Trials and Tribulations of Dating

A few weeks ago, I was invited to a – single – evening of wine and cheese tasting. The wine selection was honest, but I guess it was only a pretext to gather and meet new people. It was a nice evening. Most guests were charming, especially one with whom I had a good time. The conversation was easy, the mood comfortable; we seemed to have much in common. At the end of the evening, he asked if he could take me out to dinner. “I would love that!” A good answer! We exchanged phone numbers and promised to call.

A couple of days later he left a message on my voice mail stating how nice it was to have met me. I returned his call leaving pretty much the same message. The following day he called again wanting to know what kind of food I enjoy in order to make reservations. “I’m just not too keen on seafood. Allergies, you know.” We agreed to get together the following Thursday. On Wednesday he called and confirmed the plans; he was to pick me up at 7, the location was a surprise. “What should I wear?”

“Casual.” Casual…? If only I knew where we were going. A quick survey with all the girls at work confirmed that I shouldn’t wear a dress, too much for a first date, but pants, something classy. After work I rushed home, got changed and walked out the door. He was already waiting for me in his sharp Armani suit. Not casual! Not by any standard! He had brought me flowers, a gigantic bouquet which must have cost half my weekly salary. It was a little much. Then we drove off to La Clarinette, the most expensive French restaurant in town, where he insisted he order for the both of us. He chose the seven course meal with a bottle of Bordeaux. It turned out he had chosen the seafood meal… Great! This meal cost more than my weekly salary. Did I mention it was only a first date?

The morning after, I was writing a thank you note when I noticed I had received an e-mail from him. He was thanking me profusely for such a wonderful dinner and evening, hoping we could get together again soon. It would have been nice if he had let me do it, instead it turned that it was my pleasure, really… Twenty nine e-mails followed on that day.

Saturday morning comes along; I was curled up on the couch after my morning run, enjoying a nice cup of coffee when the phone rang. It was eight thirty. He wanted to know if I had plans for the day. An hour later, we finally hung up. We were to get together later on. A couple of hours before the scheduled time, he called again, determined to cover the gap by talking on the phone. I’m not good at that. Talking on the phone is a laborious task for me. Eventually we hung up and met at the beach for a stroll. By then, we had not shared any kind of familiarity. His first move was to kiss me on the lips, but I dodged brilliantly, the second, to hold me by the waist as we walked. This time my dodging wasn’t as subtle. I’m not keen in public display of affection, especially when there isn’t any. To discourage further fumbling, I put my hands in my jeans pockets. We walked for a while and then ate at a local Mexican cantina. I had a lime margarita with rock salt on the rim. Mid-sentence, he took his paper napkin, unfolded it, wrapped it carefully around his index finger and wiped something off my face. I almost jumped out of my skin. It ought to have been something really gross. It turned out it was a grain of salt. Who ever does that? How about “You’ve got salt on your lip” It reminded me of my mother who used to put saliva on a tissue to clean something off my face.

The following morning, the same routine started again, only this time, I didn’t answer the phone, and went about enjoying my day. By six o’clock he had left several messages. I called him back and gently told him that I felt slightly cornered. It was a bit intense; I would rather take things a tad slower and perhaps lighter. “Sure, it’s not a problem at all, I’m glad you told me.”

Two days later I received an 890 word e-mail of sheer panic. An e-mail about the size of this post! He was so, so terribly sorry he had made me feel so bad, he hoped he had not jeopardized the relationship. Since our last conversation, he had this terrible knot in the stomach. Funny enough, it ended with “sincerely”, and had been sent in the middle of the night. Although I had no ulterior motive when I asked him to slow down a little, his e-mail certainly made it clear that I should run away as fast as I could. A week later he left a message on my voice mail and again the following week, which I never returned.

Talk about being intense. It’s too bad, he was nice.

Home Run

In early summer, after a miserable winter of introspection and careful examination of my life, it became quite evident that it was time to make crucial changes. I had to broaden my horizons, to enrich my life with new people, new interests, and new ways; I had to become part of this world I knew nothing about.

In the past Marco had been very present in every aspects of my life, but it changed when he had children. Although predictable, it still caught me unprepared. His absence left a void which knocked me off balance, combined with the assimilating and distancing myself from my past, its influence and perpetrators, it was a forlorn time which left me exhausted. Nevertheless, I plunged head first into action, feeling a little shaky at first perhaps, but mostly resolute.

