Move Me

I realize there are a lot of men in the world. And yes, I know just how big the world is. Because of its sheer size and the fact that, like snowflakes, men are all different, it’s inevitable that somewhere, among the flickering brilliance, are a good many with whom I’d have a lovely time.

But I wanted him.

So now it doesn’t really matter how many other men I see. It doesn’t matter if they’re more handsome or have more money. It doesn’t matter if they would take me to see the Lion King or if they are dying to whisk me off to Aruba. I don’t want to go.

I only wanted to go places with him.

It’s stupid, really. To sit here, pining for a man who has long since forgotten about me. A man who felt it more important to clean his stainless steel gas grill than to trace the lines on my body with his fingers. A man who found more time for his friends than he did for me. And a man who said he wanted me, said he wanted only me, but after awhile changed his mind because making me fit into his world just didn’t feel “organic” enough.

Apparently, I wanted a man who viewed me as produce. And not even the good kind. Organic is good. But to him, I wasn’t.

I know, I know, if my mother were reading this she’d yell at me. “YOU, my dear, are enough,” she’d say. “You are always enough. It just meant he didn’t want what you could give him. Doesn’t mean what you had to give wasn’t good.”

Yes, mom, I know. But it doesn’t mean that, in the throes of despair, I won’t start thinking myself horribly sub-par. That’s just how it goes. We do this. Women. We blame ourselves when men change their minds. It’s silly. We know this, but we do it anyway.

I’ve had plenty of men tell me how lovely I am. How beautiful, how elegant, how goddess-like, how intelligent, funny and sexy. According to them, I am the most amazing woman they’ve ever met and they can’t even believe I’d be interested. Yet…I am still alone. All this fabulousness and still, they don’t want me.

I asked him, “If I’m so great, why isn’t it enough?” He said because. Because. That’s it. No reason, really. Just because.

“We’re just in different places in our lives,” he said.

Funny. I thought when our bodies were merged, when I could feel the heat from his breath on my skin, it meant we were in exactly the same place. In that moment. In each other. United by something. Passion, perhaps. But in the darkness of his bedroom, with the lights of Mercer Island flickering on the water below, I thought I heard a whisper. It said, “This is something. You don’t know it yet, but it is. One day you will be moved.”

I believed that voice. I was waiting to be moved.

And I guess that’s what I’ve always been waiting for.

They say the religious folks are moved by spirit. That something just comes from above, enters into their body like a breath, and envelops them entirely. Their voice, their actions, the way they walk, is all directed by this spirit. It literally moves them. It becomes them.

I want spirit to move me.

I think it’s love I’m after. But now, as I recall those nights of silence, the heat all around me, I think I’m confused what love feels like. Was it passion or spirit that entered my body that night?

I’m not sure I’ll ever really know. I guess I just have to trust that voice. “One day you will be moved.”

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The Red Curtains

I knew the moment I saw them. There, in the entrance of my yoga studio, was a cloud of dazzling red curtains, framing the doorway. I felt like I was walking into Aladdin's bedroom.

One look and I already knew they were mine.

It's funny how you can look at something and know that. Up until recently, I've only felt that way about drapery.

The day after I saw those curtains, I went right to Target to purchase some. I walked in the door with the full intention of leaving with the exact curtains I spotted. No other color, no other style, nothing. I also knew that I didn't want to pay $20 a panel.

After thumbing through several rows of fabric, I still hadn't found my curtains. But there, in the bottom of the pile, buried beneath fabric the color of cotton candy and lemons, I saw them. The 100% same curtains. On clearance for $6.48. For two of them!

I'm a big believer in fate and in the universe providing exactly what you ask for. The curtains seem such an obvious example of love. With love, you have to know exactly what you want. You can't take whatever is on top of the pile, or something that's on sale but is in a color you hate. That's not the point. The point is walking into the universe knowing precisely what you will and will not accept. And refusing to leave until you get exactly that. The universe is your fabric store.

When I saw Blondie, I knew he was my red curtain. I asked the universe for a funny, good looking, intelligent, well traveled foodie who doesn't want kids (and possibly marriage), and that's exactly what I got. And I got him on the tails of heartache, when the man I was falling head over heels for didn't want me because we didn't share the same dream. He was sort of like a burgundy curtain. Really close, but not right for my walls.

And here is Blondie, standing in front of me, the perfect shade of red. The same size, the same texture, the same everything. It's proof positive that sometimes, the very thing you're looking for may not always be visible. Sometimes, you have to dig through a lot to find it.

I haven't taken the curtains out of the package yet. They're lying on my floor, half of the bag opened. Same with Blondie. I'm not ready to open everything. Just one piece at a time. That's always been my mistake, anyway. I just grab a package, rip it open and take whatever is inside.

This time, I'm going to take my time displaying things. I can't wait, though. I know the room is going to look gorgeous.

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Fear: Let It In, Then Let It Go

It's like this: I'm terrified of love.

