Superstition

I get very superstitious when I have a new boyfriend. It's hard to believe, but I've never had even a SINGLE relationship work out, so you can understand my trepidation.

The other day I went to the CVS and spent a solid ten minutes in the toothbrush aisle, debating whether I should grab a toothbrush for my new boyfriend, Robot. (No, he doesn't work in IT.) I just couldn't bring myself to do it, so eventually I walked away, toothbrush-less. I was sure that if I got him one, it would end up being thrown away unused.  So until things feel more solid or my dentist gives me a free one I'm making him use mine. My dentist would not be happy about that, but so far the relationship gods seem to be smiling on me, and if my dental hygiene suffers it's a small price to pay.

This weekend, he mentioned that his birthday is in a week and a half. Like the many toothbrushes I've thrown away over the years after just a few uses, I have invested time and time again in gifts for boyfriends for birthdays, holidays, etc. that had to be returned, or that I was stuck with. I bought La Moustache yarn to knit him a sweater just before our epic breakup; with Monkeyboy, in addition to several generous gifts, I had purchased ingredients to bake him his favorite cake. Most recently, in December I bought one Christmas gift for Trusty and was about to purchase a second, non-returnable one.

I don't think that Robot is going to turn out to be another Monkeyboy, nor do I anticipate that we will be breaking up in the next ten days. I like him an awful lot, and the feeling seems to be mutual. But I'm not running any risks. I'll be buying him a birthday gift en route to his house on the day of. If the only store I can find is a gas station, so be it. Happy birthday, Robot, I got you a gas card.

He's got swag

My roommate has introduced a new term to the lexicon: swag. It turns out that swag does not mean free stuff that you get at fancy events, as I had previously thought; it means a magical combination of confidence, charm and humor that makes men attractive to women. Or, in its absence, makes a perfectly good-looking man utterly devoid of interest.

I was flattered and intrigued when my post-Kevin date started sending me a stream of texts indicating that he was interested in me and might even be thinking that I could be a Kevin. He didn't beat around the bush. But was I interested? I was on the fence; I thought he might be flaggy. When he asked if doing donuts in an empty parking lot during a snowstorm sounded fun I thought, is this guy for real?? That's so not my style.

But then I went out with him again, and then again, and he got a glowing endorsement from one of my oldest friends and brought me a photo of a rose (it'll never die) and a fancy bottle of wine on Valentine's Day, and we stayed up till 3 am watching the Olympics and it was the best Valentine's Day ever. And by the time I flew to Idaho five days after I met him I was thinking yes, I will go do donuts with you in an empty parking lot. Whatever you want to do, I am IN.

The man's got some serious swag, and it's powerful stuff.

Looking for Kevin

During my commute from work yesterday I was listening to a podcast while heading to a cafe to meet a young man for a first date. The podcast happened to be a Planet Money podcast about dating. The woman telling her story had gone on 50 dates in a year and a half. At one point, she broke up with someone she had been dating for six weeks, and was questioning whether she had given him enough of a chance. But then, along came Kevin. When she met Kevin, she just knew. And if she had let things drag on with 6-week guy, she never would have met Kevin. And, of course, now they are married and have an adorable newborn baby, and everyone is overjoyed and thrilled, etc etc.

It's a valid point: If you're not excited about someone after a few dates, move on because otherwise you're wasting your time.

This is a point of view that I embrace wholeheartedly, which is why I have broken up with four perfectly promising, flag-less men in the past few months -- all great guys, just not quite right for me.

However.

Going into a date thinking, "If he's the right guy, I'll know immediately," is a TERRIBLE idea. And that is exactly the mindset I was in after hearing this convincing story from Planet Money.

My inner monologue went something like this:

"Well. He's certainly handsome, in a rugged, New England-type way. He's a professional artist and he must be quite talented. And he's nice; he's asking me good questions and telling interesting stories. But I just don't think he's my Kevin. I'm not feeling that instantaneous connection."

Luckily, rather than cut the date short and duck out as I was tempted to do, I gave myself a mental slap on the cheek and told myself to stop being silly, and after that I had a lovely time.

Keeping warm

My mom tends to be slightly obsessive on the subject of proper winter attire. During the colder months of the year, she can frequently be heard saying things like,

"You're wearing a v-neck??! I always wear a turtle neck in February. I can't stand to have my neck exposed when it's this cold out."