For years I wanted to run, but I never did anything about it. This summer it suddenly occurred to me that nothing prevented me for doing it. So one morning I rose with the lark and went running down the beach. It was that simple. Since then, every morning I get up early and go running, rain or shine, tired or not; I haven’t missed a day yet. Some days are more difficult than others, but I feel so good afterward. I started attending Yoga classes held in the park near the beach, and in the fall, I’ll enroll in a gym. I also got into more social activities, where I have met quite a few people, some more interesting than some others. Every day I have to make the conscious decision to step out of my comfort zone, to open up to people, to get involve, to take a chance, and people response differently to me. I am less – inaccessible - than before, even with people at work. Little do they know that I was simply terrified of them before. In meeting new people, I have also met a lot of available guys. This as you can imagine, is a little bit more challenging to me.

In bygone days, several of them would have been quite attractive and close to what I was looking for. But when the opportunity presented itself I had no desire to move forward. The interest just isn’t there right now. Last time I saw John, he had told me that I should date, date and date some more until I figured out what I really wanted or needed. Until recently I never felt like I had a choice when it came to involvement. We all know where that comes from but, the spell seems to have been broken. Still, I can’t help but feeling guilty at time, as if I owed these guys something. I realized that even though my mind might not remember much of my childhood trauma, my body’s memory is now very acute and rebelling. It might take a while before I am ready for relationships.

A friend recently asked if the – setbacks - I might have experienced were affecting my determination to embrace new opportunities. I think of them more as a way of testing my determination, to see if I really mean to change my life, or whether I will yield at the first hindrance sent my way.

I read somewhere that "life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming “WOO HOO what a ride!” I think it is the wisest think I have read in a while. I’ve played it safe all my life and see where it got me! Now it is time to Live.

The Ring

My mother has always been a little strange. At the time these events took place, I was well into my teens. She had been separated and divorced from my father for many years, and was quite happy to be rid of him. It was after all of her own initiative. But somehow, she never got over the flaw of being a divorcee. She felt abandoned and perceived herself as a failure. I have to admit that we did so too, but for entirely different reasons. Anyhow, being divorced at that time was far from being unusual, actually it was getting to be rather the norm in our social environment.

When the separation occurred, my mother was still a relatively young and fairly beautiful woman who could have met someone and built a new life for herself. She tried. She actively and sometimes quite obsessively started looking for a new companion, to no avail. After a short while it became clear to all, if not to her, that her mind was too filled with contradictions and constrictions for it to happen. Her fears outweighed her desire. She was convinced that my brother would deliberately pick fights with him while I would necessarily seduce him.

Although she never claimed to have given up on the concept, over time she started feeling as if by putting herself out there, she was advertising that she was untaken! To remedy her discomfort, she bought herself a used wedding ring from a pawn shop, so she wouldn’t look discarded. To this day she still wears it, and no matter where she goes, there are no available men around…

Karma - The Never Ending Cycle

The law of karma says that beneficial effects are derived from past beneficial actions and harmful effects from past harmful actions.

I believe I can sincerely affirm that I have paid for many bad deeds before I was even capable of making some myself. Of course, I shall not picture myself as a saint, as I have since certainly reached the same level of mischievousness as most. Although, it might prevent Santa from visiting me on Christmas Eve, it certainly would not justify incessant fateful retributions. So why does – he - keep on reappearing in my life? Or should I say why is it that in spite of all the venom I threw at him, he still insists on getting some more?

Indeed, I received another e-mail from him last Friday. This time, I must say all pretenses we left out. The gist of his missive was pure and simple: begging me to take him back. Apparently he had realized he made a few mistakes and would do better this time given the chance or as he phrased it himself “I should not have been such an asshole about many things”. It was both sad and pathetic. Worsen by the fact that so much time as passed since we dated that I can barely remember what these mistakes might have been. Then again, I guess this is precisely the strength of his strategy. He did warn me way back then that he was very persistent. No kidding! Perhaps it could have worked in another lifetime, but not anymore. The big question remains though, how could anyone believe that by reducing themselves to this state of absolute inconsequence they might remain in some way appealing to others? Sadder still is the fact that I am forced to become the villainess once more. It would be nice if at least I could extract joy form it, alas it only brings boredom. Boredom and some degree of discouragement as he clearly understands the uselessness of his action and the unavoidable result “Please don't be too vicious. I know you don't beat about the bush. You tend be devastatingly dismissive of things you are done with.” Obviously he understands the words just not quite their meaning. As you can see, it is quite clear that in not so distant a future, I will be repeating the same speech all over again: seriously, it’s high time you moved on. Whatever we may have shared at some point years ago is long gone, and irremediably so. I thought I had been abundantly clear. Now, be kind enough not to contact me again, ever.

