vocationally, the professional break up

It’s come to my attention that I date a lot.  It takes up a lot of my time and energy.  There’s the planning, the coordinating of schedules, the wardrobe, the follow-up…  it’s starting to sound a lot like a job.  There’s even money to be considered, and while I don’t think of dating as an income stream, having my dinner or coffee picked up a couple times a week does effect my bottom line.  As does the afore-mentioned wardrobe and other considerations of appearance.

So, like any other professional pursuit, I think dating merits some industry standards.  Some professional courtesies.  Some protocol – especially in the area of the break up.  To wit, the following I address to the man who is breaking up with me:

I require Two Weeks’ Notice.  It’s just not natural to quit cold turkey when you’ve been seeing, talking to, and being intimately close with someone everyday.  Two Weeks’ Notice.  Good for big business, good for me.  That two weeks will give us time to wean off each other while you find your replacement.  That’s right.  I’m going to need you to hire your replacement.  Why not?  You’ve gotten to know me, you know what works and what doesn’t – and you probably know more men than I do – obviously I’ve been off the market while I’ve been spending time with you.  You’re familiar with the qualities I’m seeking; you have many of them, with the exclusion of the ability to actually stay in this relationship, of course.

Now, might you consider taking a Leave Of Absence?  I’d be happy to hold your position for a period of six weeks while you sort things out.  You may be having some commitment issues, you might have a baby mama or some unresolved situations that need to be straightened out.  Take a sabbatical, pull yourself together, return in six weeks at your same rate of pay and we’ll take it from there.

No?  You say your personal goals are no longer in sync with the Vision and Mission of Jennifer, Inc?  Hmm.  I see.  Alright then, I accept your resignation.  What’s that?  You want to Still Be Friends?  I’m sorry, your “Still Be Friends” clause was breached the first time we got naked together.  That clause is no longer valid.  Where we are now is Section five, Paragraph three: “Moving On”.  I’m going to need you to return any and all property that was once mine, whether it has come into your possession by means of gift-giving, joint purchase, or absent minded convenience.

Your next step will be to complete an online Exit Interview, hosted by a third-party surveying company that will gather data to ensure that Jennifer, Inc will make better hires in the future.  You can expect such questions as “What the fuck?”, and “Are you an idiot?”.

culinary whore

Oh dear gawd, that’s what she said.  One of my favorite friends called me a “culinary whore”.  She didn’t say it to be mean, she was simply reflecting back to me what I’d just told her:  that I’d pretty much go out with anyone who was offering me a gourmet dinner. 

It’s true.  That’s the kicker.  It’s completely true.  Time and time again I go against any god-given common sense I might have, raise my chin and trod soundly upon the red flags that litter the ground before me as I sell my soul for an upscale meal.

I did it just last night.  It was doomed to turn out poorly, I mean, I had no business even taking Rick’s call; things did not go well with him in the Spring when he revealed himself to be more stalker than sincere love interest.  But take his call I did,  frankly I’ve been a bit lonely lately and the idea of stirring the stalking pot seemed like an entertaining distraction.  “Hi there”, he said.  “Glad you picked up.  I’ve just been out with a friend, and he told me that I seriously need a nutritionist.  I thought of you, and figured maybe I could buy you dinner and you could give me some nutrition tips.”

I’ve heard this line of thinking before, oddly enough it usually comes at the end of a relationship.  Twice now I’ve ended it with a guy only to hear him say:  “Maybe I could  become one of your nutrition clients and then I could still see you.”  You’d think these guys were joking.  They were stone cold serious. It’s disturbing.  Of course I say no – it just doesn’t make sense to get my professional and personal lives all tangled up like that.  But this time…  maybe this time was different.  This guy just wanted some tips and – if I heard him clearly – he was offering to buy me dinner.  A split second passed as I cast aside reason and asked “Where did you have in mind?”.

He offered a sushi place downtown and was met with silence.  He suggested a continental restaurant not far from my house and heard me exhale judgementally.  Then, like Goldilocks hitting pay dirt, he said:  “I’ve heard good things about The Monarch”.  Ah, yes, The Monarch.  Eclectic menu, doting waiters, low lights, a price point that exceeded even my most special occasion, and the best seven layer chocolate cake I’ve ever savored.  I was in.  “Yes, yes, that sounds perfectly do-able.  I’ll meet you there Saturday at 6.  You’ll need to make a reservation.”