"I have to wear fingerless gloves to bed at night to keep my hands warm while I read, because the thermostat in the bedroom is set to 48 degrees."

"What's the fiber content of that sweater? Oh, it's a cotton blend? I stay away from cotton in the winter. I usually make sure to buy sweaters that are 100% wool for this time of year."

Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I check my fiber contents constantly, too. I'm annoyed by the many Bostonians who think that rain boots are appropriate to wear during snow storms, or worse, sopping wet Uggs. (Those are SLIPPERS, people!) And I've noticed recently a tendency to be somewhat disdainful of suitors whose winter wardrobes are not up to my standards.

I have a tiered system of winter coats, 1 through 4. #1 is a lightweight wool coat that I don't really consider to be winter attire, and 4 is a winter parka that is rated for 50 degrees below zero; it usually makes only a couple of appearances per winter.

In the fall, as soon as the weather became slightly nippy, I noticed that many people jumped straight to a level 3, a midweight down coat. I was pleased to see that Trusty, who I was dating at the time, was one of the few people who wore a level 1, a wind-blocking fleece: points for Trusty. After all, if one starts to wear winter coats too early, your body doesn't acclimatize to the cold.

Later, in January, in the midst of the polar vortex, I found myself on a date (wearing, naturally, my level 3) with a man who was clad in a lightweight COTTON jacket. I could only imagine how my mom would react to this. He shivered as I questioned him about it, explaining that he left his winter coat at his parents house... in November. Nearly three months later, I could see no earthly reason why his coat should still be there, especially considering that he had made several trips there in the interim. And then came the kicker:

"It's really been fine so far. Like now, I don't feel cold at all."

I could tell just from looking at him that this was not true. Moreover, this is a guy who bikes just about everywhere, so he probably WAS much warmer walking with me than he usually is. I made a mental note: lacking in common sense.

When I broke up with him a few days later, he asked if it was anything he had said or done. I thought of all the possible responses, but really, what was the point? Someone else might find his cotton jacket charming.

"No," I lied, hoping to come across a down-clad, wool hat-wearing suitor soon.

A bird in the hand

I have a very promising bird in my hand. Well, in my case, I actually have two birds in my hand, one literal (my pet lovebird, who spends much of his free time ignoring my polite requests that he stop humping my hand) and the other one metaphorical; but let's stick to the metaphorical bird for the time being. This bird is handsome, smart, funny and interesting. He wants the same things I want, and has called me at least twice a week since we started dating two and a half months ago. He likes live music, and has a membership to the Institute of Contemporary Art. He's an excellent planner -- he buys tickets ahead of time, and gets places early so he can save us a spot in line and I can arrive whenever, and packs a waterproof bag when we go kayaking (not that he's perfect -- I'm not sure if my sister will ever be able to move on from the fact that he forgot to pack water when we went hiking). He's made me dinner, and brought me to the theater, and we always have a great time together. And it's not just that he's great on paper: I actually really like him and feel connected to him.

But there are also a lot of very interesting birds in the bush. And while I completely see the wisdom of valuing the bird in my hand more than the ones in the bush, I can't help but feel very compelled by the ones in the bush as well. One of these bush-birds brought me a bouquet of flowers he grew in his garden recently. Another is bringing his brand new 8-week-old puppy to visit me at my craft fair on Sunday -- and who can resist a puppy! Another made an adorable collection of tiny stones and seaglass that fit snugly into a shell for me. These birds are filled with uncertainty; I have no idea what they want in life, or if there's any real possibility our lives could work together. But I'm really enjoying them and I'd hate to give them up.

If only there were a way for me to have my own little flock with *lots* of birds in it.

The secret to impressing men

Several weeks back, I found myself on the beach with a young-ish man. It was sunset, and getting quite chilly. We had imbibed several glasses of wine, which had made their way to my bladder, and I was in dire need of the utilities.

Unfortunately, when we made our way to the bath house and my date tried the door, it was locked. He found another door nearby for the disabled bathroom, and was able to get in. While he was inside, I went over to my side to try my luck, but was met with a locked door as well. I was desperate, and there was no one around, so I went for it: I dropped trou right there, just outside the bathroom door, peeing as quickly as I could in fear that my date would come looking for me.

It wasn't until a couple of minutes later that it occurred to me that I'd have to explain to my date why I no longer needed to use the bathroom. As soon as he was out, he gallantly offered to hold the door for me so I could use the same bathroom he had, once I reported that there was no open bathroom on the ladies' side.

