Dig Deep

Late last year, I found myself hanging out with two completely different girlfriends. One is super type-A, striving for a promotion at work while juggling a young child and a husband. The other is more driven by spiritual revelation, finding contentment with meditation, prayer candles, and raw organic food. I fall somewhere between the two.

"Oh no, don't cry!" I pleaded to the type-A friend who was buckling under the pressure of trying to have it all.

"No, cry!" the spiritual friend interjected. "Let it out.  If you keep it in, you can't face that feeling."

I leaned back into the pillows, adjusted my view, and took in what I'd just heard.

I'd spent my entire life controlling my feelings. It was a skill developed as a kid. Crying over my mother suggesting a diet, proposing Phen-Fen, offering liposuction, was a sign of weakness. Instead I learned to lead with a tightened jaw and rationalization. Instead I excused the hurt by arguing good intentions with terrible delivery. And then, while by myself, I satisfied my angst with Double Stuffed Oreos hidden in my desk drawer.

"I hope you end up with someone who really appreciates you.  You totally deserve that," E said to me a few months ago via Gchat.

I looked at the screen, read the words, and didn't know how to respond. Because my instinct was to return the gesture. The polite response was to compliment him back. And the problem wasn't that I wished him something wretched like a horrible future. I save that sentiment for the asshats who leave their carts diagonal in the aisles of Wholefoods. But I was still too raw and hurt, angry and disappointed. For once I didn't have it in me to push down my own feelings so as to protect someone else's.

"I get the sense you think I'm a monster," E said a few days later. "There were lots of good times too, you know."

"I don't wish you ill will," I began, trying to get my footing with the expression of emotions. "But, yes, right now I hate you."

Sure, spending a long weekend in Philly with E, introducing him to Dinic's famous sandwich - roasted pork, provolone, and broccoli rabe - was ridiculously fun. Standing before works of art at the Barnes Foundation, traipsing back through for a second round after pointing out which pieces we each loved the most, is a really lovely memory. That was already established. Now I was addressing the ways he had hidden our relationship, failing to admit he was spending time with me. Now I was reacting to the times he walked out on me, leaving me alone on a Saturday night. I needed to sit with the way that made me feel. I needed to let that hurt and anger bubble up.

I'm sure E didn't like hearing what I had to say. I know, without question, he couldn't grasp why it was taking me so long to move off that emotion. That didn't matter. Confidently I held onto my need to work through these feelings. For once I was going to be selfish with my emotions. I was going to embrace the fact I had them, experience the way they felt, and allow myself to learn and grow from it all.

My old therapist once noted that people don't stay in the same place forever.  Eventually you move forward or backward; you don't remain still. In the last few weeks, I've come to peace with a lot of things. There are some ridiculous situations at work. Realizing they are beyond my control, I've made a good faith effort to release myself of the anger, frustration and disappointment that these debacles rightfully warrant. And I've also come to peace with E. I have come out the other side both wiser and happier. I have reached a point where I've replaced that sense of anger with a sense of calm.  Better yet, I hadn't even realized I had gotten here. So distracted by my attempt at growth, my desire to learn from my past (and leave it there), I was already living in my future.

Sixth Sense

Leslie stopped by today with lunch. After traveling for two weeks straight, my refrigerator contained ketchup, an onion, and a package of Jarlsberg Lite. Not even McGuyver could have fashioned a meal out of those ingredients.

When we finished eating, Leslie suggested we run over to Old Navy. They were doing a promo on t-shirts, a staple of my summertime wardrobe. Plus, I had done work over the weekend and was ready for a break.

"I don't want to sound crazy but there is a tightness in my chest," I said as I pressed my palm to my throat and inhaled a deep breath. "And I think I might cry." I turned my gaze up to fight back tears.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know," I replied, knowing it was a ridiculous answer.  "Maybe it has to do with E? Like, I feel like I let him down about things," I added, grasping at straws as I attempted to wrap words around the angst bubbling up from within.

There was more I could have said.  Like I didn't admit that the previous night I had emailed E. It was a brief note after months of quiet at my end. But for some reason, I felt the need to wish him good luck with the Boston Marathon. I also failed to admit I had tracked his finish while working at my desk, toggling between a conference call, the live-feed, and the runner-tracker. I left that all out because I couldn't handle judgment while attempting to manage unexplained fear.

"That isn't normal, Paige. I really think you should talk to someone. You in no way should feel guilty."

"I think I'm going to go to the gym," I said as we left Old Navy. "Maybe that will help me calm down."

There on the screen was live breaking news about bombs at the marathon. I was startled by the video capturing the blast. I was relieved that the clock above the finish line noted a time almost ninety minutes after E had crossed. And I was in awe of the people whose instinct it was to sprint toward the blast, quickly maneuvering to aid those who were injured. I was running on the treadmill and still felt paralyzed, both by the news and the fact that my panic attack aligned perfectly with the timing of the blasts.

E never wrote back. You may not believe this but I didn't send it with the hopes of a response. It just felt like the right thing to do in the moment, so I did it. Someone asked me if I've checked in with him since the blast, and I have not. This is his day and I don't want to intrude any more than I already have.

When I left the gym, I couldn't go home. I called Leslie who, like me, was rattled by my sixth sense, something that I had run into twice with Alaska. Then I drove up the street to a store that sells crystals.  With sweat on my brow and damp workout attire, I stood before candles and sage. I ran my fingers across Buddah sculptures and polished crystals. And for the first time in hours, I felt calm. Just like the panic, I couldn't explain it.  Something beyond my control let me exhale. The difference is this time I welcomed the feeling.

Forty Down

Two weeks ago, I learned my manager had nominated me for a District Trainer position.  This meant a salary increase and a title change, both of which would open the door for greater opportunities in the weeks and months to come.  The new position is proof that working hard and rising above the drama can still reap deserved rewards.

Saturday night, after working the entire day, I headed out with Leslie.  We enjoyed a relaxing dinner at Tamarind Seed, a Thai restaurant that proves delicious ethnic cuisine does exist south of the Mason/Dixon.  We then crossed the street to hear Rachel Maddow speak.  Her words were humble and intelligent, savvy and accessible.  I left reminded that, regardless of your political stance, the best opinions are informed ones.

Yesterday Leslie surprised me with a massage. The muscle kneading was followed up by lunch at Cardamom Hill, a local eatery that has been recognized (deservedly so) by James Beard. Because apparently a mani/pedi the previous day wasn't enough of an indulgence, my paws all sparkly and groomed.  For twenty-four hours, I pretended to be a lady who lunched (and loved every minute of it).

This morning, following a late night of an Eric Clapton concert, I awakened to Anders and Olivia singing me happy birthday while Leslie held a plate with a Boston cream donut.  A single candle was stabbed in the middle with a small flame glittering in the darkness of early morning.  Barley even shuffled from his sleep to chime in.

