THE LABOR OF LOVING YOURSELF

If you’ll permit the ridiculous simile:  Love is like a club sandwich.  Why?  Because it’s only fun in the middle.  Just like the bread surrounding a delightful deli meat, the top and bottom of a relationship is often intimidating and momentarily uncomfortable.  There’s the dry, awkward introduction; the starchy “baggage assessment;” the crust of self-consciousness, and we endure it all for but one blissful moment that’s soon digested and turned into… well… shit.

I joined the site, I paid my dues, I kissed some frogs and I met a truly great guy; a truly great guy with whom I have a truly great date planned for this evening.  For all intents and purposes, my “out there” efforts have paid off.  However, I’m truly freaking out. 

Last evening, I discussed this seemingly nonsensical anxiety with Dr. J. 

                “Why should a mutual, genuine interest with this man be so frightening?  We talk every night!  We get along really well.  He likes me a lot…what’s wrong with me?”  

               

                But as it often does in therapy---it turns out to stretch a lot more deeply than that.

                “What is it about this situation that’s scaring you?” asked Dr. J.

                “I just… I feel like I don’t have my footing… you know?  Like… all this stuff has happened and I’m not done figuring it out.  And this guy---he’s so eager!  He’s so sure!  He’s got our next twelve dates planned… and that’s only a slight exaggeration!!”

                Dr. J nodded as if to say “go on.”

                 “I mean, yeah… I believe I’m datable.  But… sometimes I feel like people are taking score, you know?  ‘Oops… Alex was engaged.  And woops, there goes yet another relationship.’  I just want to get it right!  I want to have some realistic expectation for how it’s all going to go.”

                I could feel it.  It was coming:  the big, devastating question of the session.

               

                “Why is it so important to know how it’s all going to go?”

… Because if 2010 were a book, I’d entitle it “ClusterFuck.” In an insanely short amount of time, I experienced a heart-crushing break-up, the death of a very close friend and a completely illegal eviction from my apartment. All the while, another important, sub-conscious adjustment was taking place:  I was asserting myself as a post-grad woman living on her own for the very first time. 

                As these thoughts flooded my brain, I replied “I don’t know… I’m just overwhelmed!”

                “So…” Dr. J interjected “why can’t you just tell him you need to take this slow?”

A loud plop suddenly resounded in my head.  I knew it could only be the sound of Nice Alex falling out of her chair.  We know she always defers to the other person; she’s terrified of leading people on; she worries day and night about everyone else’s feelings... and now, in one fell swoop she was knocked unconscious. 

                Slowly… I sounded it out. 

                “I… I can just tell him I n-neeeed…….to take this slow?  I can just tell him I need to take it slow!  Well… but wait… I mean… what if it scares him away?”

                “If it does,” she said “what would that say about him?”

How had this not occurred to me?  This was brilliant!  Genius!  Of course!  I’ll tell him that I need to take this slow!  One date at a time!  And then… then we’ll just… take it slow…see where it goes!     

So Readers, this evening may or may not be something I can write a pithy, humorous blog about.  Sure, it’s early; Mr. Wonderful still has plenty of time to morph into a mutant.  But for the first time in a LONG time, I feel like I’m looking at something that could actually be SOMETHING.

Maybe we’ll get to the meat and cheese, maybe we won’t. Either way…I'm going to take life one date a time.

SLIGHTLY SMITTEN

This territory is SO unchartered; SO unfamiliar that I must confess: I have no idea where to start, readers!

I could begin by telling you that Match has introduced me to an incredibly compatible man.  A couple weeks ago, I found his profile among my “Daily 5”---a list of seemingly compatible mates based on location and personality.  I rarely [if ever] make the first move, but I found Mr. Wonderful too good to pass up.  He’s a 31-year-old, employed art director from Stamford, CT.  He’s college educated, taller than me, broad shouldered and physically fit; never married, non-smoker, literate, and (after much pinching) NOT a figment of my imagination.

Boldly, I “winked” and awaited word.  Within 48 hours we were exchanging a truly splendid volley of jokes and stories.  Several e-mails and two phone conversations later, we had finally booked ourselves a date at Barcelona---a Greenwich hot-spot boasting the work of a semi-celebrity chef.

When the big day arrived however, Cynical Alex promptly showed up with a myriad of negative scenarios:  “He’s going to cancel,” she first surmised.  Then it was “He won’t show up,” “he’s going to be a troll,” “he’s actually 72,” and the ever faithful “he’ll probably try to kidnap you.”   I was mentally prepared for all the bad things but nowhere near prepared for what I got:  a good, nay, a GREAT date…  The kind of date they advertise on those cheesy commercials I roll my eyes at.  I was on THAT date! 

It became quickly apparent that we had many odd things in common: we both like tapas, mint chocolate-chip ice cream and American history.  We’re both the first of two same sex children; and both of our younger siblings are about to be married.  We both come from working families.  In addition, he was sweet, dorky, smart, good looking, social, funny, humble, nervous, confident, and already terribly smitten with me; a fact I only realized when he asked for a second date right in the middle of our first.

