The "wear-everything-you-own" challenge

I gave myself a challenge this summer: I had to wear every summer top I own. I imagine that this would not be difficult for most people, but I have -- ahem -- a lot of clothes. Two giant captain drawers full, not to mention the ones in the closet. I've collected these clothes over the span of several decades; the oldest one dates to when I was nine. (I realize that makes me sound like a hoarder, and I'm willing to accept that label if it's what I have to do to keep the shirt I got at theater camp in the 4th grade.) Anything I didn't wear by the end of the summer had to go in the donation bin.

In order to complete the challenge, I had to wear a different shirt every day, and a few times I even changed midway through the day. I gave myself a break and did not include my summery long-sleeved shirts in the challenge, since they go in a separate drawer and there is some gray area there that could confuse matters. While packing for vacations, the sole criteria I used to decide what to bring was whether or not I had already worn an item, which made for some interesting ensembles, like when the only clean clothes I had left were an army green tank top and my army green cargo shorts. And, as it turned out, I was so focused on packing my summer shirts that I did not pack a single long-sleeved item for a week-long vacation in Vermont where it was 60 degrees for much of the week.

This morning, I pulled out a hand-me-down from my friend Miami Nice that hasn't seen the light of day in several years, and as I put it on I thought to myself that I *must* be nearing the end of the wear-everything-you-own challenge. Unfortunately, when I did a quick count I unearthed ten shirts that have not been worn, including a black halter top, my Obama t-shirt, a shirt with the number 17 on it that a friend from Japan gave me in the late 90s, and a purple tank top with silver sequins.

There are nine days left of summer. Think I can do it?? I'd really hate to have to donate my Obama t-shirt.

The Death Phase

A few years ago, my mom's parents died within a few months of each other, and my mom went through a Death Phase. She thought about death all the time, and was prone to saying things like, "There's no point in buying that, since it'll just become clutter for you to take care of one day." My friend Miami Nice came to visit during the Death Phase, and started telling my mom about this book she had read called Stiff, about dead bodies. "I would loooooove to read that," said my mom, eyes wide, as I made "cut!" gestures to Miami while Mom wasn't looking. Once, my parents texted while I was out celebrating a friend's birthday, and I didn't reply. The next morning, I took a shower, and by the time I got out of the shower not only did I have multiple voicemails of increasing desperation from my parents, but I also had messages from several friends. My mom had convinced everyone -- even the friends who I had been out with the night before -- that something terrible had befallen me. Nope, just taking a shower!

My landlord's mother had a heart attack recently and is now in rehab, and he seems to be going through a Death Phase of his own as a result. I told him I am moving out. He said he doesn't want me to, and he won't raise the rent if I'll stay. But then, he said he thinks I'm doing the right thing. "You're not getting any younger," he reminded me. "Oops, did I just say that out loud?"

He gave me the following advice: Never go out for dinner. No drinks out. Save up like crazy, because I'm going to need $3 million to get me through my last years. I can do it, as long as I live like "a cheap bastard" (his words). "You never know, you might find yourself old and with no one to take care of you. I might, too," he said, just before he walked out.

Quite the reality check. And I thought cheap rent meant I could go off austerity measures.

Over the hill

I went out with a guy last week who is a couple of years younger than me. A little ways into the conversation, I found out that he went to the same college as a few of my friends.

I threw some names his way. "Ms. B? Miami Nice? Ring any bells?"

"When did they graduate?"

I told him.

"No, they're too old. I might recognize them, but they were seniors when I was a freshman," he said.

"There is someone else I know, but she's really young," I said. "We're going to be in a canoe race together this weekend. But there's no way you'd know her." I told him her name. She's my childhood friend's younger sister.

"Yeah, we graduated together," he replied. Then he made a few jokes about the fact that I was born in the 1970s. Including one about the Civil Rights movement. It went something like this: "The Civil Rights movement happened not that long ago. It was just two decades before I was born. I guess it was in the decade before you were born." Snicker, snicker.

Quite the charmer. Still, I might go out with him again. After all, those of us who were born in the 70s can't be too picky. We're pretty old.

