Me and Mister Unavailable: 2010 Year in Review

I have to admit...I began this thing in January thinking that, A, I'd date a bunch of guys, write about them, meet "the one" and then never write in here again. Or that, B, I'd date a couple of guys and then sink into another five-year dry spell. Either A or B, I suspected I'd recount all the emotionally unavailable men of my past (because that's why I started this) and be done, with this blog not continuing beyond about June and with nothing dramatic happening.

I was wrong. Here we are, it's the end of December, and although I'm single again, I've dated more than I thought I would, and I could never have anticipated the amount of drama that did, in fact, transpire. Unfortunately, my ability to pick emotionally available men is still drastically impaired. Is it me? Is it this city? I do affectionately refer to New York City as The Island of Misfit Toys for a reason. Now more than ever, I'm baffled at how it is that people get married in their twenties--or ever...

But nevermind that. Let's look at what happened. I began the year placing my hope in a man-boy who appeared unavailable from the word hello. Still, I persevered--despite the disappearing act, the sudden cancellations and a horrifying glimpse into his vacant, unavailable heart. In the process, I had an epiphany: his inability to have what I would consider a real relationship had absolutely nothing to do with me. It was liberating. And, in the end, when I headed to Australia to likely never hear from him again, I truly didn't care.

Australia, too, provided a revelation of sorts. There, I met a Girl Gang, each member of which recounted a tale of heartbreak almost worse than the last--fleeing husbands, cheating boyfriends, guys that couldn't even handle a fling. Granted, it takes two and somehow these women played a role, but the lack of backbone displayed by the men in each of the stories was astounding.

Despite the proliferating tales of woe, I returned to NYC with a shiny new job and a mission to have a shiny new boyfriend before summer. On June 5, I met #111. My boyfriend. It was full of promise--mostly with him making promises and me believing them--but crashed and burned in a manner with which I'm all too familiar--suddenly and with no good reason.

However, personal progress was made.

As one friend said, "He was partially available"--a marked improvement from the man-boy that occupied January through March.

And I wasn't the one who irrationally bailed. On several occasions when I wanted to run, when I was afraid it wouldn't last, when I didn't feel attracted to him and thought I should end it, I stayed. (OK, I wasn't perfect. I admit to a mild obsession with the ex he talked about constantly. I even went so far as to look her up online--uh huh, he gave me that much information about her that I was easily able to find her. But I figure his incessant talk about all his exes was a way of telling me--or, really, of him trying to convince himself--that he was capable of a relationship, because deep down he probably knew he wasn't.)

Yes, it seems, despite many red flags, when I'm in, I'm in. Unfortunately, I chose to be in with someone who wasn't capable of being in with me--as all his talk about his ex proved ("She was afraid of commitment, she was incapable of intimacy" blah blah blah), he was only capable of being in with someone who wasn't capable of being in, which makes me think we're even more alike than either of us ever knew.

The stories are still unfolding--with #111, with #118--and with others who are moving into friend realm, like #109. I ran into him about a month ago at a gathering of like-minded downtowners. We had a rare confessional moment. Both of us were feeling beaten up by life and he basically admitted he needed to stop fucking around amongst our group of friends. He'd been to a gallery show the night before and was gripped with terror as he spotted a woman who he thought was an ex-situation. It turned out not to be her but he was in knots over getting the first post-break-up run-in over with. In nicer terms, I suggested he stop fucking around like that.

Then I told him about my ex-situation and how #111 ran away. #109 muttered, "If it's not someone else running away, it's me running away," then said, "Didn't I meet him?" Indeed, I'd forgotten that I'd run into him on my third date with #111. "He seemed like a tool," #109 said. I thought that was sweet of him to say. I also thought it was interesting that he confessed to being a runner. It just shows I give them too much credit in thinking they know not what they do. Apparently, they do know what they do.

And there will be more of them--available, unavailable, runners, new crushes, trow-droppers, snowbank guys, cheapskates, liars ... If anything, 2010 proved that. And if you ever doubt that, start a blog of your own. Anytime I thought no one else could possibly come along, someone else came along. I'd like to think each new one is just a little bit more emotionally available than the last. And hopefully with each new one, I am, too.

Like I told #111 in one of our last conversations: I don't want to be a walking dead person in a relationship that exists merely for its outsides. I want to be in something where it is safe to reveal my true self, where I trust that I won't be rejected for it and where I know that no matter what, the other person is in it with me.

(And if it could happen before I'm 40, that'd be great.)

Until next year...

Mr. Unavailable #118: The Five-Year Time Warp

Vital Stats: 42, 5'10"ish. Possibly some kind of carpenter-type person for a living. Aesthetic: Skinny, tattoos, very downtown, vestiges of a punk past. Demeanor: Legitimately nice guy, sweet, genuine.

First Impression: I met him five years ago through mutual friends. He invited me and a friend to a Christmas show somewhere in the Village. He and his band mates were doing covers of Xmas classics. It was a fun show and sometime either before or after, he came up to us to say hi. He had that little twinkle in his eye that revealed more than just Christmas cheer, and a few days later I got a message from a mutual friend asking if I was interested in him at all. I said no.

And then he disappeared.

For five years.

Signs of Hope: He resurfaced about a week ago. He friended me on Facebook and it took me a few minutes to figure out who he was. He said he'd gone upstate to flee the rat race five years ago but was back to give the city another try. He was doing his Xmas show again and gave me the info to go. I had plans to see Brenda Blethyn in Haunted uptown, so I told him I wouldn't be able to make it. He said there were a few other events happening that night and sent me a bunch of information on everything. I was trying to recover from a horrible week at the job-I-didn't-want and prepare for another horrible week, so I didn't immediately respond. Then, after experiencing relief at surviving a horrible Monday, I was able to focus and replied, thanking him for all the event information.

He wrote back, ending it with this: "...I'd like to take you for tea sometime- hope that doesn't seem to out of the blue. I always wanted to- never really had the opportunity... or nerve. I hope you're good."

Awww. Why the hell not? I was incredibly flattered. He hadn't forgotten me in five years and had the guts to not only ask me out but to admit he wanted to do it years ago but lacked the courage.

We emailed back and forth a few times and made tentative plans to see Black Swan any day now. I'm a little concerned about the movie's first-date suitability, but we'll see what happens...

Red Flags: Why is he still single? Then again, why am I still single?

Diagnosis: For him: I have no idea, but he seems genuinely sweet, so we'll see.
For me: Something has shifted. Five years ago, I wouldn't have entertained the slightest notion of going out with him--and not for any reason other than a, "I'm just not all that into him."

I find it incredibly flattering that someone is actually afraid to ask me out. I'm shocked to say it, but I'm actually excited about this date, and I have no idea where this is coming from. It's like five years have folded in upon themselves, so that I could take Christmas Eve from five years ago and tape it right next to Christmas today. And instead of saying no, I say yes.