Tonight, after a long and frustrating day of working, I closed up my computer and went up the street to enjoy some tacos.  Seated with my family, sipping a frozen margarita topped with sangria, I exhaled.  I finally stopped to pause and enjoy the day.  There was conversation to be had, food to be eaten, and an loud Mexican ensemble singing Happy Birthday so loud I couldn't help but shrink into the booth and blush.

In between it all, friends and family, people who know me well and only know me from afar, took time out of their day to send along birthday wishes.  I received an email from a friend who is a dive master in Thailand.  I received a card from a close college friend who has had to work seven days a week to make things come together.  There were text messages and Facebook updates, all from people hitting pause for a few moments if only to make my day special.

Tomorrow I'm grabbing a flight to Philadelphia.  I will need to work but when I land, I will be greeted by my good friend Joe who has promised to keep the Champagne O'ramas flowing well into the night. Saturday I will meet up with more friends and family members.  Sunday I will celebrate Easter, a tradition this Jewish gal excitedly embraces.  If all goes well, I will sneak over to the Barnes on Monday before grabbing a Chicago-bound flight for work.

I didn't go into this week with any expectations.  To me, age is just a number.  I know plenty of immature fifty-something men and stick-in-the-mud twenty-something women.  Instead, I see turning forty as an opportunity to take stock. In the last year, I've spent a tremendous amount of time trying to become a better woman. Sometimes the result is success.  Other times I'm a clumsy mess with a funky cowlick on the back of my head.  At least I'm trying.  Though it does help to have loved ones cheering you on, picking you up, and embracing you no matter what.  These people also make turning forty pretty darn spectacular.

You Can't Buy a Porsche With a Roll of Quarters

"I'm famished," my most recent date noted as he glanced at the last bite of mushroom terrine situated between us, one of two small-plates meant to pair with our drinks, not represent a meal.

"Yours. All yours," I said with a nod and a smile before enjoying a sip of my Tempranillo.

"Fine. But once I settle up, we're walking across the parking lot to enjoy something more substantial. I insist."

We closed the second place down. That was last Thursday. No future plans have been made, though there have been hints. Tonight he even rang to propose spontaneity and margaritas.  It was already half past nine o'clock. Tomorrow morning I set off for a three-day work adventure taking me to parts of the south where two-star hotels dot the horizon.  I declined out of common sense and self-worth.

"Why can't most men bring their A-game any more?" I asked a guy friend.

"Because when we do, you freak out and say we're creepy or aggressive. You say we're spineless and smothering you and then you push us away."

He had a point. Or a point were he speaking to my younger self. Those were the days before texting and Match.com. The days where you ran with a crowd, met friends of friends, and were blindly drawn to men who fit your yet-to-be-dissected-and-analyzed disfunction. But that didn't make me accept his argument just yet.

"Wait, so you're saying that when a caveman would go out to hunt and got charged by a buffalo, he'd come home, throw his spear down and announce, 'Today we become vegans?'"

"Sure. Yes," he replied.

He did agree with one opinion. I said I had a belief: I will treat you like a king but I expect to be treated like a queen.

"No, on that you're right. Men these days don't know how to treat a woman like a queen."

This is why, after cooking E dinner for months, lavish meals of ceviche and Chicken Marbella, I had to ask him to take the trash out, ask him to help me with the dishes. The same thing happened with Ex, except he fought back arguing he liked being taken care of. And with both men, I happily folded the clean laundry they curiously tossed on the dirty floor. I made the bed in the morning out of personal habit, E once claiming it as his own effort when his mother praised the improved state of his bedroom. In summary, I was nothing more than an unappreciated nanny who put out.

"Did you ever hear from that baseball player guy?" Leslie asked earlier this week.

"Actually, no.  Which is odd considering he texted to make sure I got home, said my kiss was fantastic and even asked my real last name so he could update it in his phone. Oh, whatever."

But it wasn't a cranky whatever. Unlike my younger self, I'm not taking any of this personally. And I refuse to be bitter. I will not, under any circumstances, reference my age or my married friends or the lack of good men. There are plenty of good men. Age with women is like age with wine, we only get better. Plus, there are very few marriages I look at and aspire to one day have.

For the first time, perhaps ever, I welcome the relationship stalling out before it can begin. This, I think, this limits the amount of time wasted with the wrong man. If I chase him, if I pine for him, then what?  I want a man who shows his appreciation of my cooking, who embraces my need to board a plane in Zone 1, and randomly brings me flowers because he loves seeing my face light up.

Maybe E's dating advice of 'Supply and Demand' is valid.  There aren't many women out there like me.  I'm part Julia Child, part literary genius. I can talk politics just as easily as I can discuss any Real Housewives franchise. People, my backhand is stronger than my forehand. So if I'm this unique, this rare of a commodity, the markets would dictate my value is high.  No, correction, exceptionally high.

I'm a Porsche 911 Black Edition. A first print edition of Where the Wild Things Are. A pour of Glenfiddich aged twenty-one years.  And yes, sometimes a piece of homemade parmesan kale chips will wedge itself between two teeth in a way that might challenge my worth. I will talk and laugh and have no clue about that dark green super-food marring my appearance. However, one could feasibly argue this human quality, and appreciation for leafy greens, only makes me cuter.

The Time I Went Out With a Local Man Looking for a Long Distance Relationship

A few years ago, I was sitting on my old therapist's sofa, running my fingertips across the purple velvet cushions, when she said, "He's never going to marry you."

She craned her neck the same way a parent does when trying to make eye contact with a petulant child.  I continued to stroke the couch, focus my gaze on the nap and enjoy the ability to change the tone by moving my hand in the opposite direction.

"He lives in Alaska for a reason.  Also, Paige, the issue isn't you.  He will never end up with anyone.  He's a commitment-phobe."

Listen, it isn't that she was saying something crazy.  There were plenty of hints and signs throughout the years.  I just chose to ignore them, instead focusing on the few times he gave me hope. Perhaps I was finally so worn down from the back and forth that I was ready to hear this.  Maybe she just knew how to deliver the message.  Either way, I finally cut ties with Alaska.

"It's so nice dating someone local," I said to Leslie over the summer, my relationship with E only a few weeks in.  "Like, how novel to be able to randomly grab pizza with your boyfriend on a Tuesday night!"

"I think you were okay with Alaska because it protected you from dealing with a true relationship, something you just weren't ready to handle."

She was totally right.  Except until that moment, I had never seen my part in that waltz.  Not that I claimed I was an innocent victim.  I did, after all, lace up my shoes and happily step onto the dance floor.  But suddenly I saw how my own personal crap had driven my fate.

Last night I went out on a date.  There was a little hesitation on my end.  Something about his fondness for cruises and casinos that I couldn't connect with.  But I showed up with an open mind.  Oh, and also a forgetful one because I had to rifle through emails while idling in the parking lot because I had forgotten his name.

