are you available? or attached?

Long ago, I wrote a post entitled “are you available?” Back then, I was musing about whether or not the people I was meeting and encountering were truly available to be in a relationship with me.

I’ve recently learned of a new way of viewing this idea… You see, I had the opportunity to indulge in a free audiobook called “Attachment: The New Science of Adult Attachment and How it Can Help You Find — and Keep — Love” by Amir Levine and Rachel Heller. While I’m not all the way through yet, I’m already planning to buy the book in print, so that I can take the assessments and use it as a workbook or manual. In addition to quizzes of sorts, I’ve already found a great deal of useful advice, as well as enormously useful insights that would likely have prevented most — if not all — of my worst relationship debacles, including the latest disaster.

(Downton Abbey helps, too, I find…if I’d known how to manage men as Lady Mary does, I’d probably be better situated at present.)

The book focuses on three degrees or styles of attachment: the secure and two types of insecure, anxious and avoidant. It’s been fun to listen to the audio as I recall past relationships and how my or my partner’s behaviors have fit into these types or dynamics. I already feel infinitely wiser as I embark on my search… in fact, now I know what I’ve typically been drawn to and how to recognize right away those who are clearly avoidant, or unable to meet my emotional needs.

Let me know if you’ve read it and what you learned.

ginger discrimination

The other day my chatty chiropractor told me he thought I’d be a great match for Prince Harry.

When I asked him why, he gave two reasons: first, I’m worthy of being a princess and second, we’re both gingers. I can argue with neither point.

But I felt I must tell him I’ve never been particularly drawn to ginger men. (Nor am I drawn to ginger women, for that matter, aside from that pretty character in Pitch Perfect.) He agreed that red-haired (more accurately orange-haired) men are often not the most appealing, but then opined that Harry is an exception. I agree; never mind the blue blood or age difference…

This conversation sparked further discussion on a topic I’ve been thinking about lately. Why waste my time thinking about such superficial things like hair color or complexion? Well…it seems ginger men often find me attractive. And their feelings of attraction toward me are rarely reciprocated. When one recently found my online dating profile, he seemed ecstatic — and he seemed to think my response would be equally jubilant.

My first reaction? “Ew.”

People like to point out that my anti-ginger bias seems contradictory. After all, I am a redhead. And my own father is a ginger — with the pale skin, every inch of that which has been exposed to the sun covered in freckles…and I am fond of my father. As I age, I also find that my skin is more sensitive and likely to burn in the sun.

Still, I don’t identify as part of this particular group of people with certain hair and skin pigmentation in any way that endears them to me particularly, at least not any more than I suspect dishwater blondes feel camaraderie toward one another based on hair color. In fact (perhaps as a result of several years of childhood torment), I am quick to point out these distinctions: my hair is auburn, my eyes are dark and my skin tans with exposure to sunlight. I am covered in “angel kisses,” not freckles (and, no, they are not the same thing). I can see no reason for joining in any sort of ginger convention — I tend to choose my tribe based on other like characteristics. The enormous crush I had on the son of my father’s best friend when I was 13 years old notwithstanding, I am simply not attracted to ginger men.

But I’ve often heard that I should keep an open mind and, further, I’ve learned first-hand that some people are just not as photogenic as others. So out with him I went, determined not to make lifetime happiness decisions based on such superficial criteria.

And here’s what I found: despite his relative financial success, despite his spontaneity, despite his sense of humor, he proved overeager (edging toward stalkerish) and further creeped me out with intimations that I reminded him of female relatives. (After all, I’ve seen my father in his skivvies, and that makes it less — not more — appealing to think of seeing another ginger in the flesh.) In summary: not attracted.

If all of this reveals me as a sort of superficial bigot, so be it. Perhaps I am.

touch starved

I get what I call “touch starved.” Meaning: I can spend all the time in the world snuggling with my children, but it doesn’t fulfill a certain need. That loving, nurturing touch is great, but it’s not the touch of a lover.

This is what I was feeling when I entangled myself in the debacle of last fall. I was physically desperate and thinking I’d get my itch well and thoroughly scratched.

As you now know, I didn’t get what I’d hoped from the brief tryst, but I did equip myself with better toys. Now I’m not feeling nearly so needy.

lasting impressions

People go on and on about the importance of first impressions. No doubt it’s all true. But what of latest, last or final impressions? Doesn’t their discussion merit a moment of attention, as well?

Some of you may recall that, while in bed with the boyfriend I was seeing just over a year ago, he asked me what my first impression of him had been. He insisted I be honest, so I can hardly be blamed for blurting out, “Man boobs.”

Luckily, we were both consumed with laughter and able to get past this awkward incident. So much so that the ending of our relationship was tender, sweet and respectful.