I got to the restaurant early, dressed to the nines, with full face paint and feeling pretty good about myself.  Standing at the bar, trying to look busy and important as I scrolled through old emails, I felt someone standing close behind me.  “You should watch that”, I heard a man say.  “You might get carpal thumbel syndrome.”  Laughing, I turned and saw a guy I’d met at a party last month, what was his name?  Oh, yeah, Rick.  Oh, my.  Rick.  I kept the smile pasted to my face as I quickly sorted out that this was the Rick from the phone, the Rick I had made dinner plans with.  Not Rick the psuedo-stalker who I thought I’d made plans with.  You could practically hear the gears in my head shift and catch with comprehension.  Wrong Rick.  But it was the right restaurant, so I rolled with it.

Dinner was okay.  The Monarch was off that night, probably the one off night they’ve ever had but I was there for it.  Even the chocolate cake was weird tasting and unsatisfying.  And Rick?  Well, the pretense was that he wanted nutrition tips, so we talked about healthy food and eating habits for the first half hour or so.  Then the evening got more date-like:  conversation about hobbies, work, ex-spouses, books, movies… the typical stuff.  Like the dinner, Rick was off.  I kept trying to find some chemistry - he’s very tall and has a great smile, but I couldn’t muster any kind of attraction.  It was a lackluster evening, and although I was certain I’d turn down a second date, I was downright peeved when he put me in my car without a “This was fun, let’s do it again” nor even the most perfunctory of kisses. 

So, I had dinner with a man I didn’t really care for, who wasn’t even the man I thought I was going to have dinner with,  the man I thought I was going to have dinner with was someone I had no business being with, and the very pretense of the dinner crossed my most basic professional boundary.  What was the motivator?  Dinner.  What did I get for giving up my time, myself; what did I get in exchange for my soul?  Dinner.  Like she said, I’m a culinary whore.

rain as aphrodisiac

Sure, lots of people see a rainy afternoon and think it’s time to snuggle up and engage in indoor sports.  But me?  Sure, a sudden downpour gets me thinking about sex – but I want to be out in it.  Like now.  It’s 72 degrees outside.  Humidity at 79%.  It’s dumping rain.  Not that you turned to me for a weather report, but I’ve got to tell you, this is perfect sex rain.  That’s right.  The rain is coming down in juicy thimblefuls, streaming steady and warm.  A breeze is wafting, the air is damp enough to wrap around you.  There’s no discernable difference between body and atmosphere, there’s no telling where you stop and the weather starts.  It’s like coming home.  Sex in this kind of rain is sublime.  I’ve been here before, it’s undeniably one of my favorite things.  In a field, under a tree, on a roof… sex in this kind of tropical, drenching, soothing precipitation is heaven on earth.  There are precious few rainstorms just like this.  And even fewer men have I been able to convince to join me out here.

date and purge

I’ve driven up and down Rt 81 between VA and NC probably ten times in my forty years – three of those trips have been in the last three months.  What makes those three trips remarkable was the progression of my obsession and my intention as I flew down the road.  I favor about 75mph, making around 48mpg in the hybrid. 

Trip one was a girl’s weekend away with my friend Kate. I spent the entire eight hour drive waxing romantic about Robert, the man who had kissed me in the parking lot the night before.  Trip two I had Robert in the car with me, having successfully recruited him as my boyfriend for the summer and taking him with me for a three day business conference.  Trip three it was just me, having been dumped in cold blood by Robert two weeks prior, and driving to put some distance between me and a broken heart.

I’m very fond of the purge and replace dynamic.  Anytime my heart is hurt – which is almost exclusively at the hand of some man these days – I let a little time go by and then I revisit all the special places, things, memories, and write over them.  Like a cassette tape when I was in high school:  Rick Springfield ceases to wow me and I tape Duran Duran right over him.  So it is with foods, special places, makeout spots, and drives.

