Make Up
When a man with whom you are in love comes to you, at long last, with an open heart and asks you take a leap of faith, what do you do? Do you hesitate, doubting, questioning, fearful of being hurt again? Do you take the leap and never think twice? Or something in between? If you're me you close your eyes, cross your fingers, kiss him, and jump. You make up, and make love, and hope for the best. After proceeding with cautious optimism for a probably-not-long-enough amount of time, you may find yourself driving one day, as I did yesterday, smiling harder than you have in recent memory. You just may catch yourself thinking, "This might be really real this time. This time, it really might be."
Makeup
What is it about a man looking at you with desire and saying, "You don't need any makeup," that makes it the greatest compliment on the face of the planet? Sitting in the passenger seat of his car, bare cheeks illuminated by the lit up dashboard instruments, he kisses you goodnight and you feel beautiful - without having taken any steps to look especially beautiful. The ability to be comfortable in your own skin, imperfect as it invariably is, is a rare commodity in a romantic relationship. It was the nicest thing a man has said to me in a very long time. Because it was genuine.
Can't Make It Up
The journey that has brought me to this point has been difficult. Back and forth and up and down and full of laughter and tears. I know that any number of things could go wrong -- including things I have had some indication of already, and those things which will inevitably come as a surprise. But I'll never know how the story ends until I actually let it begin. I can't make it up, I just have to live it.
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
As It Turns Out, I’m An Asshole
Today I realized that I’m a world class asshole.
Exhibit A: I am still completely undone with love for a man
who absolutely does not love me back, and was, by any reasonable person’s
standards, kind of a dick to me while we were together. If he showed up on my doorstep tomorrow and sincerely apologized I'd forgive him instantly, like an idiot. After things ended in a remarkably predictable
fashion – e.g. me with a broken heart, just pining away – I now have the nerve to
be sad about it! And wallow! And fret! And complain
and whine incessantly to my beloved
friends who are without a doubt sick-to-death of hearing about it at this point. And keep myself up nights listening to every song ever made that makes me think of him! And make a batch of Rice Krispie Treats and eat nearly all of them in a day! And get drunk and fall down stairs! And screw anyone I want and everyone I shouldn't! And
all of this for an unjustifiably long period of time, relative to the length of
the actual relationship!
See? Asshole.
Exhibit B: I am utterly incapable of being attracted to any
man who might actually be (gasp!) appropriate for me. Emotionally available?
Bor-ing! Got a good job? Not interested! Well educated and intelligent? No
thank you! Financially responsible? Move along! Funny, tall, charming, and clearly
into me? Who wants to be bothered with THAT!? Not me! No, instead of giving
weight to important things that actually matter, I prefer to be a snarky,
judgmental bitch that gets annoyed because you left my half and half out,
causing it to spoil and me to spend an unnecessary $1.59 to replace it. Or
irritated because you’d rather not get
your shoes dirty, like a pussy. Or because that one time you looked at me when
you didn’t have your glasses on your eyes kind of crossed and that was
suuuuper weird. Or because you, like 80% of all people on the planet, are physically incapable of loading the dishwasher in a not-retarded way. I
mean, WTF? It is not rocket science. No, I will invariably choose to ignore any
large, waving red flags that warn of potentially major pitfalls in the course
ahead (Unemployed? Never finished college? Habitual adulterer? Near-hoarder? All-out liar? No biggie!); but a little pebble in the road and HOLD THE PHONE! I’m outta here!
See! Ass. Hole!
Exhibit C: If you’re in love right now, I fucking hate you.
Even if I absolutely love you, I still fucking hate you. I hate that you and
your partner get to go grocery shopping together. And make dinner together. And
have fights about how much you’re spending on groceries. And do laundry for
each other. And help pick out the best jeans for your butt. And see each other’s
emergency underwear on those days when it’s been too long since you last did
laundry together. And go on vacation together. And sit at home and read the
paper together. And sleep on each other’s shoulders. And oh just fuck you.
See?! I can say that because I am an ASSHOLE!
Exhibit D: I’ve used like twenty exclamation points in this
blog post so far. And you know who abuses their punctuation rights like that?
Yep! Assholes!
If the first step to recovery is admitting the problem, then
I guess I’ve taken an important step by admitting my assholeishness to the
world. Funny how that doesn’t really make me feel any better. Maybe it needs to be more formal.
"Hi. My name is Maria and I am an asshole."
Nope, still don't feel any better.
Someone give me a fucking Rice Krispie treat.
Monday, October 24, 2011
See Hear Taste Smell Touch Memory
Tonight I cut up the last tomato from my garden into fat slices, sprinkled them with seasoned salt, and ate them while leaning against the kitchen counter. I ate slowly, thinking of the time it took for the fruit to perfectly ripen on the vine outside my bedroom window, watching water drip from the glasses in my dish rack, and thinking of my father.
My father was the first person to introduce me to this method of eating a tomato. I think I may have been ten years old, or perhaps twelve. Dad had taken little brother and I to Kensington Metro Park for the day to fish and have fun. There must have been other food -- burgers grilled to Dad's degree of extreme well-doneness in all likelihood -- but whatever else we ate that day is fully eclipsed by the memory of those tomatoes.
He cut them up with his sharp, clean fillet knife and pulled out the Lawry's salt. Although I can't remember what his exact words were, I can hear his voice clearly, saying something like, "Now, have you ever tried tomatoes this way?" Little brother and I shook our heads, No, reveling in this rare summer quality time with Dad, watching as he deliberately and demonstratively sprinkled exactly the right amount of red and orange salt onto the open flesh of the tomatoes. He knew we'd want to remember the steps in order to recreate them some day. Little brother and I ate the sweet and salty fruit, licking the salt and pink juice from our lips, laughing with our father in the Michigan summer sunlight.
Almost every time I eat a tomato with seasoned salt I remember that moment. Everything about the salty slices, from their appearance to the way they feel on my tongue, conjures up that first experience. I have an arsenal of memories like this. Memories that come to me forcefully when I see, hear, taste, smell or touch something. Tonight's tomato reverie was a most welcome surprise.
Lately most of the deep memories are of a man who could not love me, no matter how hard he tried. Some memories are distant, from fourteen years ago; some are closer, from four months ago. There are those that creep up on me, and there are those that arrive suddenly, disruptive and uninvited. It is always a strange, haunted ache that I am left with. I look forward to the day when the ache is surpassed by peaceful acceptance; but in the meantime, while I'm waiting for time to do what only it can, I'll take comfort in the memory of tomatoes.