"No, thanks," I mumbled.

"Well, you HAVE to go somewhere," he replied, surprised.

I froze up. I couldn't come up with a plausible explanation, and saw no alternative but to come clean. I told him what I had done, feeling my cheeks get red as I explained.

Last weekend, I ended up at another beach in another state with another bottle of wine, and the same man. Again, after a couple of glasses my bladder began to get uncomfortable. He directed me to a Port-a-Potty near the beach entrance; I was unable to find it. I decided that, since I had already publicly peed once on a date with him, there was really no harm in repeating the experience. I walked far down the beach and found a semi-protected spot where only a couple of fishermen could potentially see me.

At the end of the night, my date turned to me. "You're quite an impressive woman," he said. "I was so struck that first night at the beach that you weren't embarrassed to pee outside. And you were done way before I was, too."

Had I known that impressing men was so easy, I would've been dropping trou and peeing in public on dates a LONG time ago.

If you see something, say something

A date and I went to see Kiss Me, Kate on the Esplanade last night (a musical that really should have been forgotten a couple of years after it was written well over sixty years ago, but here in Boston it is still being staged for reasons that are unclear). The bandshell gets crowded, so my date and I came up with what we thought was a brilliant plan: Pick a spot for our blanket. Leave it there and go kayaking. Buy a bottle of juice and pour our wine into it so we wouldn't get busted for carrying in alcohol, then return to our blanket.

Unfortunately, we forgot about all the enhanced security in town since the Marathon bombing incident. By the time we got back and were informed that our juice was too suspicious to be allowed in, the blanket and bag were long gone, confiscated by the cops. When the security guards understood what had happened they waved my date through, forgetting temporarily about the juice he was holding, to go find the cops in question.

After tracking down the police and bag, he was asked for ID and subjected to a few questions.

"Who are you here with?"

"Ummmm... do you want her name?"

"No, no. Is she cute?"

"Yeah, she's cute," he replied (or at least that's what he *told* me he said).

"We could bring you out in handcuffs if you think she'd be impressed."

He passed on their kind offer. Lesson learned: If you leave suspicious possessions in a public setting in Boston, you will become friends with the cops and be allowed to enter secure locations with alcohol. I would totally do it again.

The Tom Waits rule

My friend La Chimiste has just one rule of dating: the Tom Waits rule. The rule is that if a potential boyfriend likes Tom Waits, green flag. If not, beware! Not good dating material.

I like the Tom Waits rule for its simplicity: it's very easy to follow. Liking Tom Waits shows that you have some nuance; his voice isn't exactly a crowd pleaser. A person who likes Tom Waits is capable of appreciating the unusual. A lot of people like Tom Waits, but a lot of people also dislike him, so it excludes a good-sized percentage of people but still leaves a big enough pool that the pickings aren't too slim. Also, it's funny because it's so random -- which, let's face it, is how dating often feels.

Of course, one can't be too inflexible about the Tom Waits rule, and in fact La Chimiste's boyfriend detests Tom Waits.

Some of my friends feel that the Tom Waits rule would be a stronger filter if another person were added to the rule: you have to like Tom Waits AND someone else to get a green flag. Here are a few candidates:

Atul Gawande
Pros: Smart people like AG. He's not white, so it gives the rule some diversity.
Cons: If it becomes the Tom Waits and Atul Gawande rule, that's a very male-dominated rule.

Dolly Parton
Pros: She's awesome and adds a woman to the mix. Like Tom Waits, she's not exactly mainstream (in New England, anyway).
Cons: There's no intelligence factor included in liking DP.

Hillary Clinton
Pros: A man who likes HC isn't afraid of smart, powerful women.
Cons: Using Hillary feels out of keeping with the random spirit of the Tom Waits rule.

Other ideas?

Goin' steady

A few weeks ago, I laid out the three phases of dating for Theradate. I felt like he needed some ground rules to help him understand my expectations for how he should behave, as well as how I was interpreting his behavior. Specifically, I told him that I thought he wanted some of the emotional benefits of Phase 2 without taking on the responsibilities that go along with those benefits. Or, as Slinky has succinctly put it more than once, "I'm just amazed by how clueless he is sometimes." Indeed.