"Oh, I love New York!" he said when I mentioned the US Open.  "Do you go there often?"

"I used to when I lived in Philly.  You?" I asked before taking a sip of my cocktail.

"Yeah, I used to date a woman there.  For four years."

"Wow, that's a long stretch for long distance," I noted, internally recognizing the irony of those words exiting my mouth.

"Sure, but it worked for me," he explained.

"Why, because you're a commitment-phobe?" I asked with a chuckle.

He paused for a moment, tilted his head to the side and then said, "Huh, I guess I kinda am."

There it was, his moment of realization.  It's as if I had held up a mirror, revealing something he had never seen. Though, in all honesty, I stated the question in a joking manner.  I had never anticipated that he'd avert his gaze, focus on his drink.  That curious quiet between us? I shattered it by tossing my head back and laughing.  I laughed and laughed, doubled over at the irony of sitting next to a man I met on a dating website, a man who just admitted he's a commitment-phobe.

"Wait, why is this funny?" he asked.  "I'm just being honest.  Isn't honesty an admirable trait?"

And then it was gone.  He wasn't ready to see his part in his destiny.  He was there and then he wasn't, quick to defend himself and explain things away.  And that's all fine and good.  I've been there.  You have to really want to change in order to see it through. Exhibit A: my relationship with Alaska that ran years past its expiration date. He wasn't at a point to truly see things for what they were.  The difference between us was that I was.

"Thanks for the drink," I said as we stood in the parking lot.

"Of course," he replied.

They were generic pleasantries shared between two people that would never cross paths again.  On the upside, it was a reality we both embraced and welcomed, each of us turning on our heels and heading off in opposite directions.

Sometimes You Just Need to Shut It

Sometime in early fall, after E and I had broken up for the second or third time, Leslie called to share her thoughts.  She questioned us spending so much time together when we were broken up.  She expressed frustration that I was okay with half of a relationship.  And she just wouldn't relent.

"I get it.  You don't like what's going on," I said, my voice firm and my fist clenched.

She pushed a little more, so intent on what she needed to say that she had no ability to hear me speak.

"Seriously, I get it.  Now stop.  I don't know what the hell pissed you off today but I'm not in a mood to be on the receiving end of this.  I'll think about it.  Now shut the fuck up!"

After my dad fell, double brain trauma landing him a cozy corner room at a rehab hospital, my mom and I sorted through how to let him know he would never be driving again.  This, we thought, this would be the perfect time to break the news.  We discussed the best approach and I won the coin toss on delivering the decision.

"Mom and I think it would be best that you focus on walking again and shelve the driving thing until you're all healed." I left out the part about us asking his neurologist to reinforce this idea.

"Oh, I'll be fine," he said as he took a sip of some Cherry Coke.  "Pass me a Peep!"

The other day, E caught me online.  He said hello and I responded.  He noted he didn't treat me well on a few ocassions, my reply being a simple, I agree. The rest is a little bit of a blur.  I know at one point he said he cared about me, emphasizing 'a lot' at the close by repeating it.  There may or may not have been mention of the woman he has been dating, the woman he met around two or so weeks after I instituted a 90-day break, something to help provide clarity.  And then there were a slew of dating suggestions.

"Never ever let a man treat you like that again."

"Some things, parts of your past, should never ever be shared, not even with your boyfriend."

Caught up in the moment, I responded.  I noted the irony of a man who moments early acknowledged mistreating me giving me advice to never tolerate being mistreated.  I pointed out that when you love someone, truly love them, you embrace them and their random bad decisions littering their past.  I engaged, often times laughing as I typed, until he said something about why I am single or maybe never married.  To be honest, I couldn't quite wrap my head around the statement.

"It's about supply and demand."

It isn't a complex sentence but it does carry various messages, none of which are supportive, thoughtful or caring.  They are words that lack heart, empathy, warmth.  And they are words spoken by a man who just prior noted caring about me, wanting the best for me.  I had been reduced to a business plan and a rather insulting one at that.  Worse yet, it was unsolicited advice, his need to speak far outweighing any concern about what I needed to hear.

A few hours after I snapped at Leslie back in the fall, she sent a three-part text message apologizing for taking some personal frustration out on me.  My father, we've let him continue on with his life, a life filled with tennis lessons and line dancing extravaganzas, realizing that he can't take a driving test without hitching a ride from one of us.  And as for E, the following day he saw me online and apologized for being blunt.

"Okay," I replied.

He accused me of being vague.  He wanted me to clarify the tone, good or bad, attached to a four letter word on his monitor.  I didn't have it in me to explain or go deeper.  It would require too much energy to organize my thoughts and deliver them in a clear manner, energy better spent on a work crisis amongst other things.  More importantly, I wasn't all that confident he'd hear what I had to say. So alas, I chose to say nothing.

How You Get From Here to There

Glance in the rear-view mirror, but don't linger for a long stare. Catch a glimpse of what's behind you, knowing with every mile-marker it gets further and further away.  Don't get so distracted by what you see that you lose your way.  Turning back to the present, focusing your eyes on the future, should never be jarring.

Keep your hands on the wheel.  A pothole could rattle the tire, tug you off course.  That small slick of water could be deeper than you ever expected and leave you gliding above the ground.  Don't white knuckle it but don't get cocky and think you always have it all under control.  You don't.

Move at a comfortable speed, fast enough to enjoy the journey but not so fast that everything whirs by in a blur.  Crack the window to smell the snow pelting your windshield.  Soak in the full moon so low it almost sits on the horizon.  Smile at the tired trucker on his tenth straight hour moving oranges to Walmart, desk chairs to Ikea, pens to Staples.

Be patient.  There will be obstacles like heavy rainstorms that will erase the lines.  Worse yet, there will be times you're at a complete standstill, a sea of brake lights before you.  Remain calm.  Exhale that you are safe.  Turn up the volume and sing louder to My Dear, Sweet Nothing, Funky Kingston.  Shrug at the drivers behind you who grumpily slam their fists against the steering wheel.

Listen, leaning on the horn never made a traffic jam untangle itself.  Just as the person on the phone, the one dangerously drifting between lanes, is perhaps receiving tragic news.  And anyway, it wasn't my fault the coin machine at the toll plaza ate two of my quarters but only registered one, leaving me to dig through my purse at the last minute in an attempt to scrape together two dimes and one last nickel.  Be empathetic.  It makes us all better human beings.

But for as useless as rage can be, as selfish and unproductive the results, I'll admit that sometimes it feels good to raise your right hand and flip off the person who is riding your ass from behind, high-beams blinding you as they bounce off the rear-view mirror. You glance through a squint, raise your hand and extend your middle finger, the glare curving around your gesture.

"Asshole," you mutter.