Now… I admit…  There was a part of me that feared his eagerness.  Was this a rebound thing?  Did he want to get in my pants?  Was he desperate for some reason that I had not yet uncovered?  But upon talking to friends and family, I was urged to consider that perhaps this slightly older, wiser man was ready for commitment and DONE with the [I’m-going-to-pretend-I’m-not-interested-in-you-so-that-you-like-me-and-make-dumb-decisions] game.  I mean really, what a concept.

I agreed to a second date in the city this past Saturday and it was even better than the first!  Shared dorky loves such as board games and dorm life were discussed as well as goals and dating preferences.  I’m happy to report that we’re still both intrigued and seeing each other again this Thursday evening! 

Readers… I actually can’t wait!  Keep your fingers crossed!!

THE SUDDEN SNAP OF SWEET CHEEKS

It all started at my gynecologist’s office…as most hilarious stories do.  The well-meaning nurse held her clipboard with surprising nonchalance as she asked “Any problems with intercourse?”

It was just then that it occurred me: “Yes.  I have a definite problem with its absence...”

Approximately two hours later, I joined Match.com. I had once firmly resisted the pay-for-play dating arena, but that was before “Fishing,” “Cupid” and “Vow” forcibly wrestled my faith in humanity to the ground.  Everyone I’ve talked to said the serious daters live at Match, so I held my breath as $150 of my hard-earned dough was sucked into an electronic void---never to be seen again.

Initially, Match seemed to live up to its hype; it’s more secure, detailed and the people seem much more motivated.    I’ve made several connections; however, it has become very clear that Match has its fair share of idiots as well.  Proof positive:  Mr. Maturity, a 40-something Match-er with no pictures and a sketchy profile.

“Hi there Alex,

I love your profile and amazing smile… can I send you a few pics???  I promise you will like what you see……….”

Now, I don’t know if this is all his fault.  In fairness, dating has a way of slowly chipping away at your sanity.  The small, the meek, the stander-uppers, the grape, the missed connections and failed intrigues have one by one pushed me closer to the edge.  It was only a matter of time until I snapped…. And unfortunately for Mr. Maturity:

“So you’re my father’s age.

This is a no.

Thanks.”

I did not expect him to reply, but less than 24 hours later….

“funny I was dating a girl that is 23…if the girl is mature then its not a problem……”  

 Why I now decided to launch a cyber-crusade on all over-aged pigs everywhere, I’ll never know… but I could barely keep my blood from boiling over as I tersely replied:

“Yet you’re no longer dating her…

I wonder why that didn’t work out.

That’s a real brain buster.”

To which he [hilariously] responded:

“Well Alex it was not because of age, so not sure what brain buster you are talking about…. You are funny and I like you already. 

I’m 41..and look 31………. For the record…

FYI…she moved back to FLA for grad school….we are still friends.”

He was making this too easy.

“Grad school?  LOL!  You’ve completely illustrated my point.  Surely grad school would not be an issue if you were dating someone your own age.  If you’re not looking for something serious.. continue doing what you’re doing.  But I’m just saying, you will probably not have much luck with women who are so drastically your junior.

You will probably not take my advice, and that’s okay.  41-year-olds who chase after women half their age irk me---call me crazy.”

As if that weren’t enough… I went on…

“And PS:  41 is not 31.  You’re ten years closer to the nursing home, my friend.  41 is 41 no matter how you slice it.

Now that I’ve depressed you sufficiently, I’ll take my leave.

Have a great day!”

And this is where he got personal:

“Alex..you are a funny and not so bright girl…. Depress me??  LOl…not a chance.. good luck finding Paulie D..

Also for the record 41 yr olds usually date young girls like yourself for ONE reason only..and we both know what that is sweet cheeks..so keep chasing your tail out there….

I’m guessing a lot of hump & dumps in the near future for you J”

Nice Alex begged me to stop.  “Why are you wasting your time arguing with this Neanderthal?”  she insisted.  But it was too late---I was a woman possessed.  This old, sexist, racist jerk was not going to have the last word.

“Well judging from your hostile, insulting reply it seems I struck a chord… Quite shocking in the face of my [apparent] dimly-lit intellect J. 

I’m not sure why you decided to make this a racial thing.  Though I am Italian, I’m certainly not looking for Paulie D.  I’ve actually *never* been dumped, nor do I make love until I’m in a serious, committed relationship… But thanks for your input, genius.  Once again, not sure why you decided to go there.  My best guess:

A.       Complete Ignorance

B.      An unsuccessful attempt to hurt my feelings

Take your pick.

I know exactly what 41-year-old men are seeking in 23-year-old women---hence my disgust with you and everyone like you.  Coincidentally, THIS is why you’ll have no use for me; I’m looking for something serious with someone morally sound.

I can’t imagine why anyone would have you, but I’d be willing to bet you’re married… that’s probably why you don’t put your pictures up.  It’s either that or you really aren’t “41 in age, 31 in looks” as you previously claimed.  If you only knew how hard I’m laughing right now J.

Don’t bother replying… I’ll just delete it.

Signed,

Sweet Cheeks”