Phase 1: The "casual dating" phase. You are probably both going out with other people, and you're not sleeping together (at least, that's MY rule -- obviously, different people have very different rules about this). You're figuring out whether you like each other, and probably seeing each other once or twice a week. This phase usually lasts a month or two.

Phase 2: Once you've decided that you like each other and are ready to move to the next level, you progress to phase 2, the "trying the relationship on for size and seeing how well it fits" phase. You have a conversation about being exclusive. You meet each others' friends. Your dates start to occasionally last more than 24 hours and involve weekends away together. A lot of relationships meet their demise a month or two into Phase 2 when it become apparent that it's just not a match.  If all goes well, after four or five months you slide naturally into Phase 3, no conversation necessary.

Phase 3: Phase 3 is exactly like Phase 2 but more permanent. Eventually, it leads to marriage, babies, a mortgage, and of course eternal happiness.

My sister has always said that she loves Phase 1. She thinks it's fun to kiss without it leading to anything more, and go on fun dates, and get to know the person. I, personally, find Phase 1 to be torturous. There's just so much uncertainty involved. You have no idea if the person you're seeing is dating other people they like; you really don't have any clue whatsoever where you stand with them. During Phase 1 with Theradate there were stretches when we had to schedule a new Diff Con every single week. It was exhausting. (In fairness, before it sounds like I was horribly miserable during this entire time I should add that while I did feel a lot of anxiety during Phase 1, I also had many, many moments of feeling happy and excited.)

Granted, there's still plenty of uncertainty involved in Phase 2. And granted, Theradate and I have only been in Phase 2 for about 24 hours, so it's a little bit hard to know yet what it'll be like, or how many Diff Cons it will involve. But I have high hopes :)

Emotional insurance

Theradate does not have renter's insurance, which shocks me. I don't have renter's insurance, either, but it's different because a) I'm going to get it soon (July 15 is the deadline my financial planner gave me), b) I don't have anywhere near as much nice stuff as Theradate, and c) the few valuable possessions I do have were mostly cleaned out by the thieves that broke into my place in February. Also, about a thousand people in the New England area know where Theradate keeps his spare keys. I don't even HAVE spare keys.

I gave Theradate many, many reasons why he absolutely has to get renter's insurance. He sighed.

"If only I could get emotional renter's insurance," he said. "That's the only part I care about."

TOTALLY. The check for $250 I got last week from my roommate's insurance company is a pittance compared to the emotional damage wreaked by the thieves. It feels like such a violation to have someone come into your home and comb through your possessions.

I wish I could get emotional insurance, too. And not just for my apartment -- I can think of tons of things I need emotional insurance for.

Not the least of which, at this particular moment in time, is Theradate. He confused me yesterday. Since I don't have emotional insurance, I did the next best thing and put him in texting purgatory. He's not allowed to text me for 48 hours so I can clear my head.

But really, someone should figure out a way to sell emotional insurance. I would be your first client.

Curbing my enthusiasm

I am working hard to follow my wise mother's advice not to act too eager with Theradate. When he begged, cajoled and pleaded with me to accompany him to a friend's barbecue and party last Friday night, I steadfastly said no. He asked if I'd consider playing hooky at work and going with him to Northampton; I refused. When he suggested we sign up to take a cheese class in July, or maybe just go to France and eat cheese in July, I said we should concentrate on making plans for the next week, not two months into the future. He asked if I wanted to take a drive up to the nudist lake in Vermont I went to as a child, and I told him I was not going to any nudist places with him for a LONG time. And last weekend, as we were kissing in his car, one minute I was thinking, "Damn, Theradate is the cutest thing EVER. I could kiss him all night. And think how adorable our babies would be! They'd have unkempt Tom Waits hair, beautiful dark eyes, and incredible hats." The next minute, my inner monologue said, "Heathen, BACK THE FUCK OFF. Remember what your mother said." And I did. I think I deserve some kind of medal for that.

Inside my head, unfortunately, it's not so easy to contain my excitement. Theradate makes my heart beat fast and my tummy feel a little bit fluttery and kinda nauseous. It's like being on drugs, and it's awesome and stressful at the same time. As scary as it is to like someone and not know what will happen, I do know that Theradate is a solid guy and a first-class communicator. So, I am officially giving myself permission to get a *little* bit excited.

Still, sometimes I think about how much easier it is to date guys I feel ambivalent about. Hmm, I wonder if 95% is still single?