As traffic clears, as you inch your way forward, first by lifting your foot off the brake and next by slowly stepping on the gas, glance one last time in your rear-view mirror.  See the assholes that wronged you, the experiences that shaped you, and the love that surrounded you.  Be reminded of the moments you hope to live again.  Laugh at the ones that you hope to never experience more than once.

Then turn your attention back to the open road before you, a stretch of macadam destined to contain everything you aspire to experience and many things you could have never dreamed for yourself. Turn up the radio. Accelerate through turns. Enjoy the moment.  Be excited for what is just around the bend.

Bahbah Wants A Binky

"Mmmm," I moaned as I chomped into a crispy celery stick.  "It tastes just like a hot fudge sundae!"

"I know, right?" Leslie said as she plucked another piece out of the Ziploc on my lap and pulled off the highway.

We were officially a few days into Weight Watchers, signing up together with the hopes that, as a united front, we could kick some pounds to the curb once and for all.

"I want a sundae!" Anders excitedly said from the backseat, the boy completely confused and speechless when I passed back some celery. 

I'm not going to lie, the first week of any lifestyle change can be rocky. Suddenly power foods like quinoa, edamame and avocado are the work of the devil.  Gone are Sunday morning trips to Goldberg's for toasted bagels topped with a shmear and nova.  Don't even get me started on the paralysis that sets in when you have to find sustenance in an airport.

After a week of egg-white breakfasts, carrot stick snacks and fat-free cheese that curiously does melt at high heats, I stepped on the scale.  I was nervous and anxious and just about exploded when the woman told me I was down 6.8lb.  There was no turning back now.

The weeks that followed presented losses only fractions of a pound, something that would have previously led me to a fit of tears and the fetal position. But with Leslie repeatedly praising me for moving the scale in the right direction, I decided to cheer myself on instead of beat myself up.

"That's really good," I whispered to the woman eyeing the low-fat brownie mix in aisle two of my local Trader Joe's.

"Oh, yeah? I'm on Weight Watchers," the woman replied.

"Me too! Those are three points a piece and freeze well. But this applesauce is zero points because it doesn't have anything but fruit," I said as I piled a few boxes into my hand-basket.

Those applesauce packets, the ones where you can twist off a cap and suck out the contents, have saved me from epic failure.  I eat them while running errands on a Saturday, the sweetness tying me over without having to test temptation at Starbucks.  I eat them as I run over to the gym , the caloric content just enough to get me going.

"I saw these blended fruit packets at Publix and grabbed some for you," Leslie said when she stopped by my place yesterday.  "They have really cool flavors like peas/kale/apple."

That three-ingredient description totally sounds like one of the flavors you can order at the Wholefoods juice counter.  But when I spotted an illustration of Peter Rabbit on the packaging, I sensed something was not quite right.

"I think that's baby food....."

"No, no.  It was by the applesauce.  Those blended fruits and veggie things are really popular.  And Kale is so good for you!"

I picked up the peaches/mango/banana packet and turned it over.  Quietly to myself, I read the back.  Then aloud.

"Great for growing babies."

"It was by the applesauce, I swear!" Leslie insisted as she laughed.  "Here, I'll take it back," she added with outstretched hands.

"Oh what the heck," I said as I gathered the packages and tossed them in my fruit basket alongside bananas, clementines and Trader Joe's applesauce.  Then I went to my refrigerator.

"I was going to make kale chips.  Want some?" I asked as I pulled two bunches of organic Kale from the veggie drawer and shredded Parmesan from the shelf.  "It's just like cotton candy!"

What Would Yolanda Do?

"You totally deserve better than this," I said to a friend after she told me her beau had ditched her last minute to grab drinks with friends, ignoring the fact she had cooked him a gourmet dinner.

"You totally deserve better than this," I said to a friend when she rang me from her job, her spirit destroyed by a manager who was thorny and self-serving and most certainly a candidate for medication.

It's always easier to stick up for your friends and it has nothing to do with being biased.  Wrong is wrong.  It's just so much harder to decipher it when you're in the middle of things.  It's like walking up to a piece of art, pressing your nose to the canvas, and surrendering the ability to see clearly.

This is why I spent a year tolerating a boss who withheld commission payouts, money that he openly acknowledged he owed me but conveniently failed to deposit in my account.  This is why, embracing my mother's commentary, I signed up for Phen-Fen, liposcution and Weight Watchers.  This is why I splurged on a $300 Nespresso machine for a man who only a month or so prior had called me a bitch.  "I said that?" he asked with a chuckle when I mentioned it.

"Why is it so hard to just walk away from something that we know is bad for us?" I asked Leslie as we sat down for burgers.

"What would Yolanda do?" she replied, Yolanda being a cast member of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.  She is confident but not arrogant.  She identifies what she desires and expects nothing less.  Her husband adores her.

"Yolanda would prance around her ginormous Malibu mansion before strolling through her lemon grove."

"In her Hermes belt."

"That too."

I know this sounds self-help-y but we often get what we think we deserve. Yolanda believes she deserves the best and, dammit, that woman gets it. And this isn't about being entitled.  These days I don't even expect a man to hold the door for me, or when he does, I argue with him about it.

"It's okay," I'll say as I shoo him ahead of me, both hands tangled up with shopping bags from Publix.  "Seriously, thanks though. This is why God gave me hips."

Yolanda would stand in front of the door waiting for someone to open it, being gracious and composed and appreciative as she strolls across the threshold.

It isn't easy changing how we act.  Heck, it took me eight months to start sleeping on the other side of the bed.  But I want to stop making excuses for another person's poor behavior that short-changes me.  I want to stop accepting criticism that is neither constructive nor imperative to transforming me into a better person.  And I want to stop tolerating and sometimes even rewarding behavior that qualifies as utter disrespect.

"You totally deserve better than this," I want to say to myself as I lift my chin, offer a soft smile, and walk away.  After all, that is exactly what Yolanda would do.

What a Jerk-off

"Join us for another round," the Brit proposed as he and a coworker settled up with the bartender.

"Would love to but I really need to get home to finish some work," I said, exaggerating my interest and fibbing about my professional obligations. Besides there being no chemistry on my end, he was sporting a gold pinky ring. Gold. Pinky ring. On a man.

"Then I'll call to make sure you got home okay."

I stopped to get gas.  I set my boots in my closet and my purse on a dining room chair.  I meandered into my office and glanced at my computer, a mandatory training session frozen on slide twenty-three of ninety-six.  And in the process, I missed his calls.  Yes, two of them.

"Hey!" I said when my phone rang a third time. "I have my phone on vibrate and didn't hear it buzzing earlier."

"You got home alright?" he asked.

I told him yes and then somehow got sucked into a conversation, politely answering his questions while watching the television on mute.

"I'm sorry?" I asked.

"I said, what do you wear when you're feeling mischievous?"