Mr. Unavailable #111: Knocking Him Off His Pedestal

To start from the beginning of the Mr. 111 story, see (in this order) Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News, The Appointment, The Sad Ultrasound, In Between Appointments, The Last Breakfast and Arizona Convalescence for the background on this one.

I feel like this is some sort of weird confession. After recounting everything that happened with #111 and trying to get over him, I kind of relapsed. I fully believe it was best for my sanity's sake--and it was fully endorsed by my shrink, so I feel justified.

Here's what happened:

About a week and a half before Thanksgiving, I dragged myself into my shrink's office, collapsed on her couch and recounted my level of depression: going to bed early...in my clothes...with the lights on...without having washed up. It was bad (see Suicidal Tendencies). I told her I didn't even think I was depressed about #111 anymore, that it wasn't even about him. I was depressed about this being a cycle of mine and I predicted I'd probably pick another guy just like him and repeat the cycle all over again. So, I theorized, I was holding onto the idea that #111 would change and come back so then I wouldn't have to go through all of this all over again. Because if I had to go through all of this again, I don't know if I'd survive it.

I'm not sure exactly when in the session it came up, but at some point she suggested I actually give #111 a call to see how he was doing. It had been three weeks, she said, it seemed like a good time.

"Seriously?" I said. It seemed crazy. "Wouldn't that be chasing him?"

"Are you showing up on his doorstep?" she said. "No? Then you're not chasing him."

She went on to say that I was changing my attachment patterns. Instead of withdrawing when other people withdraw--which is an old survival mechanism but, ultimately, makes me miserable and creates a pedestal for the person--I was keeping engaged. I had to admit, the idea of getting in touch with him made me very happy. She said I just had to try not to have any expectations around it and if I was doing it as a means of being friends (as #111 and I had agreed to be) then I should just try to keep it at that in my mind--from moment to moment--if I could.

I decided to give him a call on Saturday. When Saturday morning arrived, I was in a terrific mood. Previously barely functioning, I was hyper-functional, getting things done that I hadn't been able to in weeks--making trips to the Salvation Army, doing long-ignored errands, cleaning... Around 4 p.m., I sat down and went to call him and realized that theoretically calling him made me happy; actually calling him terrified me. I was pretty sure he would let it go to voicemail, but I wasn't sure how I would feel after I'd left a message. Heidi was having her safari party that night, so I knew I'd have something to do to keep my mind off of things if I was in a bad place but I feared the bad place. I went to dial and dialed Heidi instead. She had me practice what I was going to say to him.

When we hung up, I called him. As I suspected, he let it go to voicemail. My message went something like this. "Hi [#38]. It's Tara. I was just calling to see how you were doing...how your birthday was...if you ever got that Pop Tart T-shirt you wanted...I would love to hear from you when you have a chance...hope you're well...bye."

When I hung up, half of me was like, "Why the fuck did I just do that? Do I really even care?" And the other half of me just thought what I'd done was incredibly brave. I hadn't anticipated my own reaction. I was actually proud of myself. I was also pretty sure that if it took that much courage for me to call him, then, since it had become very clear to me early on in our dating that he was afraid of the phone (see The Phone Call), there was no way he was going to have the balls to call me back and he'd probably just email me back. It sort of felt like a dare, as in, "Look what I just did, buddy. I dare you to call me back." Instead of sending me into some kind of despairing bad place, calling him felt awesome.

As predicted, he emailed me. Monday morning. "Well, congratulations on knowing him really well," Heidi said.

His email was friendly, teasing, kind of like how it had been in the early days when we first emailed. It took me two days to email him back--mostly because I was trying to figure out whether or not I wanted to ask him to get together. I decided against it, fearing a no. Instead, I mentioned my new job and the only good things about it (the frozen yogurt machine and the fact that I had my own office). The next email from him was even jokier, and with a mean edge, which, I remembered, is him. He was surprised that I'd gotten a job so fast and said a few other things that I interpreted as condescending. I emailed my shrink about it and she said it sounded more jealous/competitive than anything. As usual, she was probably right.

We went back and forth one more time and I pulled the trigger, saying I'd like to catch up in person sometime and maybe we could go for lunch or dinner in a few weeks. Again, as soon as I'd done it, knowing what I know about him, I wondered why I was bothering. And then, a few hours after that, contradiction struck and I was fearful he'd say no.

Whatever my motives, which are even mysterious to me, my timing on sending the email was strategic. I suspected he had therapy on Fridays and, choosing to believe that his therapist was on my side (naturally, she was on his side, but in being on his side, she was actually on my side), I sent the email on Thursday and prayed I wouldn't hear from him until Friday afternoon. At about 3 p.m. Friday, I got an email from him. He said maybe we could go to lunch in a few weeks. I was shocked--I wasn't surprised that he'd opted for lunch over dinner, but I was surprised that he would want to meet at all. I also thought he sounded kind of depressed and wondered if he'd composed the email while he was actually in therapy (maybe I'm not the only one who does that).

That was about three weeks ago. I've decided to wait until after the new year to get in touch with him about it again, which I suspect I will have to do. New Year's is way too loaded a time to be getting in touch with an ex. He's a man of his word with everything except relationship commitment, so I suspect he'll keep his promise to meet up, although I have no idea why he wants to do it, unless he does in fact want to be friends...

Diagnosis: ...I have to admit I'm still wondering why I want to meet up with him. Maybe because I'm unable to let go. Maybe because it is actually good for me to change my attachment behavior. Maybe because I still have hope that he will snap out of his emotional immaturity and I won't have to move on to the next unavailable man and repeat history. Probably all of the above.

In the meantime, being in touch with him has somehow freed me up to entertain other dating options. It does seem counter-intuitive: When it felt like he was unreachable, like I'd lost him, like I wasn't allowed to be in touch with him, I wasn't able to move on. But being in touch with him and seeing he's still the same guy has helped knock him off of his pedestal; I am actually able to entertain the possibility of other guys. Yes, completely counter-intuitive.

Mr. Unavailable #76: Election Night 2000

This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback, circa November 2000.

Vital Stats: 30-something, 5'5"ish. Made a living working for his famous filmmaker brother. Aesthetic: He was small, so, lots of baggy layers. Demeanor: Nice guy, kind of unobtrusive but smart and a regular at my local bar.

First Impression: He had the whole famous-filmmaker-brother thing going for him, so everyone knew who he was and he was widely accepted and generally liked. He'd flirt with me when I'd see him but I never took him seriously until...

Turning Point: ...election night 2000. It was a bad night. Things weren't looking good for Gore and it looked like the ballot-counting was going to last long into the wee hours. Not to mention I was post-dot-com unemployed and didn't have to be anywhere the next day, so me and my friends hunkered down. I was on perhaps my fourth drunken Presbyterian--and filling the role beautifully--when #76 slid into the booth across from me. A few flirtatious words and several drinks later, taking him home with me seemed like a good idea.

