It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m running my normal errands: gym, Panera, (Thank God for Saturday–the only day I’m allowing myself to eat bagels, mostly due to the extra 6 pounds I’m blaming on my Monday–Friday indulgences for the past 5 months.) and Banana Republic. I do the same routine every Saturday, but this week is a little different because I’ve added the task of finding a proper brown tote and going on an afternoon date. As a result I skipped the gym and ran in my building’s workout room instead, and then went to the salon and got properly dressed all before 12 p.m. We had decided he would pick me up while I was out shopping. He wanted to see a movie. (Despite what people think, movies are never a good date in the beginning of any relationship–you spend 3 hours in silence) I only considered it because I really did want to get a Diet Coke, plus he talks a bit more than me, so it might not be the worst idea.
Shopping was going well. I found a cute pair of pants at Banana Republic for $20. Then the search began for my new brown work tote. I needed something large enough for my heels, work papers, wallet, and maybe my laptop, but small enough so that it wouldn’t be mistaken for luggage. But, then again, it needed to be big enough that I could turn it into a cute, well-stocked overnight satchel (for those lucky nights). It needed to be stylish enough to get a few “nice bag's” (I once bought a pair of $500 aviator sunglasses because the sales lady swore pedestrians would cross crowded streets to ask about them. After a week, not one person commented on my glasses. I shipped them back.) but not so fashionable that I would have to worry about it being stolen. I had already been to Louis Vuitton and Cole Haan. I really wanted this cute chocolate Fendi bag but it was over my purse budget for the quarter, so I needed to find something a little cheaper. I headed to Gucci. As I’m browsing, my phone rungs.
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah, can you pick me up from the Gucci Store?”
“Gucci Store–where is that?”
Houston we have a problem. I sarcastically recite the cross streets.
He arrived.
“Hey, thanks. How was your day?” I try to sound chipper even though I’m sorta dreading this date.
“Hey, I thought you were looking for a work bag or something?”
“Oh, I am. I can’t seem to find anything I want. I’m torn between what I want and staying within the requirements I have set for myself.” I ramble off a few more thoughts.
“So let me get this correct–you were in the Gucci store looking for bag to carry papers, shoes, and a computer in?”
“Yes, do you know of some other stores? I’m open to suggestions. I have already tried Louis Vuitton and Cole Haan.” I say with no sarcasm.
“No, I don’t, and I can’t believe you would spend that kind of money on something to carry your shoes and computer!”
Um, did I miss the part where I asked you to pay for it, or maybe when I asked you for money to cover my bills? “Really?” I say. I contemplate and before he answers, I add, “So what kind of items do you suggest I spend my money on? Mr. I-don’t-even-know-where-the-Gucci-store-is located-so-I-have-no-right-to-judge.”
“Well, for starters you could invest in a flat screen TV.”
Damn, must have missed that conversation as well. “But I’m not in the market for a flat screen TV–I’m looking for a work tote.” I fire back.
“Well, I just think you could do more with your money than waste it on a purse.”
Tote.”Waste? How is it waste?”
“Well, what value does it have?” he says.
“What value does a flat screen TV have? A tote is priceless and has more long-term value than any TV you could purchase.”
“Look, I’m looking for someone I can date long term.”
“Go on,” I say
“And I can’t be with someone who would spend obscene amounts of money on work totes,” he shouts.
“You know, you’re right, when you’re dating someone you have to know what you can and can’t deal with, and if that’s a deal breaker for you, then I think we need to end whatever we are doing right now.”
He’s speechless.
Oh, so you didn’t think I would call your bluff.
He starts to back peddle. “Look, you’re right. It is your money, but I want to be with someone that won’t put our family in jeopardy because she wants a purse.”
(Did I mention we have only been on 4 dates?)
What he was really thinking was probably something like, “Oh shit, I can’t screw this up yet. We haven’t even had sex.”
“So you think I would choose a purse over feeding my family?” I ask
“Well, I need to know that you won’t.” he says
“I feel like if I have to answer that then we really are not compatible at all. That’s just crazy.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
Too bad. You’re still not getting any booty. You’re officially on the friend list.
The lights dim and the movie begins. This was our last movie but I found my work tote the next day.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Truth
It’s 5:38 p.m. on Saturday, and I’m lying on the sofa–it’s cold, and leaving is out of the question. My text message indicator dings. I quickly pick up the phone hoping it’s a funny text from a friend. Instead, my eyes read “She’s pregnant.” He texted this as if his dog was having puppies. My heart stops, I stop breathing. I keep reading it. “You won’t take my calls, she’s pregnant, and I don’t know what to do.” I read it 100 times. I get in bed at 7 p.m., but I can’t sleep. I toss and turn and every time I turn I see the words, “She’s pregnant” dancing across my walls. I want to text back, but I can’t say what I want–“Have an abortion”–it’s selfish.