And yet, it's the one thing I want most. Makes sense, though. We're often the most afraid of that which we truly want. Why? Because sometimes just the idea of knowing you might actually get what you want is terrifying.

For 32 years, I never wanted love. I wanted nothing to do with commitment or being open or vulnerable. I didn't know until recently that it was all about fear.

It used to be about running away, but now it's all about staying put. I suppose I can thank the last man for that. He's the first man in 14 years who even came close to breaking down my walls. He was like some sort of spiritual glue. I was stuck. On him. On the feeling of joy. On freedom. On the idea of loving. On security. On trust.

He went away, not because he wanted to leave me, but because he didn't want to stay. He knew that we would probably fall in love and then one day wake up and realize we were still on completely different pages. We didn't want the same future.

I've felt an emptiness I couldn't quite place for the last few months. The pain was paralyzing. But now that the veil has lifted, I realize now what remains. It's the space in my heart that's now open and ready to be filled with love. The space that was once covered in cobwebs, is now filled with light.

And am I scared? You bet. But I'm working with the feeling of embracing that fear and then letting it go. And letting someone into that open space that's been waiting all along to be filled.

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Another You

I look around me, on the street. My eyes stray from the produce in the grocery store. At the pump at the gas station, I am pumping my brain with questions. Could he be you? Could the next man I see be more wonderful than you?

My gut tells me no. The same way it told me when I was locked in the embrace of a tall, dark and handsome man who spoke a foreign language and wanted to take me to Costa Rica. He smelled of soap and cucumbers and he never wanted to leave. I tried hard to make him fit, to wrap my legs around his waist when he had me up on the counter, his hands gently stroking the bare skin on my back. When our tongues were dancing a quiet symphony and his hands dug into the flesh of my hips, I was praying for something that never happened. I prayed that he would turn into you.

After all, that's where you once stood, your body wrapped around mine like a scarf. I was making a cup of tea, and you were so delicately folded over my shoulders. I could feel your breath on my neck and I never wanted to stop making tea. I wanted to freeze time and just keep you there, next to me.

I've been running most of my life. Running from all the feelings and the closeness. Running from love and commitment and couplehood. Running from you. But there you were, next to me, and suddenly, the only thing I could think of was standing still.

The new man in my kitchen never made me think this. In fact, as he was probably dreaming of lifting me from the counter and dropping me onto my bed, I was worried that the whipped cream I'd just made would go flat. I wanted to slather it on the profiteroles I'd just made. I wanted something that was not him.

But if it had been you, I'd want to feed you a cream puff, then have you lick the whipped cream from my fingers. I'd purposely make some of it run down your mouth, so our mouths would taste the sweetness of the cream - and each other. I still taste you, even now.

And I wonder, as I look at the man in line in front of me at the DMV, if I would ever hold his taste in my memory. I'm 32 and I've never felt even half as lovely and full as I felt when I knew you. How can I expect another man to fill me that way? At this point, I'm not sure. I still date, but the hope isn't really there. It's just a way to pass the time.

But with you, time sped up. It was full of fireworks and rockets to the moon. We skipped through the moonlit streets, rolled around each other like cigars in the warmth of my bed, raced each other on the pier in front of Salmon Bay. We counted starfish the color of clementines and took trips through the country where the leaves looked like tiny pieces of the sun. I remember lying on the beach with you, our heads propped up by sweaters we didn't need. I asked you about your life, and you told me. You also told me you were growing attached to me. But...

It wasn't enough. You wanted something else. You wanted children and a house with a picket fence and PTA meetings and lollipops. That's not my dream. The only dream I ever had, and still do, is to keep running with you into the unknown. We may fall sometimes, but we could get up - together. I want to keep laughing and holding you there, under the moonlight.

The man next to me at the bank has your build. He turns to look at me, and smiles. I smile back, but inside, I feel nothing. Could he be you?

No.

But I wish he was.

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Why I Don't Love You Now

I cried in the car, there next to you. We were in the parking lot at the bank, and the street lights were painting the side of your face bright yellow.

The engine was still running, and I was thinking about how the exhaust pollutes the environment just like your memory pollutes my thoughts. My head is full of poison.

You are devouring your quesadilla and bean and cheese burrito in a way you never devoured me. There were times I would’ve given anything to be a tiny dollop of sour cream on the side of your mouth. At least then, when you licked your lips, part of me would be inside you forever.

Instead, I got stuck with your taste in my mouth all the time.

But that night, in the car, with me like a limp piece of soul on the seat beside you, something changed. I spit you out.

It wasn’t easy. Four years of hanging on to every word and every hope, moving to another country to try and escape the hold you had over me, these things were not easy.

But since you just sat there, a frozen piece of flesh, something in me saw, for the first time, what you truly are. You are a man who doesn’t love me. A man who doesn’t want to feel the warmth of my skin. You don’t want me to rush into your arms after a day apart, and laugh as I tickle your earlobe. You used to look at me in a way that said everything without saying a word. You used to love me.

