another Chicago trip (part 14)

About six months ago…

While back home, I reflected on how nice it felt to spend time with a man who was a good conversationalist, a toucher and who wasn’t afraid to kiss me even with a sore on my lips. The note he’d left under my pillow was nice, too! True, the dialogue was too heavily weighted on divorce, our exes and our children.

He had mentioned that he liked strong, direct women. So I thought I’d play the part: I called and left a voicemail, telling him that I’d really like it if he took me on a real, bona fide date when I got to town that weekend. What I meant wasn’t something formal or expensive or elaborately planned, I simply wanted to spend some time together getting to know each other — no exes, no children — just us talking about us. I let him know my best availability was Sunday evening.

I arrived in town Saturday morning. When I hadn’t heard from him by that afternoon, I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him. By the time Sunday evening arrived, I wanted nothing more than a hot bath and room service, so I was actually relieved to not have plans.

I heard from him Monday. His text read, “Sorry I couldn’t be there for you last night. I’m a hot mess.”

I replied, “I know, hon. My heart aches for you.” Even if he hadn’t been telling me where his head and heart were at all these weeks, it was easy to tell by his actions. He was very clearly communicating that he wasn’t ready to move on.

A day later, I got on a plane home, knowing that my last scheduled trip to Chicago — and our window of opportunity — had passed.

Looking back, I still find it somewhat surprising that he didn’t take me up on my no-strings offer. And yet, while it was easy for me to tell myself I was being…um…generous, I failed to account for all the longing I had wrapped up in this. I needed a man’s attention and touch more than I was willing to admit. And I’m sure my desperation was nothing less than terrifying to a man in Chi-guy’s shoes.

More…

three conditions under which I might sleep with you

Recently, a dashing pauper volunteered to “fuck me stupid.”

It was a lovely offer, truly. But, as I’ve mentioned earlier, I have certain attitudes about casual sex just now, and I’m not interested in going there with this particular fellow at this juncture. So, in case you’re hopeful, here are three situations in which I might engage in a sexual relationship:

I’ve ruled a man out, meaning that there is no possibility that I would ever want a relationship with him. Therefore, there is no danger that even a sexually-induced flood of oxytocin might cause me to become emotionally involved with the fool. And I’m likely kicking his ass out of my bed — or leaving his bed — at the earliest post-coital opportunity.
I am in an exclusive, serious relationship that I believe to be headed toward commitment. Said man will have forgiven himself, forgiven his ex (if there is one), can believe in love, desires marriage and plans to commit for the rest of his life. I will sleep with him only if I believe we will enter into this act as though it were sacred, and with complete acceptance, love and a desire to open ourselves completely to the act of giving and receiving pleasure. And, at this point in the relationship, there should be no question that we want to wake up in each other’s arms.
Number 1, above, is false. The conditions of number 2, above, might possibly be met at some time in the future and, in a moment of horniness, I change my mind.

In summary, there are no rules!

how my night with Chi-guy really ended (part 8)

About seven months ago…

After dinner, we both got up and went to the restroom before going out to the car. While our conversation had been easy, for the most part — imagine spending an entire day with someone you barely know and never feeling awkward or running out of things to talk about and allowing silence to be comfortable — there was something more. My mind and my body and my heart were all engaged, as though every cell in my body was at attention. Against all expectations and odds, despite his hang-dog expression and hunched posture, I was feeling alive in a way that I hadn’t felt in a very long time in the presence of this man.

I carefully checked myself in the mirror, re-applied lip gloss and emerged to find Chi-guy waiting for me. He seemed to be a bit reserved; perhaps his impeccable manners, respect for me or broken-hearted insecurity were getting in the way of what could happen…I felt compelled to take action to let him know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was prepared to follow through on every flirtatious text, email or phone conversation we’d shared. I leaned toward him and gently kissed his lips.

He recoiled, seemingly taken aback.

“That was nice,” I said awkwardly, trying to recover.

“What was nice?” he asked, confused.

“Dinner was nice. I really enjoyed it.”

And we proceeded to the car. I tried to regain the lightness we had enjoyed earlier and mentioned the possibility of one of those rooftop bars he had mentioned or the condo he had recently moved into. He was noncommittal.

We drove in silence for a few minutes before he began haltingly, “You know how we’ve been flirting…”

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m interested in you.”

“The thing is, I like you.”

“I like you, too,” I said, excited to think we might be on the same page after all.

“But aren’t you afraid things are going to change?” he asked.