Although I haven’t rested all night, I run the next morning at the gym. Day one of the rest of my life. Life without the thought of him.
“Why are you acting like he is your end-all-be-all?” asks my friend.
“He isn’t––wasn’t––I just wanted us to end up together one day,” I say.
“But you were not even dating,” she reminds me.
“I know, but I always thought when we both were on the same page . . . We said when we were on the same page again we would be together and now it won’t happen because she’s pregnant,” I shout.
I’m walking to work from the train and all I see is pregnant women. I hate them, I hate him, I hate her. Bitch. You stole my life, my white dress, my motherhood. That was supposed to be me. I am crying as I walk down the street.
What happened to us? I remembered when he loved me more than I was capable of loving him. His thoughts, needs, and wants were all about me. He called obsessively. I hated it then, but longed for it now–the way he longed for me then–the trips, dinners, plays, concerts, flowers, driving in the middle of the night because he couldn’t sleep without me, undressing me and him losing his breath–all gone, and she’s pregnant. He used to say I was the only one he ever wanted; the one he dreamed about. Even after we parted he never stopped wanting me. The tables turned. I wanted him, but too much time had passed between us. He loved me but not in the same way. He was experienced now–it seemed someone had told him to call less, care less, and play it cool. I became anxious, “You don’t love me anymore,” I once told him.
“I do, but it’s complicated,” he said.
“No, it’s easy–we dated before, I know how you love,” I nearly shouted. This isn’t me. I don’t shout, I don’t try to convince people of what they want. I’m out of character.
“Just play it cool,” my friends would say. “Be an actress.”
“I can’t. He knows me too well,” I say in between tears.
But she’s pregnant now so what does it matter. I cried for 7 whole days. There were no more tears when he called. I didn’t answer. I have to let him go. Let him out of my heart but loneliness is making me hold on. She’s pregnant I remind myself. I hope their baby is ugly. My only revenge.
When we dated before, I never felt this way . . . something is wrong. “Just go with the flow,” I kept telling myself.
Is she prettier than me? Younger, thinner, or wealthier? Who am I? It doesn’t matter anymore. He loved me once, and he doesn’t anymore. It’s hard to be that person to someone–the one they don’t choose–the “great girl,” but not his choice. That hurts more than her being pregnant.
“Why do I have to be the strong woman? Why can’t I be weak? Weak women always have someone,” I tell my friend.
“Yes, but weak people have someone because they are not strong enough to be alone–they settle,” she says.
“Sometimes I wish I could just settle.” I whisper
“The grass is always greener,” she says.
Day 10: I’m sleeping now, but when I wake, he’s the first thing I think about. I imagine how happy his mother will be–she wants grandchildren. I imagine their wedding–200 guest, summer (he hates the cold), white candles, white flowers, everything white. I wonder if she’ll wear white.
Day 14: I wake without thinking of him, but when I hear songs I wonder what their song is? What will they dance to? We never had a song. We should have had a song.
Day 18: “You need to date,” says a friend.
Easier said than done. “As soon as the weather breaks, I’ll get out there,” I tell her, saying it more to myself than to her.
Day 24: He has called 13 times, texted 22 times, sent 5 e-mails, and left 0 voicemail messages. Coward! I never responded.
Day 30: I’m better–quite surprised at how I’m handling the situation. I read a book for work–it’s called Peak and Valleys. It’s by that guy who wrote Who Moved my Cheese? Peaks and Valleys is a story of a young man who lives unhappily in a valley until he meets an old man who lives on a peak and it changes his work and life forever. Through conversations and some experiences, he learns some basics principles that allow him to better manage the good and bad times in work and life.
During the reading, I kept applying the principles of the book to this situation. I kept asking myself, “What is the truth in this situation?”
The truth is this: I love someone who doesn’t love me anymore. I’ve loved before and have gotten over it, so I’ll get over this. I say this in the morning and at night. It’s the truth. It has to be.
Although I haven’t rested all night, I run the next morning at the gym. Day one of the rest of my life. Life without the thought of him.
“Why are you acting like he is your end-all-be-all?” asks my friend.
“He isn’t––wasn’t––I just wanted us to end up together one day,” I say.
“But you were not even dating,” she reminds me.
“I know, but I always thought when we both were on the same page . . . We said when we were on the same page again we would be together and now it won’t happen because she’s pregnant,” I shout.
I’m walking to work from the train and all I see is pregnant women. I hate them, I hate him, I hate her. Bitch. You stole my life, my white dress, my motherhood. That was supposed to be me. I am crying as I walk down the street.