He didn't stay long but he did leave his hat behind. The next time I ran into him at the bar, we arranged a surreptitious hand-off outside and re-entered the bar separately. He then obliterated all attempts at the aforementioned surreptitiousness by buying me a drink from his end of the bar and having the bartender (who was, to add to the horror, #78) say, "[#76] thanks you for finding his hat."

Diagnosis: I have no idea what his deal was--if I had to guess, free sex--but, for me, drunkenness, unemployment, pseudo-celebrity and a Republican leading in the polls was a lethal combination against which, at least in 2000, I never stood a fighting chance.

Mr. Unavailable #117: More of the (Exact) Same

Vital Stats: 36, 5'10"ish, trim build. Works as a TV sound guy for a living. Aesthetic: Former Long Island preppy with lingering preppy aesthetic in the form of Polo shirts and white tennis sneakers. Demeanor: Happy-go-lucky with a potentially purely flirtatious agenda.

First Impression: I first met #117 on Halloween, where he was DJing the first party #114 and I went to--and was friends with #114. He was dressed as a surgeon and, from what I could tell from behind the surgical mask, he seemed cute and charming, teasing me by asking me what I was and, when I said I was a princess, he said, "I thought you were just overdressed." Now looking back, I probably gave him more credit then for being funnier than he really was.

Signs of Hope: A few weeks after Halloween, I ran into #114 at a gathering of like-minded downtowners and, walking back uptown afterwards, I confessed to him that I was vaguely back in touch with #111 (more on that later). Suddenly, he said, "What about [#117]?"

"Him? I'd date him," I said, thinking that #114 must have already gotten word from #117 that he was interested.

"He's going to be at my birthday thing on Thursday, so do you want me to set something up or do you want to work your magic?" he said. I figured I might as well see how it went so I said I'd work my magic, whatever that ended up being.

A few days later at the birthday, #117 saw me walk into the bar from across the room and I could see him light up. He came over and gave me a kiss and proceeded to ask me first-date-like questions for the rest of the evening ("Where are you from?" etc.). We went for sushi after the bar and he was sure to have me sit next to him. He paid extra attention to me the rest of the night, being touchy, having me try his food, etc.

Red Flags: I had a vague feeling that I was signing up for more of the same--the charming guy that pays attention to you and then suddenly doesn't. And, coincidentally, #111 and #117 had the same name and were both Jewish boys from the greater NYC area. So, if this was to be more of the same, it was looking just a little too exact.

At any rate, the next day, I ran into #114 at another gathering of like-minded downtowners and asked him what #117's story was.

"Why don't you ask him out?" he said.

I was perturbed.

"I want him to ask me out," I said. I had assumed #117 had said something about me and that's why #114 had said something to me in the first place--and told him that.

"No," said #114. "I said something to you, but if you like him, ask him out."

I told him I wasn't going to do that.

It crossed my mind that #114 might have lingering interest in me from the old days and that, even though we were firmly in friend territory, he wasn't going to actively set me up with someone else. Maybe his offering up of #117 was merely a momentary diversionary tactic to keep me from re-entangling with #111--kind of like saying, "Hey, look over there."

The next night, #114 invited me to a dance party at DopeJams and said #117 was going. I figured I'd test the waters again. #114 said to meet him out in Williamsburg at midnight, where we'd hit a birthday party before going dancing. I met #114 on Bedford near the subway station. He was in a terrible mood. I'm not sure what was wrong with him, but he barely acknowledged me when I walked up to him on the corner. Then we collected #117 on the next corner and he, too, was in a terrible mood, saying he had a headache. The moment he said it, I had a flashback to #111 and all of his migraines. The last thing I needed was another Jewish guy named [___] who got headaches all the time. Indeed, this was looking a little too exact.

Turning Point: We went to the party and, hanging up our coats, everything I tried to say to #117 fell flat. I wondered if #114 had said something to him and he wasn't actually interested at all. So I gave up and went over to the living room where people were dancing. It was there that I spied #98 across the room. It had been a year since my brief crush was, well, crushed after I sent him an email and he never responded, so I was pretty much over it. I went up to him and he was clearly happy to see me. We talked/danced in the living room/dance floor and, after a while, #114 came over with #117 in tow and said they were headed to Dope Jams. "Are you gonna come?" he said. I looked at them--grumpy and grumpier--and said, "No, I think I'm just going to stay here for a while and then go home." #114 looked appropriately let down, glanced at #98, shrugged and said, "OK."

As they went to get their coats, #98 started to head to the coat room, too, so I stopped him and said I'd catch the subway with him. "Will you walk me home?" he teased, knowing we lived about 50 feet from each other. "Yes, I'd love to walk you home," I said. In the coat room, I introduced everyone. They greeted each other tentatively and then #114 and #117 walked out the door. I told #98 that I was supposed to go with them, but they were too grumpy. "Yes, you don't want to be with grumpy boys," he said in his cute Russian accent. "You walk me home instead."

As you know, I make little effort to hide my petty side, so I have to admit, it was gratifying to watch the scene from the eyes of #114 and #117 (or to watch it from how I HOPED they were seeing it). I hoped what they were thinking as they watched the scene was this: "Cute, fun girl was going to come dancing with us, but, because we were grumpy and no fun, she hung out with some other guy at the party we brought her to and then went home with him instead."

#114 texted me at about 2 a.m. to say the music was great at DopeJams. I texted him back telling him to stop texting me and go dance then.

Diagnosis: As for #117, a red alert about his unavailability went up very early on. At Halloween, when I felt a slight stir of attraction, I kind of knew. (Because I only seem to stir like that when they're not really available for a relationship.) #117 was every bit what I'm attracted to: the flirty guy who pays attention to me one day and then, inexplicably, goes cold the next. Sure, he might have just had a headache and been having an off night, but I'm done giving these guys the benefit of the doubt.
For me: I was glad #98 was at the party to give me an out. We walked homeward arm in arm, talking about happiness and unconditional love, two things I was having trouble grasping at the moment. But it was like old times, before I'd developed my brief crush, and we were friends again.

Mr. Unavailable #116: The Next Generation

Background: I dove into the dating pool with zeal, so much so that the night after my date with #115, I had this date with #116. I figured it was like ripping off a Band-Aid. But, much like my date the night before, with the state I was in, almost no one stood a chance, and the Band-Aid-ripping was proving to be too painful.

Vital Stats: 51, 5'9"ish, Antiques Dealer. Aesthetic: Ralph Lauren casual. Demeanor: At 51, it seemed like he'd already had a somewhat active life and, from his level of energy, it seemed like he was ready to move into the post-active phase.

First Date: Dinner at Cafe Mogador. 7 p.m. on a Saturday.

First Impression: WAY older-looking than his photos on dating site OKCupid, which were probably from 10 years before. He actually looked at least 51 in person. And acted more like 61. The 7 p.m. date time ("to get there before the crowd," he'd said) should have been a dead giveaway. He had a slow way of talking and eating, which drove me crazy because almost as soon as I got there, I wanted to get out of there.

