Never Be THAT Girl

Monday I started my new job and by the fourth hour, I had already messed up.

"Remember that conference call webinar thing I had to do?" I asked Leslie.

"Yes."

"Well, five us were remotely calling into live training happening in Chicago. After an hour, the screen reverted back to someone's desktop and the call went quiet. I lingered, admittedly confused, and then disconnected."

"Okay."

"Except twenty minutes later, I realized that my manager had said new hire paperwork would be addressed on the call and it hadn't been. So I scrambled to log back on."

"And?"

"And the first thing I heard when it connected was, 'And that's all we have regarding paperwork.'"

Leslie laughed. "Can you call someone from your team?"

"Right, to admit I can't follow basic instructions? No."

Tuesday I boarded an early flight to have lunch with my new manager and three peers in New York City. Before leaving, I reviewed the New Hire Portal to confirm I had every possible form needed to give my manager. I called the HR-HelpLine to anonymously inquire about paperwork. Come hell or high water, I wasn't going to be THAT girl.

"How did it go?" Leslie asked the morning after my day-trip to Manhattan.

"Great!"

"Did you have all of the forms you needed?"

"I did! Better yet, one of the other new team members sent an all-team email about not using her personal email address. Blah, blah, blah. My manager quickly followed it up pretty much telling us not to send such messages. And it wasn't mean or anything. It just meant someone else has officially been crowned THAT girl. I'm in the clear!"

"Congrats!" Leslie said.

"Oh, though I totally tore the handle off the front door of my apartment building when I got home last night. I heard it clang onto the brick entryway as I walked toward the elevator.  Some dude tried to get in after me and I pretended to not see him and aggressively pressed the door-close button."

"Meaning, you're still THAT girl but your company has no clue."

"Pretty much."

Fragile: Handle With Care

"How did your interview go?" my therapist excitedly asked last week as I settled onto her sofa.

"I think I got it. I should find out tomorrow or Monday."

Her face lit up. A wide smile stretched from ear to ear. Her spine straightened as she leaned forward and exclaimed, "That's fantastic!"

"It is." Neither the tone of my voice nor the shift of my body matched the enthusiasm coming from her chair.

"And did you have a date?"

"I did. Really nice guy. He's originally from Connecticut so we bonded over lobster rolls."

"Are you seeing him again?"

"I believe so," I answered before reaching for my cup of water and taking a small sip.

"Do you want to see him again?"

"Sure."

My therapist settled back in her chair, let her mouth fall slightly open, strained to find the words to summarize her thoughts.

"Yeah, I know," I said.  "I'm looking at how excited you are right now and my response, it's like I'm talking about Brussel Sprouts."

"Nailed it."

We danced around this lack of enthusiasm. I was being cautious about work because it seemed reasonable. She agreed. I was being cautious about love because history dictated such.

"But you can still be excited."

We dug deeper. We discussed this sense of preservation masquerading as caution.

"Like I've said before," she started. "This approach served you well during your childhood. But you're still acting guarded without evidence of needing protection."

I took another sip of water, this time using the liquid to help swallow down the lump lodging itself in my throat. I glanced out the window, as if shifting my gaze would help stave off the tears. Then I admitted that no matter how much I rationally knew I wasn't defective in my physical appearance, I couldn't fathom a man embracing it without hesitation. Clearly he'd someday determine my cellulite wasn't worth tolerating. My soft stomach would eventually become unbearable. At a certain point, my larger two front teeth would morph from cute to unsightly.

"Rationally I get it. Veneers won't fix the problem. This runs deeper than cosmetic dentistry."

"Yes, it does," she said.

"Except it's so ingrained at this point, embedded in my bones....." I paused.

"We're going to tackle this," my therapist said, her voice confident yet warm. "Here, in this space.You'll tell your mom to fuck off. You'll hold your dad accountable for not protecting you. By getting the anger out, you can stop internalizing it. You can stop turning that anger on yourself."

I took in a deep breath, exhaled with a slight huff. I considered what she said.

"You see, I can't connect those dots. For me, that process won't lead to embracing my flaws. And I apologize for dismissing your approach."

She smiled. "You're being honest. I'd rather you be honest. But I still think we should try it."

I nodded in agreement, refraining from admitting fear of failure. This wasn't my first time sitting on a couch, trying to tackle this demon. While strong on the outside, I felt fragile on the inside. Unbelievably fragile. As if my heart was made of delicate glass. And if this effort didn't work, I feared it just might shatter.

Third Time's a Charm

"You really should apply," my manager said over lunch in mid-December.

"But there's no relocation," I replied.

"Apply. Get your name out there."

And so I did, throwing my hat in the ring for a promotion that would require a move to the west coast. My California friends were ecstatic at the prospect of me heading in their direction. Leslie panicked. I wanted nothing more than to put my head down and do my job. But I went through the process, answering questions and politely bowing out when it was confirmed I would be responsible for moving myself west.

"You really should apply," my senior manager said two weeks later when my then-manager announced her resignation.

"For her vacancy in DC?" I asked.

"Apply. You have a great shot."

And I did, making it all the way to the final round. I flew to Chicago in early January to sit down with senior leadership. One meeting went incredibly well. The other clued me into the reality that, no matter how tight my Spanx sucked me in, I wasn't getting the job. Though my qualifications far surpassed those of my competition, this was a game of politics and I didn't have a shot in hell.

"Which jobs do you want to go for?" my new manager asked in late January, my inbox flooded with postings he'd sent along.

"I just got to San Francisco for a 24-hour work trip. Let me rinse off this airplane smell, find some food and review what you sent over."

"Apply. You're hot right now. People want you!"

And apply away I did, submitting an application for the third time in two months for a job I was finally interested in pursuing. It was a promotion to a completely different division, removing me from the drama and uncertainty plaguing my current team. It was a title change that would bring with it greater job stability and a very nice salary increase. It was also an opportunity that allowed me to remain in Atlanta, a place that was finally starting to feel like home.

I sailed through phone screens and thoroughly enjoyed my face-to-face interviews, something most people fear like the plague. My scheduled forty-five-minute conversation with the Director ran an hour and fifteen. Peers and managers, both current and former, excitedly reached out to vouch for my competency. With two recent application efforts in my rearview mirror, my interviewing process was a well oiled machine.

"Paige, it's David. Is now a good time to talk?" the recruiter asked yesterday afternoon when I answered the phone.

"It is!" I answered.

"But is it a good time to talk about a promotion? I'm calling to make you an offer."

"It is indeed."

Turning A Corner

"So catch me up on things," my therapist said as I settled onto her sofa, set my cup of hot tea on a coaster.  "It's been almost a month."

I updated her on all that had transpired since our last session in mid-December. I told her about how a close friend of twenty years failed me at a time I was so needing her to be present. I told her about a visit to Florida that included calm conversation, genuine belly laughs, and nary an argument with my mother. And I told her about the lengthy interview process that forced me to cancel our scheduled session for the previous week.

