BETWEEN ME AND DELIVERANCE, PART I

Perched atop a tall barstool, I awaited Amanda’s arrival.  We had set out to have a fun girl’s evening filled with drinks, dancing and perhaps some harmless flirtation.  Instead, Amanda was late and I---lost in thought.

“Maybe I should accept Music Man’s invitation” I pondered, stirring my vodka cranberry.  When he asked me out earlier that week, Nice Alex nearly leapt at the chance.  But as tempting as it is to “fling” with the same manic musician I always fall in love with, I am on a mission to improve my picker.  It is a personal decision based on more facts than I can share with you---but please trust me, readers---it’s the right call.

Nice Alex baulked of course, so I sent her to the naughty step for a time out.     

Having come to terms with my decision, I leaned in to take another sip.  But I was suddenly shaken when two men [quite literally] descended upon me. 

To my left was a short stocky ginger in a red cut-off T.  His eyelids were burdened with beer, and it seemed to take all his energy to slur a drink offer.  I declined by pointing to my already purchased libation, but that didn’t stop him from offering a second and third time.   

To my right was a thin man in a […wait for it…] grey cut-off T.  As his lips parted I became simultaneously aware of both his breath on my neck and the toothlessness of his smile. 

Did I mention I was upstate?

And you wonder why I don’t write fiction!!

Mere moments later, an alleluia chorus began to sing; a bright light poured through the bar door; and I looked up to see Amanda prancing in.  I swear I love that girl, but I had never been so glad to see her in my entire life.

Though we immediately relocated to the other side of the bar, the Tweedles (Drunk and Dumb) were miraculously able to transcend their intoxication and hone in on our coordinates.  Amanda (a little more vocal than I) asked them to give us some space.  When that didn’t happen…

“Al, maybe we should go check out Handshakes.”

“Handshakes!  Grea, we’ll definnnnitely go wit yous!”  chimed Tweedle Drunk.       

Sad but true, we were in a classic trap:  Two young women trying not to start a problem, and two inebriated men with no concept of their own creep factor.  

Unfortunately, most women will find themselves in this situation at least once in their lives.  

Amanda retreated to the bathroom while I remained to watch our drinks and guard our bags.  Just when I thought staying behind was the wrong choice, a familiar man walked into the bar.  He was tall, and strutted with some authority; his big brown eyes surveying the scene.  Instinctively, I scooted closer. 

I breathed a sigh of relief when we struck up a light conversation---perhaps now the Tweedles would mosey on.  

But just then…

“Hello my friend!” Amanda greeted, returning from the powder room. 

“We know him?!”  I thought. “Even better!” 

At that moment, I remembered who this person was.  This was Airforce Guy…a military man whom Amanda had dated a few months before.  I heard stories of their intrigues and though I wasn’t sure how I felt about them as a couple---I knew I was okay with him standing between us and Deliverance.    

We’re safe! I thought.  A military guy who has loyalty to Amanda will surely be able to intimidate these hicks.  But like most things in my awkward life---it couldn't be that simple.

To Be Continued…

RED FLAGS

Summer has officially arrived, readers… and nothing rings in the season better than a New England Clambake!  This past weekend my dear friend Karen graciously hosted a smorgasbord of epic proportions.  She and her boyfriend literally prepared 30 pounds of muscles, 20 pounds of potatoes, hamburgers, hotdogs, lobster tails and some side dishes […in case we got puckish.]  For dessert we had cookies and pies of all assortments...  And fret not; we had plenty to wash it down with!

Before the gluttony commenced however, Karen informed me that there was someone I should meet. 

“He’s an AMAZING musician, Al… seriously I think you guys would click.”

Grumble-Grumble-Grumble-and-other-I-don’t-want-to-be-set-up-sounds

“NOT LIKE THAT!” she assured me, “I just think you would make some good music together, that’s all.”

Sure, Sure I thought.  I could feel the cynicism coursing through my veins.  I just wanted to eat and drink and visit with old friends…NOT be bothered with impressing a total stranger. 

Well…that was until I saw him.

