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?"
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
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...
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...
Sunday, October 31, 2010
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."
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.
#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.
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.
Friday, October 29, 2010
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...
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...
Friday, October 22, 2010
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."
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."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)