What happened to us? I remembered when he loved me more than I was capable of loving him. His thoughts, needs, and wants were all about me. He called obsessively. I hated it then, but longed for it now–the way he longed for me then–the trips, dinners, plays, concerts, flowers, driving in the middle of the night because he couldn’t sleep without me, undressing me and him losing his breath–all gone, and she’s pregnant. He used to say I was the only one he ever wanted; the one he dreamed about. Even after we parted he never stopped wanting me. The tables turned. I wanted him, but too much time had passed between us. He loved me but not in the same way. He was experienced now–it seemed someone had told him to call less, care less, and play it cool. I became anxious, “You don’t love me anymore,” I once told him.
“I do, but it’s complicated,” he said.
“No, it’s easy–we dated before, I know how you love,” I nearly shouted. This isn’t me. I don’t shout, I don’t try to convince people of what they want. I’m out of character.
“Just play it cool,” my friends would say. “Be an actress.”
“I can’t. He knows me too well,” I say in between tears.
But she’s pregnant now so what does it matter. I cried for 7 whole days. There were no more tears when he called. I didn’t answer. I have to let him go. Let him out of my heart but loneliness is making me hold on. She’s pregnant I remind myself. I hope their baby is ugly. My only revenge.
When we dated before, I never felt this way . . . something is wrong. “Just go with the flow,” I kept telling myself.
Is she prettier than me? Younger, thinner, or wealthier? Who am I? It doesn’t matter anymore. He loved me once, and he doesn’t anymore. It’s hard to be that person to someone–the one they don’t choose–the “great girl,” but not his choice. That hurts more than her being pregnant.
“Why do I have to be the strong woman? Why can’t I be weak? Weak women always have someone,” I tell my friend.
“Yes, but weak people have someone because they are not strong enough to be alone–they settle,” she says.
“Sometimes I wish I could just settle.” I whisper
“The grass is always greener,” she says.
Day 10: I’m sleeping now, but when I wake, he’s the first thing I think about. I imagine how happy his mother will be–she wants grandchildren. I imagine their wedding–200 guest, summer (he hates the cold), white candles, white flowers, everything white. I wonder if she’ll wear white.
Day 14: I wake without thinking of him, but when I hear songs I wonder what their song is? What will they dance to? We never had a song. We should have had a song.
Day 18: “You need to date,” says a friend.
Easier said than done. “As soon as the weather breaks, I’ll get out there,” I tell her, saying it more to myself than to her.
Day 24: He has called 13 times, texted 22 times, sent 5 e-mails, and left 0 voicemail messages. Coward! I never responded.
Day 30: I’m better–quite surprised at how I’m handling the situation. I read a book for work–it’s called Peak and Valleys. It’s by that guy who wrote Who Moved my Cheese? Peaks and Valleys is a story of a young man who lives unhappily in a valley until he meets an old man who lives on a peak and it changes his work and life forever. Through conversations and some experiences, he learns some basics principles that allow him to better manage the good and bad times in work and life.
During the reading, I kept applying the principles of the book to this situation. I kept asking myself, “What is the truth in this situation?”
The truth is this: I love someone who doesn’t love me anymore. I’ve loved before and have gotten over it, so I’ll get over this. I say this in the morning and at night. It’s the truth. It has to be.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The One Night Stand
Normally I don’t wait until the first of the year to make my resolutions; I actually think it’s more meaningful to make them on my birthday. One’s birthday, to me, is more significant in terms of personal growth than the start of a new year. Too bad I totally forgot to make my list in time this year. So it’s well into the new year when I actually sit down to start my list–I’m just like all the other people in the world trying to make a random list of resolutions that will hopefully change the course of my life forever.
I usually spend a great deal of time making this list–I review my list from the previous year, review my accomplishments, and then look for new things to add. Every year on my list I add, “have a one night stand.” I know, I know–to some, it’s like “Why is this on your list?” Well, I truly feel like every woman should experience certain things in her life, and having a one night stand is one of those things. Don’t get me wrong, I have had casual relationships in the past. I’ve also had friends-with-benefits relationships–we would go to dinner, movies, shopping, etc., but at the end of the night we both knew what was in store. What I want is to have a true one night stand, and I’m getting tired of this being on my list every year. So this year, I’ve moved it up to #1.
I call one of my friends who is an expert in the matter. “So what do I do?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” she laughs.
“Like, do I say ‘let’s go fuck’?” I hold my breath.
“No, silly. Not like that, but you make it understood.”
“How?”
“Well, let’s say you’re out and you see someone that you find interesting. You go up and flirt with him.”
“I used to be so good at flirting. Now I suck.”
“Dance with him, but be a little more seductive in your dancing. Then whisper little things to him.”
“Little things … like what? ‘Wanna go home with me daddy?’” I laugh, hoping she doesn’t say yes.
“No!!! Well, you could, but that’s slutty.”
“Um, so is a one night stand,” I think to myself.
“Say something subtle, like ‘Where did you learn to dance like this? You must be skilled in other areas...’ You don’t have to say much. A man’s dream is to pick up a girl from the club. If you just give him a little, he’ll lead you the rest of the way.”