Somewhere, in a tiny corner of my heart, I felt it. But it was never enough. It never filled me. I was always aching, hungry and desperate for more. More never came. Only anger. And isolation. And loneliness.

So as we sat in the car, me telling you how much I still yearn for you, and you ate, quietly swallowing a piece of something that was not me, I just stopped. Everything stopped. Me loving you stopped. Me wishing you were different stopped. Me longing for a part of the past that never really existed outside my mind stopped.

And now I am done. We are done.

People who watched me falter along the way, tripping so many times over empty promises, they don’t believe me. How could they? I kept running back, every time I’d get far enough away, flinging myself into the arms of a man who didn’t want me there. And every time I’d feel that truth, I left.

“This time it’s for real,” I’d say.

It never was. But now, as I remember how cold the leather felt on my skin, how washed out the street lights looked against your mocha-colored skin, I know something has changed forever. Because there is a man here, in my new city, who doesn’t look anything like you. His smile is bright and he spends all day telling me what he likes about me. Mostly, it’s stuff about my soul and my spirit, the way I am kind to people. He notices things about me no one ever has, and when he wraps his fingers around mine, I feel like I’m on the inside of a beating heart. It feels warm and alive. There is no more heaviness. No more self doubt. No more working so hard to be noticed.

Instead, I’m just me. And I like that me. She smiles more. She feels like skipping sometimes. She doesn't feel unwanted.

She feels like she doesn't love you now. And that feels pretty good.

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Spare Change

He was a terrible kisser.

I mean, like, beyond bad. I'm 31 and I've kissed a lot of frogs, but this one was toad in the tongue department. What, exactly was he trying to do with that thing?

I thought this the entire 11 hours we kissed. Well, it felt like 11 hours. It was probably a minute or two - a minute or two too much. Although I liked Surfer Dude, I wasn't sure if I could really teach a 37-year-old dog new tricks.

But when he dumped me, my heart and my tongue were crushed. "What? No more make-out sessions?" I thought.

So let's just get something straight: I'm terrible when it comes to change. What I mean is, when it comes to men, I seem to change everything about them in my head. I make them up. Here they are, live in front of me, yet I'm dreaming about a totally different man. I'm creating a fantasy.

I've done this with the last few relationships I've been in. To start, they weren't even relationships, so this alone is the first mistake I make. I create more than there really is.

The second mistake comes from the fact that I change them from emotionally barren, inattentive jerks to lovable, passionate and kind images of perfection. So when they lose interest or go away, I become devastated - the way you'd feel as if someone ripped off your left arm. That's how I'd imagine it feels to lose your soul mate and in my mind, that's exactly what I lost.

But really, I lost the fantasy. The poetic, sensitive Mr. Corkscrew really wasn't all those things. What he was, was a lust-filled Harvard man who knew his way around words almost as well as he knew his way around the curves of my body in the darkness of his bedroom. And The Mad Scientist never promised me a committed relationship. But he did buy an Amtrak ticket and a box of chocolates on his trip to KC, which I mistook for something serious. To me, chocolate is serious.

And although Surfer Dude enjoyed learning yoga, gave me 20-minute massages (that were terribly inferior, but I somehow wax poetically about now) and paid for two barf-worthy dinners out, that's all he gave me. That, and a really bad gag reflex. But here I was, for weeks, lamenting my sorry state for losing him. "He was perfect," I heard myself telling friends. "We shared the same fundamental views."

But little else. That's the thing. I changed his story in my head because it looks so much prettier.

I've finally realized just how much I love writing stories. I write my own all the time. I'll spare you the fictional version next time. And spare myself a lifetime of unnecessary editing.

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Why I Love Men

Why do I do this? Get rejected from a guy and immediately go into “not enough” mode? It makes no logical sense. I know I’m a groovy chick. People like me. Men have liked me – a lot – in my short life. And somewhere deep inside, I really like me too.

Yet it’s my knee jerk reaction to being dumped. I blame it on King Kong and the slue of men I hurled myself at after his complete dismissal of me, but I know I have to start being accountable for my actions.

I really wish I didn't love men so much, because they wreak havoc at every turn. They think they want something, go after it, then change their mind. This guy I started dating, Surfer Dude, was saying things like, "I'll take you to Ikea, of course i'll help you move, I'll paint your toenails, grill you tuna I caught in mexico..." Barf.

So many men out there just do whatever and don't give a flip about what it does to someone else. I know this is a human thing. Plenty of people do this, but it's just not in my understanding of life. I don't get it. And it makes me sadder each time I see it happen - to me or someone else.



When something ends abruptly for no logical reason, it stings. You're attracted to a person, they laugh at your jokes, they don't want to leave when they hang out with you and you have to kick them out, you talk on the phone hours on end, they make promises and say things like "we will" and "next time." Why?