The Slow Decider

I'm a slow decider. It takes me a few months to decide if I really love a new item of clothing, or new jewelry. It's not just a process of looking and deciding whether or not I objectively like it; I need to wear it for a while and see how it feels on me and whether or not it feels like a match for me. 

And boyfriends are no different. My feelings about exes tend to gradually morph and change shape over time. Sometimes they mellow and improve, like old wine or fine cheese; other times they behave more like rotten vegetables. Nearly four years after La Moustache broke my heart, I am finally ready to think about him as a nuanced person with faults as well as good qualities, and I even wrote him a couple of friendly emails this winter.  It took me a few years after our breakup, but I now consider l'Artista to be a good friend and one of the best exes one could possibly ask for. Dreamy, on the other hand, is like one of those vegetables that dry up and shrivel in your vegetable drawer. He's not really ever on my mind, not because it's painful to think about him but just simply because I don't feel any connection to him.

Monkeyboy, though a brief affair, is someone who I avoid thinking about because it's painful. In just a few short weeks he managed to win my trust, then break my heart in a way that seemed like it should be impossible in such a short time frame. His last communication with me was a note in which he refused to see me to talk about the breakup, and I don't foresee ever contacting him or hearing from him again. Leif Ericson is another one who I don't think about much, though in his case it's more because he just wasn't so memorable. By now I think more often of the delicious concoctions his friend cooked up than I do about Leif himself, whose personality always seemed a bit amorphous, probably because he was an alcoholic. And, although I only went on just four short dates with him, I continue to have a big soft spot for Theradate, to whom I managed to recount my entire life story on our first date and STILL have plenty to talk to him about on our subsequent dates. I ran into him at the movies a couple of months ago, and giggled when he told me that he managed to cry four times during 56 Up (I'm still not sure how that is humanly possible). He checked in with me after the bombings a couple of weeks ago, making sure that not only was I ok but asking about my sister and brother-in-law, too. He can be a bit over-the-top, but he's sweet.  

These days I'm dating 95%, and am beginning to wonder how I'll think about him in a year's time or two. He's kind and thoughtful and would do anything to make me happy, but after three months of dating I still don't feel that I really know him. He's smart, interesting and a great match for me in many ways, but I'm just not as excited after three months as I probably should be. 

Meanwhile, Theradate contacted me a week and a half ago to ask me to get together. He had told me when we broke up that he wanted to stay in touch, so I was happy but unsurprised to hear from him. I didn't really have time to see him, but I said yes anyway. It turns out he didn't really have time to see me, either, and he ended up canceling, saying he'd rather get together when we both have the time to hang out, maybe spend a weekend afternoon together. I didn't feel disappointed when he canceled. 

Still, it got me to thinking about Theradate, and a few days later I found myself doing some Internet research about him. I found out that he seems to be recently single, which made me wonder if his contacting me was in fact just the friendly gesture I had initially interpreted it as. I decided to check in about when we'd be hanging out. This led to an increasingly frustrating series of texts that went along the following lines: 

TD: Heeeeey!! Love to see you. I'll be in Boston twice this week: on Tuesday for a business dinner and then again on Friday. 

Me: Cool! Maybe we can get a drink before your business dinner or after?

TD: Not sure. There's a slim chance my dinner could be over by 9 so maybe we could see each other then. If not, I miiiiiight be able to squeeze you in on Friday before my plans. I'll check in with my colleague about Friday. 

Me: Let's aim for one or the other. Which one seems more likely?

Then, feeling that this was becoming ridiculous:  Theradate, much as I'd love to see you, all these "maybes" are making it difficult to plan my week. Let's postpone until you have a time when you're sure you're able to hang out. 

TD: Totally understand, Heathen. We'll do that. Sorry for all the craziness -- my schedule should be more open in a couple of weeks. 

Me: Okay, it would be fun to hang out the weekend after next if you're around!

Then,, in a last-ditch attempt: Any chance you are free for a beer tomorrow?

TD: Would LOVE to see you but I'm heading to Boston in rush hour traffic and I have to be there right after I'm done with work!!! 

At that point, I growled at my phone and gave up. Maybe it'll happen someday; maybe it won't. In the meantime, I'm finding myself thinking about Theradate and feeling annoyed at myself for doing so and annoyed at him for reappearing and making me think about him all over again after MONTHS of not thinking about him, but seeming incapable of making plans that don't include a "maybe."

