The Cult of Marriage

"Can you imagine how he felt after he left? The last 20 years of his life were a total waste," exclaimed the boyfriend. We were watching Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief,  the HBO documentary that interviews ex-Scientologists about why they left an organization that invasively permeated nearly all aspects of their lives. I disagreed. "Maybe initially, but I think ex-Scientologists are like divorced people," I explained. "They're grateful they finally came to see the light, grateful for a second chance."

One of my brilliant friends--happily single by choice--likes to equate marriage to being in a cult. Specifically, a cult of two. Like a cult, marriage is often mystifying to people outside of it. You make compromises that seem unreasonable to outsiders. The ex-Scientologists interviewed in Going Clear talked about having to do things that violated their own personal beliefs, such as breaking all ties with friends and family members who walked away from Scientology or living in prison-like conditions to "prove" their fidelity to Scientology and its leader. Even though I thrive on the social aspects of cooking and eating meals together, my ex-husband never wanted to eat together, even when we were at home at the same time. So I spent years eating alone. Cults warp you, but you can't clearly recognize it until you're outside of it. 

The ex-Scientologists in the movie all spoke of the high price they paid to walk away, particularly the painful consequence of having their family and friends still in Scientology cutting off all ties to them. Walking away from a marriage extracts a similar high price. To anyone who hasn't left a long-term relationship, that price might seem unbearably high, but the silver lining is that unexpected second chance at creating an authentically happy life. And that's priceless. 

Texting with Strangers

Sometimes life rewards us in ways that are big and obvious. Other times the rewards are hard to recognize because they're seemingly small and ordinary. A mystery text from a local phone number, but no name, seems like a straight-up wrong number. But not if you text back as if you are the intended recipient.

Mystery Texter: Have a wedding to go to. Sounds great though. Probably more fun than the wedding.

It was a number I didn't recognize, apparently a reply to another social invitation from someone else. Depending on the day and my mood, I might have politely texted back that he'd mistexted me. But I was I bored, so when that happens, no one gets off that easy. I texted back something I thought was subtly provocative, but not outrageous.

Bored Me:  Weddings are worse than baby showers for a coworker.

Mystery Texter: Not if you will be the one needing to pick up her workload..... :) It is actually a wedding for Latino neighbors who were illegal here for 22 years. He got the green card and now they can finally marry "in the eyes of God." They have a 9 year old. I am expecting a very joyous event. Would rather skip the church part -- after shooting a bunch of catholic weddings in the past it got old. One thing for sure: at the reception Mexican food!

Holy crap. What kind of novel-length text would I have received if I texted something outrageous?
Still bored, I decided to go for provocative  *and* outrageous.

Bored Me: Can't get away with hiring a male stripper at most weddings, but coworker baby showers? Well, I'm the hero when I do that.

Mystery Texter: Ha ha ha...

Then silence. A day went by and no word from my new best friend. I had so many questions. What would he wear to the wedding? Did he have a toast ready? Did he think I was that pal he was trying to text? Did he know I was f*cking with him?!

Smartass Me: It's *always* nice to hear from you. Even if you have better things to do like a better-late-than-never church wedding. Who knows? Maybe Serendipity will reward me with something fun and unexpected in your absence.

Still waiting, Serendipity. Your move.

Dating Like a Man

I have never been a fan of that odious game "Twister." Oh sure, it's fun to watch your friends contort themselves into hard-to-hold poses, but it's tedious to be a participant. I don't want to brag, but I'm *naturally* awkward. I don't need an artificial method of inducing it, since I've got that all covered by myself. And though it's quite easy to steer clear of "Twister" the game, it's not so easy to avoid the Twister-like contortion that happens in the initial stages of dating. Getting to know someone and letting someone get to know you through dating can feel as awkward and forced as a game of Twister.

