Depth vs. Image in the world of Online Dating: Dating a guy on a respirator?

Something about January has me back on Match these days. I have spent the better part of a year trying to meet new people the old fashioned way, in person. I joined a gym, started participating in a writing meetup (I highly recommend meetup.com for getting yourself out there and meeting others with common interests), even started Salsa dancing on Friday nights. I now have some awesome new friends, but I haven't dated.

So, I dug up my old profile and turned it back on. I even coughed up some money for an auto-renewing 1 month subscription. The emails, winks and interests started rolling in. Back when I was getting a little Match-weary, I updated my profile to be a real heart-on-your sleeve affair. I mentioned that I was widowed, how it had become a part of who I was, how I had written a book and how it was all about the "journey." OK, perhaps not the most uplifting of profiles, but truly honest. It was this profile that resurfaced again last week. The result is that almost all the interest I received has been from men who are at least 10 years older. Some commented on my honesty. Not one held any interest for me.

Now at the risk of sounding like the completely shallow, mean person who will no doubt burn in hell, the clincher came when I received this email"

Would you consider going out with someone in a wheelchair?

Really? Welcome to my dating nirvana! And I wonder why I went off Match?

When I clicked through to his profile I learned that this wasn't just a man in a wheelchair, but a man on a respirator, in one of those wheelchairs that he drives using his mouth, someone who has a degenerative disease.

I don't think its knowing that he is on a nasty path of degeneration that causes me to hesitate. The death part I can handle (I think). Its the care giving part. As my kids get older, my caregiver role has gotten easier (though I write this between trips upstairs with trays of food for Carter who has sprained his ankle). I can't do it.

I keep trying to picture the date, waiting for his his respirator to breathe for him so he can answer a question (like Chistopher Reeve), wondering how he's going to feed himself, worrying about inadvertently raising the topic of sex or horseback riding. Awkward. And then there is the question good night kiss. As much as I want to say I am the kind of person who would go on a date with this man who I'm sure is very lovely, I hate realizing I'm not.

Which is how I came to realize that my profile wasn't working for me. I wasn't attracting the type of man I was hoping to date, you know the kind who has the use of at least one of his legs and can breathe on his own. I sat down and re-wrote my profile, something funny, irreverent, something that really says very little about me. I put up my tarty Halloween pic.

So, the experiment is on. If two days of match.com emails are any indication of the result, then the median age of my respondents has dropped by 10 years, and a few even seem interesting. Have I sacrificed potential depth and understanding for image and a shallow irreverence. Is that OK?

Its not too late to go out with Mr. Respirator...

Beauty, Dysmorphism, Love and NOT "Settling for Good Enough"

I have finally found some time to read a variety of posts from fellow bloggers, and through three different posts, something strikes me. First, was at Little Big Wolf's Daily Plate of Crazy who writes about a new book by Lori Gottlieb, Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough. She is irked by the title, by the idea that women are being told to "Settle" for something that is not excellent, or perfect, but "good enough." Along a similar vein, a friend, Shafeen, in his blog ~synthesis~ discusses the idea of barriers in schools, whereby we, as a society are setting the bar too low in schools, thus ensuring the failure of our kids. In an opposing view, Dad's House praises the book, saying the book will help women consider more carefully their real requirements in a partner. Over at Better Now, Kristin writes about being criticized for trying to be healthy, for being tall and skinny, for having (and writing about) her hot boyfriend. She is accused of being dysmorphic and self conscious for simply learning to be at one with herself, for raising the bar for herself. And finally my friend Lindsay at Dispatches on Writing, Art, Music discusses the meaning of beauty with relation to teaching a Rilke poem. When she asks one of her students what they think the meaning of beauty is, one whispers "that I'm ugly." She writes, "Beauty reminds us of our inadequacies, of our mortality, of our limits. Beauty tells us of our short-comings, but also of what is possible."

Lately I have been aware of my own indifference to beauty. At risk of being accused of being dysmorphic like Kristin, here is the truth: when people tell me I am beautiful and I don't see it. When I look in the mirror I see eyes, nose, mouth, hair, but I fail to see whatever it was that lead them to that conclusion.  I suppose when I see beauty in someone, it is not about the components, its about the overall effect. A gesture, a twinkle in someone's eye, the way a certain light plays in someone's hair. I might find beauty in a hand (as I did Arron's), but it has more to do with what the hand can do, its touch against mine. These are things one rarely sees in a mirror.