Enter Monkeyboy

As of last night, I have a new love interest who has rapidly set a number of dating records for me, including:

• Most excitement (on my end) for a first date
• Funniest guy I've gone out with
• Best follow-up (texted to thank me for being the "best thing since sliced bread" immediately after the date, picked up hat I forgot at the restaurant the following day, already asked me out on date #2)
• Closest resemblance to the husband of a friend (he looks a lot like my friend Miami Nice's hubby, Mr. Miami)
• Most eco-friendly guy I've ever dated (he drives a Prius!!!)
• Most observant (he complimented me on my nailpolish; my nail guru, Slinky, says that means he's a keeper)
• First guy I've dated who owns a kayak
  

Overall, Monkeyboy seems really great so far. But the aspect I feel most positive about is something I've been thinking about ever since I noticed Doctor O back on OkCupid a couple of days ago, which is that it feels like Monkeyboy and I are in really similar places in life. We both moved from other cities a year or two ago after big breakups; we both live alone with a pet or two for company, and have careers we're happy with; we both go on lots of vacations with our parents. Differences can be interesting, too, but in my last few relationships it's felt like there's an inequality between us that makes things difficult long-term. Actually, let me change that: there's been inequality in ALL my relationships, on one side or the other. And I definitely felt that inequality with Doctor O -- I was flattered by the attention from such an accomplished man, a bit intimidated by the grown-up life he lives, and didn't quite feel like I was at the same level as him.

I'm not sure what I'll do if Doctor O does get in touch, but I think it's probably best if he doesn't. It would be nice for him to remain a strange, interesting little anecdote in my dating history.

Just say no

I've become aware of a problem I have recently: It is very difficult for me to say no and disappoint people. I came to realize this soon after Dreamy and I broke up, when, after overcoming my initial sadness, I felt a huge sense of relief. It dawned on me that I would have broken up with him much earlier if I hadn't felt bad about disappointing him.

I actually did try to break up with him in early August, on the eve of Ms. Swamp's wedding to the Sensitive Bostonian (now my brother-in-law). I felt weird bringing Dreamy as my date knowing that I'd probably break up with him soon, so, on my friend Miami Nice's advice, I called him and was brutally honest. I told him that I'd still like to go through with our plans to attend the wedding together and go on a vacation together, but I didn't see a future for us. He asked if there was any chance I'd change my mind, and I said I didn't think so. And then he said that he was fine with coming to the wedding and going to Costa Rica, and we did those things, and I pretended to myself that I'd changed my mind even though I hadn't really and even though I often felt that I'd much rather be by myself than with him.

In the end, things worked out fine. His departure for New York made for a convenient break, and I don't regret staying with him for those extra couple of months. In a way it made it easier to remember our relationship fondly, since I had a lot of negative feelings toward him over the summer that dissipated during the early fall. Dreamy wasn't a bad guy; we had a pretty good relationship, even though we weren't right for each other. But I wonder what would have happened if he hadn't moved to New York. How long would I have continued to try to convince myself that maybe I'd start to feel in love with him again? And who did I think I was doing any favors for by staying with a guy who I knew I didn't want to marry? Having experienced several times how difficult it is when someone (La Moustache, the Brazilian) didn't want to be with me but had trouble telling me so, I know firsthand how much easier it would be if they would just say it.

Now I'm faced with the task of disappointing someone again, a guy I've gone out with three times and had an unpleasant, makes-me-want-to-scrub-my-mouth-out kiss with at the end of our third date. I was pretty sure after our first date that I wasn't into him (as were some friends who happened to be in the same bar and were observing our interactions), but I kept going out with him partly to make sure, and partly because it was easier than disappointing him. Now the time has come, because I REALLY can't go through with another one of those kisses, and I've set myself a deadline of 3 p.m. today and pulled out Ms. Swamp's much-used breakup email to revise and send off.

The good news is I'm also dating someone who I like a lot, who is smart and interesting and likes me too and tells me three times before every date how excited he is to see me and wants to make me dinner next week (date #4). I'm excited to see him, too, and to get to know him better and continue adding to the lists of green, yellow and red flags in his section of my Man List. And if I should uncover some red flags in my research, please remind me to SAY NO.