This latest kind of amused me – as I was driving down Rt 81, reminded by different roadside attractions and highway signs of conversations Robert and I had shared, I realized that Robert himself had been part of a purge and replace not too many months prior.  A couple of them, actually.  I took him down into Old Town, did the Starbucks and waterfront promenade to help clear the cobwebs that still hung there reminding me of my short lived, pheromone driven romance with Phil.  I also took Robert down to my spot by the river, to cleanse and replace my memory of Charles, who I had taken down there the summer before.  Truth told, I had a better time with Charles than Robert on that one.  But I was doing the footwork, putting down new memories in place of old ones, displacing the ghosts and old associations. 

It’s a little disturbing to notice the routine and predictability of my dating endeavors:  there’s the Starbucks, there’s the waterfront promenade, the movies, dinner at my three favorite restaurants…  I take these guys through the paces like a seasoned horse trainer.  It’s some kind of a bizarre mating ritual.  And then there’s the mating itself – I used Charles to purge my husband; used Phil to purge Charles – with the bonus of setting a gloriously high bar for the best first kiss ever; I used Robert to purge Phil and while I wasn’t paying attention swooped back through time and purged every sick and twisted bit of baggage I had around sex. Back past my husband, past college, past high school, through my childhood and now – now I am set free.  I’ll always be grateful to Robert for that, and maybe one day I’ll tell him.  But for now, he needs to get the hell out of my mind.  So I’m doing what I always do.  I’m going to all the places we used to go, doing all the things we used to do, eating all the foods we used to savor together.  First round, I’m hitting them all myself:   driving down Rt 81, sampling gingerales, eating figs.  And some day soon I’ll take another hostage, call him my boyfriend, go to the places, do the things, and wipe the slate clean of Robert forever.

superbowl fun

It’s two days past Autumnal Equinox, we’re three minutes short on daylight.  This will continue, a little more darkness everyday, until December and the Solstice.  This happens every year.  With it comes shorter days, colder weather, football…  Football.   I don’t care much for football.  I’ll watch a game, I like going to games, and I never miss the Superbowl, but for the most part I could take or leave football. 

The Superbowl.  I wonder if he’ll call this year and invite me over to watch the Superbowl.  Probably not.  Even though last year was such a good time.  It did take a lot of cajoling to get me over there, and he’s probably not up for that again.  Considering that and the reality that we’re not even dating anymore it’s highly unlikely that he’d take it upon himself to extend the invitation. 

Nope, last year I did  not want to go watch the Superbowl at his house.  Why not? Because I knew only a little about him and a lot about me, and the information I had suggested a doomed combination.  He liked me.  I was mildly interested in him.  If I were to go over there for what would be a four hour encounter, he was sure  to kiss me.  And, being somewhat interested and knowing that he liked me, I was going to kiss him back.  I lose all self will and scrutiny when I know a guy likes me.  It’s a guilt thing.  I get trapped.  So, there’d be the kissing.  And then the sex.  And then I’d move in with him, we’d get married, and there’d I’d be, years later, wishing I’d had the wherewithal to say “no thank you” to that initial Superbowl viewing.  I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’ve done this before.  Once was with a sweet guy who took me to the movies to see Jurassic Park.  Once was with a brooding man who took me our for lunch.  The very first was a boy in college who offered to wash my car.  They like me, I kinda like them – we kiss, I’m stuck.

All that I knew, but I thought this time would be different.  It was different, which was good, but it didn’t work out like I’d hoped.  He broke up with me some months later.  It was horribly painful, but I will concede in the long run it’s better than being trapped in a loveless marriage.  I’ve been taught that god does for us what we can’t do for ourselves, and in this case it seems getting dumped was my easy way out.  Nope, I don’t think he’s going to invite me over for the Superbowl this year.

Besides, how awkward would it be?  Knowing what I know now, would we sit on the twin bed in his 8×10 room and watch the game on the TV mounted on the wall above his closet door?  Or would we sit in the basement and watch it on his roommate’s big screen?  The second seems more likely, and then again less likely.  The basement would be  teeming with memories of last year’s Superbowl, his roommate out for the evening, when, as predicted,  we spent some quality time there on the floor.  It was freezing, we were nervous his roommate would come home, it had all the bump and bumble of a high school tryst even though were both divorced adults in our late thirties with fully responsible sex drives and 401Ks.  It warmed up though, and the inhibitions were cast aside, culminating in his rising to his knees to do a one-man, post-coital wave shouting:  “I love this condom!’  “I love this carpet!”  “I love you!”  This last with a grand sweep of his arms that took in my body, the pile of clothes, the big screen TV.   It was bliss.  I was happy.  I wasn’t scared of getting trapped.  I thought this time would be different, and like I said, it was.  A few months later, just as I was settling into enjoying a relationship I actually wanted to be in,  he broke up with me.  I think I’ll be watching the Superbowl alone this year.