Lindsay writes in her post: "Love, like Beauty, is supposed to take you somewhere. It has the possibility (the promise?) of taking you closer to yourself, closer to God, closer to life, to Spirit, to Mystery. No matter what you are loving... The lover, takes you, “in the gathering out-leap” beyond who you were, so that you can be at one with yourself, with the world."

Tall order.

I don't know what is in the book, though clearly the author believes that women are setting the bar too high, thus not achieving their unrealistic goals. We expect love to take us beyond who we are. But isn't that always the challenge? I don't think I am willing to "settle" in any aspect of my life. I guess I will have to read the book to be convinced otherwise.

Short Shrift

My poor blog is getting the short shrift (which I just looked up and discovered was a short confession before a person was hanged. You know, in case you were wondering and needed something uplifting to think about. I guess a short confession meant you couldn't get rid of ALL your sins. Just one or two. So presumably you were still going to hell, which perhaps was a given already since you were about to be hanged. What then, I wonder was the point exactly of the Short Shrift??)

Don't worry, I have no intention of hanging my own blog, though I would love to find a way to combine it better with my website. Does anyone know if that is possible to do with something like TypePad? Do I have to be a genius programmer to do something like that?

Not that I have time to do something like that anyway. I have to hand in a complete chapter of something fictional on Thursday, do two functional plans for non-profit websites and I just learned that I got a job teaching memoir one night a week at the University of Washington Extension programme starting in January.

Oh Lordy. Only time for one sin.

See? Who has time for dating?

I am excited about the teaching gig, but also very nervous. It will be a steep learning curve. But they always say, do the thing that scares you the most...

Carter surprised me last night. Turns out the kid likes writing. He sat down for about half an hour and wrote a two page piece about 9/11 and what happened that morning. It was a bit of a rehash of what he has read from my book, and I have encouraged him to write things that he remembers, rather than what I do. But he read it this morning to two of his teachers while I was there and took their breath away.

Seems Carter might be teaching that memoir class before long...

The "Why Bother" Syndrome

I received an email recently from a guy with a blog who wanted to share links with me (what's that called in the blogging world anyway? co-linking? heyheyhey... No really, we are talking BLOGs here people!) I was expecting a blog about widowhood or loss or single-parenting. I did not expect a blog about dating. I had to giggle a little thinking the guy must have done a Google search on "Frustrated" and "Dating" to find my site. Of course I had to browse Evan's site, as there seems to be quite a bit of interesting info and advice there. That's when the "Why Bother Syndrome" jumped out at me. Apparently, I am afflicted with something that actually warrants the title of "Syndrome." Great. But I do have to wonder, have I really given up? Evan says he dated 300 women over ten years before he met his wife. So at 30 dates a year, that's about 1.5 dates a week? Whew!

It begs the question, how did people ever possibly meet before the Internet? Was the advice then still about the numbers -- success comes from dating many frogs? I can't imagine people dated 300 times over ten years when they had to deal with newspaper ads and P.O. boxes.

I know I am justifying my single status, perhaps pretending I am cool with being single, relieved even. I am sure many of you know how much mental energy it takes to do online dating. At every turn, it seems I am either disappointed or I am disappointing someone. And can you really get to know someone in one date? In the 40+ dating pool, you hear tons of "we're old enough now to *know* right away when someone is right." I know because I used to say it myself. But now, I'm not so sure.

Arron and I took years before we actually fell in love. We liked each other and enjoyed hanging out, but it wasn't all rockets and fireworks after the first date, though I was intrigued. I can't help thinking that if I were to meet him now through online dating, I probably wouldn't give him a second glance.

But I won't lie and pretend I don't lie in bed at night imagining some cute sumthin, sumthin lying in my arms. Or waking up in the morning all languid... OK, better not go there! I do. Every night. There is still a gaping hole that Arron left behind, sort of like a phantom limb. But my reality is limbless, and I think that after 8 years I am finally coming to terms with it.

Of course, it won't stop me from checking out Evan's site from time to time. Who knows, maybe with a little dose of Evan's rah-rah dating optimism, a little sumthin, sumthin will come our way.