I’m speechless.
“Then exchange numbers. Text him while you’re still there and say something like ‘can’t wait to see you later’,” she adds.
“And that’s not the same as asking if he wants to screw?” I nearly yell.
“No, it allows you to see how he will react.”
“How?” I sure have a lot of questions; maybe this is a bad idea...
“Well, if he responds and says something like ‘me and my boys are going to another place,’ or ‘I didn’t drive,’ you know he’s scared. That allows you to say, ‘oh, I just wanted to see if you wanted to grab a hot dog afterwards.’”
“Okay, so let’s say it’s a go. How do you decide the place?” I ask
“Um, you kinda just figure that out on the fly.”
“Well, it can’t really be on the fly–I would need time to make up a name and get a room at the W.”
“The W? No one is taking you to the W at 3 a.m.”
“Why not? If I’m going to dish out the goods it might as well be on 1000 thread count sheets.”
“Okay, explain to me your idea of a one night stand,” she laughs.
I begin to give her the best impression I have, probably from some combination of foreign films I’d seen: “Well, I meet this really hot guy–a 10 (no reason to sleep with just a 6 when I can have them anytime)–I make up a false name . . . Sasha. Then we pull up to the W, Four Seasons, Park Hyatt–something in that range–and we have crazy sex all night. Then, I get up before he’s even awake and cab it home. Oh, and just for dramatics I leave a note written on a napkin saying how I had a great time. No number.”
“You’re delusional,” she says, laughing hysterically.
The very next week, I meet a guy at the grocery store. Nothing about the interaction is even close to sexy, but I think to myself, “this could be it.” For some reason I feel very comfortable. I suggest a movie and he agrees.
The day we’re scheduled to meet, I decide to change the location at the last minute. I invite him over to my place instead. (Let me add a disclaimer: this was years before the Craig’s list killer. Still, not a wise idea, and I’ve never had a stranger in my home since.) Something about this night seems right. I mean, it isn’t my fantasy–I had already given up my dream one night stand. But even though I’ve compromised the location and fake name, I’m still determined to check this off my list.
As I wait, I phone my friend. “So he’s coming over . . .”
“Coming over? I thought you wanted a Park Hyatt affair?”
“Yeah, yeah. So what do I do?”
“Well, you just make it happen. Make sure you sit next to him–flirt, play with your hair, and drink lots of wine.”
Oh, wine is a good idea––in fact, I think I’ll take a shot now I think. “No, what do I do?”
“Huh?”
“Sexually. Do you do everything?”
“Oh, well it depends on how comfortable you feel with the person.”
“Wait, let me conference in a male point of view,” I say as I dial in one of my male friends. When he answers, I waste no time: “So, I’m going to have a one night stand with this guy and I want to know whether I do everything . . . ” I ramble.
“Yes, why not? Put on a show; swing from the chandeliers; have the time of your life! You only live once,” He says without hesitation.
Note to self: never ask a man his opinion about sexual boundaries with strangers.
“He’s here–gotta go,” I say as I hang up on both of them.
He rents two movies. It is already 9 p.m. I love this–it assures a late night. Halfway through the first movie, I can’t really tell how the date is going. I’m past tipsy, but he’s not. After getting up for my third glass of wine, I sit back down a little closer. We chat a little during the movie. “Gosh he’s shy,” I think. “I need someone more forceful for this to work,” I tell myself. After I put the second movie in, I say something to him, leaning in very closely, and he finally kisses me. Okay, we are now getting somewhere.
We kiss for a few more seconds, but as the second movie queues up, he stops. Shit, he is really planning on watching this damn movie. Halfway through the second movie and a bottle of wine later, I have slightly given up on my one night stand with this guy. “Maybe next time,”I think. I go into the kitchen to switch my drink of choice from wine to water. As I am pouring water into my glass, he comes up behind me and starts to lightly kiss my neck. The kisses are soft at first but soon get more aggressive. Oh my gosh–I think it’s happening. All these years, and I’m finally going to have a one night stand!
We move to the sofa then the bed and make our way through the bases very quickly. Here comes the point where I start to second guess myself. Is this right? Should I do this? What if he tells everyone? What if I can’t do everything? Will he be mad? Does this really need to be on my list? Shit–too late–we are having sex. Okay, you need to stop thinking since you’re already doing it. Relax! I do, and it is amazing. After it is over, we fall asleep.
I wake up a few hours later to him breathing heavily. Shit. This was not the plan. How do I get him out of my house? I phone my guy friend. “Um, what the fuck–how do I get him out?”
“It’s just one night–he’ll leave when he wakes up. Just go to sleep.”
I toss and turn the rest of the night. It’s very weird having a stranger in your bed. I get up and shuffle through the trash can to make sure the condom is there. I can’t believe I just had sex with a stranger. I go through his wallet to make sure his name is what he said it was. It is. Shit, what have I done? What if the condom had a hole and I’m pregnant? I’m going to have a stranger’s baby. Calm down.