So this karma thing… I wonder, am I paying back right now or cashing up?

Cruise Control

About a week ago I went to a local store to purchase a present for Billy’s birthday: Mr. Potato Head and a box of chalks, which had much success on her parent’s dark hard wood floor, almost as much as last year’s xylophone. When I got to the store, there was a car parked next to the only available stall. The driver’s side door was open; the owner standing next to it was holding a plastic jug, window washing fluid I guessed. The moment I was parked, he came running to me with an unexpired parking ticket. “Gee, you’re far more honest than I am. Thank you” I never bother purchasing these time allotment parking tickets; my patronage should be more than enough to these establishments. The only time I was ever caught red-handed, I expressed my dissatisfaction with such vocal clarity, and attracted such a crowd of curious, that the manager kindly made it disappear. Never-the-less, since it was freely provided to me, I put it on my dash and left without as much as glimpsing at the donor. When I came back, he had left a note on my windshield asking that I call him if I was as single as he. Given that that very same morning I had decided that from there on, I would embrace all the opportunities sent my way, I thought a certain leap of faith was in order, so I gave him a call. I got his voice mail and left a message for him to call me back after work. He was evidently a very eager man for he returned my call almost immediately, requesting that we meet for lunch fifteen minutes later, for coffee in the afternoon or that we spend some time chatting about ourselves over the phone, all of which were impossible at the time. Not only was my schedule crammed with meetings, but I also work in an open office where walls are inexistent, therefore preventing any private conversations from taking place, let alone an introductory one. Eventually we agreed to meet the following day at a café. Keep in mind that although he knew exactly what I look like, to me this was a blind date.

When I arrived, he was already waiting for me. He recognized me right away, introduced himself, we shook hands and he kissed me on both cheeks. Bad, bad, bad! Major faux pas if there was ever one, you never kiss a girl you meet for the first time. How gross! We ordered coffee and went to sit by the beach. By that time, he had removed his sunglasses in the hope that I would do the same so that he could further check me out and ensure there was nothing unpleasant hidden behind them. Unfortunately, this was the hottest, brightest, sunniest day of the entire year; I simply could not remove my sunglasses without risking getting blind. It obviously did not impress him much. However, by then I was drenched with perspiration, and my only desire was to hit the pool as fast as I could. My singlehood was the least of my worries.

All and all, he wasn’t bad. He was all right, you know… nice. Not amazing, average. He was by no mean a loser. But he was the kind of guy scared of getting old. He was as tall as I, which is bad given that at best of time, I wear four-inch heels. I have to give him that, he had beautiful eyes. The conversation was hard coming, for even though he had initiated contact, he was trying to play mysterious and withhold the most pathetic of information. Thankfully this meeting was only supposed to last half hour. It’s easier to look forward to the next one, rather than hope eternity could somehow come to an end. Until then, he had been spectacularly blah, regrettably that was not to last. A surge of typical Vancouverite male hit him. “How is it possible that such a beautiful woman like you is not married?” meaning - what’s wrong with you? Well… Where should I start? Or the most typical “Do you have a lover then? I mean, how do you satisfy your personal needs?” I should be shocked, but I’ve heard that one from almost every man who ever talked to me or any of my girlfriends. “I manage just fine.”

“Is it something you ever considered?” Let me guess, you would be ready to sacrifice yourself to the greater good! On that evening, Vancouver reached an unprecedented 35˚c. There was not a gust of wind or a cloud in the sky. My brain was frying, my patience was running low and I was starting to smell like a three-day old dead trout. “Well, if I was looking for an occasional lover to satisfy my needs, I would be looking for the Paul Newman type my friend, not Jiminy Cricket.” And then there was the pool.