As much as men have confused, hurt and completely messed with my head, at the end of the day, I still struggle endlessly in this murky abyss because I love men. I love that they don't make any sense. I love that their skin is rougher, their touch calloused. I love their wiry hair and the way they smell of earth and sweat. I love their strong hands and muscular arms, the way they wrap around me with the force of a tornado, keeping me swirling around in their cloud of chaos and confusion. I love it when they look at me. The way their eyes turn to chocolate and my insides turn into molten lava. I love their warm breath, how it feels to connect at the core in a way a word or a smile never could. I am a total sucker for the idea of a man. And even more, the idea of sharing love with one. Even if they hurt me again and again, I feel like i'd give it all away for just a taste. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so darned hungry.

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Conversations (in my head) On a Bus

Waiting for a bus is like waiting for a man. You keep looking around the corner, hoping the next one is going your way, will stop to let you inside, not leave you standing in the cold.

“Excuse me, sir, do you mind holding me? I’m sure the woman behind you wouldn’t mind moving. It won’t take but a moment. Just wrap your arms around the left side of my body. Brush my cheek with your wrist as you check the time. Bump your leg against mine. How about a handshake? A smile?”

Sometimes I am this hungry. My emotional stomach is growling. I guess I’m not the only one who thinks these thoughts. In her song, “Summer in the City,” Regina Spektor sings:“Summer in the city, I'm so lonely lonely lonely
So I went to a protest just to rub up against strangers”

Sometimes, when I'm standing there in the crowd, I look over at the man in front of me and move my hand so that it brushes his, or make sure I lurch forward with the bus, right into the man to my left with his groceries. And I wonder, do they need to feel something too? How cold is it in their world right now? Do they notice me? Can they hear the growling?

I don't think so. Everyone is going through their own type of hunger. We all need to be filled in different ways. Usually, my urge for touch subsides. If you don't eat for awhile, eventually you forget you're empty.

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Truth or Aware

I was talking with a friend the other day and he was telling me about his male friend who is hopelessly in love with a girl he broke up with because he suddenly became terrified of the idea of forever. So instead of telling her he was scared, he just left. That’s what so many men do. And we generally have to suffer in the wake of those consequences.

Of course the guy realized his folly and decided he wanted the girl back. But she found herself another guy (good for her). So he is stuck dating a bunch of girls he doesn’t like, making them think they might actually have a shot with him.

“What should he do?” my friend asked.

“It’s simple,” I said. “Tell the truth.”

I told him – nay, I begged him – to encourage his friend to be truthful with all the girls he meets, lest he create a trail of broken hearts across the country.

“I wish a man would just be unafraid to be honest. Whatever it is,” I said. “When you meet a girl, why can’t you just say, ‘hi, I just want to sleep with you and never call you again,’ or ‘I am needy and passionate and I want something that lasts forever,’ or ‘I just want to casually date you because I’m afraid of my own shadow, let alone yours.’ Seriously. Why not give it a try? It could save us years of therapy and feelings of inadequacy.”

Even if the truth hurts, lies hurt too. And disappearing in a plume of smoke hurts even worse.

A week into my new life out West, I met a guy I thought seemed super cool. We talked on the phone for hours, hung out for hours. It seemed like it might go somewhere. So when he offered to help me move, I was stoked. Until he didn’t show up. Or call. Or text. Nothing. Made a promise, then bailed. That was his way of saying bye-bye. Funny, because he was all gung ho on communicating, being honest and me saying what I thought rather than holding it all in. I assumed he would have been the same. If you don’t want to take someone to Ikea, don’t promise to take them to Ikea. If you don’t want to help them move (or ever see them again), don’t say you’ll get your truck and be there on Sunday.

This whole truth thing is really about being aware. Being aware of your intentions and how you plan to carry them out. Being truthful to others is all about being truthful to yourself. I believe men can do this. I've seen it happen. Just not in a long time, unfortunately.

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Being Your Authentic Self

What does this mean? To be authentic.

For a long time, I didn't know what this meant in a relationship sense. Now I think I do. It means be who you want to be, not who you think someone wants you to be. Say what you want to say when you want to say it. Do what feels right, not what is acceptable. Speak from your spirit. Don't let fear get in the way.

I've been afraid of love. Of men. Of dating. Of coming on too strong. Of not coming on strong enough. Of sending mixed signals. Of sending no signals. Of lipstick on my teeth. Of words in my head. Even though I'm strong and independent and pretty self aware, I've realized I am completely unfamiliar to myself when I step into a dynamic with a man. Suddenly I freeze up. I am never fully myself. Instead, I'm someone ridiculously driven by someone else's perceptions.

It took a new guy I just met to help open up my eyes to this reality. And even now, as I am trying to live the way he urged me to, I'm still running up against my familiar patterns. Should I really call him? Have I said too much? Will he think I'm clingy?

He told me not to be afraid to call him if I want to hang out. Normally, I let a man do that, as his calls let me know he likes me. When I call, I have no way to gauge that. I suppose if he said no, that would be my gauge, but I actually convince myself he might just agree to be polite so I'll never really know if he would have called on his own.