Putting my geography degree to good use

I have a long reverse commute to work. The downside of this is that I spend a long time in the car every day and feel guilty all the time about all the horrible, toxic gases I'm releasing into the atmosphere; the upside is I don't mind being in the car and I rarely have to deal with traffic. Oh, and also I love my job, which makes it all worthwhile.

Because of my guilt as well as my concern that too much time in the car is bad for my mental health, I try hard to limit my non-commuter driving. I spend lots of time on the weekends on the subway, or trekking around Jamaica Plain on foot. Above all, I certainly do not want a relationship that involves any extra driving. Therefore, for the past few months one of the qualities I've looked for in the men I date has been "lives northeast of Boston" (along my route to work). I was derailed briefly in the fall when I dated Theradate, who lives a whopping 45 minutes in the opposite direction in a completely different state (what was I thinking??), but since then I've stuck pretty closely to the north-of-Boston types.

This week, after months of trying, I finally had a major commuter-dater win. Like I said, I rarely deal with traffic -- but every so often I do, namely when there is a Red Sox game or when it is raining. (Boston drivers, among their many other quirks, are apparently incapable of driving in the rain. I'm not talking about a driving rainstorm here; more like a light drizzle.) One day this week, there was a light, intermittent rain falling, and true to form the highway was backed up about 8 miles north of the city. My co-workers reported the next day that it took them close to two hours to get home, and they don't even live as far as I do.

95% and I had plans to see a movie at my house, but when I saw the traffic situation I quickly called him to suggest a change. Thankfully, he agreed, and I pulled off the highway after a mere ten minutes in traffic, stopped at my favorite Mexican place to get takeout, and was at 95%'s house 20 minutes later.

Hooray for pragmatic dating!

Dating like a grown-up

I'm feeling good about my dating life lately. Not that anything terribly exciting is happening; it's still rare for me to get to a third date, and I seem to have dates with an endless parade of men named either Matt or Dave. (Last week I had four dates, out of which 75% were named either Matt or Dave.  Can't anyone get a bit more creative with the names?) They're smart, interesting men, and I have fun with them, but it's hard to feel like I have skin in the game with any of them.

In the past, the men I've been seriously interested in I've liked instantly. It took me all of five hours to fall hopelessly in love with l'Artista (and there were no words exchanged during that time, since I spoke no Italian and he no English), and I became smitten with La Moustache the second time I met him. I was even quite taken with Dreamy on our first few dates, strange as that now seems. But these days it's hard to imagine that happening. I have a career, and a craft business on the side, and a million other things going on. I'm not sure I have it in me to meet someone and have them become the immediate focus of my attention (though if I have gleaned one rule about dating from my experiences, it's to never make predictions because you NEVER know what will happen).

There are a lot of positive aspects of not having skin in the game. For starters, I am finding it much easier to put myself out there. So, last night I was able to tell my date flirtatiously, just before I raced out the door to meet Slinky, "We should have a proper date next time!" My date eagerly agreed, but the next morning I thought back to the part of our date when he showed me about 30 photos of his cat and wondered if I had made a mistake. Last weekend, after a few glasses of wine, I walked up to a Bavarian-looking mountain man in a green vest and said, "I liked your moves on the dance floor." I started to walk away, but he was excited to find himself talking to a cute blond girl and stopped my progress. He didn't end up asking for my number, and I was fine with that; I knew he wanted to and probably kicked himself that he hadn't. And the other day I told Pottery Crush, who I've been sitting across from every Wednesday night for the past 1.5 years and somehow just noticed recently that a) he exists and b) he's a cute, single guy, that we should check out a concert together sometime. We also talked about getting together for some glaze firings... HOT!! (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

So even though I'm not feeling particularly excited about anyone, there are plenty of eligible bachelors out there. I'm not planning to get invested in any of them for a while. But I am looking forward to a sledding date later this weekend with 95%, a man who seemed so good on paper that I fully expected to feel an immediate connection with him when I met him. I didn't, but I'm going to keep going out with him and see if a connection starts to develop, because I think he's a good egg with a lot of potential. And maybe it's time to stop expecting to find someone who'll make me feel like a teenager, seeing as how it's been a decade and a half since I was one.