My father was the first person to introduce me to this method of eating a tomato. I think I may have been ten years old, or perhaps twelve. Dad had taken little brother and I to Kensington Metro Park for the day to fish and have fun. There must have been other food -- burgers grilled to Dad's degree of extreme well-doneness in all likelihood -- but whatever else we ate that day is fully eclipsed by the memory of those tomatoes.
He cut them up with his sharp, clean fillet knife and pulled out the Lawry's salt. Although I can't remember what his exact words were, I can hear his voice clearly, saying something like, "Now, have you ever tried tomatoes this way?" Little brother and I shook our heads, No, reveling in this rare summer quality time with Dad, watching as he deliberately and demonstratively sprinkled exactly the right amount of red and orange salt onto the open flesh of the tomatoes. He knew we'd want to remember the steps in order to recreate them some day. Little brother and I ate the sweet and salty fruit, licking the salt and pink juice from our lips, laughing with our father in the Michigan summer sunlight.
Almost every time I eat a tomato with seasoned salt I remember that moment. Everything about the salty slices, from their appearance to the way they feel on my tongue, conjures up that first experience. I have an arsenal of memories like this. Memories that come to me forcefully when I see, hear, taste, smell or touch something. Tonight's tomato reverie was a most welcome surprise.
Lately most of the deep memories are of a man who could not love me, no matter how hard he tried. Some memories are distant, from fourteen years ago; some are closer, from four months ago. There are those that creep up on me, and there are those that arrive suddenly, disruptive and uninvited. It is always a strange, haunted ache that I am left with. I look forward to the day when the ache is surpassed by peaceful acceptance; but in the meantime, while I'm waiting for time to do what only it can, I'll take comfort in the memory of tomatoes.
Monday, October 10, 2011
I Better Be Quiet Now
Wish you gave me your number,
Wish I could call you today,
Just to hear a voice.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
If I didn't know the difference
Living alone would probably be ok.
It wouldn't be lonely.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
A lot of hours to occupy,
It was easy when I didn't know you yet.
Things I have to forget.
But I better be quiet now,
I'm tired of wasting my breath
Carrying on and getting upset.
Maybe I have a problem,
But that's not what I wanted to say.
I'd prefer to say nothing.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
Had a dream as an army man with an order just to march in my place,
While a dead enemy screams in my face.
But I better be quiet now,
I'm tired of wasting my breath
Carrying on, not over it yet.
Wish I knew what you're doing,
And why you want to do it this way, so I can't go the distance.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
Wish I could call you today,
Just to hear a voice.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
If I didn't know the difference
Living alone would probably be ok.
It wouldn't be lonely.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
A lot of hours to occupy,
It was easy when I didn't know you yet.
Things I have to forget.
But I better be quiet now,
I'm tired of wasting my breath
Carrying on and getting upset.
Maybe I have a problem,
But that's not what I wanted to say.
I'd prefer to say nothing.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
Had a dream as an army man with an order just to march in my place,
While a dead enemy screams in my face.
But I better be quiet now,
I'm tired of wasting my breath
Carrying on, not over it yet.
Wish I knew what you're doing,
And why you want to do it this way, so I can't go the distance.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
I got a long way to go,
I'm getting further away.
Monday, August 01, 2011
Falling Down
Last night I got drunk with my roommate. This morning I woke up with bruises and an OK Cupid profile that had type-o’s in it. The bruises are from falling on some stairs at a bar (no one saw me fall though – which raises the question, if a drunk girl falls down a flight of stairs and no one sees it, did it actually happen?); the online dating profile rife with misspellings is from the broken heart. Between the drunkenness, the fall, the participation in e-dating (that I think is stupid!), and the type-o’s, I am most embarrassed by the type-o’s. I mean, Jesus Christ!
On Friday I lied out loud to my roommate by saying, “You know, I think I’m almost done being sad about loving a man who didn’t even deserve the affection in the first place.” I believe that is what we call ‘wishful thinking.’ Who do I think I’m kidding? I’m still sad. I’m still really, fucking sad.
This is the part where I get angry.
I am mad at him for not knowing himself well enough to know that he is in love with another woman. A fact which has been so abundantly obvious to me that it still blisters my eyes to think about it. My gut instinct whispered to me at every turn, He is still in love with her. And yet he couldn’t just say it. He couldn’t just say to me, “Maria, I am sorry but I am in love with her.” This makes me the stupid, stubborn, brokenhearted fool.
I am mad at him for calling me after a month of us not speaking to tell me that he missed me and wanted us to try to be together. I am mad at him for telling me that he was absofuckinglutely sure when I asked him if I was what he really wanted. I am mad at him for opening the door and then not actually having any room for me in his life, emotionally or physically. Most of the time there wasn’t even a place for me to sit down at his house. Except his bed. Of course.
My brother was right when he said, “Maria, he used you for sex.” Ouch. But true.
Paul was right when he hugged me as I cried and trembled and tried to dish up a dinner plate, he said, “Maria, you deserve so much better.” Ouch. But true.
Adam was right when he said, “Maria, if he doesn’t know his own heart well enough to take care of it, how could he ever take care of yours?” Ouch. But true.
James was right (three months ago!) when he said, “Maria, you are reaching for him and he’d be settling for you if he really feels that way.” Ouch. But true.
Maybe Hassan was right when he said, “Fucking asshole.” Ouch. But true? I hope not.
This is the part where I get sad.
Everything reminds me of him. Bicycles. Firemen. Fire engines. Zombies. Michael Jackson. German shepherds. Cats. The exit for Linwood on the Lodge. Vegetarian cooking. Hyperballad. Soccer. Elbow. Fish tacos. The word, “integrity.” Jack Burton. The Hobbit. Tall men. His name. Everything. Annoying.
The break-up conversation started with a funny story about his short-lived career as a Boy Scout. We were laughing, genuinely laughing together, just fifteen minutes before he was apologizing and I was crying. Boy Scouts will remind me of him for a long time to come.
The last time we ate dinner together we had tuna melts. He jokingly sang Simply Red to me across the dinner table because somehow he knows all of the words to every song ever written, even the ones he doesn’t like. I was laughing. His eyes were mischievous. Simply Red will remind me of him for a long time to come.