Tall, broad and handsome:  in walked Music Man clutching a guitar.

By now I’m sure you’ve realized what a sucker I am for the artistically inclined.  The talent, confidence and subtle [I’m-a-mess-but-don’t-worry-I’ll-just-write-a-song-about-it] mystique seem to draw me in like a masochistic moth to the flame.  All in all however, I was resisting the weakness in my knees.  Sure he was cute and sweet and funny and friendly and we sounded really good together… but c’mon… I wasn’t sold.

“So who’s your favorite singer?” he asked.

“Gotta be Sarah Vaughan” I answered, anticipating the normal I don’t know who that is reaction.

“Oh my God, she’s amazing isn’t she??” he shot back.

TIMBER!!!

Before I knew it, it was 5 AM and we were still talking.  At this point, I was about ready to buy that moth a fire-proof vest and be done with it.  But suddenly, all I could think about was HOW MUCH he reminded me of my most recent ex.

My most recent ex is a talented musician in a newly disbanded group.  It was a big love filled with laughter and compatibility, but we were ultimately doomed by the emotional issues at play.  That double-edged sword of creativity had beheaded us… and for the first time all evening I was able to see the striking parallel.

Of course, you wouldn’t know it by Nice Alex!  She breezed right in and chalked this red flag up to fearful nonsense.  “This man DESERVES a chance” she asserted.  "He's not your ex and he has nothing to do with him."

Am I excited to have met someone with SO much potential?  Of course!  But still, in my gut I wonder “How serious is a red flag?”  

AND SO, I WRITE...

Obviously, someone has declared this the week of cyber incrimination.  It’s true! Over the past seven days, we were all inundated with tales of "abducted" bloggers, backfiring Facebook traps and yes… even Weiners.  In the face of all this stupidity, it’s difficult not to judge.  “How could she have fallen for that?” we wonder.  “How could he have been so dumb?” we ask.  “How can I be such a hypocrite?!” I quake.

For those of you playing catch-up, allow me to rewind.

On the last episode of “Alex is a Train-Wreck,” we bid farewell to a semi-beloved character---Mr. Wonderful.  Seemingly compatible he was, but ultimately on a much different track than your protagonist:  I asked him to slow down and he didn’t.  While he was anxious to speed the dating process (among other things), I was tapping the breaks.  Unfortunately, the result was a slight emotional collision. 

As I always do, I sat down to blog of my adventure; only this time, I was met with a very alarming comment:

“You do realize that your date has probably Googled you by now and is reading all your blog posts, right?”

Naturally, this has been a concern from the beginning.  However I thought with the right amount of poise and tact, I could somehow express my sarcastic views without crushing anyone.

Hopeful?

Positive?

Inspiring?

Yeah… you’re right:  Naive. 

By now, Nice Alex was paranoid with worry.  “What if this anonymous blogger is Mr. Wonderful himself---disapproving incognito?” Though it was unlikely, it was possible---and it paralyzed me with Single Girl Guilt.  “Oh no!” thought Nice Alex, “now what?”

This blog brings me (and hopefully you) so much pleasure.  While it seems to have opened a dialog for other cynical daters, it simultaneously allows me to selfishly connect my own dots.  However, I am now faced with a very serious question:  Can an earnest search for love ever be conducted in the public eye?  Or, like Congressman Weiner, will my “over-exposure” eventually lead to an impromptu resignation?

Plagued by these questions, I went upstate for a family gathering.   The festivities eventually led us to a rinky-dink bar for some live music and drinks.  As the cute bartender mixed my usual vodka cranberry, he struck up a friendly conversation.  We exchanged names and basic information.

“What did you study in school?” he asked.

“English and Mass Communications.”

“English and Mass Communications.” He repeated, trailing off.

“Yeah… I guess I wanted to be a writer or something,” I said smiling.

“How’s that working for you?”

“I’m in finance.” I chuckled, raising my glass.

Laughing with me, he asked “So do you write at all?”

I had a choice.  I could allow this cute bartender to think I was just a girl who drank vodka cranberries, and lived in Westchester, and visited my family upstate on weekends, and worked in finance, and who maybe once wrote poetry…

or…

“Yes, actually---I write a blog.”