I've been dating my boyfriend for eight months now. Since we only see each other once a week, it's taken longer than usual to feel comfortable being the real me -- to shed the persona of always being "on," always being the best version of myself. It's finally come to that stage of me being comfortable in my own skin, warts and all, with him. The other reason it's taken so long for me to shake my tentative feelings is that he's 36 -- 15 years younger than me. Although I don't feel that age gap with him as I would with most other guys that much younger, I've been wary of how that yawning chasm of time would impact our relationship. So far, the biggest effect is that I'm now dating like a man.

Many women date with the main objective of meeting Mr. All-My-Life. They won't date a guy who doesn't have at least the possibility, however small, of turning into a life partner. But many men are fine dating women without a serious thought about whether she's "marriage material" or not. They just date someone they're attracted to and with whom they enjoy spending time. That's the way many men date until they decide it's time to settle down. Before they reach that point, many men are just dating for the fun of it. They don't think 'Is this going anywhere?' They think about *this* date or the *next* date -- at most. It's a way of dating that's very present, very in the moment -- dare I say it? -- very zen. 

And that's what I'm doing now. Since my boyfriend is so much younger than me, he's not going to end up being my life partner. That clarity, while blunt, is also freeing. It allows me to concentrate on the here and now, and let go of the useless speculation of "What might be." Instead of obsessing over whether this one will turn out to be "The One," I appreciate the time we spend together on its own merits. Surprisingly, eliminating the expectation of future "more" allows me to experience more in the present. 

I Love LA

When I'm on the subway, I make a concerted effort to avoid eye contact with anyone, because locking eyes with someone will occasionally be misinterpreted as me jumping up and down and loudly exclaiming, 'Come over here, mumble incoherently under your breath, and lick my face.' The subway was packed last night, so it was harder than usual to avoid looking at people, particularly since I kept hearing these short staccato indiscernible screeches. Were they the loud protests from a pre-verbal child? Or, more likely, the odd vocal outbursts from a disheveled, unmedicated adult?

Neither, it turns out. It was the squawking of a large parrot perched on the arm of a smirk-faced man. I made eye contact with the parrot, and because I was so captivated by the bird, it took me a while to realize what Smirk Face was holding in his other hand -- a long rectangular cardboard-and-wire-mesh carrier with 3 or 4 rats in it. That's when I had to get a big long look at the guy who thinks it's completely normal to get on the subway with a large untethered bird and a box of rats.

I looked him up and down. He was kind of a slob, wearing big faded jeans that were cut off mid-shin -- ratty man capris that looked like he was just so annoyed by the discomfort of wearing full-length jeans, he grabbed a scissors and hacked off the bottom part in a fit of comfort over convention.  He was ambiguously middle aged, falling somewhere in the range of 35 to 55. His head was covered with an  unruly mass of chin-length brown hair, except for the small bald spot in the back. Then I noticed he was wearing a gold band on the third finger of his left hand. Smirk Face is presumably married. WTF?! I know many wonderful LA women, who have their shit together, who aren't married, and not all by choice. But Smirk Face -- a walking human game farm -- is off the market. I want Randy Newman to write a song about *that* LA.

Single

"Wrong # So. Cal," he texted in response to my friendly text message that was meant for a friend, but inadvertently sent to him. In town for a work gig and a quick visit with me, my friend had recently dropped her phone, so I was trying to reach her on another phone she had borrowed for her trip. "Sorry!" I texted back, unable to repress my overly polite inner midwesterner.

Less than 30 seconds later, he texted back "Single." Not 'I'm Single,' or 'Hey, you're a woman, and I'm a man, are you single?" Just "Single." Just like that. Like he felt he had to blurt this out and hope that the right moment hadn't passed without letting me know he was single and ready to mingle. It had all the awkwardness of someone answering too soon a question that wasn't even asked. Think about it. At the time he blurted out "Single," he only knew two basic things about me. I had a female name, and I presumably lived in Los Angeles.