"How did it go?"

"Oh, it went really well. I met with the Director of my entire division. That was a fantastic discussion. But the interview I had after him was ridiculous and made me realize I didn't want the promotion."

"Wow, really?"

"Totally. She was trying so hard to intimidate me and I just don't have time to manage something so unproductive."

"It sounds like you're making incredible strides," she said, beaming with pride as she relaxed against her chair-back.

Except that wasn't exactly how I was feeling. Instead I was struggling with a sense of frustration at work. Just that day I learned I needed to be in San Francisco the following week for a lunch meeting that no one could explain. This in addition to mastering and taking a test about an entirely different product and attending an event an hour from home. All I wanted to do was sit at my desk and finally catch up on work that fell off during my so-called vacation.

"You don't see it, do you?" my therapist asked.

I shrugged.

"Paige, I'm blown away by the progress you've made with your mom. Even when your friend was shitty, you did what was best for you and told her how her behavior was hurtful. You've made smart career choices to ensure you stay on track. And you're dipping your toe back in the dating pool."

"Yeah, except that hasn't amounted to much."

It hasn't. Though I updated my online profile to include newer pictures and more current statements, the pickings felt slim. More importantly, I wasn't feeling overly interested.

"Why?" she asked.

"A coworker recently noted some guy was checking me out and I didn't even realize there were men in the room with us."

On the one hand, I miss resting my cheek on a man's chest, my body rising and falling with the movement of his breaths. On the other hand, I feel insulated from the actual acts needed to graduate to such intimacy.

"You're putting too much pressure on yourself!"

It was a familiar accusation.

"When I look at you, I see a woman who is together. You're dressed elegantly, not like you've thrown in the towel. You're a woman about town with a thriving career. And, more importantly, you have your shit together. Enjoy the moment and the rest will follow."

"Okay."

"Now that you're putting yourself out there, I sense you'll be snatched up soon enough. I'm serious! Hang on tight because wonderful things are heading your way."

I took in her giddy grin, her confident optimism, her genuine excitement for me and decided to follow her lead. After all, she hadn't steered me wrong yet. Plus, in my heart I knew I was ready to stand beneath the moonlight and enjoy a kiss with a man who makes me weak in the knees. I just couldn't see through the haze clearly enough to trust it could happen.

Heartbreak (and Disgust)

"Oh for fuck's sake," I said as I glanced at my phone.

It was New Year's Day, a time for fresh starts. The sun was slowly climbing above the horizon. A gentle breeze rustled the palm fronds outside my bedroom window. And there on my screen was a text message.

Happy New Year, Paige.  Think of you often. -A

Words that once would have lifted my heart and warmed my skin were now nothing more than a tedious annoyance. A gnat buzzing about by my ear. A lone strand of hair somewhere on the back of my shirt, completely unreachable but irritatingly brushing against my arm. Sun glare after a rainstorm when you've left your sunglasses home.

I set my phone back on the bedside table and stepped out of my bedroom to join the rest of my family. My mother was stretched across a living room sofa with a mug of mediocre coffee in one hand and the latest issue of Garden & Gun in the other. Leslie and Anders focused on the 1000-piece puzzle we had started a day prior. Olivia was in the kitchen eating a bagel.

Though I didn't look at the text again that day, I found myself taking moments to digest this new perspective. It was surreal without being unsettling. I felt like an actor in a long-running play for which I'd always been a lead character. Yet now I was seated in the audience. And from this view, it was a completely different story unfolding before my eyes.

Throughout my time with Alaska, I stood center stage. Yes, twice I caught him tangled up in lies that, upon untangling, indicated the presence of other women. One time he told me he was in Michigan visiting his sister. Another time he was fishing out on the Kenai Peninsula. It wasn't until I discovered crumpled up boarding passes, papers long forgotten, that the truth surfaced.

Now, somehow being expected to play the part of the other woman, my heart ached. Not for me, but for Alaska's wife. She was likely awakening in his Hawaii home, ignorant to the intimate note he sent a few hours earlier to a former love. She would brew coffee, run her fingers through his hair, suggest they run into town for breakfast. He'd kiss her on the lips, tuck his phone in his pocket, and wonder why I hadn't replied.

Five thousand miles away from me was a complete stranger living a life I once wanted. She married a charismatic man so easy to adore. She lives in one house with a view of Cook Inlet, in another perched on a cliff in paradise. It is a glamorous life that she has yet to learn is unbelievably fragile. Except there on my phone was the first crack. A sliver separating the ground beneath her flip-flop clad feet. An earthquake so gentle, she probably failed to even feel the shudder.

Running on the treadmill, lying by the pool, connecting pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, I found myself pausing to reflect. Having grown so far beyond the anger and heartache, I know exactly what comes next for his wife. There will be moments of sadness and fear, hurt and frustration. She will sob so hard her bones ache. She will attempt to forgive, though will struggle to forget. Eventually she will settle into a distrust that will blanket every movement Alaska makes. 

Knowing this path slowly unfolding before her, being so familiar with the events to come, my heart broke for this woman. It was the only feeling I had in response to that text message.  Well, that and utter disgust for the man who sent it.

What I Did On My Winter Vacation

Day 1 of Vacation: Work 10 hours, hopping onto a last minute conference call where my direct manager announces her departure from the company effective January 1st. Vow to shut computer down until January 2nd.

Day 2 of Vacation:  Work 4 hours. Rejoice in learning my strategic refusal to take a California-based job without relocation money meant I didn't get the promotion I didn't want.  Join a group of fabulous women for cocktails worthy of a new dress and sexy stilettos. Have friend unzip dress in hotel lobby because me doing so later would involve dislocating my shoulder.

Day 3 of Vacation:  Go to therapy and, as the last session of the year winds down, realize my response to E reaching out via email was formal and distant and pretty much an indication of emotional paralysis.  Oh, right, E sent a very nice email just prior to vacation, an email that I needed five days of over-analysis to respond to poorly. Lose appetite.

Day 4 of Vacation:  Finally succumb to chills, cough, and aches that have been lingering on the periphery.  Begin a course of Nyquil that proves I'd be a terrible candidate for Ambien.

Day 5 of Vacation: Receive email from senior manager insisting I apply for my departing manager's position. According to her, I'm a high potential candidate for this position based in Washington, DC.  Dedicate time to pen a cover letter for a job I'm more interested in but am still hesitant to aggressively go for. Beam about my ability to write a stellar cover letter in twenty minutes and do so using a beautifully crafted sentence using one colon and three semi-colons.

Day 6 of Vacation: Knit Olivia a new winter hat because little else can be tackled in my current state.  Learn senior manager would like to conduct a phone interview while I'm on vacation for a job that technically isn't even posted by human resources because, unlike me, they don't work when the office is closed.

Day 7 of Vacation: Make parmesan-thyme crackers, maple-pecan bacon, flan, and dark chocolate brownies. Gather around a table with friendly faces, delicious food, and exhale that the worst has passed.