Part of me wanted to lecture him that such an inquiry was inappropriate, referencing Naomi Wolf and quoting Emily Post.  Another part wanted to point out that me leaning in and whispering, "I'm not wearing any panties," is much sexier than me randomly noting that on some occasions I go commando.  And yet another part of me was concerned by the random rustling in the background.

"I'm really not comfortable with that question," I said, ignoring the fact that there is enough evidence littering my past to preclude me from ever running for public office.  "Also, I really do need to get back to work."

The next morning, as my trainer counted out peck-fly reps, sweat dripping off my nose and landing on the bench, I relayed the story. 

"I'm not sure if the British accent hurt or helped but he just came across as such a creeper."

My trainer snickered and laughed, covering his mouth and doubling over at the waist.  And when he was done, when he had finally composed himself, he responded.

"Oh yeah, no, dude was totally jerking off."

180 Degrees

In the film 180deg South, Yvon Chouinard, longtime adventurer and founder of Patagonia, made a comment about how we handle obstacles and that going backwards is only a figment of one's imagination:  You can take one step forward or you can turn around 180 degrees and take a step forward.  Which way are you going?  And which way is progress?

A lot changed for me in 2012.  I moved south, leaving behind a condo I couldn't afford to sell and a former boss erroneously threatening to sue me for defamation of character.  I accepted a new position in a different industry, learning that though the grass is always greener, every patch of grass is dotted with steaming piles of dog pooh.  I dated and broke up with the same man three times, learning more about myself in that span of time than I have from any other prior relationship.

As I inched my way toward the close of the year, I glanced over my shoulder and took stock.  My apartment in Atlanta was finally fully furnished and felt like home, my Philly condo occupied by a caring scientist from Japan.  My hard work in my new position had earned me an all-expense paid reward trip to Grand Cayman, Pina Coladas included.  I had no complaints. Though for as good as things were, my unfinished novel still haunted me.

"I think I want to write a screenplay," I said to Leslie in December, both of us sprawled out on chaises on our parents' Florida lanai.

"Do it!"

"The literary market is dead.  Hearing James Patterson speak in November and seeing my friend with a two-book deal plug away at teaching made this incredibly clear to me."

"Right, so do it!"

"I think that's why I can't finish my novel.  It feels like a useless dead end."

"Seriously, do it.  Now can we get back to discussing Bethenny Frankel and her divorce rumors?"

Within 24-hours, I rang up my friend in Los Angeles who, thanks to her gym membership and gregarious personality, knows award winning writers and producers, one of which was standing on the stage at this past weekend's Golden Globe awards.  "She knows the one next to Clooney," I bragged to Leslie.  Anyway, my friend gave me some advice, noted craft books I should read, and told me to have fun.  The last part was my biggest fear.  It has been years since I found writing fun.

A few weeks ago, I made some free-thinking notes about my manuscript.  I sketched a timeline, noted key scenes, identified relevant characters.  Then I set that aside and picked up a book by Syd Field.  Last night, as I curled up on a flight back from Chicago, I pulled out the craft book, broke back the spine, and started reading.  Eighty pages and more than a few neon yellow highlighter streaks later, I looked up to see us touchdown in Atlanta.  

"This book is brilliant," I said to Leslie as I shoveled in bites of takeout Thai food she had grabbed for me.  "And I'm kinda baffled why this was never required reading for my MFA."

I excitedly explained that character is defined by action, not words. It is the inverse of writing a novel. And through action one tells a story.

"No, this is actually really fascinating," she said when I apologized for spending ten minutes analyzing the characters in 'Silver Linings Playbook.'

"I know, right?  Oh, and by the way, I met a guy on the train back from the airport.  A Brit.  Who likes tennis.  We shared a cab."

"Wait, what?!?!"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that. Huh. My bad."

And So It Goes

In 2005, I started Life Goes On, I Think to dust off the pen.  It was a way to find my voice.  It was a way to break old habits and start new ones.  But for the better part of the last two years, my pen has mostly collected dust.

After graduating from Stonecoast, I felt I had earned the right to take a break from writing.  I set my novel to the side, refused to even open a Word document, and went about my life.  There was a ceramics class I was interested in taking (exhibit A: a lopsided bowl on my mantle).  There were knitting projects I wanted to create (exhibit B: one arm of a flutter cardigan still dangling off of wooden, size-8 needle).  And there were intimidating culinary feats I wanted to conquer (exhibit C: a ceviche recipe splattered with lime juice).

"You haven't been writing on your blog," E said a few weeks ago.  "It's kind of freaking me out."

"I just haven't felt inspired."

Truth be told, I had backed so far away from writing, I feared doing it.  With an MFA in hand, I felt obligated to provide perfected prose for my readers.  Plus, with an MFA in hand, I felt I should be working on my novel instead of tinkering away on a blog.  My creative energy should be poured into something with merit.  Except I have felt boxed in by my novel, the remaining chapters yet to be written requiring finesse and balance, complexity that to the reader should feel effortless. The mere thought of writing has left me paralyzed.

This past weekend, a woman I met back in 2007, Claire Fontaine, was in Atlanta with her daughter Mia to promote their new book, Have Mother, Will Travel.  I first met Claire at Blogher 2007, our introduction the result of us both needing last-minute accommodations.  Claire later wrote a letter of recommendation when I applied to graduate school.  Though our communication has been limited in recent years, I have always known she is only a click away.  Yesterday, as Leslie and I drove her and Mia back to the airport, Claire asked about my writing.

"I don't feel inspired," I said with a shrug.

"Oh honey, if every writer waited for inspiration, nothing would ever be written.  You need to just sit down and write."

Claire wasn't saying anything new.  It was exactly the approach I took in grad school, blocking nights and sometimes entire weekends to see myself through a short story.  It was exactly the structure I had dismissed but so desperately needed.

In 2005, I was a blogger who wrote.  In 2010, as I walked across the stage to collect my MFA, I was a writer who happened to have a blog.  And now, in 2012, I am ready to just be a writer.  If I want to finish my novel, query an agent, and find a publisher, I need to sit my ass down in a chair and do some heavy lifting.  I have to write clunky, horrible prose without apology.  I need to allocate three hours to thinking about a plot without writing a single word.

I have spent the last week or so figuring out how to make this transition.  I have considered taking my blog private.  It has also crossed my mind to delete Life Goes On, I Think altogether.  Neither option felt right.  After all, this blog and the readers of it have been integral to my growth as both a woman and as a writer.  Deleting the blog would be like denying it's relevance and I just can't do that.

As I pulled away from the curb Monday morning, Claire and Mia making their way into the airport and a stretch of highway before me, I decided to keep Life Goes On, I Think public, or at least parts of it.  In the weeks to come, I will un-publish many posts.  My goal is to retain the pieces that truly capture my life these last few years, as if to organize these written snapshots into a photo album of sorts.  But I'm leaving room for one more post: the one where I announce my book deal.