Florida - The Sunshine State

My family and I were roaming through sunshine Florida, all packed up in the family car, visiting the mandatory tourist attractions. One night after an exhausting day at Disney World, and a long frustrating drive back, for my father had as much difficulty navigating himself landlocked as I would on water with the North Star as sole reference point, we finally returned to our motel room. A non-descript room with a kitchenette, a few mismatched utensils, a broken coffee machine, two kitchen chairs covered with green and yellow flower plastic material, a kitchen table with stainless steel legs, and a chipped brown Formica top burned in the middle by cigarettes butts, beige shaggy carpet permeated with the smell of humidity, one of the lamp had no shade, two double beds covered with flower bedspreads in red and green tones, a bureau which top drawer hosted an Anglican bible and a dead beetle; a motel room that defied description. That my parents saw fit to lodge their precious heirs in such bleak setting tells much about their nurturing nature.

The sleeping arrangements were also of an intriguing nature. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I would always share a bed with my mother and my brother with my father. My parents never slept together in the same bed, despite the fact that in real life they spent very little time together. My family was quite financially comfortable, there was no apparent reason why we couldn’t have occupied two rooms, especially of this caliber, providing them with a bit of intimacy, and us with a good night sleep, since my father’s snoring was so excessive and I must say, repulsive that there was no dozing off possible, thus exacerbating the general crankiness. However, that night was slightly different. My brother had found a dubious looking pee stained fold-away bed in the wardrobe and decided to spend the night on it. In my opinion, such decision had to be motivated by some level of desperation. More so, given the fact that there were no sheets provided for it and he had to wrap himself up in one of the bedspread.

In the middle of the night, once we had all sunk into a sleep deprived coma, I had a dream. A vivid dream punctuated by some degree with mild somnambulism. I was found kneeling behind my mother, who was sleeping in a spoon shape facing away from me, pummeling her with both fists while screaming at the top of my lungs. My mother, along with everybody else no doubt, woke up abruptly and wondered what was going on. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, are you mad?” To which I apparently replied “Oh! Sorry! Sorry mum! I thought you were Richard (my brother)” upon which I peacefully went back to sleep.

The following morning, the incident was told and retold to whoever would listen. It had become the liveliest moment of the holidays. Everybody thought it was quite hilarious and cheeky. Ah, my dear parents…

The Family Car

My mother is known for her impractical and often ridiculous choices. She makes them in the hope of impressing people, neighbors, bystanders, all in all, people she doesn’t know, but whom opinion she cares a great deal about. That my father went along with her choices is another proof that they both truly deserved each other.

At the time of purchase, my brother and I were both in our teenage. My brother was involved in several organized sports and required rides to and from wherever, several times a week. Each sport involved bags of equipment and usually team mates who also had bags of equipment. Although I was more self-reliant, there were times when I desperately needed a ride home. My mother was then working at a popular college downtown. Over the years she provided free rides to most of the neighboring kids, except for me, for she had had enough by the time I started college. Thankfully I had already turned sixteen and by then, purchased my own car. Still, we both left home at about the same time in the morning, returning, at first, at about the same time at night. Freedom of transportation, however, soon allowed for less rigid return times which I took full advantage of.

Naturally, the wise choice for a family car would have been to acquire a spacious and solid four-door sedan with a large trunk, a safe car where everybody could have been comfortably seated. But my mother never considers others. Her vision is limited to her own needs and desires. Instead she insisted on a two-door grey Camaro with red leather interior and a huge eagle on the hood. That car had a big V8 engine which she never drove faster than 50 km/h, even on the highways. As a matter of fact, she even managed to get a ticket for impeding the flow of traffic…

Sit by a gorgeous woman for an hour and it will feel like a minute, sit on a hot stove for one minute and it will feel like an hour, said Albert Einstein while explaining the theory of relativity. Sit with my family in a confined space for a month and you will understand the true meaning of eternity. At some point during the time we owned that racing car, my mother decided that the entire family would go on a road trip down to Florida. In the middle of winter, four people, none who spoke English, two heavy smokers, one asthmatic (me), one over six feet tall (my brother), a large cooler on the back seat between the children, no back windows, two doors and four weeks later, we hated each other with pure raging passion which lasted to this day.