In fact, the list of music that will remind me of him is terrifyingly long. I might have to stick to classical and jazz for awhile. Except for John Coltrane. John Coltrane will just remind me of the night we sat on my couch after eating dinner and watching a movie, when we were trying to just be friends. And so we sat, I with my head on his shoulder, he with his arm around me, and did not speak for thirty minutes. He finally stirred to get up and “Blue Train” came on. Instead of saying goodbye he said softly to the top of my head, “Well one of my favorite songs is on now. I guess I’ll have to stay a few more minutes.” And we just listened. At the end of the song he went home.
This is the part where I get to feeling sorry for myself, but just for a moment.
The fact that I have, yet AGAIN, offered up on a platter my trust, my time, my affection, my body, and my love to a man who sampled it, almost consumed it entirely, only to say, “You know what, this is not what I wanted after all,” makes me feel foolish and small and quiet and skeptical and unsure and unattractive and undesirable and hopeless. But just for a moment.
Breaking up with a man I love is difficult. The fact that he never, in all the time we spent together, actually loved me back makes things harder still. Sara urges me to learn from this. I believe the lesson is to choose more carefully. Heart, did you hear that? Choose more carefully. Or else there may be nothing left by the time the right person shows up.
On Friday I lied out loud to my roommate by saying, “You know, I think I’m almost done being sad about loving a man who didn’t even deserve the affection in the first place.” I believe that is what we call ‘wishful thinking.’ Who do I think I’m kidding? I’m still sad. I’m still really, fucking sad.
This is the part where I get angry.
I am mad at him for not knowing himself well enough to know that he is in love with another woman. A fact which has been so abundantly obvious to me that it still blisters my eyes to think about it. My gut instinct whispered to me at every turn, He is still in love with her. And yet he couldn’t just say it. He couldn’t just say to me, “Maria, I am sorry but I am in love with her.” This makes me the stupid, stubborn, brokenhearted fool.
I am mad at him for calling me after a month of us not speaking to tell me that he missed me and wanted us to try to be together. I am mad at him for telling me that he was absofuckinglutely sure when I asked him if I was what he really wanted. I am mad at him for opening the door and then not actually having any room for me in his life, emotionally or physically. Most of the time there wasn’t even a place for me to sit down at his house. Except his bed. Of course.
My brother was right when he said, “Maria, he used you for sex.” Ouch. But true.
Paul was right when he hugged me as I cried and trembled and tried to dish up a dinner plate, he said, “Maria, you deserve so much better.” Ouch. But true.
Adam was right when he said, “Maria, if he doesn’t know his own heart well enough to take care of it, how could he ever take care of yours?” Ouch. But true.
James was right (three months ago!) when he said, “Maria, you are reaching for him and he’d be settling for you if he really feels that way.” Ouch. But true.
Maybe Hassan was right when he said, “Fucking asshole.” Ouch. But true? I hope not.
This is the part where I get sad.
Everything reminds me of him. Bicycles. Firemen. Fire engines. Zombies. Michael Jackson. German shepherds. Cats. The exit for Linwood on the Lodge. Vegetarian cooking. Hyperballad. Soccer. Elbow. Fish tacos. The word, “integrity.” Jack Burton. The Hobbit. Tall men. His name. Everything. Annoying.
The break-up conversation started with a funny story about his short-lived career as a Boy Scout. We were laughing, genuinely laughing together, just fifteen minutes before he was apologizing and I was crying. Boy Scouts will remind me of him for a long time to come.
The last time we ate dinner together we had tuna melts. He jokingly sang Simply Red to me across the dinner table because somehow he knows all of the words to every song ever written, even the ones he doesn’t like. I was laughing. His eyes were mischievous. Simply Red will remind me of him for a long time to come.
In fact, the list of music that will remind me of him is terrifyingly long. I might have to stick to classical and jazz for awhile. Except for John Coltrane. John Coltrane will just remind me of the night we sat on my couch after eating dinner and watching a movie, when we were trying to just be friends. And so we sat, I with my head on his shoulder, he with his arm around me, and did not speak for thirty minutes. He finally stirred to get up and “Blue Train” came on. Instead of saying goodbye he said softly to the top of my head, “Well one of my favorite songs is on now. I guess I’ll have to stay a few more minutes.” And we just listened. At the end of the song he went home.
This is the part where I get to feeling sorry for myself, but just for a moment.
The fact that I have, yet AGAIN, offered up on a platter my trust, my time, my affection, my body, and my love to a man who sampled it, almost consumed it entirely, only to say, “You know what, this is not what I wanted after all,” makes me feel foolish and small and quiet and skeptical and unsure and unattractive and undesirable and hopeless. But just for a moment.
Breaking up with a man I love is difficult. The fact that he never, in all the time we spent together, actually loved me back makes things harder still. Sara urges me to learn from this. I believe the lesson is to choose more carefully. Heart, did you hear that? Choose more carefully. Or else there may be nothing left by the time the right person shows up.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
What Wasted Unconditional Love...
What you did to me made me
See myself something different.
Though I try to talk sense to myself
But I just won't listen.
Won't you go away,
Turn yourself in
You're no good at confession.
Before the image that you burned me in
Tries to teach you a lesson.
What you did to me made me see myself somethin' awful.
A voice once stentorian is now again meek and muffled.
It took me such a long time to get back up the first time you did it.
I spent all I had to get it back, and now it seems I've been outbidded.
My peace and quiet was stolen from me.
When I was looking with calm affection,
You were searching out my imperfections.
What wasted unconditional love!
On somebody...
Who doesn't believe in the stuff.
You came upon me like a hypnic jerk
When I was just about settled.
And when it counts you recoil
With a cryptic word and leave a love belittled.
Oh what a cold and common old way to go.
I was feeding on the need for you to know me
Devastated at the rate you fell below me.
What wasted unconditional love!
On somebody...
Who doesn't believe in the stuff.
Oh, well.
Saturday, July 09, 2011
Prince.
I honestly don't know why I ever bothered dating men who don't like Prince. Having learned the error of my ways, I will be sure to *never* repeat my past mistakes. Seriously. So amazing.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Baby You Can Drive My Car
I’ve decided to perform an experiment for the month of June. No, it does not involve beakers or Bunsen burners, but rather bicycles and buses. Oh. And my weird feet, of course. From June 1-30, 2011, I will park my car and use alternate forms of transportation in order to get where I need to go. Instead of driving, I will take the bus, walk, or ride my bicycle.