The Advantages of Deprivation

I have been undergoing a little experiment with regards to dating, which is to not date. To not actively seek, to be content in my single-dom. I am so tired of the online thing. And I have given up trying to make eye contact with any guy in this city. Possibly, I am purposefully creating a little hedonic adaptation in my life, something I just read about over at The Happiness Project, a sort of law of diminishing returns, where you adapt to new circumstances until they become normal. You get a certain amount of time before something new becomes something old. Dating, for me has definitely fallen into that category. It has, after all, been y.e.a.r.s.

I have this theory that after a loss (divorce or death), you kind of go through a wild, animalistic stage. I think it has to do with trying to replace intimacy with sex. Eventually you realize it doesn't really work, though I have to say it sure is fun for a while. It is possible of course, that I simply got through my thirties.

What I am finding now though, is this kind of "settling in" stage. I am content with almost all aspects of my life. I am over my wild stage. It got old. And now, as Gretchen talks about, the best cure for hedonic adaptation is deprivation. I figure if I deprive myself of dating, then perhaps when something really great comes along, I will appreciate it all the more.

The odd thing is, I am finally feeling OK with being single. Before, I would moon on and on about wanting someone in my life, someone to share experiences with, someone to give me The Look. But these days I am beginning to understand why many women, once widowed, remain that way.


I get to avoid:

1. juggling of kid schedules
2. suspicious kids who don't trust anything that happens after they go to bed
3. ricocheting emotions
4. swooning over love horoscopes


Plus, I get

1. super buff by virtue of the crush on the trainer at the gym
2. to watch Grays Anatomy (or whatever girly show I want) without interruption
3. the sonicare all to myself
4. the two-person closet all to myself
5. to avoid ever having to watch a football game


Of course, if someone were to come along who could deal with my kid/widow/9-11 circumstances, liked Grays Anatomy, had his own toothbrush, and didn't like football, then perhaps I would consider giving him a drawer in my closet. Just one.

Crunches for the Cause

An article on Sunday in the New York Times profiled an empty-nester who got divorced after her kids went away to college, tried dating, but discovered the sad state of affairs out there in the dating world for the older woman.

“I don’t bump into eligible men my age,” she said. “They’re nowhere. Not in church, not in restaurants, not walking the dog. We’re not in college anymore with an unlimited supply of men our age.”
The article goes on to state that 41% of women over 50 are remarried, where almost 60% of men are.
And if that wasn't enough:
"And if she’s tall on top of that,” Dr. Adler-Baeder said, “the pool’s even smaller.”
Great. I'm 5'10."

I know I shouldn't be looking at statistics. But in a weird way its like vindication that maybe, just maybe I am not crazy, wondering if there is something wrong with me due to my apparent inability to connect with men. I have lost my impetus to date for the moment, the online thing just doesn't do it for me these days. And so I am once again left with the question of how to meet men. And not just any men, but ones that I might actually be interested in meeting or who might actually be interested in meeting me. There is something to the "Seattle Freeze," a sort of apathy in people that seems to get in the way of people in Seattle connecting in a meaningful way.

With all these marks against me, how do I beat the odds?

Today, I went to an athletic club called ZUM. I am going to try it out and I might just join. I love my pilates classes, but I take classes at 9:30am, when all the other stay-at-home mom's take them. I will try a couple of ZUM's noon classes and see how it goes. Even at 2pm, there were a couple of non-gay looking hotties skipping rope (in a very masculine way) who actually smiled at me.

I am also going to take another writing class. I know, I know, why would a published author take a writing class? Well, as a novice writer I still have a ton to learn. Plus, I want to try writing fiction and feel pretty clueless. I need to get back into the writing groove and the motivation of a class, where each week an assignment is due, works for me. The added bonus? There might be an honest-to-goodness man in the class.

I do still need to check out those rowing classes again.

I may never have another romance, but hopefully I'll do some kick-ass writing and be fit as hell.