My dreamy boyfriend

A few weeks ago, I went to visit my friend Miami Nice in her new town a few hours from where I live. While I was there, I talked to her about some of Dreamy's annoying habits, and how he can be thoughtless in small ways. Then, I asked if she thought I should break up with him.

"Are you crazy?!!" she asked. "He sounds like he's wonderful in all the right ways. Those little problems you're talking about, they're just superficialities. Believe me, Mr. Miami Nice has had issues in that department, too. All men do. But Dreamy sounds perfect for you."

It's taken me eight months of dating him, but I have finally come to realize how right Miami is. Dreamy is sometimes bad at the technicalities of being a boyfriend -- showing up at the right time, remembering to offer to do the dishes, calling while he's away... I could go on. Believe me, it's frustrating sometimes. And it's a contrast with La Moustache, who was very good at all those little details. He called me every day when he was away. He bought amazing gifts for my birthday and Christmas. He made me delicious Raclette dinners every year for Valentine's day. He did my laundry for three years.

And in the end, he was an utter disaster of a boyfriend. He wasn't good at all the things that most matter -- being there when I needed him, being emotionally available, telling me that he loved me and MEANING IT (he did tell me all the time, but it was certainly hard to believe given the way he treated me).

I had a hard week last week, and Dreamy was wonderful. He came over every night. He talked to me about how great he thinks I am. He told me that he loves me and that I've become an important part of his life that he relies on, and I believed him because Dreamy is always sincere. Last night, we went to a dance together, and when I told him I didn't feel like swing dancing with him, he offered to pay me $100 for five minutes of dancing. And then we danced, and he twirled me around and dipped me and we giggled and gazed into each others' eyes, and I forgot all about my troubles.

I got together with some friends last week, and we were kvetching about men, and how frustrating it can be to go on first dates and find again and again how self-centered men can be. There are so many men out there who are terrible at asking questions that even ones who ask inane questions start to seem like prizes. Men who are afraid of commitment are out there in droves, as well as men who struggle to open up. But there are also a few Dreamies out there. They are rare and hard to find, but they are out there, and it's worth the trouble to look for them.

Epic weekend

I had a great time on Friday with Dreamy, and felt very warm and fuzzy for a couple of hours afterward. Then I headed north toward Vermont for my friend Miami Nice's long-awaited nuptials, got caught up in wedding adventures and forgot all about him for a few days.

It was truly a spectacular wedding weekend. Everything was perfect, from the crisp early fall air to the deliciously roasted rehearsal dinner pig to the tear- and laughter-inducing vows to the bright chuppah made by the father of the groom. It was obvious that, down to the last guest, everyone was thrilled to be there and glad for the happy couple.

After dinner wrapped up, we all got our dancing feet on. At the risk of sounding full of myself, I was a very popular bridesmaid (I was the only single bridesmaid, but still). Several of the groom's friends tried very hard to woo me, and started to remind me a bit of male peacocks as they tried to outcompete each other through their (very impressive) dance moves. I would have been tempted to share a few kisses in the woods with one or two of them, but unfortunately, I was out of commission due to a previous kissing-related injury.

Yes, that's me, with the most HORRIBLE rugburn I've ever gotten thanks to my extended makeout session on Friday with Dreamy. I couldn't risk exacerbating it by getting back in the saddle; my chin desperately needed a few makeout-free days. (Luckily, Miami is a very cool bride and not only did she not mind that my face looked weird for her wedding, she thought it was hilarious and asked if she could share the story with other people at the wedding. I politely declined.)

When the barn where the wedding was located closed at 10 p.m., people headed to the afterparty. I said my goodbyes and planned to head home with my condo-mates, thinking I should make it an early night so I wouldn't be too tired for school on Tuesday. Several people tried to dissuade me, but I stood my ground. Finally, someone -- I can't recall who -- said, "You know, Miami's only going to get married once." That got me. I hopped on the shuttle bus to the afterparty, and thank goodness I did, because otherwise I would have missed out on four or so of the funnest hours of my life. It was an incredible, unforgettable party. By the time 2 a.m. rolled around, Miami had to convince me to go home.


