No Yanky My Wanky

A year or two ago, while dabbling with eHarmony, I was matched with an Asian orphan. He was born in Japan but moved to the states sometime in his childhood. His parents passed away either before, during or immediately following college. The specifics are foggy. What I do remember is what he did for a living, the details clarified when we finally spoke on the phone.

“I’m B.D. Wong’s stunt double on Law & Order,” he proudly announced.

“So, if a character throws a chair at B.D. Wong, it’s the back of your head I see in the shot?” I asked, the duh-DUH noise from the television show echoing in my head.

“Yup. And I also stand in when they’re doing lighting checks.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said as I swallowed down my giggles.

I never let anything develop with B.D. Wong’s stunt double. Twice he called me while the Phillies were in the midst of a post-season series. Twice I told him the game was on. And twice he ignored my comment and continued to converse as if what I really said was, “Let me turn off the television so we can talk.” While I am in no way a hardcore baseball fan, a fact proven by me repeatedly calling Ryan Howard (the black first baseman) Ron Howard (Opie), I do take the post-season quite seriously.

Wonger’s stunt double also had an issue with boundaries. When I politely declined, he continued to contact me. And later, when his phone repeatedly called mine at hours reserved for vampires and delinquents, he refused to delete my number. I’d ask him to get rid of my contact information he’d propose we speak on the phone. It was all very similar to the conversations I have with my dad where I ask him where he went to dinner and he tells me who won America’s Got Talent.

Continuing on the boundary front, Faux Wong googled my email address, found this here blog and then made the mistake of thinking he actually knew me. Yes, I write openly here. Yes, strangers are invited to peer into my life. However, I had never mentioned my blog to him because I have learned it can initially create an imbalance of information. The potential creep factor was magnified when he started referencing things that he could have only known by pouring over my blog for hours on end. And according to Statcounter, he did that often.

Independent of the other, each thing I just noted would be enough to leave one unsettled. Combined, I had reason to research the Witness Protection Program. Ding Dong Wong finally got the hint when I sent a 10-word text with eight of the words being a version of fuck. First he reprimanded me for having poor manners. Then he finally fell silent. Mission accomplished, or so I thought.

This past weekend, as I scurried between commitments, I got an email from B.D. Wong’s stunt double. I didn’t realize this at first. It required searching my inbox for old emails, emails I likely held onto in case I needed evidence to support a restraining order.

True to form, he had read my blog. Truer to form, he took what he read as an invitation to personally communicate with me, as if my most recent post was a plea for him to save me from the dating scene. I set the email aside and pondered a course of action.

On the one hand, I could respond. Various brilliant and snarky comments did cross my mind. But I feared he would interpret any communication on my part as a desire to engage. And that? That wouldn’t work. Ultimately, I decided to address the matter here.

Perhaps making his ridiculousness public would send a signal. Perhaps the comments by other readers would enlighten him as to how inappropriate his behavior has been. Then again, maybe none of that would happen. If I have learned one thing in life, it is rare you get what you want.

Regardless of how he responds, the preference being not all, at least my readers had a good laugh. Or, like, all of my readers but one.

A Spade

Around once a year I have a momentary lapse in reason and sign up for JDate. Yes, that JDate: the dating site where bald men with hairy backs hunt for Jewish women who prefer manicures to manual labor. I know, I know (hangs head in shame).

Going into it, I decided to only reach out to boys in Philadelphia, DC and NYC. I included the other cities because, while the guys in Philly can be nice, I have found I don't really connect well with them. The term 'the shore' makes my gag reflex engage and I struggle to grasp a man's need to wear a pro-team's jersey to a bar. By the way, have you ever noticed that most of those men would have an asthma attack just running from the sofa to the fridge?

Anyway, while I have geographical limits in place, men from beyond the noted area have been reaching out. Specifically, there was a guy in Scottsdale. I cautiously shelved concerns because I liked his smile and, well, it seemed he liked me. Yes, my JDate standards are exactly that shallow.

"So do you read?" I asked when we finally spoke on the phone earlier this week, me in my car and him in his office.

"Of course I read," he said with a chuckle.

"Great! So what should I add to my summer reading list?"

He fell quiet, so quiet I thought the call had dropped. Then he started to talk. "I mean, like, I mostly read stuff on the internet."

"Oh, no worries," I said. In all seriousness, I wasn't trying to trip him up. It was a genuine attempt to find some good books to add to my list. Unfortunately, 'stuff on the internet' wasn't what I had in mind.

"Are you planning any trips?" he asked.

"Actually, I'm trying to sort out two weeks in Asia."

"Really?" he questioned in disbelief.

"Yup! China, Tibet and Nepal. How about you?"

"I'm probably going to Vegas next month with the guys. Isn't Vegas great?" His excitement was on par with my reaction to funnel cake or Prada shoes on sale.