Oregon Fun

It was an amazing weekend in Portland with Olivia. We seriously put a dent in my credit card, using the lack of sales tax as an excuse. It was such a rare treat spending a whole week alone with Olivia. We also did a couple of "cultural" things like going to both the Chinese and the Japanese Gardens. At the Chinese Garden we encountered a squirrel that really wasn't quite right:

The Japanese garden in particular blew me away and now I am all inspired to bonzai my Vashon trees and create entire hillsides of nothing but moss. And of course a tiny trickling creek with little waterfalls and perfect little seating nooks and pagotas are a must! OK, gotta stop thinking about the garden.

We also had some pretty terrific food. Olivia is now at an age where she appreciates good food. Our most memorable dinner was in the Nob Hill area at a restaurant called 23 Hoyt. The surroundings were lively on a Saturday night and the prawn spaghetti was amazing. So much so, we actually took the leftovers back to the hotel and ate them the next night for a snack.

The next night we ate at the restaurant next to the Ace Hotel, a funky place called Clyde Common. And true to its name, it had huge tables where you were sat together with others. Olivia seemed rather horrified when we were seated, squished between a family with a baby and two girls talking dirty. I managed to get us moved to larger table and she relaxed. The food was good, but the portions quite tiny (which is why we were happy for the previous night's leftovers).

Our final night was at Serrato also in Nob Hill (our favorite area, so we got quite adept at taking the streetcar there and back). It was good (I had a duck confit risotto), but paled next to Hoyt 23. Plus we were sort of terrorized by an alarmingly large bug in the window beside us. We had brunch with fellow widow blogger Candace and her daughter Anna and got to know her a little better. Although we had met in San Diego, it perhaps wasn't the most conducive to getting to know someone, what with all the Margaritas and all.

Next stop was Timberline Lodge where we were staying the night before picking Carter up from camp. We took a meandering drive along the Columbia Gorge where Olivia kept rolling her eyes at me every time I made her get out of the car to see yet another waterfall. But god, it was so beautiful. Very Lord of the Rings. I actually wished I hiked! And then the car began climbing higher and higher and although we could see our destination in the distance, it didn't seem possible that we would wind up being so close. Mt. Hood was beautiful in a stark, moon-like way. Being up so high above the treeline, the gravel was a purple-gray and sprinkled here and there with gorgeous purple wild flowers. The lodge itself was all gigantic timbers worn smooth by all the hands. Each banister was carved into a different animal, eagle, owl, otter, etc. Our room was cozy (read tiny, but very sweet and wood panelled). We headed for the pool, which at first was kind of chilly with the wind coming off the mountain. But eventually we donned our suits and found refuge in the heated pool.

As I was bobbing in there with Olivia, a big barreled-chested guy with a mustache introduced himself as Jeff. I had seen him checking us out, but only later did I learn that he was actually checking me out. We chatted in the hot tub before getting too hot and jumping back into the pool. He was loud in that American sort of way. I learned he was from MA, owned a ranch, did rodeos, and was along with a group of his daughter's as a sometimes downhill race coach. He invited me to have a beer with him, and he confessed his attraction. It's been a long time since that has happened!

When I got back to the pool after the beer, there was another dad there, and he was making some serious eye contact in the hot tub. I couldn't believe it. In a matter of an hour, I had two guys flirting with me! After four years in Seattle, where I may as well be invisible. What is that about? This dad was seriously cute and I was secretly hoping he was single, despite being from Rhode Island.

Later that night, after Olivia and I had dinner, Jeff found me again and offered to buy me a drink. Although he wasn't really my type, plus the fact that he was married, I couldn't help but be flattered. In Seattle, a guy barely gives you a sideways glance, much less talks to you or admires. The cute dad was also at the bar, and he and Jeff talked about ski racing and I found out that cute dad was also married. Jeff and I chatted some more. I didn't ask why a man married for 30 odd years was buying me wine. Well, actually I did ask about his marriage which he said was fine. But he was flirting. Big time. And for once I didn't feel invisible. I miss east coast men.

And then it was time to pick up Carter from Camp. He looked happy and relaxed, nothing like the sobbing wreck that had called me 17 times a day, just a few short days before. He had made it, and perhaps it was just relief, but I think it was possible that he might have even had a good time.

He wasn't the only one.