The night ended with the groom climbing -- and then falling out of -- a tree, one of my peacocks losing his shoe when the groom kicked it into a field in retaliation for being pushed into a ditch, magic tricks involving disappearing cigarettes and sticks being pushed into people's noses, and lots more dancing. And probably a few more adventures that I can't recall. Best of all, I managed to get happily drunk without losing my dinner, quite a contrast with my bachelorette shenanigans a few weeks ago. I only wish I could go back and do it all over again.

Sigh. Time to get back to reality now.

Beginnings and endings

I'm in New York for a couple of days to celebrate my dear friend Miami Nice's bachelorette party. I couldn't be happier for her or more excited for her wedding in Vermont in a few short weeks. After 12 years together, it is definitely time for them to tie the knot! When I broke up with La Moustache in a series of text messages from a beach in Queens where I was sunbathing with his aunt and uncle last September, I fled immediately to Miami and her fiance's apartment. The three of us sat on their slouchy beige couch that evening and wrote my first online dating profile together. They are amazing friends, and I feel so lucky to have them in my life, even if it's a bit harder these days to drop by for a bowl of ice cream and an hour or two of junky television like I used to do in the past.

Yesterday Miami and I decided to indulge ourselves, and we made appointments at Bumble and bumble for the most expensive haircut I've ever gotten (we do look great, though). As we were leaving the salon, a call came in from another dear friend of mine, Checkered Girl. She was in tears, calling to let me know that she wouldn't be making it to the bachelorette party after all. Her boyfriend of two years who she's living with broke up with her the night before.

This is not the first time it's felt that Checkered Girl and I are living parallel lives, except she's a year behind me. We both had l'Artista-type boyfriends, handsome and sexy and utterly commitment-phobic, that went on for WAY longer than they should have (mine was much nicer than hers, though). We both found inner reserves of strength and moved on. Then we both found boyfriends who seemed ready to take the next step with us. They wooed us, convincing us to be with them by telling us how dedicated they were to making a relationship work long-term. We both moved in with them fairly quickly, after 7 or 8 months. And then they both fell through. It is so sad and painful to watch it happen to a friend of mine, to know exactly what she's going through and not be able to do anything to help.

Her story may have a different ending than mine. In this case, her boyfriend is much nicer than La Moustache. I like him a lot, and I hope he will wake up and realize that he will never, ever find a better girlfriend, and do whatever it takes to get past his issues and work it out.

The bachelorette was great. There were 8 of us, and I ended up sitting next to a tiny girl who probably weights ten pounds less than I do (and I weigh under 100), across from two vegetarians. We ordered the Meat Lover's Meal for 6 at a delicious Korean/Japanese barbeque joint. The plates arrived two by two, one going to the side of the table where 4 hungry meat eaters sat (including one who's pregnant with twins), the other going to me and the tiny girl. Well, guess who ravenously managed to devour half of the beef -- that's right, the two girls who look like they're twelve! The other side of the table still had a number of beef chunks left by the time dinner was over, but our plates were empty except for little bloody pools.

It was a great time, and totally worth the hangover this morning (including the multiple times I had to run to the bathroom to puke -- not sure if it was the beef or the lychee martinis that didn't agree with me). Still, as I was out with Miami and her friends drinking girly drinks and painting the town red, I thought often of how Checkered Girl must be feeling now, and my eyes teared up a bit. At the same time, I feel so, so thankful that I am a year past that feeling myself. I know she'll get past it, too.

Sleeping Dogs (& Sleeping Birds)

Holy cow. I wanted to write a blog post last night but then I stepped out of my room for five minutes, stepped back in and couldn't find Persil. Thirteen hours later, I was STILL looking for him without having slept a wink, and finally found him hiding under a towel on the back of my door underneath about a million jackets, scarves and other miscellany. He's now having a looooooong time out in his cage to think about his behavior. (Update 3 hours later: His time out is over, I opened the door to his cage and he refuses to come out. Ingrate.)

Anyhow. After I'm done hyperventilating, I'll go back to reflecting on what I was thinking about before the shit hit the fan, which is my exes. Yesterday, I became Facebook friends with my very first boyfriend, the Modern Jewish Boy (so named because at one point he was reading a book entitled "The Modern Jewish Man"). I was in love with him from age 12 to 16, and we dated twice, once when I was 13 and again when I was 16. Both times he eventually lost interest, but rather than tell me that, he just faded away, letting more and more time pass before he returned my phone calls and being distant when we did talk. (Actually, I suspect that depression may have played some role in this behavior. But maybe that's just me making excuses.)