I’m gonna need to see your papers…

Yeah, from here on out I’m gonna need to see some papers from a man before I start dating him.  This isn’t too obnoxious or unreasonable, not in this day and age.  I mean, in this last relationship papers were required – results of an STD test were requested of me and although I was a bit taken aback at first, I settled into the idea and complied quite willingly.

I’m going to expound on the theme.  Something akin to a CarFax for men would be ideal.  Yes, I want clearance from a medical professional on the STD front, but beyond that I’d like to know if you’re pro-life or pro-choice.  What’s your relationship with your Mother like?  Do you own a suit?  Under pressure do you shut down or lash out?   Do you like to travel?  What was the nature of the demise of your last relationship?

Until now this is the kind of info I’d gather during the first few months of dating someone.  Unfortunately while gathering data we’re also sleeping together, introducing each other to friends and family, integrating schedules, making plans and generally getting entangled.  About the time the data gathering yields a no-longer-ignorable critical mass of red flags, I’m pretty invested.   Breaking it off becomes more of a big deal as the days go on, the hole that would be left in his absence becomes more threateningly large.  Clearly I’m going about this all wrong.

One solution would be to get all the info up front.  I’d never hire an employee, buy a car or adopt a dog without a thorough interview and solid background check – hell, now that I think about it I get more information prior to buying a head of lettuce than I do before getting involved with a man.  From here on out, I’m gonna need to see some papers.

And signed testimonials from your last three girlfriends, please.  Yes, I am serious.

my favorite kind of pain

Wasabi.  I love wasabi.  It’s a love/hate thing, to be sure, but if I see a wad of wasabi perched on the side of my plate I just have to eat it.  A little bit at a time, with great purpose, until it’s all gone.

Wasabi offers the most exquisite pain.  Intense, searing, tear-producing,  sinus-cleansing torture and then whoosh, it’s gone.  As if it never happened.  It’s incredible.  Breathing clearly from the tip of my nose all the way up into my brain, I’m left stunned and speechless.  How could something so painful leave no scar?  All other pain lingers, leaves a bruise.

The pain of being dumped, for example, can go on and on.  There’s the actual “in the moment” pain of the ending.  The pain of the consequent five stages of grief.  The pain of regret as you get honest with yourself about all the red flags you ignored.  The pain of the fight or flight response that goes off anytime a new man shows interest…  I don’t like this kind of pain.

Nope, I’d much rather eat a wad of wasabi and be done with it than be dumped.

flood of relief

I don’t know about you, but I’m always pretty darn happy to get my period after a breakup.  It’s that one last bastion of potential angst alleviated – the last possible tie severed.

This has been a tough week.  I’ve done a lot of processing – a lot.  Seems like anytime a relationship ends it brings all the unfinished bits of every relationship I’ve ever been in to the surface.  And there are always unfinished bits.  What’s tough is sorting them out and trying to keep my head above the water of dis-ease that tells me that not only did this man not want me, no man will ever want me again.  That is ridiculous as I write it, but powerful when it’s sitting in my head.  That’s why I write alot.  And why I talk to a lot of people – to take away the power and deflate the negative thinking that swamps my head and weighs down my heart.

The only problem with talking to alot of people is that everyone has their own opinion and story to tell, and sometimes people are unwelcome optimists.  Like yesterday, for example.  I’ve spent this week bolstering my defenses against this guy who doesn’t want me.  Fortifying my position that this guy is, in fact, not someone who I want to be with even though ten days ago I was crazy about him.  Simple self-preservation thinking, here.

Yesterday I got ahold of that one friend with the miracle relationship story.  She knows that one mythical couple who had been through exactly what I’m going through and despite the odds and with much trial and error,  yadda yadda yadda, now they’re living happily ever after.  This information was problematic for me.  I’ve spent a lot of energy these last few days building a good solid wall against a possible happy ending, but since all I really want is my life back as it was a few weeks ago before he dumped me – when I was light and adored and having fun – hearing this story found a chink in that armor; bringing the whole thing crashing down, revealing a tiny possible chance for a brilliant shining future.  This gave me hope for about eight glorious seconds, then I plunged right back into the depth of grief and wailing that I’d initially been in before I got strong around being done with him.