Signs of Hope: None. Dinner was relatively quick (no appetizers or sides), but I got held hostage over coffee afterward, which added another hour to the date, even though I did everything but say I wanted to leave to let him know I wanted out (purposefully folding my napkin and putting it on the table, finishing my coffee with flourish, looking at the waitress whenever she was in the vicinity).

Red Flags: To illustrate that we were from completely different generations, at one point he asked me if I had any brothers or sisters and when I told him I had two brothers, he asked, "Are they still living?"

Otherwise, I just wasn't remotely interested. I decided to get an education out of it, though, so I asked him all about his antiques business. Basically, when people died, he was the guy who would go in and buy the whole estate and then sell everything through the auction houses or online. The oddest thing he found? Skulls (as a collectible), on more than one occasion. The biggest score? Buying a painting for $500 that later sold for $500,000. He once had (and continued to have) an opportunity to be on Antiques Roadshow but did a local show instead that later got canceled. He also used to do stand-up comedy and ran in the same circles as Jon Stewart back when he was Jon Leibowitz telling Jewish jokes.

I found it hard to believe #116 was formerly a stand-up, seeing as he was so slow-talking and, to me anyway, very nice but completely unfunny. I asked him what his routine was like and he said he would say bizarre things very quickly. I couldn't picture it but believed it--it was probably an escape from his usual self, which seems to be what most kinds of performance are, including my own on this date.

Turning Point: When we finally got up to leave, that was the turning point: utter relief.

Diagnosis: For him: He needs someone his own age. And someone who is in the same life phase.
For me: I know it's not how it should be but I have to admit it: I'm still kind of waiting for my life to begin. I know, I need a perspective adjustment. It's a problem. Plus, I'm still stuck on #111. That's a problem, too. I miss him terribly and no one can overcome that, certainly not at our usual spot Cafe Mogador, and certainly not a 51-year-old man who fudges his online photos and makes me feel like I'm hanging out with the generation that needs to ask, "Are they still living?"

Mr. Unavailable #115: A Fishless Existence

Vital Stats: 6', Lawyer. Aesthetic: Casual lawyer (so not too lawyer-y). Demeanor: Casual lawyer.

First Impression: I should probably make it clear that it's questionable that I should even be dating at this point. It might be too soon post-#111 and I may just be too hypercritical--any ability to be open-minded is at an all-time low.

In his OKCupid profile, #115 had three photos, only one of which made me want to date him. I knew, in my heart, he probably didn't look like that one photo, and, when I walked up to him in front of the restaurant, he didn't, but at least it got me out on a date.

First Date: When planning the date, he asked me if I had any favorite places I liked to eat in my neighborhood and I chose Hearth, a restaurant I'd always wanted to go to with #111. When we met in front, he shook my hand, so I couldn't tell if he was immediately interested or not. I kind of didn't care, though, because I was pretty sure I wasn't--like I said, no one would stand a chance at this point.

We were early for our reservation, so we chatted in the restaurant's nearby bar. He said, "I have to tell you a story" and then told me that he had taken the bus there and, while waiting for it, a blind man asking for directions had accidentally hit him in the nose. "I don't know if it's broken or what, but isn't that weird?" I felt bad for him, doubted his nose was broken and thought him to be a little bit of a cry baby (I'll say it again, no one stands a chance at this point). But I gave him props for keeping up good appearances while he was likely in some pain. I also wondered if the incident explained the strange nasal lilt to his voice (see above, hypercritical).

At dinner, we talked about working at law firms (my new job, his ongoing job and upcoming transition). He seemed most comfortable talking about politics, the last last two years of economic decline and how the banks had messed everything up. Formerly a physicist, he was clearly very smart and talked ably about how quants, in tandem with dumb CEOs, destroyed the world. It was interesting and I tried to keep up.

About halfway through our shared flattened chicken, he spotted someone over my shoulder and said, "Do you know who that is?...Chief Justice Sotomayor." She was sitting at a table behind me and he was smitten. For the rest of the night, no, he wasn't wistfully looking at me over the candlelight, he was looking over my shoulder to ogle her. And then, when she walked by to leave, he stared at her, attempting to make eye contact. I was mildly horrified, but, fortunately, she didn't look. I should probably be more forgiving because, as a lawyer, it was probably like he was seeing God.

Signs of Hope: It was a long date and, as it turned into the third hour and we both seemed to be hanging in there, I thought maybe I could go on another date with him, maybe. He seemed nice enough. At one point, he complimented my ring. I'd gotten it just before Halloween for my princess costume and it looked real, like it had a zillion diamonds on it. It was nice that I got a compliment.

Red Flags: Ogling Sotomayor over my shoulder--he was clearly more interested in her, although I was sort of glad for the distraction. Another flag was that, as we first sat down to dinner, he told me he had a severe aversion to fish. "Just the smell makes me feel revolted," he said. It was clear I wasn't to order any fish that night--or, probably, ever. And one #111-esque red flag: even though he appeared to have plenty of money, he chose to live in a one bedroom out in Long Island because, he said, it was cheap. (#111 chose to live with a roommate up in Harlem.)

To be honest, I didn't truly want to get to know him, so I kept the conversation fairly surface-oriented. At the end of the date, I thought maybe I would give him a hug or something and waited to see what he would do. Finally, as we parted ways on my corner--because I didn't even want him to walk me to my door--I was waiting with my hands in my pockets to see what would happen and he stuck out his hand and we shook hands.

Turning Point: At no point was there real hope, so there was no real turning point. I might have been able to conjure more open-mindedness and gone out on a second date if I were in a better mental place, but that was not the way things were.

My Amateur Diagnosis: For him: Probably available for some kind of relationship. Although I got the impression that he liked going out on lots of dinner dates, so he probably wasn't too upset that when he emailed me later for a second date, I turned him down.

For me: Dating #115 long-term would be a fishless existence and I just started eating fish again a few years ago so wasn't ready to give up the omega-3s. Seriously, though, I wonder if I should even be dating. I had no desire to talk to him about anything real--because discussing something real might have started to build a connection and I'm not ready for that. I think his profile might have even said he had kids, but at no time did I ask about them because I just didn't want to know.

Throughout the date, I just kept comparing everything to my first date with #111 and thinking what an idiot #111 was, to throw away what we had...OK, to be honest, the potential of what we had. But we did have a definite connection, a definite spark.

Stayed tuned for #116: Even though I probably shouldn't be dating, it's try, try again...

Mr. Unavailable #114: Suicidal Tendencies

Vital Stats: 5'10." 39. Aesthetic: Guy. Demeanor: Guy. Status: In a lengthy unemployment but still financially sound. Recently dumped by his girlfriend.