My mind began to cloud with confusion and my thoughts and words and what he was saying all jumbled together. I don’t think I ever managed to express that things had already changed, simply by his having said that.

I foolishly recounted the tale of my first post-marriage experience, in an effort to illustrate that we could be adults, both wounded but meeting on common ground, and that we could share something neither meaningless nor too meaningful…

We were now across the street from my hotel. We sat in the car for a few minutes talking, both of us inarticulately fumbling for a way to adequately express what we were thinking and feeling or the points we were trying to make.

“But what about next time you’re in town?” he asked. “What happens then?”

“We do it again!” I exclaimed, smiling broadly at the thought.

My points:

We liked each other — and it seemed we had for some time.
We weren’t in high school; being 40-something and divorced had bought us some hard-earned freedoms, namely not having to play “hard-to-get” games. After all, we’d both been married and had children — we no longer had virginity nor innocence to protect.
Neither of us was in a place to consider getting into a relationship. We could both be mature enough to be friends and lovers without jeopardizing the friendship.
We had a window of opportunity in which neither of us was in a relationship, and I would be traveling to Chicago twice more in the next several weeks. We could view these circumstances as a gift.

His points:

He was reading “The Road Less Traveled” and trying to do the right thing or be a better person or something — my mind could just not absorb the meaning of this at that moment.
He was still technically married and had never been unfaithful to his wife.
He’d met a woman recently who, when he explained his current life situation, had given him her number and said, “Call me when your divorce is final.” He found this refreshingly mature.* (What did that say about what he was thinking of me at that very moment?)
He told me the story about another woman — part of a married couple he knew — who had kissed him at a party. When he pushed her away she said, “I’m afraid I’m losing my moral compass.” He didn’t want to feel that way.
He told me he was “not really very big.” What?! Did he really just say that?! As if I could possibly have cared about his size! I am not the woman who believes bigger is always better, and I believed that this man was more than capable of satisfying me.
He told me that he was not a terribly strong-willed man and suggested that, if I were really determined, he might be swayed. But I had already put my cards on the table; I would not further embarrass myself by pleading or groveling. I had no interest in going to bed with a man who needed to be talked into it.

We were at an impasse. Chi-guy got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, opened my door and held out his hand. He led me across the street to my hotel, said, “There’s not much to recommend me right now,” and told me about the first time we’d met: “When I first saw you, I thought you were the most vibrantly sexy woman I’d ever seen.”

At this, my bullshit detector was going off wildly, because a) Eva Mendes exists and b) well, what more do I need to say?

He went on to tell me how surprised he’d been when I’d stepped away from that cocktail table and he could see for the first time that I was pregnant, and how he’d nursed a crush on me for some time. I listened, acknowledging neither what I’d thought upon our first meeting nor that I’d seen his jaw drop nor known of his crush. Within a few moments, he hugged me, planted a chaste kiss on my cheek and bid me goodnight.

Dumbfounded, I pushed my way through the revolving door back into my hotel.

More…

*With little introspection, I can easily concede that this is the mature and proper perspective to have, particularly if one is single and has not been through the long, painful, lonely and arduous task of dissolving one’s primary relationship. For those of us who have, we know that, oftentimes, a marriage is well and truly over long before the final paperwork is signed.

my myth-busting mania

After another stupid example of how I waste my time (e.g. last Friday’s “date“), let me acknowledge that I am in regular struggle with two aspects of myself:

There is the side that knows, with confidence, who I am and with whom I connect. I was pretty sure that date was going nowhere before I even got to the restaurant. It was as though the eager fellow got me to say yes and then self-sabotaged every step to follow.
And then there’s the side of me that argues that I need break out of my comfort zone, explore people, places and situations I might not have before and give others a chance.

This struggle, it’s fair to say, is something I’ve been conscious of since college. There was a guy who was so determined to date me that I allowed him to talk me in to it, even though I knew he was not my intellectual equal. It was flattering to have someone work so hard to win me over, I suppose. I must have learned something from the experience…like…hmmm…I don’t know, I guess maybe I learned how great it can feel to break up with someone, how powerful to reclaim the self, when one realizes that their initial impression was correct.

Nearly 20 years on, I suppose I believe I should be beyond all this. I’m stronger in many ways, and I know myself better. Yet divorce has shaken my self-esteem to the ground and broken my heart wide open. And the prevailing advice is that I should keep an open mind and allow myself to receive attention from all kinds of men to hone in on what really feels good to me.