I am allowed to beg for a ride somewhere twice, once from my mom, and once from a friend. I’m only allowed to catch a ride with someone if they are going to the same place that I am, and if they don’t have to go more than one mile out of their way to pick me up.
I’ve given myself three outs for using my car, which is currently parked on the street in front of my house:
- In the event of an absolute *emergency* – someone’s in the hospital or stranded on the freeway
- If it is going to be inordinately dangerous; for example, if I have to go somewhere alone and will be coming back too late at night or have to transfer buses in an unsafe neighborhood
- If it is going to jeopardize my job in any way because I’m unable to get where I need to be when I need to be there
I think these are reasonable exceptions and I’m interested to see how often I’ll need to use them. I’m also interested to see how many times I flake out and use my car just because it’s too much of a pain in the ass not to.
I started thinking about this when I moved at the end of March. I lived in my little apartment for a year, just one year, and managed to acquire a shocking amount of stuff. I’d go to Bed, Bath and Beyond for a shower gift and come home with a cake stand (only $10!), and an extra laundry basket ($2!!), and who knows what else. I’d go to the grocery store and buy every beautiful vegetable in sight and end up throwing far too many of them in the trash because I couldn’t eat them all before they spoiled. It was easy to acquire stuff because I didn't have to think about how to transport it, I could just toss it in the back of my car and presto! I started to wonder, what if I actually had to carry all that crap I consumed, in my arms, all the way home from the store?
I'd have a lot less shit in my basement.
One day my friend Sara and I began discussing what it would take to go completely without a car in metro Detroit.
Me: “It’d be hard. Especially in February.”
Her: “If you’re seriously considering it you need to try it for a month in the summer and a month in the winter, to see if it’s even possible.”
This was, of course, a brilliant idea. (I really love having brilliant friends, but that's beside the point, back to my experiment.) I knew she was right. If I was serious I was going to have to commit to a serious test.
So this is my summer test drive. Or rather, my summer test walk. Twelve days in to my little transportation experiment I’ll say that it’s been… interesting. Easy at times, difficult at others. Sometimes relaxing, sometimes stressful. I’m tracking all of my miles and the method of travel. I’m taking notes and making observations. I keep reminding myself that if I could manage to go without my car it would save me $350/month.
We’ll see where I land in another 18 days. Wish me luck.
Friday, April 01, 2011
Smithereens
Fall in love with a dear friend who is in love with someone else. This is an excellent test of your mettle; that is, if you can avoid getting your heart smashed to smithereens.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Things At Which I Am Just No Good
- Exercising self-restraint
- Masking my feelings
- Exercising on a regular basis
- Giving up caffeine
- Taking my thyroid medication
- Folding my clean laundry in a timely fashion
- Putting my foot down
- Making pie crusts
- Meeting deadlines
- Holding back tears
- Being quiet
- Taking quick showers
- Finishing my book club books
- Listening to music at low volumes
- Biting my tongue
- Keeping secrets
Friday, February 25, 2011
Don't Look Now
It has been a very long time since a man touched me with love on his fingertips. I’m not sure I remember the feeling.
Confession: I spent most of 2010 making love to a man who was not making love to me in return. Oh the physical act was there, and at times I could swear I’d see a flicker of love in his eyes, but that was just my confusion of sexual tenderness for love. I am easily confused.
Somehow when a lover hurts my feelings it’s like I can feel every past hurt from every past lover rush back to me all at once. And the twinge in my heart is so great that tears bloom in my eyes.
Suddenly I am sitting in my bedroom, talking on the telephone. My grandmother has just died and I’m saying, “I just need you to come over and hold me.” Mark refuses to come. And he does not understand. I am crying.
Suddenly I am driving my car in Ann Arbor with a dark haired man in the passenger seat. The windows are down and we are listening to Pearl Jam. I am laughing when I turn toward him and finally notice the marks on his neck that were not made by me. I’m hitting the brakes while trying not to hit him in the face. I’m kicking Chris out of my car miles from his house. I am crying.
Suddenly I am looking at my checking account balance wondering why his check for half the rent bounced. I am sitting in an airport listening to him explain that he doesn’t have the money he promised he’d save for our vacation mere hours before we are supposed to leave. I’m talking to his sister realizing the computer he “sold for $40” was actually sold for four hundred dollars. Another lie. About money. Again. And I am crying. I am crying. I am crying myself to sleep on the couch while Shaun sleeps peacefully in our bed.
Suddenly I am waking up in bed next to him, his long arms and legs wrapped around me, keeping me warm. I am coasting down a hill behind him on my bicycle, wind and happiness on my cheeks on a hot summer day. I am closing my eyes as he kisses me, knowing that he is a man who will never lie to me. I am sitting in a dark movie theater listening to the sound of our laughter rise up toward the ceiling. I am watching him fidget with his keys while he talks about movies with the video store clerk, knowing we won't actually watch the one we are renting. I am chopping peppers, listening to music he gave to me, music that I love, music that he knew I’d love. I'm on a rooftop in Nashville, at a wedding on my birthday, hoping that he will call me to wish me a happy one. I am standing at the foot of his bed as Mike says to me, “Don’t fall in love with me.”
I am lying when I respond, “I won’t.”
I am lying.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Dating 2.0
Everyone seems to be online dating. I’m not sure I understand this. This means that on any given day, at any given time, with any given person you meet, there could be multiple online versions of their personality floating around in cyberspace. Their Facebook self, their Match.com self, their OKCupid self. All these virtual renderings consist of carefully edited lists of the books and movies and music that they like, what their ideal first date would be, how much money they make, how they feel about God, their level of education, if they’re ‘fit’ or if they have ‘a little extra’, and blah blah blah.
Then there are the even more carefully selected photos. The perfect angle, the perfect lighting, the perfect composition that says, “Hey, I’m attractive, I could be your soul mate, I’m probably fantastic in bed, I don’t take myself too seriously, and I happen to like all the same crap that you do! Message me!” Is this really how people meet nowadays?