Thank you for reading, for commenting, and for making me both a wiser woman and a far more capable writer.

xoxop

Chapter One

When I started this blog, the point was to get myself writing.  I wanted to improve my storytelling skills.  I wanted to hone my sentence structure.  And the only way to do both would be to sit down and do it.  After all, you can't run a marathon if you've never laced up a pair of sneakers.

It was mid-2005 when I first published a post.  In the months and years since, I have evolved from a blogger into a writer. My work has been published in various places.  An unfinished novel patiently sits on my desktop, awaiting an itch and an urge for me to finally piece together the last few chapters.

There was only one post I published that I felt necessary to pull down.  Well, that was as of yesterday.  Today, for the second time in my life, my blog hurt someone.  As fast as I could, I logged into Blogger and tried to undo what I had done.

I never set out to fracture trust.  Words strung together into a collection of sentences, from where I was sitting, meant something so specific. It was a statement of my past failures and attempts at a better future.  But what I meant to say, how I meant to say it, none of that matters.  The bottom line is someone read what I wrote and was incredibly hurt.

I can't unwrite what I have written.  And I can't magically make someone unfeel the hurt resulting from what I said.  But I do have the ability to unpublish something.  It in no way can undo the damage I did.  I wish it could.  I wish I could hit rewind to earlier tonight when, with puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks, I clicked the publish button.  I would turn myself inside out if that would fix things.  If only it could.

I am sorry, E.  I love you to pieces.  Always did and always will.  Just like I told you on one of our first dates, "When you fall in love, a part of you will always love that person no matter what."

Yes, one chapter closes.  I won't argue that interpretation. But I've always believed books with multiple chapters are far more enjoyable.  Chapter One is nothing more than the premise for an amazing story that spans a lifetime.  Now if only I wasn't so scared to turn the page and start Chapter Two.

The Head And The Heart

When I was twenty-five, I had a specific idea of where my life would take me in the next ten years.  I would fall in love, have two kids, and drive a Range Rover. I would live on the Main Line, summer in New England, and tend to the family dog Tucket, a Golden Retriever named for Nantucket.  You know, one of the places where I would routinely vacation.  My kids would attend private school.  My husband would be ambitious.  Life would be good.

At thirty-nine, I live in a two-bedroom apartment in a city that still doesn't feel like home.  It isn't the Main Line, but it is the ritzy part of Atlanta.  I don't drive a Range Rover, but I'm often idling next to one at a red light. Meaning on a daily basis I peer through car windows and gawk at women living the life I once aspired to have. Goldens shed and I continue to struggle to keep plants alive, making me hesitant to own a dog.  Though I'm currently exploring the idea of adopting a six-year-old, one-eyed pup from a nearby shelter.

"She's scary!" Olivia, my niece, said when I showed her the dog on my computer.

Oh, right, I don't have kids either.  The closest I've come to motherhood is babysitting Leslie's kids.  And seeing I advocated letting them watch an R-rated movie the other night, a film that started with Jonah Hill going down on some no-name actress, I fear I'd suck at the mom thing.  Though, in my defense, I did run for the television and block their view until his head was out of her crotch.

"Aunt Paige, we can't see!"

" I know, that's the point!"

These two different worlds, the idyllic one of a twenty-five-year-old and experienced one of a thirty-nine-year-old collided last week.  It was the gap of time that spans between those two existences that drove me and E to end things.  There were words he had spoken and feelings I had sensed.  After all these years, I had come to accept that summering in New England can be rife with mosquitoes and spoiled New Yorkers fleeing the city.  But when E peers into the distance, he still sees the pristine life he has mapped out for himself. 

A few days after ending things, E and I met up for frozen yogurt at a place around the corner from me.  He had mentioned getting tapped for an incredible opportunity at work and I suggested we celebrate over self-serve and unlimited toppings.

"I don't want to break-up," he eventually said.

"But there are things you've expressed, experiences you want to have.  And honestly, you have every right to want them," I replied.  "Also, I don't want to rob you of those experiences."

"I thought I knew what I wanted.  Now I'm not sure.  All I know is I can't imagine not having you in my life."

It was a difficult place we had suddenly come to.  In the prior forty-eight hours, friends had commended me and E for maturely ending a relationship for legitimate reasons.  No one was hurt.  No mean words were spoken. But at the same time, at no point were our conerns resolved.  There were still years and a stream of life-altering experiences seperating us.

"What do you want?" E asked as he leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbows on his knees.  "You, what do YOU want?"

It was a question I so rarely ask myself when others are involved.  It is my instinct to accommodate the people around me, defer to their desires.  There are only so many things in life worth fighthing for.  At the end fo the day, eating pizza over sushi isn't worth getting my panties in a wad.  And anyway, the times I have gone along with things I would have otherwise dismissed, I've appreciated the experience.  See escargots, South of the Border, and World of Coke for examples.  But here I was, sitting across from a man whom I utterly adored, being asked to think long and hard about what I wanted.

I ran my fingers across the hem of my dress. I looked across the room, back at E.  A sense of calm and comfort blanketed me. I inhaled a breath and exhaled my answer.

"I still want to date you."

Day By Day

On February 6th, I started a new job.  After fourteen years as an insurance broker, I powered down my old work computer, tucked personal possessions in a crumpled tote, and walked away from a long chapter in my life.  In the years leading up to that day, I learned how to navigate a male-dominated world.  I grew into a person who appreciated what she had gained but itched to experience more.  And I had the confidence to set out for new adventures.

On March 4th, I packed up my car and drove eight hundred miles south for Atlanta.  Art too big to ship leaned against the empty walls of my Philly condo, the paperwork pending for a potential tenant.  Twenty-five boxes filled with books, winter coats, and tattered journals from my adolescence sat stacked along the back wall of my cousin's office, their fate on hold until I figured out where I would be living.  Oh right, I had no idea where I was living.

On April 1st, I had my first date with E.  I couldn't deny concern about the age difference but his smile made me smile.  The conversation lasted far longer than our grande iced-teas.  When we parted ways, each setting off for other evening plans, I cursed the fact that he didn't look back over his shoulder.  Because I already knew that I wanted to learn more about this man with a slight accent, expressive brown eyes, and no-poker-face-grin.

On May 26th, with three friends visiting from Philly, I applied a swipe of lipstick and set out for a night on the town.  Along with E and Leslie, the six of us congregated at Blake's.  We were there for the cheap drinks in plastic cups and the sexy drag queens belting it out to Rihanna.  We raised our glasses, sang along to the tunes, and shook our hips to the rhythm pumping through the speakers. With one hand on my new boyfriend and my attention directed toward my old friends, two worlds melted into one.