When the morning finally comes, he kisses me as he wakes up. I don’t know how to respond–I am too busy trying to stay emotionless. He asks what I am doing later. I ramble off something, and he says he’ll call later, and that he had a great time.
“I bet you did,” I think. “Me too,” I say.
Later that night at a small dinner party, my cell rings. It’s him.
“Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good–having dinner, can I call you later?”
“Sure, but I was hoping we could go see a movie tonight?”
“See a movie? You don’t have to do that,” I say, a little annoyed.
“Do what?” he charges back.
“I mean, I knew the chances I took when we had sex yesterday. We don’t have to go out,” I say with confidence.
“No, I want to go out,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I like you,” he whispers.
“Really? I mean, we had sex on our first date?”
“So?”
“Okay, well I guess a movie would be good,” I say, still not fully understanding how this was happening.
That was the beginning of a two year-long relationship. See I can't even get a one night stand right!
I usually spend a great deal of time making this list–I review my list from the previous year, review my accomplishments, and then look for new things to add. Every year on my list I add, “have a one night stand.” I know, I know–to some, it’s like “Why is this on your list?” Well, I truly feel like every woman should experience certain things in her life, and having a one night stand is one of those things. Don’t get me wrong, I have had casual relationships in the past. I’ve also had friends-with-benefits relationships–we would go to dinner, movies, shopping, etc., but at the end of the night we both knew what was in store. What I want is to have a true one night stand, and I’m getting tired of this being on my list every year. So this year, I’ve moved it up to #1.
I call one of my friends who is an expert in the matter. “So what do I do?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” she laughs.
“Like, do I say ‘let’s go fuck’?” I hold my breath.
“No, silly. Not like that, but you make it understood.”
“How?”
“Well, let’s say you’re out and you see someone that you find interesting. You go up and flirt with him.”
“I used to be so good at flirting. Now I suck.”
“Dance with him, but be a little more seductive in your dancing. Then whisper little things to him.”
“Little things … like what? ‘Wanna go home with me daddy?’” I laugh, hoping she doesn’t say yes.
“No!!! Well, you could, but that’s slutty.”
“Um, so is a one night stand,” I think to myself.
“Say something subtle, like ‘Where did you learn to dance like this? You must be skilled in other areas...’ You don’t have to say much. A man’s dream is to pick up a girl from the club. If you just give him a little, he’ll lead you the rest of the way.”
I’m speechless.
“Then exchange numbers. Text him while you’re still there and say something like ‘can’t wait to see you later’,” she adds.
“And that’s not the same as asking if he wants to screw?” I nearly yell.
“No, it allows you to see how he will react.”
“How?” I sure have a lot of questions; maybe this is a bad idea...
“Well, if he responds and says something like ‘me and my boys are going to another place,’ or ‘I didn’t drive,’ you know he’s scared. That allows you to say, ‘oh, I just wanted to see if you wanted to grab a hot dog afterwards.’”
“Okay, so let’s say it’s a go. How do you decide the place?” I ask
“Um, you kinda just figure that out on the fly.”
“Well, it can’t really be on the fly–I would need time to make up a name and get a room at the W.”
“The W? No one is taking you to the W at 3 a.m.”
“Why not? If I’m going to dish out the goods it might as well be on 1000 thread count sheets.”
“Okay, explain to me your idea of a one night stand,” she laughs.
I begin to give her the best impression I have, probably from some combination of foreign films I’d seen: “Well, I meet this really hot guy–a 10 (no reason to sleep with just a 6 when I can have them anytime)–I make up a false name . . . Sasha. Then we pull up to the W, Four Seasons, Park Hyatt–something in that range–and we have crazy sex all night. Then, I get up before he’s even awake and cab it home. Oh, and just for dramatics I leave a note written on a napkin saying how I had a great time. No number.”
“You’re delusional,” she says, laughing hysterically.
The very next week, I meet a guy at the grocery store. Nothing about the interaction is even close to sexy, but I think to myself, “this could be it.” For some reason I feel very comfortable. I suggest a movie and he agrees.
The day we’re scheduled to meet, I decide to change the location at the last minute. I invite him over to my place instead. (Let me add a disclaimer: this was years before the Craig’s list killer. Still, not a wise idea, and I’ve never had a stranger in my home since.) Something about this night seems right. I mean, it isn’t my fantasy–I had already given up my dream one night stand. But even though I’ve compromised the location and fake name, I’m still determined to check this off my list.
As I wait, I phone my friend. “So he’s coming over . . .”
“Coming over? I thought you wanted a Park Hyatt affair?”
“Yeah, yeah. So what do I do?”
“Well, you just make it happen. Make sure you sit next to him–flirt, play with your hair, and drink lots of wine.”