He told me he likes it when I cuss and burp. These are things I love doing and find myself holding back mostly due to decorum. He doesn't like a lot of makeup. I hate makeup. I don't know if this will go anywhere, but what it is doing so far is helping me see the ways I make mistakes when it comes to my own needs. Often, I do what feels unnatural in order to appear breezy or casual. Instead, I'm a bottomless pit of need and passion and screaming and sensitivity. I want to be filled, caressed, nurtured, intrigued and sustained. I am overwhelming in my capacity to love, but so far have never let anyone see that. I'm a gaping chasm of heart. But there's a big wire fence around my chest. Maybe I will learn to cut the damn wire.

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He Was Drunk, I Was Finally Sober

I don't want him anymore.

Those are powerful words for a girl like me. A girl who slurps up unrequited love through a broken straw. When those straws are broken, nothing really comes through, but you keep slurping anyway. You know, just in case.

But this time, I didn't want to drink anything Mr. Corkscrew had to offer.

He drunk texted me at 1 a.m. I was only two days into my new job in a new time zone and in a new bed, and needed my sleep. But there was this random stringing together of words from a number I could no longer remember (I deleted him from my phone): "Several single malt scotches into an attempt to shirk the responsibilities of life for a futile, brief moment...thinking of your visit here which brings a hot and delicious taste to the lips. Never treated you as well as I should have. Perhaps that's my legacy to impart. Still, you're an extraordinary woman."

When I finally realized who it was from, I started shaking. I had deleted his message when he tried to network with me on LinkedIn, and now he found another way to weasel into my thoughts. This one got me mad, though.

I texted back: "I am extraordinary. Seems you're the only one who failed to notice."

Of course, in his usual way, where he refuses to accept responsiblity for his actions, he replied: "There is a difference between not noticing and failing to take action."

I told him I waited six years for him to notice and all he ever gave me was words. I don't want his words anymore.

Then he said: "I realized you were quite something at the table at Bistro Jeanty all those years ago."

That's where we met. He was probably drunk then too. He painted the air with his flowery words and I was caught up in their heady aroma. I thought he was sincere. But he has never given me more than hyperbole in the six years I tried so hard to win his heart.

It has been a painful lesson in observation. Watch what a man does, not what he says. He can say a lot, but do nothing. The action is what matters.

So I sat there, phone in hand, and decided to call him. Turns out his life is a mess. He's losing his house and his car. He's got problems.

And finally, I am free of them. I felt pity for him, not desire. I felt compassion, not love.

I don't want him anymore.

But I'll keep his words tucked away in the folds of my heart. Because deep down, I like to believe he meant them. After all, I really am extraordinary. I think he always knew that.

Turns out, I was the one who didn't.

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Men Who No Longer Make the Cut

I was standing at the bus stop today, musing about life. Well, about my romantic life. Same thing.

I realized that for most of my dating life, I never really knew who I was. This meant I freely gave of myself in ways I didn't realize could harm me in the long run. Turning 30 really does present a new kind of gift. You're suddenly aware of your actions. You look deeper in order to figure out what brings you the greatest joy. And from where I stand now, compromising my principles for some random penishead really doesn't seem like an intriguing plan.

So here's what I've decided to avoid, now that I'm old enough to know better:

• Incorrect Grammar (you're and your are particular sore spots)


• Boys Carrying Skateboards


• Guys Who Use the Words "My mom's basement" In A Sentence


• Dirty Fingernails (for those who aren't archaeologists or construction workers)


• Dirty Minds (unless during a mutually reciprocal exchange)


• Anyone Who Tries To Feel Me Up On A First Date (this is not a compliment as I was led to believe during my youth)


• Guys Who Check Out Other Girls' Asses In Front of Me

All in all, the list is pretty easy to follow. Creating a list of the things I'm more than happy to accept. Well, no blog in the world is long enough for that.

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Ready, Set, Heal

He was never my boyfriend. On a conscious level, I knew this.

But a little deeper beneath the surface, where hope lies untainted by the sharp hands of reality, I pretended he was mine.

I suppose we’re all guilty of this from time to time. What woman hasn’t, at some point in her starry-eyed past, drifted home on the tail feathers of a word or a smile? And who among us hasn’t seen our future in a pair of blue eyes, or felt our fate in the warm tentacles of an embrace?

Up until I met the Mad Scientist, I hadn’t been so lucky.

But once the moment hit, my chemistry was forever altered.

It’s been two years and there doesn’t seem to be a day that goes by when I don’t remember his goofy laugh or how he brushed back the hair from my eyes before he kissed me. I remember the taste of the lemoncello he brought back from Italy, so sweet and tart that it made my mouth turn cartwheels. I guess my heart was doing the same.

I’m in his city. Just miles from everything about him, and I am horribly wistful and deeply mournful at the same time. I don’t want to be this way. I really don’t. It aches in the pit of my stomach. It wrestles with my subconscious and tickles the lobes in my brain responsible for memory. I want a love lobotomy. I want to heal.

So how to do this?

