Putting Myself in Their Shoes

I do not think of myself as the stereotypical shoe-obsessed female. I favor comfort over style (always). I do not own any shoes more than three inches in height. Call me overly practical, but I think shoes should be an aid to ambulation, not an obstacle. Naturally, I do not own a pair of Louboutins or Manolo Blahniks, the iconic high-fashion brand of shoe over which Sex and the City's Carrie waxed rhapsodic. In fact, I would be perfectly content to wear the same pair of comfortable black heels to work every day. Suffice to say, if I were the daughter of Imelda Marcos, I would be a huge disappointment to her.

So, it surprised me to discover that I own 41 pairs of shoes. I counted. I don’t know how that could have happened, but over the years, I’ve accumulated 41 pairs of shoes that I use on occasion (summer sandals, winter boots, hiking shoes, swimming shoes, work heels, special occasion heels, swing dancing shoes, riding boots, casual shoes, and running shoes). Some, more; many others, less. Some of these shoes I bought for a particular reason, while others were the result of being a cute pair of shoes on sale that I purchased on impulse. I didn’t need them, nor would I have bought them at full price, but the opportunity was there and I took it.

Men seem to have this same casual attitude about sex. Not all men, of course. Just most -- at least at some point in their lives. Young men often have this "if the opportunity presents itself, take it" attitude about sex. They’re not looking for a wife, or even, a girlfriend. It’s just sex. And many men just out of a long-term relationship have this casual mindset too.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not comparing the fabulous epic goddesses that we women are to something as mundane as shoes. No, no, no! I’m comparing men’s occasionally casual approach to dating to my casual approach to footwear. When I bought those cute pink suede clogs on sale, I wasn’t buying them as if they would be my *only* pair of shoes that I’d want to wear every day for the rest of my life. I bought them on a whim, because the opportunity was there and I took it. And to date, I’ve worn them exactly three times. 

When I was looking for a serious relationship, it was helpful to me to finally realize this about men. (Well, duh…) Sometimes you’re just the pair of cheap pink suede clogs he bought instinctively, without much thought as to how you’d fit into his daily life. That’s not a rejection of you as a potential girlfriend or as a person. It’s really a reflection of Mr. Casual’s mindset. If you’re looking for a long-term relationship, it would behoove you to avoid the guy whose approach to dating is as casual as my relationship to shoes. He may pursue you until you say yes, but after he sleeps with you, he’ll shove you in the back of his closet like a pair of ill-considered pink suede clogs bought for $20.

Feelin' It

There is this hidden grove next to the train tracks near the boat landing where I grew up that would turn into a free candy store once a year. It contained a raspberry patch that only my friends and I seemed to know about, where we would gorge ourselves on buckets of glorious ripe raspberries once every summer. I remember how exhilarating it was to discover a few weeks into summer that the raspberries had come in, and our annual berry bacchanal would begin right then and there. We would eat half our weight in raspberries in one gluttonous afternoon, eventually coming home with our hands and mouths stained blood red from the juice, looking like little vampires.

That’s kind of how it feels to be dating Frenchy. Instead of raspberries, I’m gorging myself on his appreciation. Buckets and buckets of appreciation. After having lived through the long appreciation drought more commonly referred to as "my shitty marriage," I am mainlining his appreciation like an emotional junkie. Being appreciated again by the man in my life is like getting oxygen when you're asthmatic, or hearing Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" after a week-long roadtrip with only Top 40 radio playing the same ten songs over and over in a relentless lobotomize-me-now loop. It's invigorating. Although it’s always nice to be appreciated for anything, it is *particularly* gratifying to feel appreciated for qualities I like and actively cultivate in myself. While it feels "nice" to be appreciated for, say, my good hygiene or my neat handwriting, I will swoon if you appreciate me for making you laugh.

It's not just about hearing those words though. Frenchy shows me his appreciation in other ways too. I feel it when he wants to spend more time with me than I have to give him. I feel it when he sends me a photo of the beautiful pond in the park where he walks his dog. I feel it when he wants to eat dinner with me every night. I feel it when he reaches for my hand and holds it for the rest of the play we're watching. I feel it when he asks for my opinion. I feel it when he touches my hair. I feel it when I remember a name he can't quite recall. I feel it when he looks at me and actually sees a flesh-and-blood woman, not just a piece of talking furniture that is so annoying when it asks questions and tries to start a conversation.

I’m digging it in a big way. If appreciation stained like raspberry juice, I would look redder than a chainsaw-wielding serial killer in a Quentin Tarantino film.

Shoving the Genie Back into the Bottle

I like being in a relationship. Let me qualify that: I like being in a *good* relationship, one characterized by respect, affection, mutual admiration and support, fun, and awesome sweaty sex. It doesn’t really feel natural for me to be "alone." I am the kind of person who probably *should* be married, which is ironic, since I've taken a vow of "I don't."

I grew up believing that when you got married, you stayed married for the rest of your life. I also grew up believing in Santa Claus, the equality of the American justice system, and other absurd myths adults love to pass on to the younger generation before the messiness of real life complicates everything with its more nuanced truths. It’s the way grownups *want* it to be, not necessarily how it is.

Remember what it felt like to discover that Santa Claus isn’t real? Divorce is the adult version of finding out about Santa. Both were hard kicks to the gut, while face-palming myself over and over with, 'How could you be so stupid?' Before I was married, I thought of divorce as something that befell careless people who lacked the discerning judgment to avoid a mismatch. (Although who’s to say I wasn't careless?) Now that I'm divorced, I think the messy truth is, it's a whole lot more than just that. I cringe when I think about my youthful hubris that led me to believe that reciting vows to stay married "till death do us part" was some sort of magical incantation that protected me against the possibility of ever splitting up. From this middle-aged divorcee’s jaded perspective, remaining happily married over the long haul seems as far-fetched as my childhood belief in a bearded fat guy who travels the globe by flying reindeer sleigh to deliver toys to all the children of the world on one single night every year.

My jaded side, which is overly sensitive to all the potential obstacles to a satisfying long-term relationship, is at war with my optimistic side, which wants to believe in the longevity of romantic relationships despite the cognitive dissonance of previous experience. "At war" probably overstates it. It’s more like my jaded side is the insecure eye-rolling middle-school bully who taunts my earnest optimistic side, which wants to believe that one big epic fail at marriage doesn't doom me to a lifetime of unsuccessful short-term relationships.

Now that I’m in a committed new relationship, I wonder how I can reconcile these conflicting views. Is it unrealistic to think that I could have a satisfying long-term romantic relationship without having to suspend my disbelief in marriage? Or do I have to figure out how to somehow shove the marriage genie back into the bottle and unknow what I already know?