And then I hear tidbits like this: a friend told me a few days ago that I shouldn’t be wasting my time with anyone whose net worth is less than a million dollars. This sort of standard feels a bit arbitrary, but I think there’s an important point behind it. Who do I believe to be my equal, my match? And why am I attracting anything less?

As I pondered all this, I realized I’m not sure how to balance all the conflicting messages that come my way. And, on some level, I must be putting out some energy that’s not quite resolved within myself. So I set myself to the task of identifying my beliefs and misconceptions about men and dating, so that I might begin to release or clear those that no longer serve me.

To give you an example of the type of junk I’ve found in my mind, I can specifically recall a time last year when I was thinking about Max: I was driving a familiar road near my home, on my way to run an errand and I remember thinking what a great, genuine, kind man he is. And then, that back-talk voice in my head (the one I sometimes describe as “rational”) argued, “I wonder what’s wrong with him? No man is that nice!” Luckily, I noticed myself thinking this — that he must have an internet porn addiction or shoot up or beat his stepchildren or some other hideous hidden flaw — because I believed that he simply could not be the kind, thoughtful, gentle, sexy soul he was. So I challenged this notion. There is also inside me a perpetual optimist, someone who believes in the good in all of us. This voice queried, “What if that’s all and he’s just a decent guy? What if he is kind and faithful and committed and flirtatious and sporty — and what if he does have flaws like the rest of us, but he’s not bad at all?”

And so I embarked on a more conscious, programmatic approach to challenging the kind of beliefs that might hinder me in attracting my ideal mate and relationship. Here is some of the “junk” I found I was hanging onto:

I’ll never find my perfect mate.
It’s hard to meet men in this city.
I’m too overweight / frumpy / motherly to be attractive.
If a man loves me, there must be something wrong with him.
Attractive men my age want someone skinny, blond and 20 years younger.
No one wants a woman who already has children.
No man will fully and completely love the real me.
I always choose the wrong man.
I have to be careful about letting anyone see the real me.
I don’t know how to communicate my needs in a relationship.
I am fundamentally unlovable (flawed).
I fail at love.
My perfect mate is not here.
I’ve already met my perfect mate and he doesn’t know it or doesn’t want me.
Quality men are hard to find.
All the good men are taken or gay.

Some of this garbage has been in my head probably since my first crush in grade school; thus the contradictions. Who even knows where a lot of it comes from, as it’s certainly not all from direct experience. And these old, worn-out beliefs are not serving any positive purpose in my life, so I’m going to challenge them by over-writing them with some new ones:

The right kind of men find me attractive for all the right reasons.
I know myself well enough to choose a perfect mate.
My heart is open to the abundance in the universe.
I am fully and completely lovable just as I am.
I am able to share myself fully and authentically in relationships.
There are many wonderful, attractive, intelligent, kind and thoughtful men looking for a genuine emotional connection right now.
My perfect mate is seeking me right now.

So now I’m going to commit to being a little more open and willing to take risks. I will put myself out there, meet new men and, in the process, test these new beliefs to see if I can come up with some even better ones!

conjuring the cougar #fail

Yesterday I went on a date with a man I’d met online. I use the term “man” here loosely; he was 26.

We’d been emailing back and forth and texting for a couple of weeks. When I told him he’d have to pay my sitter if he wanted to see me on the days when I have my children, he asked when they weren’t with me. I should have known better then. We talked for a few minutes the other night, and I didn’t find his voice particularly pleasant. I should have known better then. He asked if we could change the agreed-upon venue to someplace more convenient for him — and then chose a bland, American restaurant over something more adventurous. I should have known better then.

But he has his pilot’s license, is wrapping up an independent film that he co-wrote and produced, and is working while finishing an engineering degree, so I thought I’d give him some credit for having the maturity to achieve some goals. And the prevailing advice about how to meet men seems to suggest I should step out of my comfort zone. (Never mind that the prevailing advice about marriage suggests that I should lower my standards…)

As I was driving, probably half a mile from our intended meeting space and precisely one minute before we were to meet, he texted me, “Are you still coming?” I should have turned around then.

My misgivings proved true. He talked a pretty good game for a while but, in the end, he had come from the gym wearing workout attire — I mean the kind that looked sloppy, rather than the kind that highlighted a buff bod. Conversation was forced, until we got to the topic of flying. He seemed like a little boy in hoping to win the Sugar Mama lottery. He still had acne. He actually asked me how I wanted to handle the check at the restaurant. This baby was neither hot enough to coax out my inner cougar nor mature enough to hold his own with an intelligent, cultured woman. No wonder all of his photos were of him inside the cockpit of an airplane wearing a headset — he was insecure even about his looks.