Fairy Dust

I have been lamenting the lack of magic in my life lately, something that is somewhat hard to define. I think for me, it can be any of the following: 1. Reading a book, that perfectly describes how you're feeling or gives you an answer to a question you have been asking yourself 2. Meeting someone through complete happenstance that is meaningful in some way, again because of what you learn from them, or who they in turn connect you to. 3. Getting some sort of sign (butterfly sighting, music on radio, smell) that reminds you of something you had long forgotten. 4. Meditating and coming out of it with a clear idea, or thought or answer. 5. Waking up early in the morning knowing what you are going to write or create or do that day. On Saturday night, #2 happened for me. I got an email through Match.com from a gentleman from California who was visiting Seattle for the weekend. He asked if I wanted to join him for dinner. I had no plans, and so on a whim I did. It didn't feel like a romantic meeting as much as he seemed to just be a guy hoping to meet someone interesting to talk to. That was about my speed as well. We met, and at first I was dismayed. He seemed a little slick, an aging surfer type, with a dark tan and very white teeth. But as we chatted I relaxed. I even told him how Arron had died, something that is the death-knell of a first date. We talked about psychics and he told me about a friend of his who I should connect with. Someone he described as an "intuitive." We even talked about the fact that perhaps that was the purpose of our meeting, so he could "introduce" me to her. She turns out to be incredibly interesting, and I am looking forward to trading books with her, at the very least. The surfer and I had a gorgeous dinner at a wonderful restaurant and I drove him back to his hotel. I don't know yet what will become of my now scheduled phone call with her, but I am ever so grateful for the tiny amount of fairy dust.

10 Tips for dating a widowed mom/dad

Not that I ever wanted to become an expert in the world of dating widows, but I feel like I have now had enough dating experience to be able to impart a certain wisdom to those lucky enough to discover the joys of dating a widow/widower. We have been to hell and back and have great gifts to share if you are willing to venture down the road with us. I suspect many more dating tips will come to light in the comments of this post, as there is a great deal of wisdom to be found amongst my readers. 1. Don’t ask how our spouse died. You might not be ready for the answer. If we want to tell you, we will when the time is right. 2. Be interested in our kids. Bonus points if you ask to see pictures 3. Keep the sad puppy face short when you find out we’re widowed. Just say something like “I’m sorry” and then let us set the tone for what follows. 4. If you don’t think you will be able to handle the widowed/kid thing, then end it early. 5. If you do end it, don’t use our dead spouse as your excuse (ie. “I think you are still in love with your husband/wife”) 6. Allow us to talk about our husband/wife, and don’t feel threatened. He/she is dead after all. It’s no different than you talking about your ex. 7. Don’t get all sympathetic about our widowhood and use it as an excuse to hold hands on the first date. (caveat: A widower may like this) 8. Make us laugh. We will love you for it. We are tired of crying. 9. Be yourself and let us be ourselves. 10. Most of us know what a great marriage looks and feels like. If you are willing that is what we have to offer you.

The Widow Bomb

I had another date last week, where the moment he found out how I was widowed, he ran, never to be heard from again. I knew from all his phone calls before we had even met, that he had built a fantasy of me. How can one live up to that? But then, after the date, he told me he was going to Google me, since I didn't want to tell him how Arron had died on our first date, and suddenly the phone calls stopped. Could he not have just Googled me before we went on the date? It would have saved a lot of time. I like getting to the "real" email stage, where we are actually getting each other's real names. I did with this guy, assuming that he would do the inevitable search on my identity. I WANT a guy to Google me, so I don't have to ever drop the bomb on him. Not great first date conversation. I have experimented dropping the bomb (early on, before I figured out this rule), and I hate it. That look on their face. The slow dawning on them of how BIG the thing is, and its implications on him. Sometimes, if the guy is quick on his feet, we have a good conversation about it, and I leave impressed, but know that I won't ever hear from him again. But all in all, AWKWARD. I got very honest on my Match profile. I reveal the widow thing, the kids, etc. I don't drop the "how he died" bomb though. I want to meet someone who can at least get past the "easy" stuff. If he can't cut that, then there's no point. But right now, I seem to be going through an apathetic dating stage again. Had a nice weekend with my kids, a content-without-a-man weekend. Another single mom and I hauled a huge grill out of the car and down to the house, and drank wine grilling our own burgers. I let my son build a bonfire (and light it!) while I threw piles of brush to him to put on top. I got drunk with some girl-friends. I visited the older beach widows (my adopted grandmas), happy to sit with them reveling in their contentment. I have much to learn from them. Alas my latest Match.com emails languish. Just not in the mood for bombs.

