The Graduate

Not so oddly enough I seem to only be attracting younger men (in their early to mid-twenties) who feel empowered because they are attracting an older woman, their Mrs. Robinson (who is herself only in her early to mid-thirties). I will admit that I find myself in a place in my life where I am being selfish for the first time. In other words, I am thinking about my needs first. I have never had this freedom to only consider what I want, what I like, what suits me specifically. I've always been tied to someone or some relationship...up until now.

This is my first true taste of wonderfully unfettered, selfish, naked freedom.

So, does this make me a criminal (or that other "c" word that sorta rhymes with sugar)? Younger men seem to be so much simpler and easier to deal with. They aren't nearly as judgmental as men that are my peers or slightly older. They are also satisfied with so much less, and not threatened at all by my success. And they really do want to, and like to, please me. I'm thinking that my situation isn't really that bad right now after all...especially if I'm not looking for the father of my children or my life partner or someone to share my mortgage with. I'm thinking that right now I like dating the Graduate.

The end.

Wow Guy

On our first date, we met for brunch. I met him at Cliff's Edge, where, incidentally, I had two other first dates that week. Anyway, wow guy. He was tall, dark, handsome, smart, and a perfect gentlemen. We shared great conversation, had a lot in common, and when he pulled the bouquet from the boot of his Bentley, I was. Well. Wow'd.

And maybe it's that first impressions mired in such boldness and sparkling memories, leave nothing but a high cliff from which to free-fall in the event of a second...

We met at my place for the second date, to walk to dinner. I think he thought he was being cute and funny, but I wasn't impressed with his complaints about walking, his perfectly clear discomfort with my low-brow night on the town, or him dissing my neighborhood [sidebar: I love my neighborhood, like maybe even in a little bit of a psycho kind of way. It is an urban village, in a city of sparkle, diamonds and red carpet, and it's where I belong and feel the most comfortable being the tree-hugger-leaning me].

And he doesn't vote. For much of my life, I have been intrigued by those who "don't vote", whose principals are defined by a silent opposition to a broken status quo. These days when I meet someone who doesn't vote, I find their behavior irresponsible, their silent opposition a cowardly shirk from public discourse, an "it's not my fault" wall to hide behind when government fails as they predicted it would. I cannot date someone I cannot respect. And at this point in the history of my life, this country, and the world, I cannot respect someone who does not speak their opinion by casting a ballot.

Oh, and he dissed my neighborhood.

The end.

Hallway Boy

As much as I wanted him to be, he just wasn’t the guy for me. But god, could he make me laugh. We had a great time, Hallway Boy and I. We met in the hallway of our office building, several times bumping into each other on the way to lunch, the restroom, Starbucks, or home for the day. He seemed so sure of himself, so confident, so together. He had such a great energy about him, and he was just soooo cute.

When he finally asked me out, I went straight weak in the knees: “So, I’m sure you must have guys lined up around the block to date you, but I’d like to get in that line.” I mean, whoa! That is ballsy and forward, and I loved it.

I responded in kind, “you just moved to the front of that line.”

We had lunch together the next day, dinner together the night after that, and for the next several months had lunch together almost every day, dinner together several nights per week, and even spent a week in paradise together. Even during the height of my campaign responsibilities, making time for him was easy. I so enjoyed spending time with him, being with him, laughing with him. I had such a great time with hallway boy that I overlooked red flags, and ignored the glaring reality that he wasn’t the one for me.

Little things they seemed at the time. Huge things in retrospect. I couldn’t sleep with him. I mean, I could fall asleep with him, but couldn’t stay asleep. He is a quiet sleeper, doesn’t snore, stays to his side of the bed, and makes it easy to share sleepy time. But I could never get comfortable enough. And that comfort wasn’t just with sleep. I never opened up to him completely. A silent barrier always existed between the two of us, and I do not typically build walls between myself and other people, because I so revel in developing strong emotional bonds with the people I love. But with Hallway Boy, I could never let go. I couldn’t let him in, I couldn’t really open myself up to experiencing deep bonds of intimacy with him. In fact, he probably knows very little about me, despite the months we spent together, because I never really felt he deserved access to my most vulnerable me. And he didn’t.

In the months since our split, he has continually proven just how unworthy he is. He is, in a word, an asshole. And in dating him, I learned that I can’t be true to myself, have the relationship I want (with myself, as well as with others) if I ignore the hairs standing on the back of my neck. I am grateful that I possess strong intuition, in this case intuition so powerful that it built a wall between myself and a man undeserving, and I promise myself to defer to my intuition going forward, regardless of how cute, funny, or seemingly confident a boy may seem.

He is, in the words of my brilliant friend hot ass d.f.m., "all teeth and no substance".

The end.

The Bogey

During the summer before graduating high school, I dated the boy who I had, had a crush on since the age of twelve. He was the school jock; the guy you either wanted to be with or be like. He had every girl in the palm of his hand and I think every one of my friends had been involved with him at some point during our time at high school. (Bleurrghh.)

Our first date was a hike through the water meadows, which is a park on the outskirts of our hometown. We walked, sunbathed and skinny dipped in the river's cool waters. Whilst resting on the bank of the river, stark bullock naked, he pulled me close and went to touch my face. Thinking this was a romantic gesture, I took his hand and kissed it. However moments later, I was mortified when he started laughing. He then informed me that he was actually trying to remove the hanging bogey from my nose, rather than make a move on me.

Young, clueless, awkward and in hindsight, hilarious.

The end.