Clearly, the perspective from which I write suggests that I have some expectations. Youngsters — aw, heck, men of all ages — if you want to conjure the inner wild cat (or even get a second date), take note of a few of them:

Dress to impress. I may wear jeans on a first date to keep it casual, but my clothes will be clean and well-chosen (i.e. you’re likely to see a little cleavage), I will have showered and put on make-up, etc. At 26, this baby should have known to put on some flattering jeans and a nice shirt rather than show up in sweats.
Come my way. If you’re asking me out and we’ve already agreed on a location or neighborhood, don’t change the venue with the express purpose of making it more convenient for yourself. Demonstrate that you want to spend time with me through your willingness to meet on my turf.
Be accommodating. If I tell you sushi is my favorite food, either be willing to try something new to please or impress me, or offer an appealing alternative. I get that not everyone likes raw fish, but any urbanite who’s left their home in the past decade knows that sushi restaurants offer a lot more than fish, raw or otherwise — and rest assured, I can point out several options on a menu for carnivores. If that’s still scary, there’s a lot of ground to cover between Japanese and an American burger joint.
If you asked me out, you’re picking up the tab. Duh!

So, after all this, what’s my takeaway? Well, there are two:

First, lesson learned: follow my gut and say no early and often. Date no one who I could not possibly imagine being my equal or an example to my children.

Second, re-examine and clear whatever energy I’m putting out there to attract men who are not in my league. This will take some real work (and may merit a post of its own).

about that guy I did like a man

About eleven months ago…

A few days after returning from my trip, as I was reflecting on how thoughtful my one-night lover had been, I decided to send him a note.

“Anthony, it was lovely,” I emailed. Short and sweet.

“It’s been a week, and I’m still smiling,” he replied. Thus began another long-distance flirtation. We emailed or texted a few times a week, and even spoke on the phone.

I enjoyed the attention, and I loved crafting 140 or fewer character flirtations.

“Your messages are like haikus,” he texted.

“More like Zen koans,” I corrected.

One night, while out for drinks with girlfriends, I confessed to him that I barely remembered his name, much less what he looked like. He wrote, “I was your first kiss, the first lover’s poem to grace your ears, the first flutter of breath on your neck, the first touch of your breast… Lover, you know me!” The girls and I swooned.

I’d previously held a belief that casual sex was cold, awkward and impersonal. Anthony, with his musical accent and charming banter, had taught me that it could be warm and playful.

A few months after our meeting, at the end of one of our conversations, he asked me if we might meet in another city for a weekend. And that’s when I realized we were on completely different pages in our lives. I was living a flirtation, and it was enough for me. He was thinking of seeing me again. My daily life felt like a struggle to pay the mortgage and parent my children with almost no support from their father (who was, at the time, still trying to be difficult). This was no time to think about jetting off to see a lover, particularly one with whom I could envision no future. The only way I could have made this work at that time was if he were in a position to be a sugar daddy. Does is make me a whore to think that way — that I might have considered it if he were picking up the tab? Looking back, I think I really needed an escape, so I won’t judge myself too harshly.

Anthony and I continue to be in touch occasionally. I think he likes my coolness (cruelty?) or views me as a challenge. Perhaps, given its effectiveness, this is an approach I should adopt towards men I really like…

mourning among my adopted family

It’s been a rough couple of days, and I find I have a story to tell. Seems I usually do. Actually, this might be more like two stories.

When I was in college, I dated a professor’s son (actually, I dated more than one, but let’s leave the others for another time). His mother taught writing courses and was known to be tough and opinionated. So, of course I sought her out. Academically, she liked me.

My boyfriend / professor’s son lived at home, so there was that inevitable morning when I walked down through the living room and had to say, “Good morning, Doctor, I’ll see you later in class.” Since it was a small school, everyone in my social circle had heard the news by lunch time. This counts among the three most embarrassing moments of my life.

But the real story here is that, when the boyfriend went off to grad school, his mother, my professor, adopted me. I wasn’t her only adopted student but, because I was close to her son, I think she liked having me around as a way to feel closer to him. She fed me elaborate meals and played the piano and we talked about everything from art and politics to gender roles and sex. I met his two brothers, his nephews and niece, his grandparents… After college, I moved closer to his grandparents and would take his grandmother shopping, since she no longer drove.