A Mom's Guide to Dating and Sex

I had lunch today with a widower friend and we were talking about relationships and the pitfall of entering into a physical relationship before really getting to know someone well. There seems to be a common experience of getting into an intimate relationship too quickly and suddenly "waking up" and realizing the person we were with wasn't who or what we thought they were. Widows/widowers, I think are prone to jumping into deep intimacy, searching for the thing that they lost when their spouses died. I have certainly been guilty of doing this since Arron died, the latest experience being no exception. He was likely doing it too, having just come out of a divorce. We are all seeking a deep connection to someone, and I am learning how easily we are able to fool ourselves into thinking we have found what we are looking for. I picked up a book at the library called "The Ten Commandments of Dating" which kinda makes me laugh, because of course, me being me, it didn't occur to me that it was written from a Christian perspective. So, skimming over all the parts telling me that Christians should only marry Christians, I have been intrigued with two of the "commandments": You shall "take things slow" and "Save sex for later". Of course my mom has been telling me to not give away too much too soon for years, but she's, well my mom! Do we ever listen to our moms? My therapist implores me to just "be myself" and that if you play games, you will wind up in a relationship based not on something real, but on rules and games. The old "hard-to-get" adage is the game. She insists that by playing the game, you wind up in something that is inherently deceitful. Better to be who you are than to pretend to be someone you are not. I guess there must be some sort of happy medium. Like not jumping into bed with someone on the second date for instance. OK, so is the 4th date OK? Or is it better to wait 6 months which my friend is (jokingly?) determined to do. I guess in the end, you can only be who you are.

The call

I got "the call" yesterday from the Enjoying the Moment man. The I've-fallen-for-someone-else-but-I-really-like-you-and-still-want-to-be-friends call. I'm not surprised. The writing was on the wall from the get go. I was genuinely happy for him. I will root for romance, it seems, even if it spells my own heartache. The trouble was, that I fell. Just a bit, but there it was. I tried digging in my heels as I slid down that muddy slope, scraping my bum along the way, getting dirt in my fingernails. There was something in the way he looked at me, and kissed, and a familiarity I hadn't felt in a long time. As odd as it sounds I felt safe in his arms for the first time since Arron died. Perhaps I was fooling myself about the connection that I had with him, but it seemed real, and that is rare stuff indeed. I am relieved in a way, to be spared the wondering, the uncertainty. Perhaps I will be able to stop popping the Pepcid. I guess the good news is that I am awake. Alive in a bonked in the head kind of way. I just wonder how much self-inflicted scarring this poor little heart of mine can take.

Dating with Kids

I seem to be struggling with the dating-with-kids thing. I am lucky that my almost 14 year old is willing to babysit my 9 year old while I am out for dinner. But last night she got freaked out and started texting me, and I had to come home. Yesterday, I was driving with my kids in the car and I saw him on the street. I yelled and he saw me, waving like a lunatic, so I pulled the car over before even really thinking about it. And then, there I was awkwardly having to introduce him to my kids, something I vowed I wouldn't do until it was clear that I wasn't competing with others, and there was something more serious between us, which might never come. So is it possible to be dating where all it amounts to is dinner once a week? The whole thing seems doomed. What do you do, when you want to date, invest time to see where something might lead, but don't have the luxury of an ex to pass your kids off on occasionally?

Divorcing a Ghost

I had a dream last night that my wedding ring, which is a thick gold band that I wear on my left hand had been grotesquely mangled, as though someone had taken huge steel cutters to it. The gold was mangled and sharp. I don't have many dreams about Arron. At the beginning I used to dream about him, but I could never see his face. It was always hidden by a hat, or I was riding behind him on the back of a motorcycle. Lately when I do have dreams about Arron, I am angry at him because he has just told me that he is leaving me, and wants a divorce. I can't help be struck by the thought that my mind is helping me divorce my ghost husband. Deep down, it feels like something I need to do in order to truly get beyond to whatever might be next. Perhaps its what his ghost needs to get in order to untether himself from my worldly grip. It feels odd to wake up with that anguished, angry, heartsick feeling, something I imagine people go through when their spouse leaves them. But it also feels like good pain, that last scratch that removes the scab revealing the tender pink skin underneath. The scar is tender and fragile, but in no danger of bursting open. It tells me that I am ready to jump back into the fray and risk new scars.