First Impression/Background: I'd met #114 several years before and he'd never been much of a talker around me. In fact, he was almost mute. I remember once at a party I was sitting next to him and having a conversation was difficult, to say the least. He was what I like to call "He of the two-word answers." It turned out he had a huge crush on me, which was hugely flattering. He went on to date a woman who I liked very much, but then they broke up--right around the same time as my breakup. I ran into #114, we compared breakup notes and he invited me to a Halloween party...which turned into three.

Halloween: Getting ready to go out, I was still in a post-#111 state. It was all I could do to don a costume. Every day, I still woke up in agony, having to talk myself down--trying to make myself believe all the things I diagnosed about him in the previous posts (emotional shut down, no capacity for a real relationship). If I let myself believe that #111 broke up with me for rational reasons, I'd crumple, so I constantly kept that idea at bay. Plus, as my shrink said after I told her how he lived, "It sounds like he didn't think he deserved you." If he could have just said that, it would have cleared all this agony up.

For some ridiculous reason, in my misery, I decided to be a princess for Halloween. Talk about your insides not just not matching your outsides but being violently opposed to your outsides. Something "dead" would have been much better--even "dead princess." But I didn't have enough functioning, non-agonized brain cells to make the mental leap to "dead princess." The whole idea originated when I'd found a gorgeous pink satin dress at a secondhand store in Arizona that fit perfectly. I couldn't not buy it. Truth be told, when I first saw it, I thought: future wedding dress. I'd look terrible in white anyway. And I got my prom dress before I had a date, so there's precedence (although it can only be considered a successful precedent if one ignores the fact that my prom date was a dud).

I was supposed to be Grace Kelly, but I didn't have the energy to get the hair right and then I accidentally left one of my white gloves at home, so I just went as a generic, half-baked princess. I met #114 out at an apartment party in Soho. Everyone was young and coupled-up, which only made us feel worse. After about an hour, we got in his car and headed to a second party in Brooklyn. It was in a gorgeous Brownstone, which they'd decorated in a combo Halloween/Octoberfest theme (Spooktoberfest), so there were lederhosen and Swiss Miss/bar wench-type fraus everywhere. About an hour into the party, #114 and I were standing in line for the bathroom and I mentioned my Arizona convalescence and how I had told my host that I hoped my plane crashed on the way home. A little spark lit up in his eyes. "You think that way, too?"

See, normally, when you talk about wanting to die, people say things like, "Oh, that would be such a waste" and "Don't let the (other person) win" and blah blah blah. But here #114 was saying, "You want to kill yourself? Awesome. Me, too." We spent the next two hours talking about what ways were most attractive. I said pills would be best, but if it didn't work, I might end up a vegetable, which would be terrible. Otherwise, a garage and a car was my method of choice, though a difficult one seeing as I live in a studio apartment in New York. He said he thought the best way was to put a noose around your neck and shoot yourself in the head, that way if one didn't work, the other would.

We also had to consider the calendar timing. We agreed there was no way we were going to make it through the holidays alone, but there were a couple of parties coming up and we didn't want to miss them. Shelagh's safari party was in a few weeks and then the weekend after that would be Thanksgiving, so, really, the perfect timing would be after her party. We were both dreading the holidays: The horror of being a holiday orphan and needing to be taken in. Nightmare. Especially seeing as on my first date with #111, he told me that when he has a girlfriend, his mother makes sure he tells her that Thanksgiving happens at his house--always. Things were headed in that direction for us and I had it all scheduled on my mental calendar. And then--whammo!

Discussing things further, #114 and I agreed, there was no way we were going through another bleak New York winter alone. No way. So if we were going to die, it was going to have to happen soon. In short, we were done. After almost ten years of working on ourselves (therapy, etc.) and how we function in relationships, we were back to where we were ten years before, except ten years older. What was the point? Especially when every day we were waking up feeling the same--miserable and needing to talk ourselves off of our respective ledges. I was starting a job-I-didn't-want two days later, but I was so numb it was barely on my radar. I just knew I had to wake up early and show up somewhere.

So there we were, sitting amidst all the German bar fraus, Titanic victims and oiled-up BP employees wondering if it was possible to will an aneurysm or if there was some way to make our suicides look like accidents so that our exes wouldn't have any idea it was about them. I knew #111 would get an ego about it, anyway. I told #114 about #111 and #114 said : "Seriously. It sounds like you dodged a bullet. It sounds like it was as good as it was ever going to get and it was going to be all downhill from there."

It turned out #114's ex really wanted a Jewish guy. "She could have fucking figured that out a year ago," I said.

#114 had a third party to go to and I was just going to get a cab home, but there were none to be had, so I went with him somewhere deeper into the more concrete and roadside-metal areas of Brooklyn. We parked on a desolate stretch of urban tarmac and dodged a few cars, heading toward a noisy storefront. It was nearing 2 a.m. now and as we walked up--he a pharmacist and I a half-assed princess.

"I feel like we're in a movie," I said

"We should have recorded our conversation," he said, then added, "You started it."

The party was at a record label in Green Point: DopeJams. We walked in, stocked up on candy at the bar in the basement and then went back to the main room where three DJs were writhing in a booth with a few dozen twenty-somethings--dressed, enviously, as dead people--writhing similarly. #114 told me it was deep house music. Apparently, I like deep house music very much. Dancing amid the dead in my big pink dress that was now dirtied and squashed, I was totally out of place, and I didn't give a shit. It. Was. Great.

Diagnosis: Despite what everyone says, suicide is an option. But the fact of the matter is (and not to put too much of a silver lining on things), if #111 hadn't dumped me, I would never have had such an awesome night: trekking all over the boroughs, going to three very different parties in three very different areas of the city, coming home at 4 in the morning--all the time being able to carry my misery with me and knowing that because of who I was with, it was totally OK.

Mr. Unavailable #113: The Phoenix Rises, in the Phoenix-Scottsdale Area

Vital Stats: 5' 8"ish, 38. Neurologist, professional pianist/composer. College friend of the friend I was staying with in Arizona. Demeanor: Humble, talkative, slightly-ADD genius. Aesthetic: Neurologist in October-appropriate Phoenix-Scottsdale casual wear: khakis and button-down shirt.

First Impression: Not as hot as his Facebook photo, which was my only prior reference point, but that photo left a lot to live up to. Still: cute and clearly a genius.

First Meeting: Julie had been trying to hook us up long distance for almost two years via Facebook but it never took. Finally, on my last night in Arizona, we were all set to meet up for dinner but then he got stuck at the hospital with a patient, which was unfortunate yet somehow attractive. It was looking like a rendez-vous wouldn't happen until at the last minute, we triangulated our locations and figured out a way to meet for drinks.

Signs of Hope: We met up at a bar in a fancy, mall-like area and he immediately seemed approachable and kind. I hate to describe him in comparison to #111, but a few more things became clear to me. Unlike the way #111 would overcompensate, puffing himself up about "being a writer" or being "passionate about the arts," here was someone who was passionate about everything he did and he had no need to prove it or to have me prove what I was passionate about in return. He just was. And he wanted to share that with whoever he was around. He was clearly very intelligent, but it was evident without him having to say one word about "being a neurologist" or "being an accomplished pianist." It was a relief to see.