There are so many sites to choose from that even the platform you select seems to say something about you. Do you use a free site or do you actually pay for this garbage? (No judgment.) Do you use a site that only makes heterosexual matches, or do you intentionally use Chemistry.com because they accept everyone, and you’re an open-minded person?
And let’s not forget the corresponding smart phone apps for each site so that you can always be connected. Check your matches while waiting in line at the bank! While riding in the elevator! While waiting for your food at a restaurant! What happened to looking around while waiting in line at the bank, on the elevator, or at the restaurant because there might be a hot girl or guy right behind you – you know, in the flesh! Gasp! I’ve witnessed people checking their matches while out at the bar, or at a party, or in line at the bank. What if you miss your next great date (or relationship) because while you were busy fiddling with your phone, your life was busy passing you by?
Online dating is a steaming pile of dogshit. Of all the wonderful couples that I am blessed to know and love, and there are a lot, there is only one – ONE! – who met online. They are the exception-turned-urban legend whose story people tell to their lonely friends and relatives to convince them to try online dating. To be fair, their story is beautiful, as are all stories of true love. They fell in love, moved across states to be closer to one another, and eventually got married. I believe they’ll have a strong, lasting marriage. Not that marriage is everyone’s goal, I certainly don’t need a relationship to lead to marriage to consider it successful….
But where was I? Oh yeah, at the giant steaming pile of dogshit. Here’s why: at the end of the day, after all your lists of music and books and movies have been compared and evaluated, and you’ve ascertained the person’s views on God and education and the death penalty, it doesn’t really matter. None of it really matters because it is totally impossible to account for the miracle of human chemistry in an online setting. Without chemistry on every level – intellectual, emotional, physical – you cannot have a relationship. Without at least a little chemistry on every one of those levels I can’t even have good sex. Chemistry doesn’t mean that two people like all of the same things. In fact, that’s boring. Chemistry is the spark, the intrigue, the passion. It’s what pulls two people together, even in the most unlikely settings and circumstances. And although I can’t define it concretely or draw you a diagram, I know it when I feel it. Like every person on the planet.
Today, right now, in the year of our Lord two thousand and ten, there are no more people going on first dates, getting into relationships, or getting married than there were in 1985, before online dating existed. Online dating doesn’t increase your chance of meeting someone with whom you’ll spark, so here’s the question: why do it? Why do it?? Has the Internet revolution so stunted our social skills that we don’t know how to meet people in person anymore? Ladies, are we too lazy to do our makeup and go to the bar (or grocery store, or bank, or elevator) and make eye contact and flirt? Guys, is shaving and throwing on a clean shirt really so difficult that you’d prefer to sit in your room, glued to your computer monitor, scouring the Interwebs for the next love of your life? I realize that prior to this past year, I was single for a period of only two months in between a two year and a five year relationship, so I don’t have a lot of experience dating in any format in the past decade, but has the game changed so much? Is this Dating 2.0?
If it is then I’m screwed. My palms start to sweat just thinking about this possibility. I signed up for a free online dating site for a period of about three weeks several months ago. It was, as expected, just enough time to get creepy messages from all manner of creepy, socially awkward weirdos (including a man with creepy horns implanted on his head, creepy caps on his teeth that looked like fangs, and a giant tattoo of a creepy lizard/dragon across his creepy chest), and go on two blah dates. Single guys, I beg you, put down your smart phones! Log off of your Match.com profile! Come to the bar! Go to the bank tomorrow! Open your eyes! There are wonderful single women all around you. Including me. I’d love to go on a second date. (You know, a second date? That’s the one that comes after a good first date? It’s OK, I understand, you haven’t been on one of those in a while.)
The truth is that I’m a snob. I don’t want to meet someone online. Does this make me a non-line dater? Some friends tell me that the medium shouldn’t matter, if I want to meet someone I shouldn’t discriminate, I shouldn’t judge. But I don’t want to meet someone, I want to meet one very special person. And I don’t want to meet him online. I’d rather meet him in a bookstore, or at a stoplight, or in an elevator, or at the bar, and I’m perfectly happy waiting for him for as long as it takes. Whatever he’s doing is just exactly what he has to be doing in order to meet me at just exactly the right time. And honestly, if he misses the bus and never shows up and I’m on my own for the rest of my life? Why exactly would that be a terrible tragedy? I will certainly be in no short supply of love and companionship because I have incredible friends and an amazing family. And, having narrowly escaped what certainly would have ended up as a failed marriage between two people utterly wrong for each other, being happy and alone is greatly preferable to being miserable with someone else.
In summation, to the pro-online daters out there who label me a cynic and a snob, I say (with the deepest love and affection), “Screw you.”
Now who’s coming to the bar with me?
Then there are the even more carefully selected photos. The perfect angle, the perfect lighting, the perfect composition that says, “Hey, I’m attractive, I could be your soul mate, I’m probably fantastic in bed, I don’t take myself too seriously, and I happen to like all the same crap that you do! Message me!” Is this really how people meet nowadays?
There are so many sites to choose from that even the platform you select seems to say something about you. Do you use a free site or do you actually pay for this garbage? (No judgment.) Do you use a site that only makes heterosexual matches, or do you intentionally use Chemistry.com because they accept everyone, and you’re an open-minded person?
And let’s not forget the corresponding smart phone apps for each site so that you can always be connected. Check your matches while waiting in line at the bank! While riding in the elevator! While waiting for your food at a restaurant! What happened to looking around while waiting in line at the bank, on the elevator, or at the restaurant because there might be a hot girl or guy right behind you – you know, in the flesh! Gasp! I’ve witnessed people checking their matches while out at the bar, or at a party, or in line at the bank. What if you miss your next great date (or relationship) because while you were busy fiddling with your phone, your life was busy passing you by?
Online dating is a steaming pile of dogshit. Of all the wonderful couples that I am blessed to know and love, and there are a lot, there is only one – ONE! – who met online. They are the exception-turned-urban legend whose story people tell to their lonely friends and relatives to convince them to try online dating. To be fair, their story is beautiful, as are all stories of true love. They fell in love, moved across states to be closer to one another, and eventually got married. I believe they’ll have a strong, lasting marriage. Not that marriage is everyone’s goal, I certainly don’t need a relationship to lead to marriage to consider it successful….