I have, miraculously, gotten over Mr. Beer Man and Mr. Corkscrew. One down, two to go. The Mad Scientist is undoubtedly the most powerful force in my life, which explains why it’s nearly impossible to exorcise him. But I know it can be done.

It’s sort of like a marathon, I suppose. You know you’ve got a hell of a long haul ahead of you, so you attempt to pace yourself rather than try to leap toward the finish line. Slowly, you get used to the cadence and don't get so frustrated every time you see a hill. You prepare yourself for dips along the way. You know your heart’s going to race, parts of you will ache and your limbs will feel like they don’t belong to your body anymore. You will feel as though you will never make it, but you know you will. You know there’s an end.

I just want to feel like I’m getting closer to that end. It’s not that simple, but if I reward myself for the miles I’ve already run, perhaps I'll be able to see just how much stronger I've become along the way. With each step forward, I’m moving in the right direction. And though I often need A LOT of water along the way, I'm hoping to win this race. Please, God, let me win this race. Ready, set, heal!

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Where's My Happy Accident?

My life is one giant coincidence. Or is it?

The Celestine Prophecy would have you believe there is no such thing. That every single thing that happens to us is 100 percent on purpose. It is simply our choice in how we perceive it. We can go on about our day, ignoring the little old lady who dropped her purse in front of us at the grocery store, or we can stop to help her pick it up. What would stopping do? Could she impart some wisdom to us that profoundly changes our lives or, in the 45 seconds it takes to help her, were we saved from walking out of the store and getting hit by a car?

I tend to believe everyone we meet is there to teach us something. So far, all the men in my life have done just that. This doesn’t mean I have always liked the lesson, but I certainly learned something. Sometimes I learn more about men, sometimes I learn more about myself. Sometimes I learn about peanut butter.

What happens when you come across something that seems too strange to be ignored? Like when you run into the same man twice in the impossibly crowded environs of London? Once, on the tube, where you both shared a seductive and lingering gaze and another, at the bustling Portobello Road Market in Notting Hill. What happens when you’re walking with your friend and you hear two men in front of you speaking German? So you look up. And there he is. The man who flirted with you on the tube two months ago. I remember feeling like Jell-O when I left the train and I remember, even more, his eyes following me as I walked away.

And now, here he was, not only in front of me, but German! I mustered up the courage to ask him, in German, if I might tell him something funny. And when I told him about our tube story, he could only smile.

That’s what I was doing when I met the Mad Scientist at the Chicago Art Institute, in the German oil painting section. When he walked away, staring at me as he did, I was sure I’d never see him. But then, 30 minutes later, when I had gone in the complete opposite direction, finding myself in a room covered in Seurat, there he was. It was August and the museum was impossibly crowded. You can barely see your feet, let alone a familiar face. Yet, you do – see a familiar face. One who ends up being the shortest, most wonderful relationship of your life.

Last night, at the Ravinia in suburban Chicago, when I walked into one of their restaurants, I saw The Beatle, a man I had met on a plane from Chicago to St. Louis about four months ago. He and I had the loveliest conversation and then we parted. I sent him one email and he sent me one. Then I saw him in this packed outdoor concert venue. Walked right into him.

Is it just me? I need to know. I feel like I must have so many lessons to learn. Why else would all these people be put before me in so many different situations?

What I’ve learned so far is this: Germans can be unbelievably sexy, whether on a train or on a crowded London street. Scientists can break your heart, and Paul McCartney doesn’t look a day over 26.

And I’m still alone. It’s okay on most days, but next time, I wouldn’t mind a lesson in how it only takes one person who you meet by accident to make you change your mind about accidents. Happy accidents.

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Winded

Chicago is a vortex. A wet, sticky trap.

It’s the Bermuda Triangle of my relationships.

Even though I’m 30 miles outside the city, staying with a friend, memories of the Mad Scientist haunt my waking thoughts. Today was the first time I think I ever cried for him and it’s been two years since we first met and I discovered what it feels like to be happy. I mean, happy underneath your toenails happy. Happy in your earlobes and on every one of your nose hairs happy. Happy in your head. Happy in your heart.

And then there’s Mr. Beer Man. He makes me the opposite of happy, but I did spend my unhappiest times with him in Chicago, so it will forever be connected to his slimy self.

Mr. Saffron, who you haven’t met yet, is a heady, luxurious whiff of sexy. He is subtly sarcastic, intelligent, cultured and fabulously easy on the eyes. When I had the super-sized falling out with Beer Man a few months ago, Saffron swooped in and trotted me off to a lovely French bistro and then Navy Pier, where we watched a plume of fireworks erupting over the lake. Inside, my heart was exploding in several different colors as well, but I had to play it cool. This wasn’t a date, per se, but instead, a chance to right the wrongs from the past. After all, he was the guy who, six years ago, expected sex on the first date and showed up drunk and two hours late on the second. That was all I had to go on, so I wanted a do-over. I wanted to see if he was still “that” guy. He wasn’t. Instead, he was older, wiser and apologetic. And he was genuine.