The boyfriend and I had an off-again, on-again long-distance relationship filled with the usual yearning, expectations, longing and heartache. People around us sincerely believed we would one day marry. For a long time, I think we did, too. In the end, I lost the boyfriend but kept the family. My former boyfriend married. To this day, I call the boys my brothers.

We lost the doctor recently and, over the weekend, I celebrated her life with my “brothers” and “nephew.” A common theme at family occasions is the closeness I share with the eldest of these boys. Apparently this chafes the youngest, my ex, as noted by the middle son who remarked, “Yeah, I’ve heard all about it” not long after I walked into the house over the weekend.

I suppose there may be rules and boundaries that one ought to consider in relationship situations like this. But I’m not going to analyze them here and now. I simply want to share the reason you haven’t seen a post from me in a few days — I’ve needed some time to process a great loss for me personally, but even more so for these wonderful brothers from another mother. And I’ve needed to absorb and recognize that, however young and dumb and unable to articulate our feelings or negotiate our relationship at the time, I broke someone’s heart — without ever really realizing it.

I suspect there may be more to come on all this…after I’ve had a little time to put it into perspective.

cheap sex? on my terms

Slate recently published an article called Sex is Cheap: Why young men have the upper hand in bed, even when they’re failing in life. The article, written by a man, is based on research and data from around the world.

My colleague and 20-Nothings author, Jessie Rosen, followed up with her astute commentary here.

And still I think it’s worth exploring whether the equation changes as we get older, specifically for single women approaching or into their forties. First, let’s acknowledge that, by this time in life, some things have changed for women:

Our libidos are more active. While men are alleged to peak in sex drive at 19, women’s libidos allegedly peak at 30. I say allegedly, because most women I know would argue that we’re even more libidinous at 40. (And because I’ve experienced 50-year-olds with as much energy as any 19-year-old.)
For many of us, sex is no longer about our biological clock and securing commitment, DNA and a provider for our children. Many of us have already met that need, more or less.
We’re more confident — this means being more comfortable in our bodies, more assertive about getting our needs met, more able to be direct and more able to walk away (after all, by this time in life, we’re likely to have acquired more toys — a.k.a. The Elite Sophisticate, Doc Johnson or simply BOB, for Battery-Operated Boyfriend).
We’ve gained a lot more relationship experience, whether we’ve been married and divorced or not.

So…is sex still cheap? A quick look at the dynamics on online dating sites or in any bar will assure you that, yes, sex is still cheap . Men, it seems, are able to find willing partners whatever their station in life. As are women.

But, based on my own experience and some anecdotal evidence from my contemporaries, the balance of power has undergone a nuanced shift: the women I know who are serious about seeking a mate date multiple men — and they wait to sleep with any of the serious contenders. They’ve learned a thing or two about how to develop a relationship and they know that sex can complicate their emotions when they’re exploring whether someone is right for them. Instead, they enjoy steamy liaisons with a hot guy who they’ve already concluded is Mr. Wrong.

By forty, most single women can walk into a bar, pick up a man, take him home, sleep with him and forget it. And they can communicate to men they really care about that they’re looking for commitment and not willing to get sexually involved without it. They know how to respect themselves and, thus, demand respect from a man. (And if you’re a single woman and this doesn’t resonate with you, you’ve at least got to admit to having learned enough to know what you’re getting in to.)

The implication for men at this juncture in life is that, especially if they are finally looking for a life mate, the tables may have turned. If a woman sleeps with a man right away, it could very well be a relationship death knell. It may mean she’s already ruled him out.

post-feminist dating

I was a staunch feminist in college and beyond. My serious papers took on sexist language and such things. I’ve been called a femi-nazi on more than one occasion. So let’s relate this to dating…

If I don’t come across as particularly adept at dating now, you can imagine what an idealistic (in all the wrong ways) fool about it I was in my twenties. One of my more memorable boyfriends lived hand-to-mouth. Much of the time he didn’t have a dime to his name — but when he did, he was sure to buy me gifts or treat me to an amazing night out. I went dutch with lots of guys, too. I remember reading an article that promoted the notion that couples should contribute equally to relationships, and should strive to date at the level that the lower-earner of the two can afford. But let’s get real: very few couples are composed of equal earners or equally motivated partners.

Frankly, I now wonder whether not allowing a man to buy dinner when dating could have landed me in a decade-long relationship in which I supported an entire family. Perhaps there is such a thing as too much self-sufficiency. And I’m through supporting a perfectly capable man!

Contrast my past approach with a sassy widow I know. She recently revealed that she asks men who ask her out to pay her sitter.