Enjoying the Moment

I have been contemplating this notion of Living/Enjoying the Moment, as it seems to be pretty much a unified mantra we live by these days. But I'm starting to find some holes in this kind of bliss. The good news is that I have actually made it to a third date with someone whom I am very attracted to, possibly even with a tinge of smitten. I am wary saying this, knowing my penchant towards instant-smitten-ness. But, yum. I know, in these early days, I must “live in the moment” and enjoy it, right? But what about the other moments, when I am left wondering, hanging, wanting more? Do those moments count, or even counteract the amazing squishy, want-never-to-end moments? I know, I should be content with making a connection, feel the thrill, that jumpy feeling when we meet. But is it possible for him to feel those same things if he is seeing others, something he has been ever-so-honest about? Or is our intimacy feigned? Am I selling myself short? Am I selfish for wanting him all to myself? I ponder the idea of living in the moment vs. compromising what you really want out of a relationship. Somehow it feels easy to give up needs and desires in order to enjoy something in the short term. I wonder if this is what I am doing, or if by enjoying the moment, I am simply letting my needs and wants get fulfilled as they may. It seems in the past, living in the moment works for a while until a point where I wake up from the dream and realize that I want (and deserve) more. Is “living in the moment” a man’s excuse for getting his cake and eating it too? But I wonder, what are the consequences of living in the moment? Lately, there seem to be way too many people going off their rocker and shooting everyone in sight, even their own children. Were they just "living in the moment"? Is this bliss-gone-bad? Thankfully the consequences for my enjoying the moment are not so dire. Future heartache seems the most likely. But maybe, just maybe, by living in the moment, I am letting life take its natural course. Yes, I am likely to get hurt, but that risk has never stopped me. Nothing will hurt the way losing Arron did. Its also possible that the natural course may lead to something I haven't even imagined yet, something wonderful. Here's to enjoying the moment!

Porkpie Hat

Just when I had given up hope of ever finding myself attracted to anyone ever again, I found myself at a fundraiser last night. A super, uber cool one with a twenties theme, where almost all of the volunteers actually wore flapper dresses and aerialists spun from hoops in the ceiling and champagne was mixed with elderberry and lavender liquer. It was raising money for Vitamin Angels, a charity that provides vitamins to children in impoverished placed. And suddenly a handsome man with bushy sideburns and a pork-pie hat was standing beside me. We easily conversed, my posse of my sister and friend and me. They stood back and let us flirt and laugh. My wingwomen pulled chairs up to our table so he could sit with us, in hopes... We even danced and then, he was gone. No numbers exchanged, no lingering looks. Later, as we were leaving I caught up with him again. He had a girlfriend, he explained and hoped he hadn't misled. He hadn't. For me, the thrill was in being seen, and the relief that there still could be someone I wanted to be with. I wasn't broken. That door of possibility which lately has been so tightly secured, is showing just a glint of light through the keyhole...