On June 26th, I pulled the covers closer to my shoulders and rolled onto my side.  Even through the darkness, I could see E, his eyes open as he pressed his cheek into his pillow.  He said something. I said something.  Nothing was hurtful.  If anything, we were both being careful with our words, delicate with our sentiments.  But somehow we had landed at the same place, acknowledging for once that the best choice for both of us would be to end things.

"I think you should take me home," he eventually said, his car intentionally at his condo with a plan to run back there in the morning.

"Are you sure?"  I asked, realizing that, fair or not, I still wanted him by my side.

"I don't know."

A few more words were shared as I idled at a red light, as I pulled into a parking space at his complex, as we stood before each other beneath a half-lit moon.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too, E."

He slowly backed away, settled his bag on hisshoulder, and disappeared down a hallway toward his condo.  I'd be lying if I didn't say I slowed up as I pulled away, squinting against the darkness to catch one last glimpse of his frame.  And I'd truly be lying if I didn't admit I cried.


PS: E is a gentle soul with a generous heart.  He did me better than any man who came before him. When I'm struggling, I write, and he has always supported that habit of mine.  Even now.  But I can't help but ask you to be sensitive with your comments where E is concerned.  He earned that.  Trust me.

A Non-Date Date-Date

I've never thought of the first get-together with an online match as a date.  To me, that is merely a chance to confirm the pictures are from the current decade, an opportunity to see if in a three-dimensional state you could kiss this person.  Had you met at a friend's dinner party or flirted at a chic downtown bar, you would have already sorted that all out.

"You didn't look back," I said to E the other day.  "When we parted ways after coffee, I watched you walk away and you never looked back."

"But did you really think I wasn't interested?" he asked.

"No, I suspected I'd see you again."  I left out the part about spending half of my drive home wondering if I had dressed in clothing that looked too work-y.

Two days before our slated real first date-date, E asked me to meet him for ice-cream.  On our second date, over brick-oven pizza and calzone, we got to know each other better.  Or was that date three? To be honest it's all a little blurry.  But not because they aren't memories worth keeping.  Filed away in my head are slivers of time that are crisp and clear.  Those are the memories that, when I revisit them, elicit the same feeling I had in the actual moment.

"Some people have said I can be too direct," E said as he sliced into his calzone.  "Please let me know if it bothers you so I can be more aware of it."

"You've said this before but I don't see it," I responded as I reached for my wine.  "There isn't anything you've said that has offended me. So you can pretty much stop worrying on that front."

This past weekend, we expanded our repertoire to include some daytime activities.  Or to put it another way, we were going to have a non-date date-date.  In the morning, he went for a long bike ride while I tidied up and got on a call with a coworker.  After that, we drove over to Piedmont Park where he went for a run.  I sat down on a park bench with a pile of magazines, none of which got touched thanks to being chatted up by a gay guy with a poodle.  Every time E passed us, I waved and smiled.

"Girl, lock that one down," my new friend said as he eyed E's shirtless back.

"That's my goal."

We weren't supposed to spend the rest of the day together.  And yet, an hour or so later, we were sitting around my coffee table eating sandwiches and cake.  E put together my desk, a mess of a parts I had half-constructed but in a way that included threading the wrong screws into place. I worked on a dining room chair and side-table for the living room.  Every so often, I glanced over at E and grinned.

Later that night, lying side-by-side, E said, "Today was my favorite day with you."

It was a day where I didn't care that my hair was in a ponytail and desperate for some shampoo.  It didn't bother me that he might spot beads of sweat collecting on the bridge of my nose.  E didn't feel a need to chastise me for failing to follow basic picture-instructions, or that he had to undo half of my work.  Never once did he complain that manually manipulating twenty screws into place was hard on his hands.

I reached out and rested my open palm atop his chest. The corners of my mouth curled into a soft smile.  And then I replied.

"Me too."

Leading With My Heart

For the most part, if I am not traveling for work, I am spending the night with E.

"You have another date?!?!?" Olivia asked as I came down the stairs with my tote on my shoulder.  "You never have dinner with us any more."

It was totally true.  Typically around six o'clock, I will wind down what I am doing (constructing Ikea tables, responding to work emails, furiously rifling through my unorganized piles on Leslie's dining room table in search of a receipt I don't have but desperately need in order to file my expense report).  I meet E at his place and from there we start our night.  Twice I have cooked dinner.  Otherwise we have headed out for a bite to eat.

"It's okay if you want a night off," E said earlier this week.

"Why would I want that?"

"To have time to yourself or to do something with Leslie."

It has been over a decade since I dated someone locally. And that guy turned out to be gay.  But I digress.  My point is that I would go days without seeing Ex and months without seeing Alaska.  Suddenly, here I was tangling myself up with a boy residing in a neighboring zip code.  It requires less than ten traffic lights to get to his place. Even more curious, I am enjoying his close proximity.

A few times a week, Leslie asks me if I am falling in love.  She asks when we're sprawled out in the upstairs hallway folding laundry and when we're in the kitchen searching for a late afternoon snack.  It's a fair question seeing how much time we spend together.

"No. But I know it could happen."

When we're lying in bed, both of us turned on our sides and facing one another, there is a warmth that coats my skin.  When I feel his chest pressed against mine, I can't help but exhale.  And the way he smiles at me knots my tummy in a good way.  This is all on top of him insisting, INSISTING, I take the best bite when sampling the food on his plate.

Last night, before going to sleep, the topic of exes came up. We swapped stories, turned on the computer and shared photographs.  He thought Ex was better looking than Alaska, though both tied for first place on the jerk front.  I marveled at how his former girlfriends all hailed from other continents, their faces young and smiles so innocent. After he set the computer on the bedside table, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

At five o'clock in the morning, or so I assumed based on the darkness still filling the bedroom, I awoke in a panic.  I glanced over at E sleeping peacefully and then set my gaze on the ceiling.  My jaw clenched as I replayed conversations we have had.  My body tensed with fear that I could have said the wrong thing in the present or shared an unforgivable misstep from my past.  I rolled onto my side and ran my fingertips across E's shoulder, the gesture offering a brief moment of comfort. 

When he woke, he asked me what was wrong, why I was so tense.

"This," I said as I gently tapped my head, "is trying to control this." I moved my hand to my chest and rested an open palm atop my heart.

I don't recall what he said.  I have no recollection of the words he offered.  I just remember feeling relieved. There in his presence, I had every reason in the world to turn off my head and lead with my heart.

Some Things Never Change

I have always associated Richmond, VA with college senior week.  A few days after finishing finals, a group of Smith girls piled into two cars and headed south.  We stopped in Philadelphia for the night. With my parents out of town, their house was the perfect place to rest up before a long drive.  Early the next morning, we got back on the road and drove straight through to Hilton Head, stopping only to eat, pee, and refuel.