Now, under most circumstances, I would have just put my phone down and walked away. He's a stranger. I don't owe him anything. I didn't really understand why someone would try to connect with a woman who lives 1,000 miles away, sight unseen. He struck me as one of those lonely Norwegian bachelors desperate for *any* female contact.

Curious to see how his ill considered move would play out, I texted back.

Me: Go on.

Single: Just checking. Case of momentary bravery.

Me: Have wrong texts led to previous, if fleeting, success with the ladies? Seems like a low-percentage play.

Single: Hehe yeah no...first time caller.

Me: Still, using wrong texts to meet women is probably a more successful strategy than online dating. At least for guys.

Single: Wouldn't know. Anti-online.

And, apparently, anti-girlfriend who lives within a day's drive of him.

Single: So...I'm Dave. Hi <my name written as if I were a rapper>.

Me: Yeah, it deserves your contempt. Online dating is the sledgehammer of romance.

Single: Than 
Oops. I hit send button to (sic) soon. Let me sort it out.

Sort it out?! Winner, winner, chicken dinner. This guy must be at least 70! It just kept getting better and better.

Single: Thank you. And sledgehammer of romance is brilliant!

Me: Thanks. Seems pretty accurate. So, tell me something true about yourself that might surprise me.

Single: True n surprising?

Me: Yep. Given that I only know four things about you, surprising me shouldn't be that difficult.

No response. Finally, 35 minutes later, he texts back.

Single: I'm overthinking it and it's past my bedtime.

What would motivate a guy to try to start something up with a faraway stranger? He certainly didn't have an inkling as to what I look like, and even less of a sense of my good inner qualities. My initial misdirected text to my friend was friendly, but not funny or clever. There was nothing in that text other than my first name and a couple of friendly inquiries.

So it begs the question, 'What kind of guy is Single if he's champing at the bit to tell a stranger with a woman's name, who lives 1,000 miles away, that he's available?' A guy with no feasible options, that's who. A guy who lives in his mother's basement, and perhaps a voracious connoisseur of comic books and hot dogs.  A modern-day Ignatius J. Reilly.

The Day the Universe Mocked Me (most recently, because it happens on a regular basis)

I knew less than two minutes into my Saturday morning kickboxing/tae kwon do class that not drinking more than a few sips of coffee before was a bad decision. Not just bad. Titanically bad. As bad as someone rubbing bacon fat all over themselves before hiking in grizzly bear country. The kind of epically bad decision that makes people scratch their heads and go 'What the...?! How does *that* happen?'

I can't really function without a full cup of Joe in the morning. If I don't bathe my synapses in coffee, my brain continues to doze in its semi-comatose state, while the rest of me is not firing on all cylinders. I'm all cattywampus, struggling to focus and stay in the present. This, of course, is the exact moment when the Universe will choose to mock me with something from my recent past I'd rather conveniently forget. The Universe can be a merciless bitch, barely tolerable with lots of coffee, and simply insufferable without.

I had trouble executing routine basic drills I've been doing since I started kickboxing six years ago. Then the class focused on a difficult kick that requires excellent flexibility if you want to really look good doing it. There's not enough coffee at all the Starbucks in Seattle that could get me to do that kick well. And on a day I hadn't had more than a eyedropper of coffee, there was no way I was going to be able to do a decent kick.  So naturally this is the moment I notice him, not more than four feet away from me. He's a bystander, waiting for class to be over so he can take his kid home, and a guy I went out with once.

It was a perfectly nice first date. There was nothing of the ridiculous that often makes an appearance at many of my first dates. It was easy to talk with him because we had a lot in common, and culturally he felt familiar--part of the NPR tribe. He seemed like someone with whom I could have developed a friendship, and perhaps a relationship. A few days later, he texted me saying he hoped we could go out again after I got back from a short trip. And I would have gone out with him again, except that about the same time, I ended up going on a first date with a guy I liked better -- the guy who is now my boyfriend. Instead of texting "Perfectly Nice" that, except for bad timing, I *would* have gone out with him again, I didn't text him at all. I didn't know how to make 'I had a nice time with you, but I don't want to go out with you again, because I had a better time with someone else' sound like less of a rejection, and more of an explanation along the lines of 'Oops! You're a nice guy -- it's just bad timing.'