My point? The “final” impression in our relationship was so overwhelmingly positive that I look back on our relationship fondly and, in fact, I can admit to probably romanticizing it. And because we were loving and caring to one another until the end — and at the very end — we have become friends.

Contrast this experience with my more recent dalliance with more-like-it: I found him interesting – intriguing – from the start. I enjoyed talking with him, flirting with him and spending time with him. Physically, I found him sexy! In the end, though, I felt hurt and disrespected and, as lovely as I imagine it might be to cherish the memories, I find it’s difficult to look back at the experience fondly. At present, I am more likely to roll my eyes and think, “I can’t believe I fell for that!”

Admittedly, I am a pragmatic optimist. I’m sure, one day, I’ll see things differently. My hindsight tends to wear rose-colored glasses, after all.

In fact, I’ve already come to see the silver lining in this… If things had ended sweetly, I might have allowed myself to ponder possibilities. As it happened, closure was — shall we say — “firm.” Ultimately, he did me a favor by making it easy for me to move on.

just like that, it happened!

At first I was in denial. I resisted for an awfully long time. And then suddenly, it happened: I fell hard and fast. That’s right, I’m in love again!

It all started with my friends on Facebook, ooh-ing and aah-ing and cooing. The more I heard, the more I had an inkling that there was a lot to like. And then one night, while curled in bed with my iPad, the recommendation from Netflix pushed me over the edge. Finally, I succumbed to temptation: I clicked “play”…and I was immediately transfixed by the Grantham family and Downton Abbey.

I mean, I’ve always enjoyed the works of Victorian England writers – the Brontes, Edith Wharton, etc. and I can’t deny a fondness for the Queen’s colorful English…I’ve recently found many occasions to use dramatic words like “deplorable,” “ghastly” and (accompanied, of course, by a raised eyebrow) the phrase, “Some manners would not go amiss.”

I watched the entire first season that night, completely drawn into the scenery, costumes and stories of the Downton aristocrats and servants. I felt as though I’d been admitted to a special club — a group of millions of viewers who are likely equally smitten with Cousin Matthew and envious of Lady Mary’s uncanny knack for always saying exactly the right thing in any given circumstance.

Certainly not all characters are equal, but it is a delight to watch the family weather various challenges, from the Titanic’s sinking (and loss of an heir) to war and death, to new economic realities. We watch as Robert, ahem — Lord Grantham — the family’s patriarch, transforms from a strong leader to a man hopelessly clinging to past glory. (For those of you who follow here, you’ll note that the middle-aged white man, unable to adapt or reinvent himself and grown bitter, is no stranger to the author of this blog.) We watch how Cora manages him masterfully.

And then there are the servants…

So between the mostly excellent writing, acting, scenery, costumes, cinematography and lessons in managing men, I eagerly await tonight’s episode – and the words and phrases whose use it will likely inspire.

love me some v-day

I love me some V-day!

Even though I’m currently single (and refused to give that one guy who’s pursuing me my address so that he could deliver a surprise to my house), I am a romantic at heart and simply love the whole notion of an entire day dedicated to the celebration of love! What could be better?

Some folks skeptically call it a Hallmark holiday — and perhaps that’s true. Still, who cares who made it up or why? I love love, and any opportunity to blather on about it is peachy in my mind.

Another friend calls it “the day before the candy goes on sale.” I love that, too!

In my ideal life, I am celebrating with a lover out at one of the most romantic and cozy spots in the city. Perhaps after we’re close / committed, it’s a romantic night in, at home. Or, when the children are gone, a weekend getaway.

At any rate, I don’t care about those things at this moment. I am simply happy being a solo explorer with much love in my life, grateful children (who were surprised with books and chocolate this morning) and knowing I’m on the right path to find the mate who will honor and cherish me.

So tonight my little family will celebrate by sorting the recycling…and maybe grabbing a bite out. Can’t you just feel the romance?!

p.s. Yes, my ex boyfriend has already sent a loving text my way.

what goes unsaid

As I’ve mentioned, my ex boyfriend and I have been a bit chatty lately, occasionally meeting for coffee and such. It’s certainly pleasant to reconnect, but there’s more: hearing his voice, spending time with him — it does send my imagination to spinning.

Probably he senses this: after all, he’s a smart man. And so he goes on, telling me of his happy new relationship — the milestones, the shared experiences, how crazy she is for him…

The one thing he’s failed to express is how crazy he is for her.

Do you reckon that’s to spare my feelings? Or for some other reason…?

recap, rehash, update and stuff

Given recent events — for those of you who haven’t read, I didn’t take a recent rejection well or, more accurately, I didn’t take the way the news was presented to me well — I suppose one could ask: “What the heck did you think was going to happen?”