He hugged me tightly as my bus pulled up to the curb. He waited with me until he knew I was safe and even offered to send me off in a cab with a paid fare. And on this date, he didn’t expect anything and was fully sober. Being with him definitely made up for arriving back at the beer cave, where Mr. hops head let out a potent belch when I walked in his apartment.

And now, Mr. Beatle ends up standing in front of the restaurant I went to with friends at Ravinia, a ginormous outdoor concert venue in the burbs. What are the odds that I run into a guy I met on a plane four months ago in suburban Chicago on a Wednesday night? Crazy.

So yeah, Chicago just won’t set me free. Or is it the other way around?

I can only hope I get the job I applied for in Seattle. Seems I need a change of scenery. And I definitely need a change in men!

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A Wet Love Story

That's all most stories are anyway, aren't they? Soggy. Never quite as crisp and as you want. Besides it's only one story, somewhere out there in the swirling abyss of fate, that we're waiting for anyway. The one where we know the ending because we get to be in it. The one that doesn't leave us hanging on the edge of an emotional cliff. Though I'm not pining for Mr. Beer Man, I decided to make up a story that explains why he treated me so poorly. That way, it's clear that he knows it's his loss for not being able to open himself up to love. Of course, I don't love him. Never did. But I like to believe that somewhere, in the dark corner of his tiny apartment, he's still feeling the chill of my absence.

She took off her shoes to run in the rain.

Hair soaked, dress clinging to her curvaceous frame, she was laughing, even as torrents of water pummeled her face.

“Can we stay out here all day?” she asked, twirling around on her tiptoes, sticking out her tongue for a taste.

I was angry. Now I would have to find another pair of shorts, and all my clean shirts are dirty. This was supposed to be a relaxing day.

“Look at this!” she screamed. “A ladybug swimming on a leaf.”

She got excited about the smallest things. I wanted to crush the ladybug beneath my fingers.

I let her stay and play while I went upstairs and sulked. I just didn’t understand that girl. Why was she always so happy? How could she find joy in a rainstorm?

My telephone rang. It was Charlie. He wanted me to meet him later for beer and the World Cup on television.

Alexa would be gone, so I wouldn’t have to babysit her anymore. Sure, I’d go, I told him.

My door opened, and in she ran, giggling like a child, still barefoot. She was standing before me now, her dress like a piece of her own skin, her tiny breasts peeking out of her halter top.

I pretended to watch TV, but wanted so badly to pick her up and hold her in my arms. I wanted her to giggle when I kissed her, taste the rain and salt on her tongue. I wanted to tell her things I never told anyone before, because I was afraid and insecure. I wanted to look at her, really look at her, and melt from those dark eyes of hers, the ones that could pierce you like a dagger in your heart with one glance.

I wanted to tell her I loved her.

But instead, I told her she’d better start packing or she’d miss her train.

I still remember the way her smile faded. She looked so helpless. She’d wanted me for so long, wanted me to dance with her, hold her hand in the street, feed her my noodles at dinner. She wanted things I could never give her. Things I promised myself long ago I’d never give anyone.

At dinner the night before, I taught her how to crack open a crab leg and she kept cutting her fingers on the shell. She was laughing as she flipped a piece of crab across the table.

“I just ended a relationship with the wrong man,” she told me. “It was too bad because I know he loved me.”

I knew why. I told her she was easy to love, but she didn’t believe me because I’d just told her not to fall in love with me. I said I’d never be able to give her what she needed.

We didn’t make love that night. I felt cold and alone. I wanted her to touch me. I could hear the wind tapping on the window and her silent whimpers, which she tried to stifle beneath her pillow.

I didn’t help her with her bags when I walked her to a cab. She didn’t even look at me.

She smiled to the cab driver, because she smiles at everyone.

“See ya,” she said, as she ducked inside the car. We both knew it would be the last time we’d see each other.

I watched until the car looked like a speck of the sun in the distance. She was gone. Suddenly, I wished it would rain.

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Hitting the Delete Key

Last week I had a bit of an emotional setback. Mr. Corkscrew sent me an e-mail. Not a “Hi, just wanted to see if you’re still breathing,” like the Mad Scientist sent me when I was in London and he was on his way to Paris (but had no time to see me-ouch), but hi via LinkedIn. It was a request to connect with him, “a friend.” He plugged in my name and clicked the friend button. And if that wasn’t enough, he said, “I would be honored if you’d ‘connect’ with me.” And he put a little smiley face behind it, like he was trying to be all suggestive, yet businesslike. “Connect.” What is that, corporate talk for a roll in the hay?

I hate it when someone I’ve held on such a pedestal comes back after a year or more of me dutifully trying to regain my self respect and forget all about just how not into me he really was. And then there he is – bam. Right in my face. And usually, right in my heart all over again. I wanted to write back and tell him I tried “connecting” with him for six years and that got me nowhere. I wanted to tell him he was a big, fat, jerk. But instead, I did something I’ve never done before. Nothing.