Damn, girl! The last time I was in the dating game, it was common to split the tab. It was only the older, wealthier men who you knew with confidence were buying dinner. Either that, or I was just too dumb or too feminist. (And, no, I don’t believe they are the same thing.)

At this point in my life, I’ve developed an appreciation for receiving male attention in many of its forms, including gifts, meals, etc. In other words, it’s pretty unlikely that I’m going to pull out my wallet on the first couple of dates. Still, I’m not sure how that conversation goes…

He: “So, wanna go out for a drink sometime?”

She: “Sure, if you’re willing to pay for my babysitter.”

Which brings me back to my point: If we get what we expect, then I’m okay with expecting a lot. I’m a successful woman; I deserve a successful mate. But I have yet to master the language of high expectations — i.e. the language of asking or negotiating for something I know I can provide for myself.

My friend puts it this way: “We pay for the manicure, pedicure, brow wax, facial, we get made up and do our hair — look at the investment of time and money we’ll put into looking and feeling good for a date! And all he’s gotta do is pay for dinner and a movie?! No. I let him know that if he wants to go out with me, this is part of it. Maybe on the second and third dates, I’ll split the cost of the sitter and, if I like the guy after that, I may leave my children with my mom or sister. But my reality is that I have children, and he might as well understand that now.”

This woman has set the bar high. I can respect that. There are some dating experts out there who might refer to this as “Degree of Difficulty,” as in, a woman should have a high DoD in order to attract a guy who is willing to work hard to make her happy.

In any case, if she can rock it, I’m gonna learn to rock it, too!

ah, memories

Occasionally I look back on the time in my late 20s when I dated a millionaire and wonder what the hell I was thinking letting him go!

We enjoyed taking his private plane (he had a pilot’s license and a small twin-engine) to his Caribbean home, being treated to meals and gifts, never having to worry about a thing. Let me paint a picture of one of my most fond remembrances for you:

I was on the phone with this wealthy older man, a friend who had not yet told me he was interested in more. He was planning a trip to New York and I asked if I might join him — I could use an escape and New York is beautiful in the autumn.

“Yeah, for sure!” he said. And then, to my surprise, he paid my airfare and gave me the address of where we’d be staying: a tony address on the east side of the Park where some friends of his had an apartment.

I took a cab from JFK. When I told the cabbie the address, he did a double-take in the mirror and asked, “You goin’ home?” I told him I was visiting with a friend, and the apartment was owned by friends of my friend. He said, “You got the look. Someday you gonna be rich enough to buy a place like that, too.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I replied.

The cabbie dropped me off across from the park and I gave the doorman my name. I was the first to arrive. The doorman carried my luggage up to the 7th floor and let me in. I put some Nina Simone on the stereo, pulled out a New Yorker and relaxed on a chaise near the windows overlooking the park. I was completely relaxed and in my element. After my friend arrived, we took a walk, stopping at Bulgari so I could buy some perfume and asked that it be delivered to the doorman in “our” building, then we bought some nice bottles of wine, also having them delivered. We went out to nice restaurants, watched the US Open of Tennis and window shopped. New York in the autumn is so lovely!

I look back at this time in my life and recall how much I enjoyed the intellectual connection and conversation with this fellow, as well as the lifestyle. Early on, his friends would ask how long we’d known each other — time that could be counted in months — and remark that we seemed so comfortable and friendly as to have known each other for a decade. It was a lovely compliment. Perhaps I was just so relaxed about it all because I never took the relationship seriously.

After all, he’d had children who were then in their teens and had been “fixed.” And I was certain I wanted children of my own. His lifestyle of excess caused some discomfort with me, an eco-conscious “awakening consumer.” He drove a sports car and frequented “gentlemen’s clubs,” so I thought him a bit of a pig and teased him about it. And some control issues began to appear in the last days of our togetherness. Yet sometimes I wonder if any of those differences or issues would have been any more difficult to handle than the things I dealt with in a relationship with the man who I truly loved and with whom I ultimately shared a decade of my life.

In hindsight, what was excess to me then may now be abundance. And all those other things, if we’d really loved each other, we may have been able to communicate through. Or am I just wearing rose-colored glasses?

Actually, probably the main reason I recall this time in my life and this relationship with fondness is that I never lost myself in it. I didn’t take it too seriously, I wasn’t working (over-functioning) to get my man; he was working to woo me. And I could take him or leave him. He adored me for me being myself. And when it seemed he didn’t, I let him go…and that’s a great lesson for me to carry forward into future relationships.