I still have a pretty big soft spot for him, and I was excited to see him on Facebook. I immediately went to his page and started to write a note saying hi, how's life, I'd love to get a beer with you sometime, I often think of you, etc. Before I hit "post" I glanced down at his page and read the updates he had written in his one day on Facebook. I had the same reaction I had the last time I saw him, which is: Oh, yeah. He's totally immature and exactly the same as he was when we were 13, and 16, and he's probably always going to be that way. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. I erased my friendly note.

This reminder caused me to reflect that, in the end, ALL my boyfriends have kinda been jerks. Not that they went out of their way to mistreat me (though I would say that La Moustache did), but they didn't treat me with the consideration I deserve because they were too wrapped up in themselves and their own needs. This is a worrisome thought. Do I go for jerks? Is that why I emailed the cute guy on OKC who sounded totally self-centered in his profile? I know I used to like the bad boys when I was in grade school, but I thought I was past that stage; have I moved on to the adult version of the same disease?

There is, however, one partial exception to my jerky ex-boyfriend rule: l'Artista, my painting teacher who I met when I was 18 and he was 28, who after my immediate family was probably the most formative figure in my life. I can honestly say that I would not be the person I am now if I had not met him. Yes, he should have let me go sooner than he did -- actually, he didn't exactly "let" me go, it was more like I had to claw my way out of that relationship, hanging up on him when he called, putting a block on my email, etc. It often felt like I was cutting the umbilical cord. So, in a way, he was a jerk too; but he did really, really care about me, and a huge part of him really wanted to be with me. He just couldn't do it.

I got the following email from him a couple of days ago:

Dearest Heathen,
It's always a pleasure to hear from you.
Prezzemolo [Parsley in Italian] is very cute. Be good with Heathen! You must be very happy now to have him at home.
And your vacation? What will the two of you do?
I am traveling in Germany, working a bit, it's not really vacation vacation.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Hugs.
l'Artista

Longtime readers of my blog may remember that, in an epic moment of bad timing, l'Artista asked me if we could be more involved in each others' lives at the very moment when I was breaking up with La Moustache. This prompted a very snarky response from me. I thought that my breakup with l'Artista would be the hardest breakup of my life, but that did not turn out to be the case. Hearing from l'Artista at that particular moment was a painful reminder that when I met Moustache I believed him to be the antithesis of l'Artista in so many ways, and I turned out to be very, very wrong.

Now I'm wondering again if I should perhaps let l'Artista back into my life a little bit, and maybe have a phone conversation with him once in a while. I've often considered calling him, even while I was with Moustache, and my friend Miami Nice always squelched the idea (feel free to squelch it again, Miami). I think I could handle it at this point without opening up a big old emotional can of worms, but I could be wrong. He feels like such an important part of my past, and I'd like to reconnect with that, but is it always better to let sleeping dogs lie?

Was it worth it?

I got a job offer yesterday that I would never have gotten had I not spent (wasted?) three years of my life with La Moustache, my Parisian ex-boyfriend who ran off with a Land Cruiser and is now somewhere between Djibouti and Yemen with his new "girlfriend". It's job is as a building substitute/maternity leave replacement in a Boston-area elementary French immersion program.

During my interview, the head of the program seemed genuinely puzzled about my language ability. "You never took any college-level French courses, yet your French is better than French majors who lived in France!" she said, almost as though she were complaining. "How is that possible?"

I didn't mention Moustache. Instead, I focused on the French classes I took in high school, the time I spent in France with my relatives there, my four years living in Montreal, the private French lessons my mom had me take as a kid... all true, but at the end of all that, I could barely put together a sentence in French. I'm pretty sure my high school French teacher would be shocked to find out that I got this job. The true secret to learning a language is to get a boyfriend (or girlfriend) who speaks it. Then have their parents who don't speak any English come for extended visits. And then there was that time when I went on vacation and finished all my books and ended up reading Moustache's copy of "I Am Charlotte Simmons" by Tom Wolfe in French... I'm sure that helped, too.