Oh, wine is a good idea––in fact, I think I’ll take a shot now I think. “No, what do I do?”
“Huh?”
“Sexually. Do you do everything?”
“Oh, well it depends on how comfortable you feel with the person.”
“Wait, let me conference in a male point of view,” I say as I dial in one of my male friends. When he answers, I waste no time: “So, I’m going to have a one night stand with this guy and I want to know whether I do everything . . . ” I ramble.
“Yes, why not? Put on a show; swing from the chandeliers; have the time of your life! You only live once,” He says without hesitation.
Note to self: never ask a man his opinion about sexual boundaries with strangers.
“He’s here–gotta go,” I say as I hang up on both of them.
He rents two movies. It is already 9 p.m. I love this–it assures a late night. Halfway through the first movie, I can’t really tell how the date is going. I’m past tipsy, but he’s not. After getting up for my third glass of wine, I sit back down a little closer. We chat a little during the movie. “Gosh he’s shy,” I think. “I need someone more forceful for this to work,” I tell myself. After I put the second movie in, I say something to him, leaning in very closely, and he finally kisses me. Okay, we are now getting somewhere.
We kiss for a few more seconds, but as the second movie queues up, he stops. Shit, he is really planning on watching this damn movie. Halfway through the second movie and a bottle of wine later, I have slightly given up on my one night stand with this guy. “Maybe next time,”I think. I go into the kitchen to switch my drink of choice from wine to water. As I am pouring water into my glass, he comes up behind me and starts to lightly kiss my neck. The kisses are soft at first but soon get more aggressive. Oh my gosh–I think it’s happening. All these years, and I’m finally going to have a one night stand!
We move to the sofa then the bed and make our way through the bases very quickly. Here comes the point where I start to second guess myself. Is this right? Should I do this? What if he tells everyone? What if I can’t do everything? Will he be mad? Does this really need to be on my list? Shit–too late–we are having sex. Okay, you need to stop thinking since you’re already doing it. Relax! I do, and it is amazing. After it is over, we fall asleep.
I wake up a few hours later to him breathing heavily. Shit. This was not the plan. How do I get him out of my house? I phone my guy friend. “Um, what the fuck–how do I get him out?”
“It’s just one night–he’ll leave when he wakes up. Just go to sleep.”
I toss and turn the rest of the night. It’s very weird having a stranger in your bed. I get up and shuffle through the trash can to make sure the condom is there. I can’t believe I just had sex with a stranger. I go through his wallet to make sure his name is what he said it was. It is. Shit, what have I done? What if the condom had a hole and I’m pregnant? I’m going to have a stranger’s baby. Calm down.
When the morning finally comes, he kisses me as he wakes up. I don’t know how to respond–I am too busy trying to stay emotionless. He asks what I am doing later. I ramble off something, and he says he’ll call later, and that he had a great time.
“I bet you did,” I think. “Me too,” I say.
Later that night at a small dinner party, my cell rings. It’s him.
“Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good–having dinner, can I call you later?”
“Sure, but I was hoping we could go see a movie tonight?”
“See a movie? You don’t have to do that,” I say, a little annoyed.
“Do what?” he charges back.
“I mean, I knew the chances I took when we had sex yesterday. We don’t have to go out,” I say with confidence.
“No, I want to go out,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I like you,” he whispers.
“Really? I mean, we had sex on our first date?”
“So?”
“Okay, well I guess a movie would be good,” I say, still not fully understanding how this was happening.
That was the beginning of a two year-long relationship. See I can't even get a one night stand right!
Monday, June 1, 2009
Forty Something
It was hot as hell that day, but I like it that way. I was going to meet two of my oldest friends. We’ve spent most of our lives together–preschool, grade school, and high school–the most memorable years of my life; the years during which no one asked questions like “What’s your 10K time?” or “What rate did you get on your refinance?” It was a time when things were so simple–you played all day, laughed all night watching TV, and chatted on the phone with boys you liked. I miss those days . . .
Though we’ve managed to reconnect, we lost touch for awhile, and haven’t really spoken much in years. We went our separate ways after high school, both of them choosing to go to local schools while I opted to go away for my four years. Over those four years life seemed to drastically change for both of them–kids came and they traded school for steady income–we had different lives and different paths.
I was going to their family barbeque and was quite anxious and excited to see them after seven years. I arrived at their parents’ house to find it just as I remembered it–an old but well-kept three-flat building with family occupying each level. Outside, children (who I would later learn were my friends’ own) were playing. As I neared the back of the house, I saw one of my friends. “Wow, she has not changed,” I thought. We were about to embrace one another just like old times when we were interrupted by a man asking me for a hug as well. I hugged him thinking he was a family member I just didn’t remember. But, as time went by, I learned he was not a family member, but her boss. I paid him no attention. The rest of the evening we ate, shared laughs, and told old family stories.