One of our earlier pitstops was Richmond.  Just after the large cigarette towers flanking I-95, we pulled off for a quick break. Everything about Richmond was gray: the people, the air, the sentiment. So it came as no surprise that the McDonalds we stopped at was filthy. The bathrooms smelled of urine.  The food was stale and cold. We were back in the car in record time.

There were a lot of fun times that trip.  When we finally pulled into the plantation where our rental was located, there was no one there to hand off the keys.  One night, as a few of us roamed the aisles of the nearby Blockbuster, we spotted Meg Ryan and Dennis Quaid also searching for a movie.  During the daytime, we sprawled out on the sand until our flesh was bright pink.  At night, we squealed in harmony at the gigantic Palmetto bug one of us trapped under a large drinking glass.

On the last day, we unanimously agreed to enjoy what was left of our vacation, delaying our departure until three o'clock.  With salty skin and sandy feet, we piled back into our two cars and made our way north.  We stopped along the way, but this time there was little excitement about the adventures.  South of the Border never holds the same allure the second time around.

We drove straight through the night, crossing the Tappan Zee bridge as the sun inched above the horizon.

"I think I'm going to be sick," I said as I clutched the steering wheel, my eyes bleary and my stomach aching with pain.

A girl familiar with the area led us off the highway to a Dunkin Donuts where, upon exiting the bathroom, I handed over the keys for the first time the entire trip.  We finally pulled into the quad at Smith a little shy of seven o'clock in the morning.

As I write this post, I'm sitting at the Richmond International Raceway.  I'm here for work, hosting a booth at the Southern Women's Expo, hoping to interact with patients who could use my support.  Across from me is a booth for Stella & Dot.  To my left is a quirky foot-massaging detox vendor. If I get bored, I just might dip my toes into one of his tubs. After I buy a cute necklace, of course.

"I hear the firemen aren't going to strip at this show," the representative for Vitamist noted as she strolled past.  "They did last week in Nashville.  I grabbed one by the suspenders and told him he was coming with me."  Even her girly giggle had a rural southern twang.

When she walked away, I reached for my Egg McMuffin and orange juice.  As I neared the venue earlier, I pulled into a McDonalds for some morning sustenance.  The rest of the day I will be relying on  Kashi granola bars, grapes and gum.  I peeled back the wrapper of the breakfast sandwich and hunted for the best first bite. With my mouth wide, I went in for the kill.  The muffin wasn't toasted; the texture felt gummy.  Even the cheese was unusually plasticky.  Fifteen years later and nothing about Richmond has changed.  But at least the last time around I had some damn fine company.

No Place Like Home

I used to think Ex was a gentleman because for the first few months we dated, he made a point to open my door.  During our long distance relationship, he also repeatedly drove to Philadelphia and even extended his stays so we could spend more time together.  This was all undone when he made a stink about helping me paint my condo, about vacationing someplace other than Vermont and Florida, about loving me as-is because he felt I'd be more attractive if I shed twenty-five pounds. 

I used to think Alaska could openly speak with me.  On our third date, after the caviar appetizer but before the vacheron dessert, he told me things about his father that unquestionably altered his family's trajectory.  It was the kind of confession that was raw and honest.  Then, a few months later, he rang me at 6am to tell me he didn't love me, then he forgot my birthday with ease and without apology, and then he lied to me about where he was going because the truth involved another woman. 

Then there was the boyfriend who lived in New York City and worked in the film industry.  The one time he met me at Penn Station, an act solely in response to my request, he arrived sweaty and gross. "This was a good idea. I decided to run down here so I could get in some exercise."  Under the sign identifying which train was arriving on what track, he beamed with pride at his ingenious idea of still making it all about him.  I was nothing more than a guest in his home.

"I got these for you," E said the other night as he presented a bunch of bright pink tulips.

"They're beautiful!" The fuchsia hued petals glowed bright against the crisp green stems.

"But that's not the surprise.  Wait, I'll be right back," he said before ducking into his bedroom and returning with a box.

I glanced at the gift and then back at E. His smile, so warm and bright, made me smile too. I released the tape holding the top together. There, neatly tucked within properly pressed tissue paper, was a lovely glass vase. Its shape was tall with a gentle widening at one side.  While I prepared dinner, he filled the vase with water, set the tulips inside, and placed it on the table.

Later that night, I turned to E and said, "Being with you feels like home."  He cocked his head a little the the side and admitted he didn't fully understand what I was saying.  I paused, then tried to explain it better. "Being with you is safe and warm, welcoming and comfortable." He now grasped what I was saying, even though I left out the fact that it's the kind of home one never really wants to leave.

Let's Hope This Goes Better Than It Did for Demi Moore

A few weeks before I moved south, I changed my residence status on eHarmony from Philly to Atlanta. It didn't make much sense to target a meat market I was departing. And to those of you itching to point out my past relationship with a man based in Alaska, I say, Suck it.

My inbox started to fill up with boys from Macon to Memphis. One by one, I worked my way through the potential suitors. Some were totally not my type. Others tickled my fancy.

"I just got matched with a twenty-five-year-old and he wants to communicate," I said to Leslie as we sprawled out on her bed, Olivia and Anders both on the floor with their eyes glued to the television.

"Let me see," she said as she tilted my laptop in her direction. "Oh, wow, he even looks twenty-five."

I have dated down. After college, I tangled myself up with an eighteen-year-old. He acted older than his actual age, the likely result of a rumored side-gig as a drug dealer. Don't ask. In recent years, I've dated up. Alaska had ten years on me. Ex was eight years older. Having realized in the last few months that the best results come from just letting things unfold, I set aside hesitation and agreed to open communication.

Truth be told, the more I got to know him, the more interested I became. So, when he suggested we meet this past Saturday at 5pm, I accepted. I blew my hair straight, applied mascara, and set off for the designated meeting spot.

He was there when I arrived, beating me by five minutes to ensure he was present when I showed. Most men I know won't even hold the door for me. Then he insisted I order my coffee first and proceeded to casually block my access to the register. I once had a date say he'd pay for my wine and then rescind the offer when he saw my one glass cost $18. Anyway, with our drinks in hand, we headed outside to find a table on the patio. We sat down and started talking. An hour and a half later, we were still at it.

"So, how did it go?" Leslie asked when I got home.

"Really well! I mean this guy has more ambition than most men my own age. Like, his five-year plan includes getting an MBA and completing the Kona IronMan. Seriously, I've watched that race while horizontal on my sofa as I stuffed bonbons in my face. That goal alone makes him a pimp."

"Yeah, no, that's impressive."

Sunday night he rang to say hello and see how the rest of my weekend had turned out. In the midst of the conversation, he made me laugh more than a few times. Suddenly I stopped defining him by his age and instead focused on the whole of him. In the midst of it, I was simply having a really nice time. So it should come as no surprise that I accepted his invitation to have a second date Wednesday night.