And I guess I would say: I thought we might have a fun six months or so. I thought we would communicate well. I was hoping for more playful experimentation and closeness and, in the end, fond farewells. So things didn’t go as I’d hoped, as is often the case, and I didn’t appreciate the behavior. There you have it; I’ve nothing more to say.

Meanwhile, I’ve been seeing and speaking with my ex boyfriend regularly lately. Nothing fishy; we have “business reasons” to be in touch. It warms my heart to see him doing well and, to be honest, I’m developing a bit of a crush on him. It’s easy to remember why I fell for him. (And he also makes a good fantasy/memory, if you know what I mean.)

In other news, a girlfriend recently sent this article, torn out of a magazine, through the mail, god bless her! Really, you should read it — it had me in hysterics (though NSFW). It all started while we were traveling together, schlepping all over Chicago for a site check, when something about Kathy Griffin came on the radio along with the word “vajazzle.” Read the article and you can also add “vajacial” to your vocabulary. I suspect it goes without saying that I haven’t yet had this “Peach Smoothie” treatment and it’s unlikely that I will…but I do find it intriguing. And it strikes me as odd that it cost so much less than a real facial.

Finally, I’ve put my profile back on an online dating…with ambivalence. It’s nice to receive positive attention, and you wouldn’t believe all the college boys asking me if they’re my type! I tell them I like tall, handsome and affluent enough to provide for my children…and most don’t write back after that. I must admit I find this fun — and a little flattering.

Sweet dreams, darlings!

then again, let’s not

I still get upset when I think about the let down of a couple few weeks ago (I’ve lost track of time). And I have a confession about that: the explosive vehemence of my emotions around this whole thing is waaay out of proportion to what it ought to have been, given the circumstances (in this case, a couple of casual hookups with a casual acquaintance). I normally don’t “should” on myself like that but, in this case, my awareness of this over-reaction goes something like this:

Into that moment of him saying “I’m out,” flooded every snub, slight, injury, rejection, betrayal that has ever happened in my life… Not only could I feel this, it was as though I could see it — an open portal with all of this emotional baggage flowing in. And it very clearly was not all about him…at least not all about him or us in this lifetime, in this incarnation.

I may have mentioned before that I’ve felt something karmic with more-like-it. It wasn’t exactly as Paulo Coelho writes about in Aleph, but not entirely dissimilar, either. His energy was a catalyst for me and, to be honest, it filled me with sheer terror on more than one occasion. I never felt unsafe — rather, I felt a fear that I knew I needed to face head-on in order to be healed in some way. A part of me wonders whether that journey wasn’t somehow cut short by our abbreviated “relationship.” I may never know.

So, as I said, I reacted strongly — and swiftly: I immediately removed him and another person I knew only through him from among my Facebook friends, and I deleted every message we’d ever exchanged from email, text or messaging. I had to kill this idiotic belief inside me that somehow we were supposed to be connected; I needed a complete break.

On a more personal, practical level, there are still aspects of this man’s behavior that baffle me. I don’t understand how someone can have manners one moment — opening doors, behaving respectfully, etc. — and then behave in a way that is so completely lacking in common courtesy and respect the next. There’s an incongruity to it around which I cannot wrap my feeble brain. It simply does not compute.

And my own knowing rose up inside me: I don’t treat my friends that way, and they don’t behave that way toward me. So that complete break was my way of shouting it to the universe: I will not accept being treated this way or welcome into my fold those who think they can get away with it.

I know he’s on his own journey, and rather than judge others or call names, I prefer to address behaviors. Still, this time, I won’t make my usual allowances for bad behavior or give in to the “let’s be friends” bullshit because, frankly, I’ve never wanted to be friends with this man; I’ve always felt and desired something more.

I can’t say what I’ll feel somewhere down the road, but that’s how I feel now. And it still hurts.

meditating and mantra

For the past month or so, a particular mantra has been on my mind. It goes something like this:

“I’m sorry. Forgive me. Thank you. I love you.”

This particular mantra has been part of my consciousness for so long that I can’t recall where I first learned it. Possibly it’s as common to meditators as “om mani padme hum.” I’ve done a little research, and it turns out this is an ancient Hawaiian / Polynesian mantra that is part of a healing practice of forgiveness. According to Wikipedia, “Ho’oponopono” is defined as “mental cleansing.”

I’ve played around with it over the years. And, since it’s back in my mind, I’m going to work with it a lot more over the coming weeks. With this as a reminder to myself, my daily meditation practice will go something like this:

Inhale: “I’m sorry.”

Exhale: “Forgive me.”

Inhale: “Thank you.”

Exhale: “I love you.”

Repeat.

Maybe it’s just the medicine I need to restore my faith in the possibility of love.

Join me?