The next day my friend called me.
“Hey girl, how are you? It was so good seeing you.”
“Aw, you as well–I missed you both.” I said with a smile.
“So, my boss, he asked about you!” she nearly shouted.
“Really? I don’t really remember him.”
“He’s a good guy; he’s wealthy, divorced, and single. He wants to take you on a date.”
“Divorced–how old is he?”
“40 something.”
“40 something? I don’t think so.”
“No, he’s a young 40.”
“40 year olds always say they are ‘a young 40,’” I think to myself. “I don’t know–I don’t remember much about him and although I’m getting older, I’m still holding out for the bachelor with no kids.”
“Look, just go on one date. I promise you will have a good time if nothing else.”
“Okay,” I responded with hesitation.
When he called I agreed to meet for ice cream.
The day we were to meet up, I saw a car coming down the street–small in stature with its top down. What??? It’s a Porsche.
I should tell you, I couldn’t care less about a man’s car. It’s just not my thing. Don’t get me wrong, I like nice stuff and having a nice car is great, but I don’t date men based on their cars. In high school and college when I judged people less on their personality and more on their worldly possessions, I dated men based on cars, clothes, or other material goods, but now a car to me just means you have a car payment; another bill. Anyway, as impressed as some may have been, I could think of nothing else but my hair. As I inched toward the car, I wondered how I could tell him the car was nice but not very practical. I guess he could see the look on my face because he said, “You want me to put the top up, huh?” We both laughed.
As we sat and chatted about family, work, and our mutual friend, I realized 40 something was not so bad. I always thought that I was the kind of person who could date an older man. When I was in high school and college, I often dated men 10 years my senior. But somehow the rules of engagement had changed–I now believed that dating older men involved holding hands, chatting on the phone, and receiving wonderful gifts. “I mean, what other reason would there be to date someone much older than me?” I thought. “Maybe love has no age limit–I mean, as long as he doesn’t really touch me, I think I’d be okay.” I agreed to a formal date.
We had dinner the next week. It was a nice dinner–we chatted, he ordered our food in Spanish (to impress the waitress, I guess–anyone who knows me knows I’m not impressed by conforming to another language in America). We decided after dinner (well, he decided) to go for a walk along the lake. Luckily, I had my flip flops in my bag for this very possibility.
“This would be a great night for a boat ride,” he said.
“Yeah, that would be nice,” I replied, thinking “I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me.”
As we walked, I noticed we were walking with a purpose. As we got closer to the harbor, I realized he was pulling out a key.
My heart started to pitter-patter (much in the same way as when I thought I was getting diamonds for my birthday). I was almost giddy. A boat, a boat! I was grinning from ear to ear as he helped me into the boat. All sorts of thoughts were jumping around in my head: How long will it take me to learn to drive? Do you need a license? I wonder if he’ll give me a key? These were the benefits of dating older men, I realized. Men my age are paying car notes on Range Rovers; men his age have paid off their Range Rovers and now are paying the notes on boats. Wow! Great, I’ve graduated from car booty to boat booty. He had a 4-seater speed boat. The sad part was I kept imagining me and my boyfriend (not him) and another couple of friends out for a ride. But, the boat ride was amazing. It was super fast, and reminded me of the Miami Vice movie, except I wasn’t with the then young Don Johnson; I was with the 40-something guy.
As the night ended I realized I was not the least bit attracted to him, but sort of had butterflies in my stomach when he asked me on another date. (Yes! Of course I’ll go on another date with the boat… I mean you! )
We decided to meet for appetizers and a few drinks. As I was sitting across from him, I noticed his wrinkles–small indents in his face as he smiled. It totally grossed me out, and then he did the unthinkable. After we had had a long conversation the day before about boundaries and my not being ready to display any affection, he kissed me. I was so shocked. As he pressed his lips against mine, I felt like small bugs were all over my body. I jerked back–so much so it turned out he felt as though he needed to apologize. “I’m sorry, I could not resist.” I felt violated, but in a different way–more like I had been molested by my uncle’s friend and I needed to find the words to tell my mother. At that moment I knew we were done, but I knew it would only be right if I properly said goodbye to the boat (my true love). So on our farewell date we took one last boat ride. I savored every moment. I didn’t care about my hair blowing or the water splashing up on my face–I wanted to live in the moment. That was the last time we saw each other.
As the summer nears once again, I realize how much I miss him–the boat.
Though we’ve managed to reconnect, we lost touch for awhile, and haven’t really spoken much in years. We went our separate ways after high school, both of them choosing to go to local schools while I opted to go away for my four years. Over those four years life seemed to drastically change for both of them–kids came and they traded school for steady income–we had different lives and different paths.