At the bar, we were on our second drinks when Julie excused herself for the bathroom and he asked me if I was dating anyone. We had told him that one of the reasons I'd extended my trip was because I got laid off, but now I told him the other reason for extending my trip: because I was no longer dating someone. "Oh, he probably misses you by now," he said. He said it just like that, matter-of-fact. The way he said it even made me believe it. And then went on to talk about what it was like to date in Arizona and how he found dating in New York to be difficult when he lived there. The women, he said, were high maintenance. He described one episode with the woman he ended up dating for 3.5 years: he called her purse "a handbag" and she burst into tears and said it was a very important designer bag. She also told him that if he needed help paying for an engagement ring, her father could help him. No wonder women in New York have a bad rep.

After we left, Julie told me the things he'd said when I took my trip to the ladies room. Apparently, I'm darkly funny, intelligent and well read. He said he was flying to L.A. for a Laurie Anderson show the next day but told Julie, "If she were staying in town, I would have invited her to the show because I have an extra ticket." And then, later apparently, he called me something along the lines of "quietly wise."

"In one hour, he got you," Julie said.
I started to say #111 never got me then stopped myself. "[#111] got me, he just couldn't handle it," I said.

"Well, this guy got it," she said. "He's smitten."

Smitten is good.

Red Flags: He lives in Arizona. I live in New York.

Diagnosis: As I said to Julie on the car ride home that night, "This was exactly what I needed." We'll see what happens. I'm remaining open-minded. But he does live thousands of miles away. At worst, I've got a new friend. At best, his family lives in New Jersey and he mentioned getting together when he comes out for Thanksgiving.

Update: He messaged me on Facebook and we've been sending occasional messages, so we'll see if anything comes up about Thanksgiving. Otherwise, I went to a show at Le Poisson Rouge that he recommended, bringing along #114...

Mr. Unavailable #111: Arizona Convalescence

To start from the beginning of the #111 story, see (in this order) Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News, The Appointment, The Sad Ultrasound, In Between Appointments and The Last Breakfast for the background on this one.

Three days after seeing #111, I was on a plane to Arizona. The trip had originally been scheduled as a quick long weekend, but now that I had no job and no boyfriend, I was thinking of staying for a while. I'd left New York's chilly 50-degree weather clad in black, arriving in Phoenix SPF-less to 100-degree noontime sun and an outdoor taco festival. My friend Julie had picked me up at the airport to head straight to the taco thing. On the way, I told her the whole story. She got it right away. Most people did. "He's not capable of an adult relationship," she said. How many times did I need to hear it in order to believe it?

That was just the beginning of my Arizona convalescence. It was the next day at the Cupcake Love-In--all-you-can-eat mini cupcakes for $10--that I decided to stay for another week and a half. But I don't think a minute went by that I didn't think about #111.

On my first night there, he emailed me to ask how I was doing, which shocked me because I had no idea if I'd even ever hear from him again and it had only been three days since I'd seen him. It didn't--and, unfortunately, did--help. "Maybe it's not done," Julie said. I hoped it wasn't. When I emailed him back the next day, he replied right away. He hadn't remembered I was going away and teased me about how of course I'd travel all the way to Arizona for cupcakes. He said he'd at first thought I'd gone away to pursue that story I'd told him I wanted to do. It was curious: He must have thought a lot of me to think I'd drop everything three days after seeing him to go travel across the country in order to write a story. Interesting. Wouldn't that have meant that he thought I had passion? I wrote back, teasing him about other things in return, but then heard nothing.

Days passed. I slept erratically, taking five hour naps in the early evening and then sleeping through the night or, otherwise, completely unable to sleep at night and then waking up early in the morning. Just as I had in New York, I'd wake up in pain and carry it around all day. Julie was like a combination babysitter/shrink. She'd pack me up in the car and drive me around on errands or listen as I went over things for the millionth time. "I just don't get it, how can someone say they're crazy about you one day and then suddenly decide they don't have strong feelings for you, I just don't get it." She was consistent and steady in every response, towing the party line: "He's not evolved...he's not capable of an adult relationship..."

On day four, we were doing errands and I knew I had a blood test scheduled for the next day in New York. Somewhere between the library and the Sprouts store, I called my doctor. I was hoping to go blood-testless, but it turned out she wanted me to get one last one and, she said, I should really do it there in Arizona. She wanted me to find a lab and go the next day. I wasn't happy: I just wanted to be done with it all. This was supposed to be some kind of getaway and here I was, being actively haunted. Plus, it would be needle #12. I was beyond done.

Julie managed to find a lab on her phone and we made a plan for the next day and went into the Sprouts store. Fired, dumped and accidentally pregnant then not pregnant, I was about to crack. I didn't want to deal with any more--certainly not needle #12. My coping skills weren't just down, they were gone. Holding a bag of grapes and yogurt-covered pretzels, I walked up to Julie and said, "I feel like I'm going to cry" and then burst into tears.

She sent me out of the store with her car keys, but I hadn't been able to pay attention to where we parked on the way in, so I stumbled over to a bench in front of the store. I pulled my hat down low so no one could see the full view, but I was a mess. Julie came out and found me a few minutes later and put me in the car. I still hadn't stopped crying and just barely breathed through my tears, "Coping...skills...down." At least that made us laugh.

Over the next week, all I could manage to do was Sun-In my hair and taste-test and rate every self-serve frozen yogurt place in the Phoenix-Scottsdale area, a task Julie and I undertook with zeal. We also did some second-hand shopping but even that was too painful an activity--going through racks of clothes required too many brain cells that were far too spent.

Almost a week went by and I hadn't heard from #111. Plagued by the idea that I hadn't been loving enough during the relationship, I felt like it was my turn to reach out--again, I still thought the breakup had something to do with me. I emailed him to check in and see how he was. I waited, painfully, for a response and, over the next 24 hours, nothing came. Finally, he replied. He responded with more of a rant than anything else and it was enlightening to read. It was totally self-absorbed, complaining about some symposium he had to put on and how he wasn't getting any recognition for it. It was whiny. It actually made me feel better. I wondered if not having emailed him would have been worse. I have a tendency to put unreachable people on pedestals. And here he was, reachable and whiny. He ended it by asking how my cupcake coma was. I replied, and, of course, heard nothing.

Diagnosis: I have photos from my and Julie's frozen-yogurt tour. We documented almost every store, but the one I loved the most (yogurt shop and photo) was from the day that I had to have that last blood test. We had gone to Sonoran Labs and a nice man took my blood and, instead of offering me a Band-Aid, offered me an armband in one of three colors: orange, tan and black. Naturally, I chose black. We went to Yogurtland after that. Julie took a photo of me with my yogurt and I held up my arm to display my armband. In the photo, I have a slight smile and look scrawny and spent--utterly exhausted. But somewhere in my tired expression, there's a sign of determination. I was barely feeling anything remotely close to strength or determination, but there it was. Everything about the photo--the arm band, the look on my face, even the gigantic cup of frozen yogurt--said, "This one's a survivor."