Day 8 of Vacation: Realize hair still smells like bacon. Pull on jeans, lace up sneakers, and spend part of Christmas day at a no-kill shelter petting pooches, rinsing dog bowls, and scooping poop. Head home only to learn friend of twenty-years, a friend who insisted I visit her over my vacation, doesn't know what to do because a boy she's known for four weeks wants to spend time with her and, like, it conflicts with my trip. It is a trip that is to start in twelve hours.

Day 9 of Vacation: Awake at 6.30AM to cancel NYC-bound flight slated for noon. Justify $200 cancellation fee as reasonable compared to showing up somewhere one is not welcome. Refuse to take so-called friend's craptastic insult personally and instead focus on how to get to Sarasota now that flight south from NYC is canceled.  Accept the fact my hair will probably smell like bacon forever.

Day 10 of Vacation: Climb into Gretel's front seat, slip on sunglasses, fiddle with the radio, and pull onto the highway. Just shy of Macon, sing along to Feeling 22. Passing through Valdosta, commit to reading, to writing, to playing tennis and to ending this year on a high note. Pulling into Sarasota, realize that for all that's knocked me down, I've continued to get back up and oftentimes with grace. Know that, no matter what, life's still pretty good. Even though my mother asks why I smell like bacon. And even though I have a phone interview scheduled for New Year's Eve day.

Now We're Getting Somewhere

In sixth or seventh grade, my mother asked to see a paper I was scheduled to submit two days later. It was a little before bedtime and the house was relatively quiet. "This is shit," she said when she finished reading my work. They were hurtful words coming from a woman who was supposed to comfort and console. Except I wasn't permitted to cry. Instead I was expected to collect my books, meet her in the breakfast room, and rewrite the paper through the night while everyone else slept.

In high school I was not really permitted to wear jeans. Besides being too casual, my mother liked to remind me my shape was a challenge.  "Your rear-end is built like a shelf," she'd say as I stood in the fitting room, the waistband gaping as the hip area strained. Judgmental words coming from a woman who was supposed to love me unconditionally. Except instead of telling her she was being mean, I quietly stood there as she directed the owner of the local denim store to tailor the waistband to accommodate my mismatched curves.

In law school I found myself standing at the foot of my parents' bed, abdominal pain, a high fever and extreme nausea keeping me awake. When I whispered I felt terrible and thought I needed to go to the hospital, my mother said, "Let us know if you need anything." I was in too much agony to weep at the fact my own mother let me drive myself to the ER. Upon my return home hours later, I was too exhausted to inform her that I had an infection so high it registered off the charts, the doctor resorting to IV antibiotics to help me recover. It didn't make sense to say something because it would never amount to anything anyway.

After law school, my mother took me to France for a two-week summer trip. We started in Nice and worked our way north, ending in Paris. On our second to last night, my mom threw a fit. I don't recall what it was about but at a certain point, she headed for the door. "Are you coming back?" I asked from the bed.  "I don't know," she responded without even looking at me. When the door slammed, I panicked briefly, realizing I was five thousand miles from home, alone, and with limited resources. But there wasn't time to process the fear and anxiety created by the one person expected to protect and shelter me. So instead I determined I'd be fine, using my passport, return airline ticket and credit cards to make my way home.

"Looking back now, how does it make you feel?" my new therapist asked.

I laughed. "It's ridiculous. But I figured it out."

"But how does it make you feel?"

I sat there quiet.

"I've noticed this with you the last few weeks. You're whip-smart and can think your way out of any situation. It's an incredible skill that you developed as a kid."

"It's how I survived."

"Right. It saved you. Except there's nothing to survive any more. It was never safe to express feelings. But it's safe now. So how does that make you feel?"

"I was twenty-four or twenty-five at the time."

She looked at me for a second and then spoke. "Your mother abandoned you in a foreign city. I don't care about your age. She left you alone as punishment for something most likely minute and probably never apologized for it when she finally did return."

"I think we went out and got crepes from the corner stand."

"How does that make you feel?"

I shifted my lower jaw so that the tips of my teeth gently brushed together. Saliva pooled beneath my tongue and tears filled my eyes. "Sad. I feel dismissed, rejected, and alone." I paused to reach for a tissue. "Incredibly alone."

"See, that's the healthy response. Now we're getting somewhere."

We Need To Talk About Your Flair

In early April, I received a promotion. This new title brought with it additional responsibility, frequent travels to the west coast, and answering to a secondary manager who within five minutes of introducing himself said, "I'm a straight shooter." Anyone who feels a need to say that never is. So it came as no surprise that I was repeatedly cut out of team calls, emails, and meetings necessary to allow me to thrive in my new role. Nor did it come as a surprise that it took him twenty-plus emails to cancel one Outlook meeting.

By August, I was burnt out. Getting upgraded to first class because you've made status on Delta is grand but it doesn't make up for nineteen days straight of working. I resigned all hopes of growing professionally with my current employer and decided to create more work-life balance. To that end, I planted flowers on my balcony, joined the Junior League, and started cooking again. It is amazing how much happiness can result from standing over a pot of homemade Quahog Chowder.

"I wanted to talk with you about the open management position," my direct manager said last Monday when she rang to check in. "I think you'd be a great candidate."

"You should apply!" another manager said a few days later.

By close of business Friday, four different managers in my division and three immediate peers told me to throw my hat in the ring and, for the most part, I wasn't soliciting their advice.

"You don't seem excited," Leslie said as I crawled into an over-sized armchair and pulled a woolen throw across my legs.

I'm not. On paper, it looks like a fantastic opportunity. In reality, it is rife with problems. The position is on the west coast but they have determined at this point not to offer a relocation package. I've already mentored two of the people on this six-person team but three people will be new-hires. My capabilities exceed what is required but I've repeatedly learned that being smart doesn't always sit well with others. There were just too many variables that turned me off.

"Did you apply?" a coworker excitedly asked Monday morning.

I did. Not out of want but out of politics, my direct manager emphasizing that applying would make a more favorable impact that not applying. And as badly as I wanted to phone it in, going so far as to consider creating a resume penned in Crayon, I couldn't. Instead I perfected the language to explain my qualifications. I collected letters of recommendation from managers and peers. And I clicked submit with the same enthusiasm one uses to clean the lint collector on a dryer.

An initial phone screen is scheduled for tomorrow, as are two other conference calls that were added to my agenda around six o'clock this evening. Tomorrow also happens to be the last working day of my year. Being a committed employee, refusing to do a half-assed job, meant I got to November with eighteen days of vacation left to take. So tomorrow I'll bust my tail closing out my year, dazzling the woman interviewing me, and sitting on a few conference calls.  Then, come five o'clock, I'm shutting down. Like, leave-my-phone-in-my-office down. Because for the first time in years, I'm going to give vacation time the same passion I've given my job.