I've often considered the tradeoffs in life. What would have happened if, when my friend Miami Nice emailed me almost four years ago to ask if I wanted to go to a party and meet cute boys, I told her I was busy? Would I have gone to a different party and met another great boyfriend who wouldn't have left me for a Land Cruiser, not worked at the nightmare school I worked at last year, and still be living in New York? Of course, it's like Sliding Doors -- the alternative could be even worse. Maybe my hypothetical amazing boyfriend would have given me a horrible disease. Maybe we would have gotten in a car crash and I'd be horribly disfigured and have to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair. Maybe I would have ended up working in an even worse school... oh wait, except the school I was at is the worst school in the ENTIRE WORLD.

In the end, I guess all you can do is appreciate what you got out of it, however little that may be. I'm glad I speak French. I'm glad I had two and a half years with my sweet little lovebird. I like the car Moustache and I bought together that he gave me his half of when he left. I like the tortilla press we bought together in Mexico that I use to make delicious homemade tortillas. It's not much, but it's not nothing, either.

A New Year

I'm happy to report that, contrary to 2009, 2010 is treating me very well so far. I spent a few days in New York over New Year's, and the year started for me with an excellent Felice Brothers concert (they're back in the groove after the difficult loss of Simon, the hot brother, from the band) and breakfast in bed on New Year's day provided by my friend and hostess Miami Nice. Shortly before midnight on New Year's Eve, I received a text message from my sister informing me that she and her friends were burning pieces of paper with things written on them that they wanted to leave behind in '09, and they had been sure to include the two people who had ruined the year for me: La Moustache and Godzilla. I was filled with joy that my life is now free of both of them, and hopeful that they will one day get what's coming to them.

On the second day of the twenty-teens, or “the age of Refarling” as I like to think of it, Miami and I headed to Spa Castle with a couple of other friends. Spa Castle is not just another spa. It's an experience. It's located in College Point, Queens, a neighborhood I didn't know existed before my first trip there, but which now holds mythical significance in my mind. The spa consists of two floors of baths, one of which is separated by gender and has a no-clothes policy, and the other is half indoors and half outdoors with a view of the Queensborough Bridge (at least, that's what I assume it is; correct me if I'm wrong). Another level is filled with saunas of a variety of themes, including a salt sauna with salt walls, an LED sauna where one gets light therapy under brightly colored lamps, and a gold sauna lined with, that's right, real gold. (Being a New Englander, my favorite is Iceland, with ice walls and a temperature of 34 degrees.) Finally there is the food court filled with delectable Korean delicacies like Korean sundae, a delicious mix of shaved ice, fresh fruit, chocolate sauce, vanilla ice cream, red beans, and chewy little rice thingamajiggies called mochi. There are also nooks scattered throughout the building where people can nap, sit under purifying lights, get foot massages, do yoga, watch TV, and scrub their bodies in front of mirrors.

Unfortunately for me, when I was preparing to head to New York I forgot to pack my bathing suit. Miami Nice was unfazed. “No problem,” she said with her usual cheeriness, “you can borrow one from me.” When I mentioned this plan to Miami's boyfriend, his eyes widened. “Your bodies types are very... different,” he said.

He was being diplomatic. My body is like Ally McBeal's minus the anorexia. Miami's is more like Joan Holloway from Mad Men, which is why she dressed up as Joan for Halloween (I was a lumberjack). When I tried on her bikini, I looked like a two-year-old dressed in her mother's bra. “It makes you look like you have big boobs!” chirped Miami, lying through her teeth.

Luckily, she unearthed a sports bra, which, while not exactly flattering, at least didn't look indecent. We happily trekked out to Queens and dove into the pools. After a few minutes, I noticed that my friends were giggling. I wasn't sure why, but I was euphoric enough that I joined in. Suddenly I saw something big and black out of my peripheral vision. The jacuzzi jets were blowing at just the right angle, and my sports bra top had blown up like a balloon, as though I were the Nutty Professor coming off his fat meds. All of a sudden I looked like I had a bust bigger than Dolly Parton's.

Remind me to pack my bathing suit next time I go to New York.

The spot where my bikini top blew up