Mr. Unavailable #111: The Last Breakfast

To start from the beginning of the #111 story, see (in this order) Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News, The Appointment, The Sad Ultrasound and In Between Appointments for the background on this one.

I've been putting off writing this one because I knew it would be a difficult one to write (note to my nine readers: I'm writing these about one month behind because doing it in the moment was too painful). And the reason I've been putting off writing this one is because, on the morning of my last appointment, we went to breakfast and it was there that everything went so well.

I met him a little after 9 a.m. at the clinic. He was late--again. Probably to make a statement--again. I let it slide because our last few encounters had been so testy and, instead, asked him how his volunteer shift had been the week before. He launched into a story about an old East Village punk rock guy who talk-stalked him all over Housing Works. I asked him if they let him use the cash register and teased him about it, letting him go on boyishly about his thrill at the till. Seeing I was no threat, he became much more at ease. He was always most comfortable when he was telling one of his stories. It was kind of like a performance. I could tell this one would become part of his repertoire, he would keep it on hand to tell again someday, to someone else.

The doctor called us into the examining room and told us everything was looking good. She said they would never know whether the pregnancy had miscarried or been ectopic but, either way, my blood levels indicated everything was on its way back to normal--physically, anyway. I asked her about my blood type and she told me I was Rh positive, which was good news for future pregnancies, and then she asked if I had any other questions. Apparently, #111 hadn't heard that second part because when I looked over at him as I tried to conjure another question for her, he said, "Why are you looking at me? I don't know your blood type."

"She already told me," I said. "I'm trying to think of other questions."
"Oh," he said. But the moment of hostility was pungent.

Then the doctor asked me if I wanted birth control.
I didn't even pause. "Yes," I said, in a way that, to #111, I (yes, childishly) hoped, sounded more like, "Yes, definitely, I will be needing that because I'm going to be sleeping with many men very soon."

Back outside, we'd seemed to have shaken off any pettiness. I said, "So how about we go to B&H for breakfast?" He was game. I knew he would be. On the walk over I talked about Shelagh, who was off on safari and said, "You never finished telling me your safari story about the elephants." It was a story he had started on our last date--almost two weeks earlier. He'd gotten cut off because the show started and then, well, we broke up.

As we walked, he finished telling me that when they were out on the plains in the jeep, they saw elephants and he started to cry. He said he didn't know what that was about.

"It's like that time I told you about where I saw my niece," I said, recalling the story I had told him at one of our Remedy breakfasts. The story was: A few years earlier, my parents picked me up from the bus station and my niece was in the car. I hadn't seen her in three years and she was almost five, a walking, talking, thinking human. I took one look at her and started to cry.
"It's the innocence, the pureness of it," I said to #111. "It's not messed up yet. It's simply life--uncomplicated, it just is what it is."

It was a beautiful day. Fall had set in and the sun was out. We got a table inside B&H and ordered. If you've ever been to B&H, you know it's old school. It's tiny, so they cook everything behind the counter and then hand it over to you. And the tables are so close you barely have to get up to reach for anything.

We sat there for two and half hours talking. I asked him how he was doing with all of this. He said he'd only told his roommate and therapist but was just trying to keep busy so as not to get depressed. "I take pregnancy very seriously," he said and added that he was trying not to think about it too much. I told him that I'd been in reaction mode when I found out and that if it had been a viable pregnancy, I might have regretted what I'd done. "I wouldn't have let that happen," he said. "If there had been a heartbeat or anything, I would have stopped everything and said, 'OK, let's talk about this.' But the priority was to make sure you were safe and when it looked like things weren't good, that was what was important." I leaned my head to the side, resting it against the wall, looked at him and said, "It made me realize that if I ever am in a committed relationship, I would like to have a child."

We went on talking and after finishing our omelets, I asked him if he wanted to split a piece cake. As always, he was amused at my unapologetic affection for sweets, which he also joined in on, though more apologetically. So we split a piece of carrot cake. He was clearly in no rush. We talked about writing and our plans for what to write in the future. He started to be discouraging about something I said I wanted to do but then caught himself and said he thought it sounded like a great idea. "You should send it to The Atlantic or The New Yorker," he said. At least he caught himself. He hadn't always.

Sitting across from him, I was waiting for the right moment to say something else I'd wished I'd said to him but was too afraid to say while we were dating... because it was about his ex... because I was so threatened by her, by their long relationship. "I'm really sorry you suffered so much at the end of your last relationship," I said. Because the truth was, no matter how stunted or unwilling to look at himself he is, it doesn't change the fact that he was in pain. I wanted to at least acknowledge that. Even though I didn't think it would change anything with him, it was practice for the next guy who tells me how his last relationship hurt him. At least I won't have to wait until that relationship is over for me to be able to show compassion. #111 appeared to appreciate it.

I was taken by the spirit of things and said, after we discussed books and movies and writing, "I would like us to be friends. Because I think we have a few things in common." It was a friendly jab at one of his retarded breakup comments.

"I would like that. Maybe I can send you a jazz song," he jabbed back.

It began to feel like we were maxing out our breakfast time and so I got the check (which he jabbed me about, too) and we got our stuff together to go. On the sidewalk, I gave him a hug and sort of patted him on the back at the end of it--that's what I do with friends. And as I began to turn around and walk away, I saw that same look on his face that I saw the day he came over to discuss my pregnant state. Again, the "intense" look was gone. Instead, his look was curious, almost baffled--open even--as if he could have been thinking, "What just happened here?"

Diagnosis: What just happened here? I held onto that look as well as the facts of the morning: two and half hours at breakfast together and it was clear there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Two and a half hours, I kept thinking. But I had no idea when I would hear from him again or if I even ever would. I still had to let him know about the bills, but that was a bookkeeping matter, so it didn't count. Even though I'd said I wanted to be friends--and meant it in the moment--I was truly holding onto this idea that he would realize what he'd done and "snap out of it," and I wanted to believe that that look was just the beginning of his "coming to." But I should have known that--just like it had already proven to be with him--the promise of good could vanish in an instant.

Mr. Unavailable #111: In Between Appointments

To start from the beginning of the #111 story, see (in this order) Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News, The Appointment and The Sad Ultrasound for the background on this one.

My State of Mind: Allow me to briefly describe the kind of state I was in during the period between when I saw #111 for appointments: I was barely functioning. Unable to put things away or clean, my apartment was in tatters. Going outside was painful. Being at home was painful. I didn't even have the attention span to watch a movie, and certainly not to read a book. If I did attempt to watch a movie, I could only watch it on my laptop with it directly in front of me. Even then, my mind wandered, or I'd start to cry, or I'd desperately want to cry but be unable to. I was alternatingly numb and distraught, completely dried up with misery and unable to understand how he could just walk away. As I said several times during the breakup: "You didn't even give it a chance."