After explaining a little bit more, I rejoined my family for a couple tunes.  I left prematurely to get a little sleep; and when the cute bartender didn’t ask for my number, I knew---the blog was too threatening.  Though it pained me to consider it, perhaps The LABOR of LOVE would simply have to go.

…

You have one message

“Hey Sissy!  Just wanna make sure you’re okay, give us a call when you get home.  Also… after you left that bartender guy followed us into the parking lot and asked us to give you his number.  He’s kinda cute, Ali… just sayin’!  Alright talk to you soon!!”

And so… I write.

THE PRINCESS AND THE P(AST)

The other night, I had a dream fit for a Disney film!  My vision told the story of a petite, slightly awkward princess living in an enchanted land.  Each day, a Wonderful man would stand at the foot of her palace gate and call upon her.  He showered her with lovely gifts and charming compliments, until one day the young princess was coaxed from her castle.  From that day forward, the two took long walks along the water and talked of beautiful things. 

One day, the Wonderful man boldly invited the young princess to his garden.

 “It’s beautiful,” he bragged, “a garden fit for a Queen!” 

But the shy princess declined, insisting it was much too soon to see his land.  The next day the Wonderful man tried again. 

“Please princess,” he implored.  “The fruit is so beautiful and the flowers, so fragrant.  I know you will love it.”

But the princess simply shook her head saying “In time dear sir, in time.” 

Upon the Wonderful man’s third invitation, the princess could sense a desperation in his voice.  “Please!” he asked again.  “You have many royal things to do my beauty, but my heart will soar if only you’d take a peek.” Finally, she agreed.

They walked and walked until they reached his garden wall. 

“Close your eyes” whispered the Wonderful man as he led her by the hand. 

Ten steps later, he allowed her to view his craftsmanship.  She slowly opened her eyes, anticipating a breathtaking site.  But much to the princess’ horror, the Wonderful man’s garden was not at all how he described!  It was overgrown and unkempt; displeasing to the senses and generally frightening.  When he tried to draw her near, the princess simply turned and ran.

***

In a cold sweat, I woke up.  What did this dream mean?  I immediately scoured the memory of my last date with Mr. Wonderful for clues.

It’s true---our rhythm was different.  There was something off, something strange:  Redundant conversation, small talk about the weather; and multiple PDA attempts to fill the gaps in conversation.  It was odd and slightly discouraging, but I clung to the hope that it was just a fluke.  So, chalking it up to nerves, I agreed to a post-dinner stroll.

When the situation still proved to be…hairy…I decided I had to say something.         

“You told your mother you met someone special?” I asked, attempting to clarify what I’d just heard.

“Well I have!” he said, smiling.

“Okay… I have to get something off my chest” I began, gazing into his big, worried eyes.  “Look, I like you.  We have a lot in common and you seem really sweet.  The thing is…I’ve been through some change this year, and I really need to trim this back... you know… take things a little slower.”

“Oh.”  He replied.

Fully recovered from her coma, Nice Alex arose to whack me repeatedly over the head with a rolled up newspaper.  "All this poor boy did was like you and now you’re criticizing his pace?!" She cried.  But I could only think of Carrie Bradshaw as she told Aiden (the most perfect man ever written) that he was suffocating her with his eagerness and certainty.  Rationally, Aiden was everything Carrie wanted and needed, yet emotionally, she sensed it simply wasn’t right.

Now---it’s easy to rationalize when you have a team of writers sitting around a table, concocting your Mr. Big; but like Carrie, I struggle with the question:  How do you know when it’s right?  Is commonality and comfort a sign of compatibility, or is it a sign that your counterpart isn’t challenging you enough?  Is fear an indication that it’s not working---or is it the past coming to scare you away from something real?

I’ve not yet decided how I’ll handle Mr. Wonderful, as I don't believe he is truly capable of taking a step back at this point... but the question is daunting:  Did the petite, awkward princess run because she was afraid of her past---or because she saw too much too soon?

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”