What I’m saying here is the next time your friend gets dumped and tells you she’s feeling stronger and getting over him, please don’t tell her about that one freak of nature couple that somehow defied the odds and made it work.  It’s not helpful.  Just hand her a kleenex, double check she’s got her period,  and nod your head while she tells you her catalog of  reasons why she’s better off without him.

breakups and the common cold

So, I got broken up with a week ago.  Two weeks ago I had a cold.  In watching myself process through both of these seemingly disparate experiences I’ve noticed a common thread:  a desperate need to know “why”.

Now, at the base of this need is an immutable self-centeredness; I’ve done a lot of thinking  based on the conviction that both  situations could have been avoided, that there was something I did or didn’t do that was the cause of the outcome.  I’ve gotten some clarity of mind in the last few days, though, and here’s what I’ve come up with:  I was powerless over them both.  Further, if I’m gonna be scrutinizing either for lessons learned, I’d get more mileage hashing it out with the virus.

With the virus, I may well have done or not done something that I’d like to avoid next time.  Maybe I didn’t get enough rest.  Or water.  Maybe I needed more vegetables or less time in airports.  Now, ultimately I have no control over what a virus chooses to do, but these are all things I could do to take better care of myself, and will, in the interest of not laying myself open to getting sick again.

But the breakup?   What didn’t he like about me…  Was it my personality?  My hair?  My driving?  It doesn’t matter.  Ultimately I have no control over what a man chooses to do.  I’m forty years old, I’m happy with myself most days, there’s very little about my fundamental self that’s going to change at this point.  I’d rather not lay myself open to being hurt again, but I’ll tell you in all honesty that I had a good time getting here.  There’s nothing I did or didn’t do that I wouldn’t do again.

profound, life changing information!

When I was 23 I heard a bit of profound, life changing information.  I was told that “If you don’t drink, you can’t get drunk.”  I was having trouble with being drunk most all the time at that point, but up until then I honestly had not connected the cause and effect nature of drinking and getting drunk.  It was the most profound thing I’d heard in my entire life, it really set me back on my heels.  I ran it through my brain, scrutinized the validity of the equation and it came back sound.  It was a basic truth that altered the way I did business from that point forward.

That was 17 years ago.  I’m forty now, and just last night I got my second installment of profound, life changing information.  I’m humbled and only a little bit embarrassed to reveal the source of this wisdom; I’ve been pretty torn up since I got dumped a week ago and I’m sure my friend meant well when she loaned me the self-help relationship bestseller, even though books like that are definitely not my thing.

I started reading at 11pm last night, and finished the book at 1:30am.  I was scouring the pages, looking to find my self, my heartache, my situation and some sort of an answer as to why it is I’m single again.   “If he’s breaking up with you”, the author pontificated, “then he’s just not that into you“.

Well I’ll be damned.  I clutched the book to my chest and looked around my apartment to see if anyone else had felt the earth shake.

Still not completely convinced, I read further, desperately trying to find a hole in the argument, to defend this man I’d hung my heart on for the last three months.  He told me he still wanted to hang out.  That I’m a blast to be with.  That I’m smart and funny.  He still wants to be friends, see?  He still likes me, see?  He just doesn’t want to sleep with me…

And I quote:  “…having sex with you will mean you’re in a real relationship, and he’s just not that into you.”

Well, slap my ass and call me Myrtle.  There it is.  I hope I can convey how liberating this is.  He’s just not that into me.  Doesn’t matter why.  He broke up with me, and it doesn’t matter if it was because of his issues or my issues or some synergy of issues that could only be called ours.  He’s just not that into me.

I want to be with someone who is totally, completely into me.  That being my standard, this guy is disqualified.  He’s simply not eligible.  House rule, moving forward:  to be with me, you gotta be into me.  No more settling, no more defending, no more excuses.  No more waiting, hoping, wishing.  Better to be lonely and alone than lonely in a relationship.  Lord knows I’ve done that long enough.