The French One

As a young girl of 14, I was of the opinion everything to do with France was pretty awful and incredibly overrated. France and I, had got off to a bad start when the world's worst student exchange partner was paired with me during the summer of 1995. She was a true sourpuss, by the name of Sandrine and who hailed from the ass crack of Normandy, or rather, Le Harve as it is commonly known. For years after, I failed to understand the appeal of the French and their ways, however that all changed, when I discovered Florence in Hong Kong a few years ago while traveling with one of my dear friends.

I had just graduated from university and whilst I was excited for what was around the corner, I was in a fragile place. Six months earlier, I had separated from someone who had the potential to be in my life forever as a significant other, however for reasons that perhaps I will share in a future posting, it wasn't to be. I came to Hong Kong to indulge and relax, but never thought I'd experience a holiday romance in a place that seemingly is populated by fiftysomething expats. As most of these, run of the mill holiday romance stories go, I was drunk when I first met Florence. He was an engineer who was living in Central Hong Kong for business. We spent hours chatting in what was Hong Kong's version of a dive bar and though I couldn't tell you now what the hell we had been gassing about for all those hours, I knew I liked this boy for that moment. It had been a while since I had felt like that about anyone, so when he asked if I wanted to go home with him, I didn't think twice.

Oh Hong Kong, how I enjoyed thee!

The end.

The Poet

Ahhhh, the poet. The way I ended things with the poet may have led him to believe that I do not look back kindly. But I do. He was awesome. Beautiful, kind, sincere, and a fucking train wreck of epic proportion.

We went out a few times. I loved writing with him. His grasp of the language, his way with words, and his ability to articulate his emotions with words gave even me a run for my money. But he was unsure of the life he wanted, was still suffering the doldrums of adjusting to Los Angeles (it happens to all newbies), and was a career student with no career aspirations. He was just fledgling about. And while that’s certainly okay, ‘tis not okay with me, and ‘tis not okay for someone on the south side of 35. Though I don’t have all the answers, I have a pretty good idea what I want and to sign up to be the babysitter to a whiney artist isn’t on my to-do list.

And then there was the flakiness and his non-commital blasé attitude toward scheduling. He didn’t want to make plans, or consider having to pencil anything in, and I’m a busy girl with no time for that shit.

The end.

The Republican

The end.

Mini Me

Oh boy… This was a classic first date.

I joined a dating service when my last relationship ended. I was very disappointed, a little disillusioned, and frankly just didn’t want to deal with the madness of match. So I paid several thousand dollars to work with a company that specialized in matchmaking. I thought to myself that I would be much better off if I paid someone else to find me a boyfriend, as I was clearly not choosing properly for myself. When I joined the service, I met with a relationship counselor, filled out a bunch of paperwork about who I am, what I’m looking for, and what I want and need from a relationship. From this information gathering, they would then send me off to one of their matchmakers who would search high and low for the man who would surely sweep me off my feet.

What it is I’m looking for, so you’ll know, is someone smarter than me, someone who can engage in witty banter, someone who knows what’s going on in the world, and has an opinion he wants to share. I want someone who is educated, worldly, successful as a person, and who wants to enjoy life in all its many facets. Looks mean very little to me, and height means even less. I am looking for the smart boy, the one who makes me work harder just to keep up, and whose very presence in my life makes me a better, stronger, wiser person. I want someone better than me, smarter than me, and more patient than me because my future kids deserve the best dad the world has to offer just as I want and deserve the best partner the world has to offer.

Big shoes to fill? You betcha. But I’m happy enough in my own skin to wait forever it such is my fate.

Anyway, back to the matching service...

They first paired me with the Republican, so it would seem to me that they’d‘ve put in a little extra effort to unsour my dissatisfaction with their quite unremarkable first impression. I don’t believe my expectations were set too high, but I made it very clear that I wanted to be matched with a rocket scientist smart guy. And what I got was his intellectual antipodal.

I was the first to arrive, as is usually the case. I am perpetually punctual, to a flaw in fact, and always carry a book or newspaper with me so I can gleefully await the arrival of whoever it is I’m meeting. I sat in the coffee shop (this great little gem of a place on Silver Lake Blvd., called LA Mill Coffee), sipping on my chai latte, delving into The Prince, and looked up when I heard his voice (we’d spoken on the phone a few times prior to our meeting and I had assumed (yes, I did make an ass of me by doing so) that it was telephonic shyness that left a hint of intellectual dearth). What I saw standing before me was a four foot tall creature that looked shockingly like Dr. Evil. I am pretty sure my date had been the model for the character made infamous by Mike Myers. But like I said, looks mean little to me, so I wasn’t going to write him off without getting a little taste of that intellectual acumen my matchmaker promised I would find in this date.

Unfortunately, however, his intellectual capacity resembled Forrest Gump as strongly as his physical appearance likened Dr. Evil. But what’s a girl to do in such a situation? Was I meant to excuse myself to the ladies room, only to flee out the back door? Or was it appropriate to stick it out, and present myself at my most charming? As an aside, this question sparked quite an interesting debate amongst my nearest and dearest, who differed as much in opinion as one might hope they would. The general consensus was that being charming was the best route, but that I should have returned his calls to let him down easy. I didn’t. I left it to the matching service to let him know we wouldn’t be seeing each other again.

I thought long and hard about the advice of my friends, and though it was really important to me that he not think I didn’t want to see him again because of his physical appearance, I just couldn’t really think of a nice way to tell him that he’d need to tack about 40 points onto his IQ count before he could consider himself worthy of a second date with me.

Though it’s fairly needless to say at this point, I ended my relationship with the matchmaking company and rejoined match.com because as time-consuming and annoying as match really is, within its many pages exists an abundance of first-date fodder.

The end.