The glass is half empty

My sister and I were looking through dating profiles recently. She kept piping in with mostly positive comments: "He sounds really thoughtful!" or "He's artistic, that's good for you." Then, invariably, we'd get to the bottom of the profile and she'd express the same frustration I've felt many times when checking what age the bachelor in question is interested in dating: "Ugh. Another one who only wants younger women." So many men end their age ranges at their own age, or a year or two below. Why??! Are they  following what they perceive to be social norms without thinking about it, do they not want to date someone who's their equal, are they worried about the fertility of older women? In any case, it's offensive.

Finally, we found one whose age range was wider -- he wanted to date women up to age 45, a good 10 years older than he is! I pointed this out hopefully to my sister. She sighed and shook her head regretfully.

"I'm afraid that means he doesn't want children."

Goodbye, Man-sprout

I was looking forward to my long-awaited date with Man-sprout, the man I went out with last April who then canceled our second date last-minute and recently charmed me into agreeing to go out with him again. It had been a looong week, one of the longest I can remember, filled with lots of tears over Big Guy's passing, some soul-searching over whether to take off work and go to his memorial, confusingly kind messages from La Moustache, a small car accident that led to missing an important work meeting... I *really* needed a cocktail.

Instead, I got one line:

Heathen, 

I'm not going to be able to make it tomorrow. Something has come up. 

Man-sprout

Wow. It's hard to know how to respond to this level of rudeness. I decided to just laugh about it and get a cocktail with Slinky instead -- exactly what I did the last time he canceled on me (and SO much more fun than going out with Man-sprout would have been).

Turning into a crotchety old lady

My sister told me this morning that I'm in danger of becoming one of those crabby, crotchety people on the Internet.

And it's true. But it's not my fault. I keep being provoked by men who don't follow my simple rules: If you are interested in someone, contact them and be nice to them. If you aren't interested, don't contact them. Is it too much to expect people to follow this logic on an Internet dating site??

Examples:

• My Enemy: I received a message from a suitor who was amazed that we managed to be 0% match, 0% friends, 93% enemies. I read his profile and was amazed, too. He seemed smart and interesting and he writes for my all-time favorite publication, so I replied to his polite email with a nice email of my own. He wrote back a distinctly unfriendly one-liner; apparently we ARE enemies, after all. How did the Internet know?!
• Ohio: A recent transplant from Ohio reached out. His email was boring, he mentioned wanting to be friends, and his age range ended a year below my age -- even though he's exactly the same age as me! I didn't reply. A few weeks later he tried again; this time I explained my qualms. He wrote back: "I think friendship is the basis for any romantic relationship. And I am sincere when I say that you look much younger than your age!" So you normally wouldn't want to date someone so old, but are willing to make an exception because I don't look old even though I am?? Thanks, but no thanks. (He eventually upped his age range by one year after I pointed this out to him. Why are you not willing to date someone a year or two older than you??)
• Weird Mainer: A guy from my home state wrote to me explaining that he's not interested in dating because "we're probably related," but he thought he'd reach out anyway (his purpose was unclear -- "because we'll probably run into each other eventually." Um, I doubt it.). I'm pretty sure I'm related to three Mainers: my mom, my dad and my sister. If you don't want to date me, don't make up an excuse to explain why. 
• Couchsurfer: Someone who's 'not looking for a relationship' wrote to say he doesn't think we're a match BUT he thinks I'd like Couchsurfing. Actually, if I wanted to find out about travel info, I'd belong to a travel info discussion board. And by the way, everyone in the world already knows about Couchsurfing, and thinks it's weird. Or at least I do. (A sleazy guy I know uses it to meet European women a decade or so younger than him and sleep with them.) And if you don't know about Couchsurfing and want to read all about its weirdness, check out the New Yorker article about it. 

I used to have a note at the end of my profile saying you should get in touch only if you wanted to date me, but I took it down a while back because I wondered if it was unnecessary and might feel negative to a potential suitor. It might be that it's time to reinstate this self-evident truth. 

'Tis the season for exes to come crawling out of the woodwork

It's that time of year when people take stock of their lives, feel lonely, get sentimental, and contact their long-lost loves. I've seen signs of it all over the place, from my roommate mentioning over breakfast that she'd written a boyfriend she's barely spoken to in two years to headlines in Love Letters like Should she reach out to an ex over the holidays? and Contacting a old love [sic].