But where was I? Oh yeah, at the giant steaming pile of dogshit. Here’s why: at the end of the day, after all your lists of music and books and movies have been compared and evaluated, and you’ve ascertained the person’s views on God and education and the death penalty, it doesn’t really matter. None of it really matters because it is totally impossible to account for the miracle of human chemistry in an online setting. Without chemistry on every level – intellectual, emotional, physical – you cannot have a relationship. Without at least a little chemistry on every one of those levels I can’t even have good sex. Chemistry doesn’t mean that two people like all of the same things. In fact, that’s boring. Chemistry is the spark, the intrigue, the passion. It’s what pulls two people together, even in the most unlikely settings and circumstances. And although I can’t define it concretely or draw you a diagram, I know it when I feel it. Like every person on the planet.
Today, right now, in the year of our Lord two thousand and ten, there are no more people going on first dates, getting into relationships, or getting married than there were in 1985, before online dating existed. Online dating doesn’t increase your chance of meeting someone with whom you’ll spark, so here’s the question: why do it? Why do it?? Has the Internet revolution so stunted our social skills that we don’t know how to meet people in person anymore? Ladies, are we too lazy to do our makeup and go to the bar (or grocery store, or bank, or elevator) and make eye contact and flirt? Guys, is shaving and throwing on a clean shirt really so difficult that you’d prefer to sit in your room, glued to your computer monitor, scouring the Interwebs for the next love of your life? I realize that prior to this past year, I was single for a period of only two months in between a two year and a five year relationship, so I don’t have a lot of experience dating in any format in the past decade, but has the game changed so much? Is this Dating 2.0?
If it is then I’m screwed. My palms start to sweat just thinking about this possibility. I signed up for a free online dating site for a period of about three weeks several months ago. It was, as expected, just enough time to get creepy messages from all manner of creepy, socially awkward weirdos (including a man with creepy horns implanted on his head, creepy caps on his teeth that looked like fangs, and a giant tattoo of a creepy lizard/dragon across his creepy chest), and go on two blah dates. Single guys, I beg you, put down your smart phones! Log off of your Match.com profile! Come to the bar! Go to the bank tomorrow! Open your eyes! There are wonderful single women all around you. Including me. I’d love to go on a second date. (You know, a second date? That’s the one that comes after a good first date? It’s OK, I understand, you haven’t been on one of those in a while.)
The truth is that I’m a snob. I don’t want to meet someone online. Does this make me a non-line dater? Some friends tell me that the medium shouldn’t matter, if I want to meet someone I shouldn’t discriminate, I shouldn’t judge. But I don’t want to meet someone, I want to meet one very special person. And I don’t want to meet him online. I’d rather meet him in a bookstore, or at a stoplight, or in an elevator, or at the bar, and I’m perfectly happy waiting for him for as long as it takes. Whatever he’s doing is just exactly what he has to be doing in order to meet me at just exactly the right time. And honestly, if he misses the bus and never shows up and I’m on my own for the rest of my life? Why exactly would that be a terrible tragedy? I will certainly be in no short supply of love and companionship because I have incredible friends and an amazing family. And, having narrowly escaped what certainly would have ended up as a failed marriage between two people utterly wrong for each other, being happy and alone is greatly preferable to being miserable with someone else.
In summation, to the pro-online daters out there who label me a cynic and a snob, I say (with the deepest love and affection), “Screw you.”
Now who’s coming to the bar with me?
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Both Sides Now
by Joni Mitchell
Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way
But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away
I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day
I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way
But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away
I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day
I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
Monday, July 26, 2010
Love vs. Marriage
I’ve been to a few weddings now since The Great Breakup of 2009. At first I was afraid I’d never be able to go to a wedding again in my life, but somehow I am finding more and more comfort in each one I attend. There is something about watching two people who love and respect each other exchange vows of marriage that they actually mean that resonates in my lover’s heart, bruised as it still may be.
On Saturday one of my younger cousins got married. During the ceremony the pastor said something like, “Marriage is not only choosing the right partner, but also being the right partner.” Shaun and I never could have been the right partners for each other. I tried for so long to turn him into so many things that he is not. Shame on me for doing that to someone I loved. Shame on me for doing that to myself.
In the past six months I’ve started to realize that a wedding is not important to me. A marriage – in the traditional sense of the word – is also not important to me. I just want love. Love wins. I want a real man who will really love me who I can really love back. I expect finding such a relationship to be one of the greatest challenges of my life. I plan to be exceptionally picky this time around. No settling. I want what I deserve.
On Saturday one of my younger cousins got married. During the ceremony the pastor said something like, “Marriage is not only choosing the right partner, but also being the right partner.” Shaun and I never could have been the right partners for each other. I tried for so long to turn him into so many things that he is not. Shame on me for doing that to someone I loved. Shame on me for doing that to myself.
In the past six months I’ve started to realize that a wedding is not important to me. A marriage – in the traditional sense of the word – is also not important to me. I just want love. Love wins. I want a real man who will really love me who I can really love back. I expect finding such a relationship to be one of the greatest challenges of my life. I plan to be exceptionally picky this time around. No settling. I want what I deserve.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Collections
When I think about my childhood my memories get lost in songs. Sometimes it’s an entire album of songs – like Paul Simon’s Graceland, which reminds me of driving to Wisconsin every summer with my mom and little brother. I can still see the inside of mom’s old Buick. I remember arriving at Aunt Mary’s house in Green Bay amidst the overwhelming birth of the Bay flies. Mom had to turn the windshield wipers on to clear their buggy guts from the glass.
Other times it’s just one song, like Leon Russell’s A Song For You. My parents were going out somewhere some night, to a party that required dressing up and the proper application of cologne and perfume. Dad was ready to go, mom was not. I sat curled up in one of the chairs in front of the speakers in our back room and watched my dad smoke a cigarette while the song played. I remember how long and wavy his hair was, and how he smelled of Old Spice, and the falling notes of Leon Russell’s opening piano.
I remember how, at age four, I danced around that same back room to Pat Benatar’s All Fired Up while wearing my tulip embroidered tutu. I couldn’t dance too wildly, otherwise mom’s record would skip.
I remember getting scared watching Thriller with my dad and running to hide under my bed. I was only three then. I eventually came out of my room in time to see Michael’s scary yellow eyes at the end. My dad still loves that song.