"Um, I've never been to Vegas, the Olive Garden or on a cruise ship. If all goes well, this will be true until the day I die."

"No, you need to go to Vegas. You'd love it!"

"Anyway" I started, knowing travel was a dead end topic, "are you religious?"

It was a valid question; we had met via a Jewish dating site and I don't practice the religion. Well, I don't practice beyond saying 'oy' and every so often indulging in a toasted sesame bagel topped with lox, a shmear and Swiss. If this guy kept kosher or spent every Friday night and Saturday observing the sabbath, I wouldn't be interested. That lifestyle just isn't for me.

"No," he said without pause.

"Do you believe in god?" I asked.

"No, but I am very spiritual."

"That make no sense," I pointed out before he went off on some inane argument about how, if you meditate and do not believe in god, you are spiritual. At which point I realized that this guy owning two cats was the least of his problems.

"So when do you want to meet in Chicago?" he asked. "It would be such a great time!"

No, really, dude, are you not partaking in this conversation with me? Do you not see we have nothing in common? Not. A. Thing. I was sitting in my car, staring at a green light and wondered how to run away when I wasn't even near the guy. Luckily, before I had to respond, he said he needed to take another call.

At the end of the day, I can work with some conflicts. I was willing to ignore the fact that he had this weird breathing pattern that sounded like he was on a trach. And I'm guessing he'd be tolerant of the fact that when I sleep on my back, sometimes I snore. All successful relationships, romantic and otherwise, require compromise and acceptance. But I want to be with someone who enjoys exploring foreign cultures, finds pleasure in a beautifully crafted sentence, and would rather go to the real Paris than the make-believe one in Vegas.

Drop and Give Me Twenty

The other day I was doing laundry and I caught my reflection in the glass panel of the front-loading washing machine. My calves and knees had exactly the shape and tone I had always aspired to have. I paused, I posed, and I admired this unexpected representation of self. Then, not believing my eyes, I moved closer and dragged my fingertips across the glass. It had to be concave or angled. There was no other explanation. Except it was perfectly flat.

A few days later, after cocktails at a rooftop bar, I slipped off to the ladies room to freshen up. I washed my hands and checked my mascara in the mirror. Then, as I walked toward the door to leave, I saw myself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. I was squat and plump. Hands down, the image staring back at me was worse than any version I have ever created in my head. And we all know that is one of my greatest strengths.

“Either the mirror in that bathroom is screwy or I’m no taller than a lawn gnome,” I announced to my friends when I rejoined them in the bar.

“She’ll have another Caipirinha,” Joe signaled to the waiter.

If there’s one place where none of this matters, it’s the gym. Except this makes absolutely no sense seeing the gym involves form-fitting attire that prevents me from hiding things like thighs that touch and cellulite that dimples said thighs. At the gym, I sweat to the point I look like I was caught in a torrential downpour. No really, I can squeeze water out of my ponytail when I am finished. And, to make matters worse, I sweat from my kneecaps. My kneecaps!

For the last few months, I have been working out four times a week with each visit lasting no less than ninety minutes. Sometimes, when I am cranky or don’t have any place else to be, my session will last two hours. Once a week my workout includes a trainer who coaxes me to finish the last few crunches and cheers me on as I finish my eightieth seated squat. The other visits are spent fighting my inner voice that yelps, “I can’t” whenever I near the end of a set.

I didn’t join my current gym to slim down to a size two or to reduce my junky trunk. Though there are a ridiculous number of treadmills and random douchebags prancing around in Boston Marathon t-shirts, I don’t aspire to train for a race. It’d be nice to accomplish all of those things, but I know that setting any goals will only result in a sense of failure. People, I’m the girl who spent three hours in the fetal position after the Weight Watchers wench told me I had only lost two pounds. It should have been more, I cried as a buried my head in a pillow and vowed to never eat anything ever again.

On the outside, I go to the gym because it’s the right thing to do. On the inside, I go to the gym because I feel like I have less right to beat myself up about my appearance if I’m at least doing something physical. It’s really that simple. Plus, it’s a far better answer than sitting on my sofa with a sheet cake on my lap, a fork in my hand and icing smeared across my chin. Trust me.

“Looking good,” my trainer said as I passed him en route to the eliptical machine that, if I look a certain way, makes me seasick.

“Hard work’s paying off,” another trainer noted when I finished a ten minute slurp fest at the water fountain. “Plus, you walk around here with a lot more confidence,” he added.

Both compliments made me smile, if not cry (in a good way). I realize some people might need a goal to work toward. In some instances, I do too. An endpoint allows you to plot out the best path. You can’t figure out how to get somewhere if you don’t know where you’re going. But when it comes to the gym, an established goal is merely an opportunity for me to fail. Though based on what people are saying, it turns out I can still succeed.