Trigger

Intuition tugs at me sometimes, lingers in my peripheral vision waving its hands and demanding attention. It's a curious sixth sense I've yet to fully master or embrace. Here, over here! Pay me attention, dammit! And when I do finally look, when I pivot my stance and turn my gaze to stare head on at the ghost longing for my attention, there's usually a reason.

"Alaska's married," I said to Leslie Sunday morning, after I laced up my sneakers but before I headed to the gym.

"What?"

"I checked to see if he was running the New York marathon, which he is. Then a nagging itch told me to google his name and 'engaged.' A registry for him and some Brasilian girl popped up. Williams-Sonoma. Pottery Barn. Married."

"Wow, he had to import someone from South America?"

"Apparently. And he doesn't even speak Portuguese."

"Which works out favorably seeing expressing his emotions in English was a struggle."

I remained quiet.

"Paige, in all seriousness, he was terrible for you. Also, he has no ability to be faithful."

"No, I know. I'm just....shocked."

Halfway to the gym, I called my friend Amy and left her a blithering message. "I don't want him. But this is the guy who told me he didn't want to get married again. Life was great as-is. And," I paused to sniffle. "And, now I have last night's mascara running down my face. Fuck."

She called me back.

"Hey, three of my ex-boyfriends went on to marry the next woman they dated.  How's that for a kicker?"

"Nice prep-work there, girl," I said with a chuckle.

"In six months, want me to google his name and 'divorced?'" she asked.

I almost fell off the treadmill.

"Listen, if I found out Bandman was married, I'd go off the deep end." Amy was quiet for a moment, referring to the man she tangled up with off-and-on for ten years. Bandman was her Alaska.

"It's just," I stepped onto the rails, tugged the visor of my baseball cap lower to shield my eyes. "It sounds so lame but, it isn't that he didn't want to get married again. It's that he didn't want to marry me."

There it was. The dread and the rawness of a situation that didn't mean anything other than a trigger to rumble my demons. I wasn't good enough.

"On a related note," I said to break the silence. "It looks like psychotherapy is an eligible expense for an FSA and I've got my entire bank to burn through before the end of the year."

When I got home, I poured some water and sat down with my laptop. One hour, I said to myself.  Look online, lurk at the life he kept so private he wouldn't comfortably speak on the phone when in an airport. See the picture of his now-wife seated before a hideous piece of art you tried to talk him out of. Witness the chairs set out for the wedding on the lawn of his Kauai house he never invited you to visit. Then shut it all down. Walk away. But hold onto what it triggered. Sit with that feeling, acknowledge it, own it, and vow to tackle it once and for all.

Juxtaposition

Last week I sat in an arena and sang along to The National. They were in town, setting off on a US tour. The scene was hipster chic, something I wasn't even certain existed in Atlanta. Leslie commented that the lead singer wasn't really playing to the crowd, and he wasn't. "He's an artist, not a singer," I tried to explain. "And based on an interview I heard of him on NPR earlier this year, he's nowhere near as douchey as that three piece suit would make one think."

On Friday Leslie and I are taking the kids to Nashville to see Taylor Swift.

Two weekends ago, I was seated on a bench at the Ritz Carlton in Laguna Beach. I was sipping Cabernet out of a water-glass while nibbling on gourmet chocolates tucked within crumpled paper napkins, both courtesy of the general manager. The sun was slowly dipping closer to the horizon as surfers struggled to ride the nonexistent waves. I was calm and happy and couldn't be bothered by any of the chaos that was waiting for me at home. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was the breathtaking sunset.

Next week I'll be in Puerto Rico for work, four nights of coworkers, politics and Kool-Aid keg stands.

In July, I committed to reading twenty-four books this year. Though there had been a springtime lull, the summer got me back on track. I tore through The Mourning Hours (amazing).  Into the Wild required more focus but also left a more lasting mark than, say, Dad Is Fat. At the Facebook suggestion of MetroDad, I recently dove into Night Film. All of these books have kept me entertained and reminded me why reading can be so much more powerful than a film. It invites the audience to personalize the characters and participate on the periphery.

The dialog in The Ocean at the End of the Lane is painful but if I persevere I will have only eight books to go (though I might stab someone).

Tucked away on a quiet side-street in Asheville, North Carolina, is a charming dessert cafe. The theme is chocolate and Leslie told me not to come home if I didn't stop there before grabbing my Atlanta-bound flight after a work event. My belly was still full from lunch. There was still work to be finished.  At ten o'clock, I slipped into a cardigan, grabbed my wallet and made my way to French Broad Chocolate. The chocolate creme brûlée so delicious that each spoonful required a pause to savor the rich flavor and creamy texture.

I just ate a Peanut M&M I found in my work tote and I'm not exactly sure when I last bought Peanut M&Ms.

Walk A Day In My Shoes

You'd think that growing up with a father who has been handicapped for thirty years, one might live life a little differently. Seeing a man struggle to swallow food, navigate a curb, and communicate with clients should change a person. It should render things like cellulite and a stubborn cowlick silly. It should leave one awaking every day appreciating the first breath instead of cursing yet another forecast for rain.

"I never think of myself as handicapped," my dad once said to me.

"Does this mean you're surrendering that placard? Because if so, there will never again be a reason to take you with us to the mall."

Since my dad's illness never defined or limited him, the rest of us were often free to look past it as well. Though one time I did attempt to walk a day in his shoes. After he noted his always-tense leg muscles were achy, I did a little experiment. Seated back at my desk, I set both feet on the floor and rested my hands loosely on my keyboard. I then tensed my quads. I tensed them with such focus I forgot to breathe. And I lasted no more than ten seconds.

"Maybe you don't think about what it's like to live in his body because, if you did, you'd spend most of the day crying," Leslie explained earlier tonight.

I was telling her about a book I had stayed up until 2AM to finish. With tears streaming down my cheeks and my nose stuffy from sobbing, I ignored adult responsibilities like brushing one's teeth and getting a good night's sleep. Me Before You is a story about a quirky working-class girl and the man she cares for, a once successful financier now a quadriplegic. As the New York Times reviewer noted, the story is mostly about lives pushed off their trajectory and the ways in which one might adjust.  Both the incredibly well developed characters and delicately evolving plot meant I just had to finish it regardless of the time.

Upon setting my Kindle on my bedside table, I turned off the lamp and lay there in the darkness of night. Flat on my back, gazing at the ceiling striped by moonlight seeping through the blinds, I relaxed all of my muscles and wondered what it would feel like to be a quad.  How difficult it must be having to depend on others for every single thing. I couldn't even fathom the challenge and mental anguish of such a life. Like my leg-tensing experiment a few years back, I lasted only a short while. After which I rolled onto my side and fell asleep.

When I awoke this morning, I admittedly cursed the cloudy sky. I grumbled at the list of work emails I needed to send. I sighed when I realized I had forgotten to buy milk. But as I stepped away from my office for a midday workout, something shifted. I couldn't help but be thankful for my hands that gripped the steering wheel, my feet that helped me pace at an 11min mile, my lungs that managed the hastened breathing. Everyday aspects of my life shadowed by work obligations and the Bravo line-up suddenly glistened in the sunlight. Simply put, I couldn't help but be grateful to walk a day in my shoes.