I remember the day mom and dad got their new mattress delivered. The box spring and mattress were on the floor in the family room while mom swept and mopped their bedroom floor. I laid down on the new mattress, still enclosed in its protective plastic, and she played Phoebe Snow’s Poetry Man over and over and over again.
I remember cranking Lenny Kravitz’s Fly Away while driving down some Florida highway in mom’s Chevy Astro, with my brother in the passenger seat. We needed some time away from the parents that vacation. I wonder if he remembers that?
Recently I went through my parents’ vinyl collection. They have not owned a functioning record player in almost two decades, but they still have their albums. Looking at their library I could see a bit of what each of my parents must have been like before they met, before they got married, before they had babies. I could see a bit of what they were like when they were each my age. I could see how they’ve each had their influence on me. Mom wasn’t allowed to listen to The Beatles as a kid, so she had things like The Boston Pops Play The Beatles! The 60s version of Kidz Bop, I imagine. She also had Gordon Lightfoot and Carole King and Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin and actual Beatles albums, acquired after age eighteen I’m sure. Dad had Jimi Hendrix and lots of Santana and Robin Trower and Chaka Kahn and The Who.
I wonder who will look at my collections someday, attempting to learn a thing or two about me from what I have gathered over the years. Maybe it will be my music, maybe it will be my books, maybe it will be my friends. I’d be fine being judged by any of these things. Now ex-boyfriends on the other hand, is a totally different story. Let’s hope no one ever judges me based on that collection. Let's just stick to the music.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Proper Goodbyes
Lately I’ve started to write a lot of things that never seem to get finished. Even my journal entries are becoming difficult to complete. Two nights ago I fell asleep while writing and woke up to find a semi-coherent sentence that slowly devolves into oblivion, sliding off the page with one giant gash of black ink. The next morning the pen was still in my fingers. Re-reading it I was tempted to put a giant red X through the entire entry. Or just torch the journal and start over. I’ve been filling up journals with nonsense for years, and for what? So someone can read them some day long after I’ve taken my last breath and realize what an idiot I was – especially about men? Useless.
I suppose it’s not just journal entries that I can’t finish, I don’t seem to be able to go the distance with a relationship either. I don’t know how people manage to stay married for thirty years without getting sick of one another. Maybe I’m like a relationship sprinter. Or maybe I’m in the wrong race. Or maybe it’s not a race and I just don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
Thinking back on all the goodbyes I’ve exchanged with men in my life, it’s painfully obvious that in every case I knew what would bring about the end of things long before things ever ended. Sometimes it was on a first date, sometimes it was after a few weeks, sometimes it took two years. In every single case I can remember a moment where I thought, I should not be with this person, but of course I almost never said or did anything about it. I wonder how much heartache I could have saved myself by speaking up?
Maybe it was something superficial – like a ridiculous outfit or an off-color joke; or maybe it was serious – like showing up for a lunch date with a hickey or writing me a rubber check for half the rent. Regardless of what the indicator was, the point is that such indicators actually existed. And I ignored them. That I can remember so many of them with such clarity tells me I ought to trust my instincts a little more in the future. Had I paid better attention they would have served me well.
What my instincts tell me now is that some day, possibly soon, I will be told that my company is no longer wanted. That my kiss is no longer exciting. That it was fun while it lasted, but it’s no longer comfortable to fall asleep next to me. I know this will hurt a little bit, but I will appreciate the honesty. Honesty is important. From now I on I will be honest with myself. Especially about proper goodbyes.
Look at that. I finished something.
I suppose it’s not just journal entries that I can’t finish, I don’t seem to be able to go the distance with a relationship either. I don’t know how people manage to stay married for thirty years without getting sick of one another. Maybe I’m like a relationship sprinter. Or maybe I’m in the wrong race. Or maybe it’s not a race and I just don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
Thinking back on all the goodbyes I’ve exchanged with men in my life, it’s painfully obvious that in every case I knew what would bring about the end of things long before things ever ended. Sometimes it was on a first date, sometimes it was after a few weeks, sometimes it took two years. In every single case I can remember a moment where I thought, I should not be with this person, but of course I almost never said or did anything about it. I wonder how much heartache I could have saved myself by speaking up?
Maybe it was something superficial – like a ridiculous outfit or an off-color joke; or maybe it was serious – like showing up for a lunch date with a hickey or writing me a rubber check for half the rent. Regardless of what the indicator was, the point is that such indicators actually existed. And I ignored them. That I can remember so many of them with such clarity tells me I ought to trust my instincts a little more in the future. Had I paid better attention they would have served me well.
What my instincts tell me now is that some day, possibly soon, I will be told that my company is no longer wanted. That my kiss is no longer exciting. That it was fun while it lasted, but it’s no longer comfortable to fall asleep next to me. I know this will hurt a little bit, but I will appreciate the honesty. Honesty is important. From now I on I will be honest with myself. Especially about proper goodbyes.
Look at that. I finished something.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, April 09, 2010
The Guys They Are A-Changin’
It’s hard to find a good man these days. I blame Jack Nicholson for this. I’d like to introduce my first piece of evidence. (Well OK, it’s really my only piece of evidence. Quit being so damn picky.) Watch this:
What the characters in this scene fail to realize is that generally it is not, in fact, a compliment when a man tells a woman that she makes him want to be a better person. Or that he will change X about himself in order to date her/sleep with her/get her back/marry her. They are not alone in this misunderstanding; it’s rather popular these days. Just ask John Legend. Or any one of my ex-boyfriends. I guess it’s easy to see why so many people, both men and women, might see this expression as a form of flattery. “You mean you’d give X up for me? How amazing!” But it’s really not amazing. At all. Allow me to explain.
Plenty of couples fall in love every day. Sometimes (frequently if you happen to be me) one half of the couple does not have their shit together. There are varying levels of Shit-Togetherness, ranging from the truly horrifying Can-You-Blow-In-This-Straw-To-Start-My-Car-So-We-Aren’t-Late-For-The-Movie? to the not so terrible I-Should-Probably-Get-Around-To-Opening-That-IRA-I-Keep-Talking-About. Depending on where a man falls on this scale, certain eff-ups – even biggish ones – may be overlooked. Sometimes they can be overlooked for quite awhile under extenuating circumstances. And often blame lies with the woman for not knowing what she wants and needs in a partner. But eventually all that outstanding shit is going to hit the fan, hard, and if the woman in this scenario is a woman worth having she will probably leave. Suddenly the man will realize that he has lost something amazing and, correctly recognizing this (maybe for the first time), he will offer to change in order to get her back. When this promise to change occurs before the first date – in order to secure a first date even – it often starts small before snowballing into a monster. Case in point:
Dude: [lights up a cigarette, the same kind he’s been smoking every day for a decade]
Girl: Oh, you smoke? I don’t date smokers. I’ll just be going now.