The Between Time: The day after the ultrasound, I was so unhinged I went to see my old therapist. I hadn't been there since January, so I had to quickly catch her up. The short of it, as I yelled then cried then yelled again: I didn't want to be done with him. She suggested that I tell him I want us to be friends as we go through this and that I was concerned about him and how he was because he was going through this, too. I have to admit: Up until this point, I and everyone I talked to was so concerned about whether or not he was treating me right (which he was and wasn't) that it never even occurred to me to see how he was doing with this accidental pregnancy thing.

My shrink asked if there was anything that I could ask him to. I mentioned the New Yorker Festival and then texted him, composing it in her office, asking him if he still wanted to go and saying I'd like it if he would come because I thought he would enjoy it. He texted me a few hours later, guardedly declining. I said I wanted to be there for him as he had been for me. He wrote back sounding a little softer but said that he wouldn't have been able to go anyway because he had taken a later shift at Housing Works. That made me feel a little calmer but I was still desperate to clear my conscience (had I been selfish?), so I asked if I could take him out for lunch to see how he was doing. He said we could talk later about that. I knew it was unlikely I would hear from him but felt better for trying.

The next night I had a horrible, admittedly twisted, realization. Lying in bed, going over the details of the breakup and subsequent pregnancy for the twelve-zillionth time, it suddenly occurred to me: Would he have stayed and tried to work on things if I'd said I wanted to have the child? I met Allison out for breakfast the next morning. "Probably," she said. Even though that would have been horribly manipulative and not at all what I really wanted, all I felt was anguish that I hadn't thought of it earlier--or, perhaps some subconscious wisdom prevailed. Either way, I had completely lost my mind. Nora had to talk me down. "I think you dodged a bullet," she said. "This is who he is. He's not capable of an adult relationship. He's not evolved."

That night, overcome with massive abdominal pain and all of its bloody details, the reality of the situation hit. I had never felt a maternal urge, but an unfamiliar regret was bubbling to the surface. I felt awful. Curled up in bed in physical agony (welcome relief from the relentless emotional kind), I was glad that the pregnancy was never viable because if ending it had been my decision, I may have regretted it.

I felt like he should know what was going on and emailed from my phone, underneath my covers, to tell him. He called me about an hour later to ask if I was OK. At that point, I was delirious but said I was OK (Heidi later told me they usually give out prescription painkillers for this sort of thing).
"I think it's getting better," I said. Then I asked him how he was.
"I'm OK," he said. "Just doing laundry."

"Strong" #111 was back. He asked when my next appointment was and I said maybe I could take him out for breakfast after. He said we could talk about it later. I knew that for him--being "strong" and all--not saying "no" meant "yes."

I figured I wouldn't hear from him until just before Wednesday, but he surprised me by emailing me Monday night to see how I was doing. I asked how he was and he said he was keeping busy, which, for him, was revealing. The night before the appointment, I was on edge. My shrink had recommended we just talk about "all the things we don't have in common"--in reference to the ridiculous statement he'd made the week before about us not having anything in common. But I also needed to ease my mind, say some things I should have said months before. I wanted him to see why we'd been together in the first place, thinking it would make a difference, still thinking the breakup had something to do with me.

Diagnosis: For him: The open, vulnerable #111 that I witnessed for about 30 minutes the week before is gone again but...
For me: ...I keep believing the open, vulnerable #111 will return. I saw it, it exists. Otherwise, in even thinking to use the pregnancy in an effort to keep him around was a low point, one to which I hope I never return. I'm just glad I didn't think to act on it when it would have mattered. Between that and the state I'm in, clearly, I have lost my mind.

Mr. Unavailable #111: The Sad Ultrasound

See Could it Be?, It's Not Him, It's Me, The Recovery, We're Just Not That Into Each Other, The Continuation, The Curse is Broken, Unfortunately, The Make-Up Date, The Phone Call, The Negotiation, Dates 9 Through 12, Dates 13 Through 15, The Public Sex Talk, Bridging the Chasm, The Shut Down, All Kinds of Good, Meeting the Friends, Part 2, Hamptons Getaway, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Happy Birthday to Me, The Drunken Text, Jeckyl and Hyde, The Layoff, One-Man Show, A Boy in Man's Clothing, The Doctors Visit, Giving Him the News and The Appointment for the background on this one.

Just one day after the door incident, I had an appointment at NYU for a more detailed ultrasound in the ongoing hunt for the missing embryo that could kill me. #111 had replied to my email the day before saying he'd still like to go to my next appointment with me, so I told him where and when. He was 15 minutes late--and he was never late, so, clearly, he was making a statement. He didn't apologize or anything when he walked in. I had gone to The Strand that morning and was reading an E.L. Doctorow novel in preparation for a New Yorker Festival panel discussion the next day--a discussion featuring Doctorow, Annie Proulx and Peter Carey that I had originally gotten the two of us tickets for. Clearly, I was making a statement, too.

We had nothing to say to each other. I started to put my book away and he said, "You can keep reading if you want to." So I did, and he got out his cell phone and was laughing as he texted or emailed someone, which bothered me to no end because, naturally, it made me wonder who was on the other end.

Finally, they called us into the examining room and I got undressed and up on the table. I learned from the day before to throw vanity out the window. The first technician came in and did one ultrasound. Again, it hurt--not only from pain but also from fear and #111, who was sitting in a chair next to me, put one arm over the top of my head and held my hand with the other. I squeezed his hand harder every time the technician hit a sensitive spot, digging my nails in just a little bit for my own gratification.

When the technician finished, she said it looked like it was in the cervix, which was a very bad place for it to be. "They did the right thing yesterday in giving you the pill and injection," she said. "They did a very good thing." When she left to get the doctor, I said to #111, "It's ironic that I don't even think I want a kid and this one could have killed me."

Then the doctor came in--an older doctor with a poor bedside manner who was not shy about jamming the ultrasound wand in. More hand squeezing, more nail digging. He had a more tempered diagnosis and told us that it may have miscarried on its own and been on its way out by the time they gave me the drug. "But we'll never know for sure," he said. "Either way, you're fine. This kind of thing happens all the time. With the next one, there will be no problem." That was the twenty-zillionth painful layer to this whole scenario: Everyone we came into contact with didn't know we weren't together.

On our way out, #111 said he was getting a bagel and asked if I wanted to get one, too. "Ess-a-Bagel?" I asked. That was the plan, he said. Sadly, we were always on the same page. It was raining a little and we walked together downtown. The conversation was light--this movie, that movie, Guy-Ritchie-is-a-one-trick-pony, oh-isn't-the-Ess-a-Bagel-decor interesting, teasing me about losing my keys... that sort of thing. Back outside, we were going in different directions, so we gave each other a sad little hug in the rain.

Diagnosis: Sad. Just sad.