigators, jerks, jokers, kooks, lawyers, liars, loners, losers, musicians, mechanics, models, manic depressives, nerds, optimists, pessimists, perverts, philanderers, political activists, punk rockers, professionals, preps, quacks, revolutionaries, rejects, rebounds, starving artists, social butterflies, sociopaths, students, teachers, talkers, takers, unacceptable behaviors, victims, winners, writers, waiters, xenophobes, yellow bellies, Zen Buddhists, Boy Scouts, frat boys, beardy boys, pretty boys, skater boys, surfer dudes, tattooed guys, funny guys, younger guys, older men, wealthy men and mooches.
I have disregarded countless warning signs. I have followed my heart, my mind, my gut, the advice of friends, the wisdom of strangers, self-help books and the Yellow Brick Road. I have waited, watched and wondered why he didn't call. I have put out, put up and played putt-putt. I tried Buddhism. I tried prayer. I tried acting like I just don't care. And it all has led to the same outcome.
The thrilling highs and inevitable lows on the romance roller coaster are nothing new to me, but I always seem to hold onto my hope. And, occasionally, when I meet someone in particular, I wonder the age-old question: "Are you the one?"
Astoundingly, the response has always been a resounding, "NO!" And still I try.
After an unfortunately brief, painful marriage, I find myself single once again. But this time, I'm not alone. I have an incredible son.
Having a child can be death in the dating world. It's pretty rare for a guy to NOT date a woman because she doesn't have children, but it's quite the opposite once kids are involved. And it's scary. I mean, in the past I was a picker and chooser of users and abusers, but now who I date isn't just about me anymore. It's about him. It's about us.
Dating has become an even more complicated, potentially brutal journey that, for me, takes more than a little courage combined with a boatload of amnesia. Honestly, after all of the horrible relationships and first/second/third dates I've experienced, I don't know how I continue this quest. I don't know what intangible quality or quackery it is that fortifies me to face another face. But it's still there laying in wait. And even when I tell myself that I'm just going to be single and work on me and that I can't handle another heartbreak and that I can't trust my judgment when it comes to the opposite sex, it remains within my being, barely latent, waiting for that someone special to lock eyes with me, to make me laugh, to take me to new heights of ecstacy, to be my best friend, to share the rest of my life in such a fulfilling way that it makes every other person that's ever crossed my path seem trivial... which is why I still shave my legs.
Years ago, I often intentionally didn't shave on a first date - an old wives' prescription for chastity (which is usually the best first date bet for a second date) - and every once in a while I would embark on one that went so well that I'd think, "I can't believe I didn't shave for this." How embarrassing.
However, that was not the case last night. Instead, I was left wondering why I bothered meticulously shaving at all. I was left with soft, smooth legs and a look of sheer shock and disgust etched on my face, staring at my not-quite-finished plate as I tried to digest the fact that my date had gotten up and left before I was even done eating the meal that I had prepared for us.
To be fair, up to that point, it had gone rather well, considering that a friend in dire straits had come over in the middle of our evening together because she was upset about being pregnant. Whatever amorous endeavors we might have engaged in disappeared into thin air. Needless to say, the topic at hand caused some discomfort and, after I said something about not having unprotected relations on a regular basis with someone you couldn't imagine having a family with, he bolted. Magical.
This morning, I woke up with that hopeless/hollow/something-in-my-world-is-painfully-not-right feeling that I realized I get when I've been dumped or when someone I care for deeply has passed away. I find the similarity in sensation fascinating, and by fascinating, I mean that it sucks. Especially since I hardly even KNOW this guy. And, I mean, he's JUST a guy for Heaven's sake! It's not like someone important in my little world had died.
Yet I was beside myself. I suppose it's because I realized that if things aren't going to work out with him, then I'm going to continue to be subjected to the disheartening possibilities of rejection, disappointment, socially awkward moments and occasional loneliness that come with being a single person hoping to meet their match in a world filled to the brim with people that AREN'T "the one." From a statistical standpoint alone, looking for the mythical "one" amongst the billions of people on this lonely planet is far more hopeless than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Sometimes all of the planning in the world can't prepare you for the world's plans. And last night's disaster was no different. It was a cutting reminder of how very sensitive I remain after surviving a series of exceptionally horrible events and relationships. I realized how quickly I can still let someone into my heart and how easy it is for them to bust it up once that door is cracked. And it made me wonder once again how it is that I can still put myself out there. I guess I'm still crazy after all these tears.
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