Some people do it well, like l'Artista, who sent me a sweet note telling me he's been thinking about me a lot lately. These people express their emotions without letting themselves get carried away by them. Other people do it poorly, such as Leif Ericson, who sent me an impersonal, self-serving, AA-style apology note. Six months after the fact, it was utterly unnecessary, and left me feeling that any connection I ever felt to him was imagined. I didn't reply; or maybe I did. (Gmail is giving me mixed messages about whether or not the reply I crafted was ever sent. But it's the thought that counts, and I didn't *mean* to reply.)

I also got an unexpected message from a long-lost date who I never thought I'd hear from again. (I'm a little bit hesitant to link to old posts about him, because I didn't say anything very positive about him and I want to keep an open mind. But what the hell.) He asked me to give him a second chance. I felt ambivalent about it and wasn't sure how to respond, so I asked some friends what they thought I should do. You know when you get the same exact advice from two of your very best advice-givers that it is really quality advice, so I followed it and requested that he provide me with a reason why I should go out with him again. He replied,

Hi Heathen, In the spring what happened was that I started seeing another girl more seriously right around the time when we went out. I agree I screwed up and should have been more straightforward with you and told you what was going on. I regret and and I'm sorry I ruined your Friday night. 

I think you should give me another chance because I thought we had a really good first date, because I think you're very smart and interesting, because on our date I made you laugh (a lot, as I recall), because I think we have a lot in common, because I think you're cute, because I want to talk more about education policy and French things with you, and because I'd like to spend more time with you. That's more than one reason, but I think they're all good. Have I persuaded you?

Man-sprout

I was charmed by this (I like nothing more than a man who likes me!), plus I remembered that he introduced me to one of my favorite music videos of all time, so I agreed. Time will tell if I live to regret this decision -- unless the world ends tonight, of course.

Dating, Italian-style

"Tell me about your most recent date," said my date last night, a blond, blue-eyed Mediterranean whose coloring, if not his sharp southern Italian esses, contrasts sharply with l'Artista's.

"D'accordo," I said, "although I have to warn you, it's not going to be a very interesting story. We met up for dinner last week after my sister's annual Christmas cookie-baking party. I brought along a few of the cookies we baked, so we had those for dessert. We talked a lot about New York since we both lived there for a long time. He was nice, but I wasn't feeling it."

I paused for a moment, then added, "How about you? Tell me about your most recent date."

"I haven't had any," he replied. "I hate dating, American-style. I know all the rules, and I hate them. But tell me, how come you didn't bring cookies on our date??"

"I'm sorry,"I told him, "I should have. But I do have a quiche in the car if you want some."

The date ended with us standing by my car, eating my half-frozen quiche, him pretending to enjoy it even though I had warned him it wasn't the most delicious thing I had ever made. And I thought, I sure do like Italians.

Lucio Battisti: one of many Italians I love.

Life > Fiction

Most of the time in my dating life, things are pretty ho-hum. Nothing much to write home about, or to even think about the next day. But every so often something happens that reminds me of how crazy and silly life is, and how I could not make this stuff up if I tried.

Such an event happened last night. I headed down to Rhode Island after work, feeling woozy from a nasty cough and lack of sleep. Theradate was kind enough to tell me where to find his spare keys, so I let myself in and plunked myself down on the couch. I was too wiped to follow his directive to raid his fridge and snoop around; instead, I curled up with my New Yorker and read/dozed.

Even though I barely made it past the front door, I could see that Theradate's house is very nice. Very grown-up and light-filled and beautiful. But I wanted to wait for him to come home to see all the details. So, it wasn't until half an hour later or so that I got the full tour, including the second floor bedroom/balcony with spectacular windows. Near the bedroom is a funky little twisty passage shaped like a snail shell that you walk through to access the bathroom.

It took a moment for this to sink in. Then: "Sooooo... you don't have a bathroom door??!"

Theradate: "Nope! You just walk through there to get to the bathroom."

Those of you who have been reading my blog since my Leif Ericson fling last summer remember the trials and tribulations and many trips to Starbucks I had to take while dating him due to his lack of a bathroom door. Seriously, what are the chances that I date two men within six months that don't have bathroom doors?? Is this phenomenon more widespread than I realized? Or do I have an unhealthy penchant for men with boundary issues?

Thankfully, Theradate's downstairs bathroom has a nice, solid door with a lock on it. Such refreshingly normal, healthy boundaries.