Happy Cupid Day

I have spent the day today with my son, starting with him making fried eggs on toast for me in bed, and later on a 5 mile bike ride around a park. Its actually a sunny day in Seattle today. A perfect day. This idea of intuition (as I mused upon in my last post) seems to be in other realms of the blogisphere. Perhaps its cupid's influence. This morning, one of the blogs I follow Our Best Version posted about it. How do you know when you are really in love? Of course the answer is just that you know. Intuition. I have a very good male friend whom I adore very much, but with whom I am not in love. When we initially met four years ago, it felt like love. We were both so taken off guard by our connection, but gradually it turned to friendship as these things sometimes do. But every year or so, the friendship becomes something more, at least for him. We get closer, he comes into our lives more and I can't deny that it is nice. I have someone to talk to, the kids adore him, we laugh together and have deep talks. As a single mother, life is 1000x easier when there is another person in the equation. For a while we prance along in this friendship mode, until I begin to realize that for him its something much more. But I am not in love with him. I had to tell him recently that I am not “the one” for him. He deserves to be with someone who loves him. Of course he is sad and insists that I am dwelling in my loss, that I won't ever allow anyone to meet the impossible standard of my dead husband. Sometimes I wonder if that is true. Arron has very large shoes to fill, and frankly, I am not willing to compromise. Arron and I had a good fit, something I don't quite have with my friend. He reads it as not being as good as Arron, but it is really about the fit. I deserve to be loved and to love as I once did. I know it won't be exactly the same, but I think being in love is a pretty basic foundation. But perhaps my friend is right and as a result of my unwillingness to compromise on this, I cannot possibly find the love that I seek. To be sure, dating lately has been abysmal. But I can't help resenting people who tell me that I am not over Arron or that I am stuck in my loss. I am convinced that if the right person walked into my life, I would be fully present. Arron would find a tidy place in our mutual lives. The difficulty for me in a new relationship, would be to take things slow enough, really get to know the person long enough to get past infatuation and lust, and to let intuition to properly kick in so that I could recognize real love. I also talked with my sister who told me about a divorced friend of hers who insists that she cannot possibly date with children. This made more sense that the stuck-in-my-grief theory. Time is so limited. My son had a massive blowout the other night trying to convince me that Arron wasn't really dead, just lost. He is desperate to have his daddy back. And he was only 2 when Arron died and has no memory of him. He is horrified by the idea of my dating, I suspect because if I date, then the possibly of daddy coming back will be extinguished. So yea, dating with grieving kids is hairy. My essay about another man I dated a few years ago, continues to languish, because I haven't figured out the point of the essay. Holding out for real love, stuck in grief, dating with kids, and ignoring intuition are all possible conclusions. With this other guy I convinced myself that he was something he was not. I ignored my intuition in lieu of my loneliness, and the whole thing ended badly. Two years later I am still recovering, but determined not to ignore my intuition again. It has lost me a friend (for now anyway), but it is not something I will compromise again. My intuition tells me that for now, breakfast in bed and a bike ride around the park are what comprise the perfect Cupid Day.

The Pretend World of Married-ness

I am struggling with an essay I am writing about someone I dated about two years ago. Something about this relationship broke me, and I have been apathetic ever since about finding anyone new. It doesn't stop me from browsing Match, or even going on the odd date, but I seem to lack the enthusiasm I once had, and as a result one date has yet to turn into two. I am struggling, in this essay to discover the reason for my shut down. Was it that I still missed my husband, and this guy didn't measure up? That doesn't seem to quite ring true. At the time, I felt sure that I was ready. Now, I feel I would be if the right person came along. Then I worried that loneliness had skewed my intuition about people. I seem to be in this pattern of jumping into relationships, thinking I know the person and falling for them, even going so far as to repeat gestures and feelings that I had once had with my husband. I seemed to be trying to recreate something that wasn't there. In each relationship I have had since my husband died, I have woken up to the real person I was dating and realized I hadn't actually fallen in love with them, but had just tried to recapture the feelings that I once knew with Arron. And now I don't trust myself at all to make a good decision about anybody. Even if I were to somehow meet someone, I worry that I would slip into this pretend world of married-ness, without doing any of the work required to get to there. I wish I could find a conclusion to my essay that didn't sound trite or insincere. I wish I could trust my intuition again, maybe even get excited about someone, at least enough to make it to that second date.

After Happily Ever After

I would like to write another book, but I am having a problem finding a topic. At my bravest, I would write about finding love after loss and all its perils. It would mean baring more than just my soul (and I am not sure how naked on the page I really want to be), and I worry that much about love and dating has already been told by others. I guess I question my unique experience. I question the universality of my experience. Finding love again has been fraught with confusion, missteps, poor decisions and no real happy endings. Perhaps that is the story.Having written already about the bright side of loss and grief, I wonder if I am prepared to delve into the netherworld of dating. And how to protect the privacy of those who have dared to love me? My second idea is to write a sequel to my first book. The move to Seattle, writing the book, etc. In trying to figure out this sequel for myself I keep staggering into the mental block of whether or not this story is compelling enough to sell. Perhaps only my tragedy was. Now that I have been plopped back into a routine daily life, I wonder what it is I have to offer to the world. It seems possible that the highs and lows of tragedy are in themselves addicting. No one wants to hear the story after “happily ever after”... Hiho.