So, there I am, bumbling through a series of difficult kicks without the benefit of being caffeinated, when I start panicking that Perfectly Nice might recognize me. I am in full-on Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief mode. My first thoughts are all denial:

No, that's not him. He doesn't even live in this part of town. And I'm not wearing any makeup, so if it is him, he won't recognize me anyway.

Then, when I can't deny that it's definitely him, I turn to anger:

Why did I have to go out with so many guys? Didn't I realize I was bound to run into one of them some day? Why am I so picky? I am a whore! A first-date whore! See what happens when you're too lazy to get up and make coffee for yourself?! 

Then right on cue comes the pitiful bargaining:

Universe, I will NEVER ignore a text or go out into the world uncaffeinated again, if you just spare me from locking eyes with him. Please, let me get through this without an awkward interaction with him, and I pledge I will be a BETTER PERSON from now on!

When the bargaining becomes too pitiful and annoying, I move on to depression:

There's nothing I can do. I'm just stuck in this uncomfortable place until I've done 500 of these damn kicks that I will never be able to do properly, much less with elegance. I don't care. Nothing matters anymore. 

And finally, blessed acceptance:

It is what it is. I am not a bad person. I don't have to say 'yes' all the time. Feeling awkward is part of the human condition. I need coffee to function. Soon I'll be in the comforting embrace of my beloved coffee again.

Searching for that Perfect Calvin Klein Dress in my Size

What the...? You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing here? Can't you see this blog has been abandoned?!

Well, not just yet. Hello Faithful Readers. I'm back from my unplanned, well needed hiatus. Try as I might, I could not quit you. I think I still have embarrassing things to share with you. That's a well that will *never* run dry -- the well of romantic humiliations and missteps. Please continue to slake your thirst. My cup runneth over.

A few weeks before Halloween, my daughter and I went thrift-storing for costumes. While I was pawing through the racks looking for a dress suitable for a 1970s Cher costume, I was struck by the thought that thrift-store shopping might be the *perfect* way to explain online dating. Now, I realize that every other blog post I write seems to contain a new disparaging comparison to online dating. But those comparisons to Dante's Inferno and cable tv (among others) really only apply to the negative aspects of online dating, whereas a comparison to thrift-store shopping fits the *overall* experience of online dating, not just the *worst* aspects of it.

At a very fundamental level, thrift stores and dating websites are places people go to acquire other people's rejects. When confronted with the idea of shopping at a thrift store, people sometimes think, 'No way am I doing that. I'm not the kind of person who shops at a place like that.' But a friend who scored something nice at a thrift store for a dollar might lure you into giving it a try. Likewise that friend who scored someone nice online.

In thrift stores and on dating websites, the garish and outlandish often catch your eye first. Thrift stores are an excellent source for wild colorful costumes, in the same way that dating websites are a wellspring of crazy characters who make it easy to write blog posts about the horrors of online dating. But the real trick is finding something that integrates seamlessly into your regular wardrobe, your daily life.

Dating websites and thrift stores have a similar tradeoff between cash versus time. It doesn't cost much to put up a dating profile (often they're free), but it's as time consuming to go through every message you receive and view every profile of those who've contacted you as it is to patiently go through the thrift-store racks piece by piece. You have to have the patience of Job to look through rack after rack of other people's rejected clothes -- clothes that are too worn or outdated or stained or plain just don't appeal. Sometimes you lose faith that there is anything of interest for you and you just walk out discouraged and empty handed. But every once in a while, the Universe blows you a hot kiss, and you discover that perfect mint condition Calvin Klein dress in your size! You think, 'How is it possible that something so nice ends up here?' Yet it does -- a brilliant gem hidden among all the quietly boring or garishly hideous clothes occupying the racks.