'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.

Superheroes

My school asked us not to bring up the subject of the shootings in Connecticut with our students, but to talk to them about it if they bring it up. I don't agree that this is the right approach, but I want to respect their wishes. So rather than broach the topic myself I've been asking kids questions all week, such as "Is there anything you've been feeling scared about lately?" and "Is there anything you heard about in the news that you want to talk about?"

Kids' attention spans are short, so I've met with limited success -- most of their answers have been along the lines of, "Yes, I had a nightmare last night" or "I watched this really scary movie one time." Today, though, the two young friends I was eating with both answered negatively, but then one of them paused and added, "There was something... It happened a long time ago. There were these three guns, and a man took them. He shot his mom and then he went to a school and shot some kids." [Six days qualifies as 'a long time ago' for a first grader.]

"Yes, that was really scary, wasn't it?" I replied.

"You heard about that, too!?" he asked, incredulous.

We talked for a while about how scary it was, and how they worried that the man would come to their school or their younger siblings' schools. ("I just don't want anything to happen to my brothers. They're too little.") Then the conversation took a political turn:

"I saw President Obama talking about it," said J. "He was crying."

"Yes, he was," I answered. "I think he felt really, really sad and scared about it. He promised that he will make some new rules so that it will be harder for people to get dangerous guns like that."

"I love President Obama," said O. "I wish that he were a superhero, like Spiderman."

"He is like Spiderman," replied J. "He's so brave, just like Spiderman."

"I think President Obama is brave, too," I chimed in, abandoning any pretense of being nonpartisan. "Brave people are people who feel scared but make good decisions even when they are hard. Just like you both do when you are brave and try a bite of your tomatoes at lunch."

"Yes, we are usually brave," agreed O. "I don't feel like being brave today, though."

"You don't have to try your black beans if you don't want to," I reassured him, and then I showed them this photo, which made them love President Obama a little bit more (if that's possible).

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.

Whiskey and friends, or the breakup cure

Theradate wrote me a very sweet email last week to tell me that, while he likes me a lot, he met someone else before he met me and feels that he needs to stop dating other people in order to give things a shot with her.

After just four dates, this news was hardly heartbreaking. It required a 12-hour recovery period, not even requiring a full day of recuperation. Theradate is a lovely person, and I hope we remain friends, as he said he wants to. I had fun with him, but was also frequently taken aback by his eccentricity, and I'm not sure that I'm meant to be with someone who is *quite* such an extrovert (an extrovert, yes, but this was really extreme). But one does get tired of having things not work out, whether it's because the suitor in question turns out to be issue-y and alcoholic-y à la Leif Ericson or is dating someone else à la Theradate or just doesn't feel like the right match à la a million other guys I've gone out with.

(In some ways, the "I met someone just before I met you" reason is particulary frustrating. It's not that you're incompatible or he's not that into you; it's just the timing. There's an implication that, if the timing of the first meetings had been reversed, you could be the one getting top priority.)

So I was happy after receiving this news to run into my friend L'il JC at the gym, fresh from her own disappointment of meeting a guy who really liked her who, try as she might, she just couldn't force herself to like back. And then M. came and joined us, and we went and baked ourselves in the sauna and I told her my newest poop story from work (the number of poop stories I've amassed this year should probably be a blog post unto itself, and this latest one managed to outdo all prior ones). Then the three of us headed to M's house for burritos and whiskey, and when I thought about it it seemed amazing how many evenings we've spent at M's house drinking whiskey after things don't work out with someone -- whether it be a big breakup or a little disappointment, like this one. It's not planned, but it seems that that's where we wind up every time. And somehow it makes me feel better every single time.

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.

How about we compromise and all vote Democrat?

I wasn't too worried about the election on Tuesday. Two men were responsible for my complacency: Nate Silver (who reassured me on November 2nd that "If the state polls are right, then Mr. Obama will win the Electoral College. If you can't acknowledge that after a day when Mr. Obama leads 19 out of 20 swing-state polls, then you should abandon the pretense that you goal is to inform rather than entertain the public.") and my Italian ex-boyfriend, l'Artista. 

When I spoke with l'Artista on Hurricane Sandy Day, 8 days before the election, he said, "Of course Obama's going to win! Don't waste your time worrying about it. That would be crazy if he didn't." My eccentric college roommate used to tease me for thinking that l'Artista knows everything, and I guess part of me still trusts him irrationally. I'm glad to say that, in this case, I was right to. 

After listening to This American Life's "Red State/Blue State" episode, which argued that our country is becoming increasingly politically divided and that we don't listen to each other because we are so certain we are correct in our beliefs, I am determined to try to reach out and bridge some of those divides. Only, there's one problem: I am completely, irrevocably convinced that I am right and they are wrong. There may be some arguments they are making that I could at least listen to, but there's just no way I can understand, empathize with, or give any credibility to a party that opposes gay marriage, uses the environment as a punch line, disrespects women, and wishes minorities would stay a small percentage of the U.S. population or at least stop voting. 

It often feels like Red State America is far, far away, and I don't need to worry about it in my day-to-day life. In my state, not a single county went red, and in my school's election -- in which I voted twice -- it was a landslide for Obama. Granted, these are five and six year olds, but they sure were excited about Obama's victory. 

Sometimes those Red Staters are closer than they appear, though. On Wednesday, one of my co-workers mentioned to me in passing that she sympathized with a little girl in her class, a staunch Scott Brown supporter who wrote him in as her choice for President. I thought my smile and quick escape were enough to send the message that I was not on the same page, but apparently not. Later in the day, as she dismantled her election display, she brought me a gift: a photo of Mitt Romney. "So sad!" she said, smiling, as she handed it to me. 

In my effort to reach out to Red State America, I have not ripped up the photo and thrown it in the trash. Instead, it sits upside-down beneath a giant mound of papers while I ponder what the heck to do with it. 

Action in the bullpen

My friend complained to me this weekend that, while she learned a lot about my feelings toward the food at Oleana from my last blog post, she learned nothing about my feelings for Theradate. I'm a bit mystified by his eccentricity -- he's the most gregarious person I've ever dated, he threatened to wear a pink tutu to Oleana, and he told me that a day when he eats only three pints of ice cream is a light day for him -- but I also like him. So much so that I invited him to my 1/3 of a century birthday party last night (he couldn't come).

But I'm busy, and then he's busy, and then I'm busy, and then he's going away for five days, so I'm not going to see him again for two weeks. I'm notoriously bad at keeping action in my bullpen, but this lull between dates is a reminder that, even though Theradate texts me every day and sent me an essay he wrote (then asked for some of my writing in return even though I told him I don't write -- he sure called that bluff!) and added me as a friend on Facebook and it kinda feels like we know each other, we don't. So there's really no earthly reason why I should sit and twiddle my thumbs and send goofy texts to Theradate for the next two weeks when I've got eligible men waiting around for me to contact them on OkCupid.

So I'll be keeping busy, going on dates and volunteering for political candidates and obsessively checking the 538 blog, and before I know it Theradate will be back. And then maybe we'll go see a documentary about climate change, if he can handle it. (He gets very upset about climate change. But he thinks he might be able to handle it if I hold his hand and lie to him that everything will be okay.)