Items For Sale: Out With The Old (To Make Room For The New)

Item: Montblanc Meisterstuck Classique Rollerball
Color: Oxblood
Purpose: 24th birthday gift
Purchaser: My first love
Price: $150 OBO

Yes, the first man to win my heart gifted me a pen for my birthday. I wasn't even a proclaimed writer or so-called writer at the time. I'm surprised he didn't use it to stab me in the heart. After all, it would have elicited the same result as the words he used to confess cheating on me. Anyway, it actually writes really nicely. Also, now that I've hunted down some replacement ink, it appears  Montblanc has expanded their color portfolio. Life is always more fun when you can use a ridiculously priced pen to dot the I of your first name with a lilac heart. Extra ink refill included.


Item: LaChapelle Land by David LaChapelle
Color: The rainbow
Purpose: 25th birthday gift
Purchaser: Self-absorbed, tongue-pierced, NYC-based, film-producing boyfriend
Price: $20 OBO

The pictures captured in this coffee-table book are, at times, mesmerizing. The crisp lines, unique celebrity portraits and bright colors entice and excite. If a bag of Skittles got it on with a Hollywood hooker, this book would be the bastard child. Though I was living at home when given this book, meaning I technically did not have a coffee table upon which to display it, the gesture was a teensy more meaningful than a pen. The front cover is inscribed with child-like scrawl depicting a sentiment of like-like. Love would have involved grand gestures like meeting me at Penn Station upon arrival to the city. Book comes in a useless cardboard box adorn with more of the artist's ego, I mean work.


Item: Life Fitness Treadmill
Color: Black and gray (if dusted)
Purpose: To make me less fat
Purchaser: Judgmental, superficial, DC-based boyfriend with a bald spot
Price: Free

The deck and orthopedic belt absorb impact quite nicely, unlike a hard macadam sidewalk. Fits easily in one's living room, occupying space in front of a television so as to taunt you while you sprawl across the sofa watching reruns of Sex and the City and bury your face in a pint of Chunky Monkey. Note: accepting a piece of workout equipment from a boyfriend might lead him to eventually confess he was trying to help you thin down (because he always thought you were too fat). Instruction packet and tools to dismantle are provided. Removal of treadmill can occur either out the condo door or over the second-floor balcony. Up to you.


Item: Canon Point-and-shoot Digital Camera
Color: Silver
Purpose: Gift to avoid lending $4000 DSLR and $2000 wide-angle lens
Purchaser: Emotionally constipated boyfriend who bonded best with moose
Price: $100 OBO

A light and compact camera that takes pretty darn good pictures. Though not as good as a high-powered lens attached to a DSLR camera. Meaning the frigate bird you snap while exploring the Galapagos will look more like a bloody black blur amongst scraggly shrubbery. The red, padded carrying case is included. As are the instructions, a 100+ page booklet I was told to read cover-to-cover while the giver transcribed patient notes down the hall. Related: the instructions aren't necessary to read to use the camera. Pretty certain all pictures have been deleted, including the photo of the boarding pass proving giver had cheated on me with a trampa from Tampa.


Item: Pre-hispanic, reproduction of a circa 700BC-1600BC bookmark stick-thing with frog detail and of Montenegro-orientation (according to authenticity papers)
Purpose: Memento from a trip I was originally invited, but then uninvited, to go on; Guilt reducer
Purchaser: 20-something, latino boyfriend who romantically told me I was an incredible mentor
Price: $5 OBO

A gold stick-thing with a frog at one end reportedly used to identify where one has left off while reading. Not Kindle compatible. Nor iPad compatible. Though does come in handy when prying the back off of a finicky work Blackberry to do a hard reset. According to the accompanying paperwork, item is gold-plated and was purchased at an airport gift-shop on the day the giver flew home (see 'AEROP.' stamp and handwritten purchase date on the paperwork). So, kind of on par with a ginormous Toblerone snagged at duty-free. Included is a used copy of A Hundred Years of Solitude, an overrated novel by an author whose primary talent is a unique ability to pen only incredibly unlikeable characters. Shipping not included.

Quantum Mechanics

That car accident you witness from a few vehicles back. The clash of crumpling metal and the screech of tires across macadam.  It's an accident that could have involved you, if only you hadn't dropped your keys when you locked your apartment door. Run back in to make sure you unplugged the iron. Slowed up at a yellow light a mile back instead of gunning it to clear the intersection

That twenty-dollar-bill you find crumpled up in the parking lot. The absence of nearby cars confirms it is yours to take. Yet you could have missed it had the moron in front of you at the ATM not processed seventeen transactions. The newbie cashier had a formal grasp on keying manufacturer's coupons. The shopping cart had four functioning wheels so you didn't need to randomly pause to get them moving straight.

That friend you met during your sophomore year of college after transferring from another school. It is a friendship that has shaped you, made you a better person, and blossomed into an unbreakable bond spanning decades. But it is a friendship that could have never happened had you transferred instead to Duke. Had you actually been placed in the dorm you requested. Had you been off exploring the campus while she poked her head into open doors.

That Charleston cocktail party your college friend invites you to attend. Though you know only one other guest, you find yourself chatting with a Connecticut man in town visiting his father. But that meeting in the garden would have never occurred had you kept your original plan of visiting the week prior. Had he canceled the trip when his girls' school shortened spring break to make up for snow days. Had you remained by your friend's side in the kitchen, quietly admiring portraits and eavesdropping on conversations.

That business trip to Manhattan. A coworker asks for assistance and you welcome the chance to revisit a city that has always felt like home. It is a trip that opens the door to laugh with a friend over  manicures, sip French press coffee in a charming Grammercy cafe, and partake in a date with that man you met in Charleston. It is a trip that wouldn't have happened had you had other work commitments. Had you agreed to help a friend move. Had you determined it would make an already hectic travel schedule unbearable.

That Thursday evening date in Manhattan with the man you met in Charleston. You buy a dress, get your tresses tamed, and practice walking in heels in anticipation of making him weak in the knees, again. It is a date that had immense potential, had his Texas-based client not insisted on extending his visit through dinner Friday. Had his recent thoughts not included confusion about his unraveling marriage. Had you not evolved to the point of wanting nothing less than one-hundred percent of a man's attention, love and support.

Monday Mash-Up

DRESS THE PART

Though I hated my mother for not allowing me to wear jeans as a kid, the woman repeatedly forcing me into Esprit outfits, her fashion snobbery meant I'm always put together as an adult. People often compliment my sense of style, as if pairing a necklace and belt are on par with curing cancer. But I still stumble.  While in Los Angeles last month, I was told I looked more East Hampton than West Hollywood. I'm uncertain if that was a compliment or an insult.  Anyway, with a closet full of clothes, I still had nothing to wear for my rendezvous with Pete. In a panic, I texted a good friend for guidance:

I need a dress that says I'm classy and that even though I swallow I also appreciate caviar.  I guess I should hit Saks?