Dude: Wait! [violently squishes cigarette in a nearby ashtray] I’ve been meaning to quit for years now anyway. I can quit for you. [starts twitching, tries not to pull out another cigarette, hands book of matches to Girl]
*Sigh*
It’s really all downhill from there. He might try to quit smoking, sort of, but sooner or later, when he’s had a particularly craptastic day and she’s not around, he’ll go to the store and buy a pack and chain smoke the whole thing. He’ll brush his teeth three times and drink half a bottle of Scope, wash all the laundry in his house attempting to eradicate the smoky evidence, and the second she walks in the door she’ll say, “Has someone been smoking in here??” He’ll start to resent her for having to sneak around just to do something he’s always done, something he enjoys and that makes him feel good. She’ll be disappointed that he’s not keeping his word. Things will end badly. It’s a slippery slope.
So Maria, you ask, if you don’t seem to be complimented by a man’s offer to change for the better, what IS complimentary? So glad you asked, dear reader, I’ll tell you. It’s complimentary when a man takes care of himself so that he can take proper care of the people he loves – including his woman. It’s complimentary when a man takes the time to get to know himself, to understand what he wants out of his life, is deliberate in his actions in order to get what he wants, and then chooses you to be the woman with whom he spends his time. It’s complimentary when a hardworking man endeavors to continue to deserve the woman he loves every single day by choosing to honor her with all his actions. It’s complimentary when a man makes a mistake and actually learns from it. It’s complimentary when a man loves a woman so much that she inspires him to be the best version of himself that he can be.
Of course this all works the same in reverse, good men deserve these same things from their partners. And of course I understand that at the end of the day there is no one on the planet that has all their shit together all the time. No one is perfect, mistakes will be made, and that is OK. I’m not perfect and don’t expect other people to be. We all need companionship, love, and support for the hard times. But at this point in my life I’ve decided that I’m going to look for a man who is on the right end of that spectrum, who is ready for what I’ve got to give, and doesn’t need (or want!) to change his lifestyle in order to be what I need. I’m pretty sure I deserve that. I think this is a good goal for 2010.
Maybe 2011. I’m still having fun being single.
What the characters in this scene fail to realize is that generally it is not, in fact, a compliment when a man tells a woman that she makes him want to be a better person. Or that he will change X about himself in order to date her/sleep with her/get her back/marry her. They are not alone in this misunderstanding; it’s rather popular these days. Just ask John Legend. Or any one of my ex-boyfriends. I guess it’s easy to see why so many people, both men and women, might see this expression as a form of flattery. “You mean you’d give X up for me? How amazing!” But it’s really not amazing. At all. Allow me to explain.
Plenty of couples fall in love every day. Sometimes (frequently if you happen to be me) one half of the couple does not have their shit together. There are varying levels of Shit-Togetherness, ranging from the truly horrifying Can-You-Blow-In-This-Straw-To-Start-My-Car-So-We-Aren’t-Late-For-The-Movie? to the not so terrible I-Should-Probably-Get-Around-To-Opening-That-IRA-I-Keep-Talking-About. Depending on where a man falls on this scale, certain eff-ups – even biggish ones – may be overlooked. Sometimes they can be overlooked for quite awhile under extenuating circumstances. And often blame lies with the woman for not knowing what she wants and needs in a partner. But eventually all that outstanding shit is going to hit the fan, hard, and if the woman in this scenario is a woman worth having she will probably leave. Suddenly the man will realize that he has lost something amazing and, correctly recognizing this (maybe for the first time), he will offer to change in order to get her back. When this promise to change occurs before the first date – in order to secure a first date even – it often starts small before snowballing into a monster. Case in point:
Dude: [lights up a cigarette, the same kind he’s been smoking every day for a decade]
Girl: Oh, you smoke? I don’t date smokers. I’ll just be going now.
Dude: Wait! [violently squishes cigarette in a nearby ashtray] I’ve been meaning to quit for years now anyway. I can quit for you. [starts twitching, tries not to pull out another cigarette, hands book of matches to Girl]
*Sigh*
It’s really all downhill from there. He might try to quit smoking, sort of, but sooner or later, when he’s had a particularly craptastic day and she’s not around, he’ll go to the store and buy a pack and chain smoke the whole thing. He’ll brush his teeth three times and drink half a bottle of Scope, wash all the laundry in his house attempting to eradicate the smoky evidence, and the second she walks in the door she’ll say, “Has someone been smoking in here??” He’ll start to resent her for having to sneak around just to do something he’s always done, something he enjoys and that makes him feel good. She’ll be disappointed that he’s not keeping his word. Things will end badly. It’s a slippery slope.
So Maria, you ask, if you don’t seem to be complimented by a man’s offer to change for the better, what IS complimentary? So glad you asked, dear reader, I’ll tell you. It’s complimentary when a man takes care of himself so that he can take proper care of the people he loves – including his woman. It’s complimentary when a man takes the time to get to know himself, to understand what he wants out of his life, is deliberate in his actions in order to get what he wants, and then chooses you to be the woman with whom he spends his time. It’s complimentary when a hardworking man endeavors to continue to deserve the woman he loves every single day by choosing to honor her with all his actions. It’s complimentary when a man makes a mistake and actually learns from it. It’s complimentary when a man loves a woman so much that she inspires him to be the best version of himself that he can be.
Of course this all works the same in reverse, good men deserve these same things from their partners. And of course I understand that at the end of the day there is no one on the planet that has all their shit together all the time. No one is perfect, mistakes will be made, and that is OK. I’m not perfect and don’t expect other people to be. We all need companionship, love, and support for the hard times. But at this point in my life I’ve decided that I’m going to look for a man who is on the right end of that spectrum, who is ready for what I’ve got to give, and doesn’t need (or want!) to change his lifestyle in order to be what I need. I’m pretty sure I deserve that. I think this is a good goal for 2010.
Maybe 2011. I’m still having fun being single.
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