What would it feel like, to do nothing? To not unload my hurt and confusion on his plate? Not give him the upper hand by knowing he can still manipulate my heartstrings like a puppet? Not be the weak one?

Actually, it feels pretty good.

It’s been five days and I still have no urge to hit reply. Instead, I hit delete.

This is HUGE for me. I’m a writer. I don’t not write back. And I never delete. Hanging on to old emails, old texts and phone numbers is my stupid link to the men who don’t want me. It’s a whiff of the familiar, the faint memory of a time when I held his hand, or I nuzzled my face against his neck. Looking at the names of those men made me feel like they were still in my life. Even though it was painfully clear they weren’t.

I can’t explain why I do this. Why I keep their memories around. I guess I have always kept a permanent address in the past. But things have changed. I’m 31 now, and feel a little bit taller. I like who I am just a little bit more. I recognize what I don’t want anymore. I don’t want to stay in a place where I’m not welcome.

I’m worth more than that. And I’m certainly worth connecting with people who actually want me around. That’s right, Mr. Corkscrew. You heard me. Go “connect” with yourself. You were never really that great of a networker anyway.

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Things to Avoid

As a quest to become more healthy, I decided to create a list of all the things I no longer want to put into my body.

So far the list looks like this:

Things to Avoid
Refined sugar
Dairy
Nuts
Corn
White flour
Mr. Corkscrew, Mr. Beer Man, Mr. Oily, King Kong and the Mad Scientist

Notice I didn’t say men. I don’t need to avoid men. That was never my problem. Men from my past were the only ones who ever did me any real harm. If I could learn to eat fewer carbs (and that’s hard for me, as I’m a die-hard carb addict), then I could learn to avoid men from my past. After all, it’s not like I’m giving up protein. I couldn’t live without salmon or turkey burgers. It’s just a matter of restructuring my palate. I’ll really miss my homemade oatmeal bread and yogurt with fresh fruit. I’ll miss pistachios and cashews, but I have learned to substitute with things like sunflower seeds and raisins. And oat crackers with blackberry all-fruit jam taste pretty darned good.

So far, I’ve lost the sluggish feeling that normally accompanies a full-on cleanse. The first few days were really difficult and I wanted to jump right off the wagon. And, in the men department, I did. I went to Chicago for a drama-filled week with Mr. Beer Man. But you know, it’s been two weeks and now I’m off everything. Even when Mr. Corkscrew emailed, I managed to hold it all together.

I still haven’t gone off my new plan, and I have more energy, a lot more faith and a renewed interest in vegetables.

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Standing at the Platform

It's a funny thing about trains. You always feel them coming.

When you're standing at the platform, it's easy to tell when a train is arriving. Not by any visual cues, though. You feel it. First, the ground shakes just a bit. Then, the wind begins to blow all around you, tickling your cheek and brushing up against your leg. Then, you hear it. It whistles as it lurches forward, the sound of bell and brakes dusting your eardrums at the same time. Then, you see it.

All this warning, though, before the train actually comes.

Sometimes, while I stand there waiting, I can't help but wonder if love arrives in the same way. Do you know when it's coming? Can you feel something before you actually know it exists?

I'm not sure. I like to think that anything that wonderful makes itself known to you purely in feeling and never by sight alone. After all, love is a visceral sort of thing. You feel it pulse gently through your blood, feel its elusive shock across your fingertips. You hear it in your laugh, its echoes sound like waves of warmth when you say good morning to your neighbor. Love, I think, is like a train.

It approaches slowly, and when it arrives, everything about you already knew it was coming and couldn't wait for the door to open.

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Breaking Bread

“I was thinking about what you said yesterday,” Mr. Beer Man said as we were walking through the Lincoln Park Zoo. “I realized something about myself when it comes to relationships. I’m selfish.”

When I didn’t say anything for a while, he asked why I was silent. I told him it was because I had no rebuttal. I agreed.

He wasn’t surprised. And neither was I, when he said that he didn’t care.

“It’s who I am,” he said.

His comments helped me realize something very important about who I am. I’m someone who doesn’t want a selfish man. Up until yesterday, I’m not sure I really knew that.

Sure, we don’t ever consciously say we want a selfish man, but so often, that’s just what we get. We get it because we believe it's what we deserve.

In the past I was willing to accept empty relationships because I was empty. I didn’t know any different. I thought I needed very little because I got very little. Now I know better.

After being with Mr. Electrician, I realize that it’s possible for a man to be nurturing, kind, giving and warm. Selfish was never in his genetic makeup. And now, being with Mr. Beer Man, I can see the dramatic differences between these two types of men. And the differences in what I’m willing and no longer willing to accept.

The thing is, I can’t be angry about who Mr. Beer Man is. After all, he’s not. My only job is to either accept him for who he is, or go away because I want someone different.

We went to the Green Market and afterwards, found a spot beneath a shade tree that faced a pond where families floated by on boats in the shape of swans.

“You want more?” he said, holding out a loaf of French bread in my direction.

“No thanks,” I smiled, pushing the bread – and him — away.

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