By the way, I found the perfect dress at the first boutique I visited with Leslie.  Paired with a four-inch, tan, leather sandal, it totally delivered the message I was going for.


CITY MOUSE

This past weekend, I was in NYC helping a coworker.  To make the trip worthwhile, I arrived Thursday.  This meant activities like coffee with one friend and a dinner with another were possible.  I also snuck in a visit to the iconic bookstore the Strand and the farmer's market at Union Square, two places I frequented back when the city was a hop up the highway.

My hotel was located at 29th & Madison, close enough to transportation to access other corners of the city and far enough away from confused tourists littering the lobby.  After dinner on the Upper East Side Thursday evening, I strolled over sixty blocks back to my hotel.  A gentle breeze, dry air, a clear sky, and passerbys all made the walk enjoyable.  Yes, some blocks smelled like stale pee.  Much of the walk required sidestepping people with their noses buried in their phones.  I wouldn't have traded that evening walk for the world.  Sure, there is an ease to life in the South.  The people are nicer and the cost of living is nominal. But I really do feel at home in a bustling city.


SELL!  BUY!  SELL!

Since the start of the year, I've become more dependent on a car service for work.  It makes life easier and my company doesn't have a problem with it.  We aren't allowed to be on the phone for any reason while driving, even hands free.  Plus, landing at eleven o'clock in the evening and wandering a dark parking deck alone isn't always the smartest thing.  Using a car service makes me more available to work and less available to be killed.  We call this a win-win.

I've probably used a car service thirty times in the last few months. Sometimes the car is something pimpy like an Escalade.  When those pull up, I start singing Kanye West. "Everybody knows I'm a mother fuckin' monster, uhh."  More often than not, the car is a Lincoln Town Car.  A traditional, black-paint, tinted-window Town Car.  I crawl into the back, stretch my legs out in front of me, eye the Wall Street Journal on the seat beside me, and quote Gordon Gekko. "The point is ladies and gentlemen that greed, for lack of a better word, is good," I quietly say to myself. Then I giggle and start playing with all of the buttons.

Purge (and Splurge)

"You need to de-clutter," a confidant told me on the phone late Friday afternoon. 

"Did Leslie send you a picture of my dining room table?  She did, didn't she...."

"No, but that dining room table symbolizes your life.  You need to purge that which holds no value so as to make room for that which does."

Some might think it is quite a leap to conclude a pile of mail, a stack of random business cards, and a wad of receipts can mean more than a dislike of filing.  Except that clutter really did represent my life.

For over a year, a corner of my bedroom has been occupied by a pile of clothes to be donated: faded, work-appropriate t-shirts bought five years ago from Banana Republic; fabric Gucci loafers with a platypus-like toe-box; a stack of jeans that are too tight here and too loose there.  For over a year, a corner of my office has been occupied by a box of items meant for the dumpster: random personal papers I forgot to discard before moving south; photographs that hold no meaning; insurance quotes for companies that are no longer my client.

Friendships have piled up too.  Much of my job is spent on the phone, making me scowl at that piece of technology after hours.  Now when I sit in front of my computer, I'm too busy to log onto Gchat.  Toggling between a conference call, a work email, and a personal conversation is beyond my talent-set.  After all, I am the girl who forgets to breathe when holding a plank.

Saturday morning, curiously wide awake at six o'clock, I got out of bed and started tidying up.  Seated on the floor of my apartment, I sorted through piles.  Sometimes I even took a moment to see what else could be added. All of those older sneakers in my closet, the ones too broken-down to use at the gym, those could be donated. All of those receipts stacked on my desk, the ones my accountant will need come tax season next year, those could be filed away.  I even took the time to label my files, tucking professional accolades into one named "Smile File."

By Sunday night, I had dropped three bags of donations at Good Will.  My dining room table was not only completely cleaned off but I had wiped the glass top down, the absence of smudges better revealing the dust bunnies beneath.  I also managed to speak with three different friends, all women who have been incredibly patient with my absence this past year.  They are women who provide guidance and laughter and after each call, I couldn't help but feel grateful to have them all in my life.

Though I purged quite a bit this past weekend, I have also added a few things.  With extra space in my closet, I couldn't say no to a stunning pair of Gucci pumps - thin black straps with gold-chain tassels hanging off the ankles.  A few feet away hangs a new dress, the drape of the fabric feminine and flirty. My calendar has also been de-cluttered.  Now I have time for things like a weekend later this month at a five-star resort in Northern California.  Oh, and a date.  With Pete.  I'll be in New York this week for work and he invited me to join him for drinks and dinner.  It didn't take much to make that fit it into my calendar.  Especially since I had de-cluttered.  Perhaps I'll wear that new dress I bought.

You Can't Get What You Don't Ask For

I never wanted to be that girl. Like the ones I'd see sassing their boyfriends into a submissive 'Yes, dear' position as they stand at a bar, in a grocery line. Or the ones demanding attention, snapping 'Take me home, now' amongst friends, coworkers, complete strangers. She, I'd think, she must be such an unpleasant handful.

"Where do you want to go to dinner?" my exes would often ask.

"I'm fine with whatever," I'd often respond.

"Just pick!"

"Okay, pizza."

"Nah, I'm not in the mood for pizza.  Pick something else."

"Yeah, like I said, I'm fine with whatever."

Maybe it's because I grew up with a father with physically deteriorating health, a once strong man now a shell of his former self. Maybe it's because I spent over a decade volunteering at the Ronald McDonald House, watching sick children fight for their lives. At a certain point, I adopted the motto: I don't have cancer. Such an approach pretty much makes the question of tacos or pizza rather inane. 

In early April, I met Pete at that Charleston cocktail party. Mid-May I finally reached out to him. And a week into our conversations, he shared something personal. That two weeks prior to meeting me, he and his wife had separated. For the first time in four years they were communicating, they were making progress, this time toward mediation. Meeting me, he said, was both unexpected and delightful. He hadn't felt such a connection in many years. But he wanted to be honest about his situation. The manner in which I wanted to proceed, if at all, he would respect.

I sat with his email for an entire day before I typed a response. My instinct was to console him, offer genuine words of support. Except his gesture had opened the door for me to say what I truly wanted. Here it was, a chance to vocalize my needs. It would then be up to him to determine if he was capable of meeting them. I wrote, deleted, and rewrote my response no less than ten times, eventually settling on truthfulness: 

In exchange for your honesty, I will admit that I am hoping to find a copilot, someone with whom I can share my life. Someone who cheers me on when I thrive and lends a hand when I stumble. Someone who makes me laugh and makes me think. Someone who appreciates delicious cuisine, adventurous travel, and intellectual curiosity. Someone who adores me, even though I can't whistle. Someone who will tend to spiders while I dance across the living room sofa, point and squeal. I'm not sure what we have here but I'm okay with where you are if you're okay with where I am.