I was going to their family barbeque and was quite anxious and excited to see them after seven years. I arrived at their parents’ house to find it just as I remembered it–an old but well-kept three-flat building with family occupying each level. Outside, children (who I would later learn were my friends’ own) were playing. As I neared the back of the house, I saw one of my friends. “Wow, she has not changed,” I thought. We were about to embrace one another just like old times when we were interrupted by a man asking me for a hug as well. I hugged him thinking he was a family member I just didn’t remember. But, as time went by, I learned he was not a family member, but her boss. I paid him no attention. The rest of the evening we ate, shared laughs, and told old family stories.
The next day my friend called me.
“Hey girl, how are you? It was so good seeing you.”
“Aw, you as well–I missed you both.” I said with a smile.
“So, my boss, he asked about you!” she nearly shouted.
“Really? I don’t really remember him.”
“He’s a good guy; he’s wealthy, divorced, and single. He wants to take you on a date.”
“Divorced–how old is he?”
“40 something.”
“40 something? I don’t think so.”
“No, he’s a young 40.”
“40 year olds always say they are ‘a young 40,’” I think to myself. “I don’t know–I don’t remember much about him and although I’m getting older, I’m still holding out for the bachelor with no kids.”
“Look, just go on one date. I promise you will have a good time if nothing else.”
“Okay,” I responded with hesitation.
When he called I agreed to meet for ice cream.
The day we were to meet up, I saw a car coming down the street–small in stature with its top down. What??? It’s a Porsche.
I should tell you, I couldn’t care less about a man’s car. It’s just not my thing. Don’t get me wrong, I like nice stuff and having a nice car is great, but I don’t date men based on their cars. In high school and college when I judged people less on their personality and more on their worldly possessions, I dated men based on cars, clothes, or other material goods, but now a car to me just means you have a car payment; another bill. Anyway, as impressed as some may have been, I could think of nothing else but my hair. As I inched toward the car, I wondered how I could tell him the car was nice but not very practical. I guess he could see the look on my face because he said, “You want me to put the top up, huh?” We both laughed.
As we sat and chatted about family, work, and our mutual friend, I realized 40 something was not so bad. I always thought that I was the kind of person who could date an older man. When I was in high school and college, I often dated men 10 years my senior. But somehow the rules of engagement had changed–I now believed that dating older men involved holding hands, chatting on the phone, and receiving wonderful gifts. “I mean, what other reason would there be to date someone much older than me?” I thought. “Maybe love has no age limit–I mean, as long as he doesn’t really touch me, I think I’d be okay.” I agreed to a formal date.
We had dinner the next week. It was a nice dinner–we chatted, he ordered our food in Spanish (to impress the waitress, I guess–anyone who knows me knows I’m not impressed by conforming to another language in America). We decided after dinner (well, he decided) to go for a walk along the lake. Luckily, I had my flip flops in my bag for this very possibility.
“This would be a great night for a boat ride,” he said.
“Yeah, that would be nice,” I replied, thinking “I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me.”
As we walked, I noticed we were walking with a purpose. As we got closer to the harbor, I realized he was pulling out a key.
My heart started to pitter-patter (much in the same way as when I thought I was getting diamonds for my birthday). I was almost giddy. A boat, a boat! I was grinning from ear to ear as he helped me into the boat. All sorts of thoughts were jumping around in my head: How long will it take me to learn to drive? Do you need a license? I wonder if he’ll give me a key? These were the benefits of dating older men, I realized. Men my age are paying car notes on Range Rovers; men his age have paid off their Range Rovers and now are paying the notes on boats. Wow! Great, I’ve graduated from car booty to boat booty. He had a 4-seater speed boat. The sad part was I kept imagining me and my boyfriend (not him) and another couple of friends out for a ride. But, the boat ride was amazing. It was super fast, and reminded me of the Miami Vice movie, except I wasn’t with the then young Don Johnson; I was with the 40-something guy.
As the night ended I realized I was not the least bit attracted to him, but sort of had butterflies in my stomach when he asked me on another date. (Yes! Of course I’ll go on another date with the boat… I mean you! )
We decided to meet for appetizers and a few drinks. As I was sitting across from him, I noticed his wrinkles–small indents in his face as he smiled. It totally grossed me out, and then he did the unthinkable. After we had had a long conversation the day before about boundaries and my not being ready to display any affection, he kissed me. I was so shocked. As he pressed his lips against mine, I felt like small bugs were all over my body. I jerked back–so much so it turned out he felt as though he needed to apologize. “I’m sorry, I could not resist.” I felt violated, but in a different way–more like I had been molested by my uncle’s friend and I needed to find the words to tell my mother. At that moment I knew we were done, but I knew it would only be right if I properly said goodbye to the boat (my true love). So on our farewell date we took one last boat ride. I savored every moment. I didn’t care about my hair blowing or the water splashing up on my face–I wanted to live in the moment. That was the last time we saw each other.
As the summer nears once again, I realize how much I miss him–the boat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)