It took me twenty minutes to click send, my extended index finger hovering over the button as I managed knots in my stomach and tightness in my chest. What if this turns him off? What if he has no interest in ever remarrying? Isn't it premature to address this? What if I sound needy and unreasonable? What if I sound like that girl? 

The thing is, you can't get what you don't ask for. Tiptoeing around the truth would be misleading. Plus, he had offered honesty, led with respect. The least I could do was reciprocate it. I reread my response and, a little shy of midnight, clicked send. He responded early the next morning: 

Nothing less should be expected from a partner and you have a great sense of worth embedded in those thoughts. I am more than okay with where you are and I appreciate the open door from you very much.

The Way The South Was Won (By A Yankee)

My friend Sally hails from a prominent southern family.  In her father's Charleston home hangs a portrait of her relative fondly referred to as 'The Major.'  It is the polite way to note the south still won.  A confederate flag would be too gauche amongst period piece antiques and Miele stainless appliances.

In mid-April, I stood before that portrait.  I was in town for work, meeting with some sales reps and calling on some schools.  It was a trip I had been planning but intentionally booked to overlap with Sally's visit home from Los Angeles. 

"All ready," she said as she stepped back into the formal living room.  "Let's go next door!"

We strolled out to the street, walked ten feet, and entered into the neighbor's home where a small garden party was about to begin.  Most attendees were in their seventies.  The men all wore navy sport coats and Hermes ties.  Tailored silk draped across the bony shoulders of the women.  Suddenly my strappy sandals, the ones that arch my foot just so and display brightly pedicured toes, felt incredibly risque.

To my left stood a former diplomat, to my right a one-time CEO of a luxury hotel chain.  But never once did someone lead with such status.  I was asked about my provenance, my education, my profession. It was only through casual conversation, genuine inquiry, that details of the distinguished guests trickled out above the chime of ice clinking against crystal highballs.

At a certain point, I escaped to the back of the courtyard.  The absence of air conditioning inside, the tightness of the space outside, left me claustrophobic.  The periphery of the gathering would give me time to breathe, escape pleasantries amongst strangers.

"I'm Pete," the gentleman to my left said with an outstretched hand.

"Paige.  Are those your daughters?" I asked with a nod toward two elementary aged girls in head-to-toe Lily Pulitzer.

"They are."

"Don't tell anyone I'm admitting this but I think they are more at ease amongst all of these people than I am.  Incredibly poised," I offered before raising my drink to my lips.

"Thank you," he said with a smile.

We spoke further.  I learned he lives in Connecticut, working as a fund manager overseeing investments for academic institutions.  He visits Atlanta a few times a year, and apparently Georgia Tech serves the most horrendous food at those quarterly meetings.

"Well the next time you're in town, you should allow me to make culinary suggestions," I said.

"Deal," he said as he reached for his wallet, passed off a business card.

The conversation continued, revealing things like his familiarity with where I grew up thanks to a childhood hockey habit.  It turns out we both spent summer vacations splashing in the frigid Atlantic waters off Nantucket.  There was an ease between us.  Silences felt comfortable and appropriate instead of awkward and long. Eventually the crowd thinned, Pete returning to his father's home a few doors down.  There were burgers to  be cooked, after all.

Knowing his Atlanta visits were quarterly, realizing he'd be south-bound in June, late last Tuesday night I pulled Pete's card from my wallet, sat down at my computer and penned an email.  It was witty but reserved, flirty but proper. Just shy of midnight, I clicked send and crawled into bed.

The next morning I set off for the airport.  Work was taking me west.  I breezed through security. I napped on the plane.  And when I landed in Los Angeles, I turned on my phone and scrolled through emails. There, between a promotion from Saks for the new Chloe collection and an announcement from my manager, was a response from Pete. 

Of course he remembered me, the woman with a beautiful smile who easily laughed at his mediocre jokes.  He was just in Atlanta, he noted.  In fact, he had been there the previous week. And he cursed himself the entire visit.  How stupid he was, he confessed, to not have asked for my number at the cocktail party.  "But I have it now," he said.  "I plan to put it to good use."

In My Defense, Conjugal Visits Never Came Up

"We're going over to Cara's house tonight," Leslie said earlier Saturday. "You should come!"

"Can't. I have a date."

"Not the guy who texted you at 10:30PM Friday to say he was at your complex and wanted to know if you were around, right?"

"God no."

"The all-star who played baseball for UNC?"

"Man he had a nice ass.  No. He's now head of sales for the entire US so he's married to his job."

"That dad? The WebMD guy you had a few dates with?"

"Huh. Haven't heard from him. But I think he's consumed with his new biz and his kids. Anyway, no. New guy. Vassar alum. He does something with commercial real estate."

"Cool. Have fun!"

Twenty minutes shy of meeting my date, the heavens opened and sheets of water plummeted to the earth.  Rivers snaked through my parking lot. Suddenly my four-inch, platform pumps, the ones made of a soft tan leather that stains from the tiniest drop of water, were tucked back into their box. Suddenly I was questioning if there was any way I could make Gortex sneakers look sexy. Luckily the rain let up enough to permit heels, but only the kind that can manage puddles.

We talked over margaritas and chips. We connected over fish tacos. The conversation flowed rather easily, even though I already knew I wasn't interested. He was pleasant enough, nice enough. He was enough. Just not witty enough, smart enough, or charming enough for my taste. This meant I had no concern to speak freely when the topic of dating surfaced.

"So how's JDate treating you?" he asked.

"Good! With the exception of the racist windbag I went out with last week, everyone has been incredibly pleasant," I replied.

"I went to this Jewish cocktail thing at the Landmark a few weeks ago and I was the youngest person there," he said with a chuckle.

"Ha! Some guy I've gone out with, his ex-wife was an organizer for that event."

"Rachel Rosenson?"

"No clue. I only know him as James JDate.  But this guy sold his business to WebMD. Now starting over in the medical field. Job placement stuff."

"Has to be Rachel Rosenson."

Later that night, I shuffled through my front door and collapsed on my sofa. Then, for the first time since getting back into the dating game, I googled one of my suitors. James Rosenson rendered no results.  But Rachel Rosenson did, one of which included a photograph from a few years ago with the guy I had gone out with, and his full name was noted as James Goldberg.

"Remember that dad of three I went out with?" I said to Leslie at Mother's Day brunch. "The guy who sold his business to WebMD."

"Yeah. I liked him!"

"Um, in 2010 the SEC filed charges against him. Ponzi scheme."

"What.....?"

"Wait," my brother in-law chimed in when he finished chewing some bread. "My friend's parents got swindled by some Atlanta guy. I think the trial is coming up."

"No the people my guy swindled lived in Florida," I explained.

"Yeah, the parents live in Florida. Majorly orthodox though."

".....this dude was raised orthodox."

We blankly looked at each other, falling quiet to digest the situation.  Then I spoke.

"I guess JDate should consider adding 'White Collar Criminal' to the list of professions?"

"Did he ever ask how you felt about conjugal visits?" my brother in-law inquired.

"At least you can't take his silence personally. Dude's busy preparing for prison," Leslie added.

"Yeah, there's the silver lining I was looking for."

Sexy Silver Pumps and a Really Good Kiss

"Where are you going for drinks?" Leslie asked as we huffed and puffed on neighboring treadmills.

"Not sure yet. What do you think I should wear?"

"You looked really nice the other night, when we went to Bacchanalia."

A little after five o'clock, my date informed me where we'd be going (F&B, a bistro-esque spot a mile or so away from where I live) and what time we'd be meeting (6:15pm with flexibility to accommodate the clusterfuck of traffic that occurs at rush hour in Atlanta).  I spent the next twenty minutes fretting about my outfit, eventually calling Leslie for guidance.

"Pony-hair Oscar de la Renta pumps or pointy silver pumps?" I asked her as I stood naked in my closet.

"Silver."

"Cream lace top with the flutter cap sleeve or snakeskin racerback tank?"

"Tank. With a jacket. But not a worky jacket."

"Unstructured one from Madewell or tuxedo-waiter-ish-like one from Banana?"

"Oh my god, how have you gotten through life this far?!?!?"

"It is a wonder!"

He was seated at the bar when I arrived, casual in jeans but put together with a sport-coat and perfectly pressed shirt.  A lowball of Sapphire and soda sat within his reach, a wedge of lime set on the cocktail napkin. I shimmied onto a neighboring barstool, said hello and offered a smile.  Then I ordered a Belvedere and tonic.

Our time at the bar stretched up to ten o'clock, at which point we dropped my car at his place and relocated elsewhere for a bite to eat. We placed bets on whether the hostess sucked into a very short and very tight dress was wearing panties. We giggled at the couple sitting side-by-side in a banquette, both distracted by their cell phones. I made fun of him for owning a red Corvette. He complimented my smile.

It was around midnight when we returned to his place.

"Want to come up?" he asked, a slight tilt of his head as if to hint at the direction.

"Sure," I answered.

We talked some more, watched television, and kissed. His lips were soft as they pressed against mine. I ran my hand up his shirt, against his chest. He slipped my jacket off my shoulders. Our legs remained tangled even as I rolled onto my side, set my hand on his stomach and glanced at my watch. The light reflected off the silver hands, indicating it was just shy of two in the morning. I lowered my mouth toward his ear, kissed his lobe and then whispered, "I think I should head home."

"I think you should stay," he countered, running his fingers through my hair. "Nothing needs to happen. It would just be nice to wake up with you here."

I didn't disagree. His touch was gentle but masculine. His kiss melted my skin. If I were ten years younger, I would have considered it. But knowing what I want, I slipped back into my jacket and then sat down to put on my heels. Silver, pointy-toed, three inch pumps that arch the foot and straighten the back.

"You're incredibly sexy," he said as we arrived back at my car, tugging me closer to kiss my neck, my cheek, my lips. "Stay."

I ran my fingertips up his thigh, lifted my gaze to meet his eyes, and then rose as high as I could onto my tippy toes to kiss him. To feel his lips, his tongue and his warmth one last time. And in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to stay.

"Maybe next time," I softly offered. "Sweet dreams."

I Feel The Feminist Movement Kinda Fucked Me Over (With Men)

Because of the feminist movement, there have been female astronauts, movie producers, and Supreme Court Justices. Thanks to the trailblazers that came before us, women now have access to voting booths, birth control, and equal pay. But at the risk of sounding unappreciative, the feminist movement has royally fucked up the dating scene in the twenty-first century.

At forty, I own a condo and I bought it without a man having to cosign my mortgage. I have a 401k, investments, and a job that pays me well enough to enjoy things like a German sedan, Prada purses, and produce from Wholefoods. The hiccup is that all of this independence challenges the courting process.

"What the heck is the point of a flirt?" my friend asked me the other day, referring to a way of communicating on dating websites.

"It helps you identify which men are total pussies. That's the point," I replied. "Any man who needs to rely on a passive, pre-formatted one-liner to get my attention clearly has a vagina. It's on par with throwing sand in my face and then running away."

The feminist movement has given women access to everything, including courting a man. The problem is that most men, instead of stepping up their game, have taken this as a cue to sit back and relax. Not only do they no longer have to pursue a woman, but the woman will bring home the bacon, whip up a lavish meal, do the dishes, fold the laundry, and make sure the kids are tended to. A man takes out the trash. Yes, I'm generalizing. But I am also looking back at past relationships and men with whom I'm friendly. Challenge me all you want but you know I'm pretty much correct here.

A psychologist named Dr. Patricia Allen has noted that there are two energies in a personal relationship: feminine and masculine. The feminine wants to be cherished for her feelings. The masculine wants to be respected for his thoughts. Your genitalia has nothing to do with what role you play. There are masculine women and feminine men. Also, you can be both, acting masculine at the workplace but presenting with feminine at home. The problem is understanding what you want and then playing the proper role to get it.

"This guy who wants to take me out thinks Ru San is the best sushi in town," I said to Leslie over lunch yesterday.

"Really? Yuck. That place is cheesy and the pits!" she replied.

"I know! And all I could think was, 'Can I really respect a man for his thoughts when such thoughts include thinking shitty sushi is divine?' By the way, it gets worse."

"How can it get worse than that?"

"He decided he also needed to convince me Italian cuisine in the states is edible, starting with his favorite spot in Atlanta, Baraonda. E loved that place, meaning I've eaten there a bunch of times. Also, it suuuuuuuuucks."

"So what did you do?" Leslie asked, laughter dotting the question.

"I feigned sleepiness and got off the phone. I'm supposed to respect his thoughts and I couldn't do it so I figured I'd just go to bed."

This morning I relayed the story to another friend, including the anxiety I felt when I couldn't figure out how to respond without sounding masculine.

"No, you can have an opinion," she explained. "You just need to phrase it as a feeling. Something like, I don't feel comfortable in that environment."

"Ohhhhhhhhh! That's a huge relief. Because I was on the precipice of dropping out of the dating scene if it meant forfeiting all brain power."

"Ha! Silly girl. But I do think, in this instance, you should have just gone with the masculine response. You're palate is too sophisticated for this guy."

I hung up the phone and looked around my apartment. Tonight I'm meeting a local lawyer for drinks. Tomorrow a liberal leaning real estate investor is taking me to dinner. And after speaking with my friend, after realizing that morphing toward the feminine doesn't mean surrendering one's thoughts or identity, I'm ready to give this feminine energy thing another go. Translation: I won't even do the requisite wallet reach. After all, I don't FEEL that is an appropriate gesture seeing both of these men invited me out.