The Hockey Player

Several years ago on a Saturday morning at a grotty after party in South London, I met a guy who we shall call the Hockey Player, because as it happens, he played Hockey!

The Hockey Player was a handsome athletic fellow, who was easy and fun to be around. We did all kinds of things together - We went on picnics, cooked dinner, explored the city on foot, shared books, watched films and we even wrote letters to one another when we travelled abroad. As I think about the times we shared, which was over the period of a few years, I wonder why our relationship didn't fully develop into that of boyfriend and girlfriend... But then I remember the evening the Hockey Player got upset over a cricket bat.

Before I proceed, let me reference a dictionary for those of you unsure of what a cricket bat is, for it is a central part of this story.

"A cricket bat has a narrow handle and a broad flat end for hitting." It is used in one of the most British of pastimes and the broad flat end of the bat, is approximately 38 inches in length, typically made of willow wood and is "...shaped like a paddle, consisting of a padded handle similar to - but sturdier than - that of a tennis racquet."

Now the Hockey Player and I had a good chemistry in the bedroom. Over time we developed a level of comfort with one another, that led to some interesting evenings under and above the duvet. And so on the night in question, I felt it only natural to include the said cricket bat, that was leaning next to his bed, in that evening's activities. After an hour or two romping with one another, the Hockey Player decided to lay on his stomach and rest his head, downward in a pillow. It was then, that I took the cricket bat to his beautifully crafted bottom and tapped it, in an ever so cheeky fashion. At first he enjoyed it, smiling and moaning with delight - until he opened his eyes and looked at what was stimulating his behind. "That's my fucking cricket bat with the signatures of the England team on it. What the fuck?!"

I was taken aback and thought he was joking, but soon realized he wasn't...

"Seriously Hockey Player? You're snapping at me over Allan Lamb and Mike Atherton's scribbles on a bat?"

After an awkward moment or two, I left his bed and dressed myself, whilst he pleaded for me to stay the night. Embarrassed, I apologized to him for misusing a bat which had a sentimental value I didn't know of, before promptly leaving. The next day, he apologized for his outburst and though we ended the conversation on a good note, I decided afterwards I wouldn't see the Hockey Player again, because I knew I would no longer be turned on by someone who is passionate about a sport so boring and so intense about a team, whose common tendency is to lose. (...which is sadly the case with most of the British endeavours in the sporting arena.) Frankly, I am better than losers and boys who get childish over their silly toys.

Me; fussy? Perhaps! Oh well, I am better off without such nonsense...

The end.

The Chutzpah

This is all hearsay.

This girl I don't know dated some guy for a couple of months. She thought things were going really well, so she invited her 2-month boyfriend to come over one evening. She'd make dinner, and he'd spend the night. He did come over for dinner and to spend the night, and found that she was nice enough to pick up a box of soy milk in consideration of his lactose intolerance. And the next morning, not long after he delivered the "this isn't going anywhere" speech, he stopped by the fridge, took out the soy milk, and on his way out said, "i'll just take this since you won't be needing it".

Was his middle name Cantaloupes?

The end.

The Dilemma

Or maybe it's not...

I'm pretty hard on myself sometimes for having such a disastrous time dating. I joke that I date only for blog fodder. And I have a good laugh at the expense of those unfortunate enough to momentarily ensnare themselves in my data collecting web. But it bums me out that it all seems all for naught, and that I can't figure out what and when I want.

I mean, I guess it's hard because I am really having a great time in my life. I'm traveling, hanging out with friends, doing fun and extraordinary things with my time. I make a difference in the world sometimes, I climb hills sometimes, and I love my life all the time. And as much as I feel like I should want to be sharing it all with someone special, and as much as sometimes there's nothing I'd rather have happen to me right now than to fall crazy, madly in love, sometimes I just wish I could be as okay with the idea of being alone as I am actually being alone.

I know, I know. I'm contradicting myself. I want to fall in love, but I don't give myself a chance. I want to share my life, but I am all too eager to find fault with every boy I meet to give them a chance. This irony. I feel it on the inside too. I'm torn. I don't know if love is what I want while refusing myself the chance to find it. Or if I'd rather not have it, but can't accept that I could possibly not want it. Or maybe it's just that the right one or the right time just hasn't come my way. I don't know, don't know that I can know, and wish I was better at being okay with not knowing.

But I don't and I'm not, so I guess the wonder and the search will go on.

The end.

The Starter

So, I had a starter marriage, and with it a starter husband. My relationship and marriage was amazing, until it wasn't anymore. And because it had been so incredibly beautiful, it was heart-wrenching to try to let go of what had been, until we could no longer see anything but what had taken its place. It was that icky, painful, complicated, love just ain't enough place. And one last time I asked him to go. And he did. And as guilty as I sometimes feel for feeling the way I do, I have never been happier or felt more sanguine in all my life. I'm happy with my life, my job, my home, my me. And it's awesome!

But sometimes I miss him. I miss him now, in the midst of March Madness. It was always our thing. We loved college basketball together, and we had a blast with college basketball. And as much as I still love me some college basketball (when I have time for it), and as much as it sometimes feels like it's just not the same without him, i've still got passion for my team. GO BRUINS!!!

The end.

P.S. I'm sure the starter will come up again...

The Photographer

The first lesson was good - middle of the day, outdoors on a Sunday.  I say lesson versus date, because there was no meal, physical contact or excessive conversation beyond the subject of cameras, shutter speed and available light.

The second lesson a week later led into a date.  Dinner was accompanied by a complete (and unprompted) download of all of his baggage - ex-wife, two kids, career crisis. It was the least romantic date I’ve ever been on - he wasn’t even attempting to woo.  On the other hand, every question I had was answered and the answers were actually pretty reasonable - married young, two kids he adores and sees often, and a lust for yet another advanced degree. The night ends with a really sweet, tender kiss that went on until it was too cold to continue.  

I spend the rest of the week thinking about that kiss, which leads me to check my phone and e-mail continuously for the follow-up date request.  Nothing.  A few flirtations here and there, but no plans.  I end the week in a funk, as I realize he’s just not that in to me - such a cliché.  I also realize I’d rather spend my time being kissed than checking my blackberry.  In order to up the odds of the former, I have to recruit more aggressively.  Match.com welcomed me back with open arms.  

 The End.

The Philosopher

I liked this one. He was so cute and cuddly (for some reason, it feels odd using the past tense when writing about qualities he probably still has), and it was really nice kissing him. But there was a always a but. I have not quite been able to put my finger on what the but was about, but there was something I just couldn't shake.

I enjoyed spending time with him, talking to him, and experiencing him. At times, he was so intellectual and interesting, engaged in deep thoughts about deep things, and was incredibly articulate and philosophical. but then there were other times when he reminded me of a lost and innocent little boy, whose problems were easily solved with a bowl of ice-cream and a little bunny to cuddle.

Until the day came when he told me that if we didn't have sex (and I'm probably paraphrasing here, because I was so astounded that a man my age would actually engage in such a high-school conversation), we couldn't date anymore. Really? I mean, did he really try to pressure me into sex by threatening that he'd break up with me? Could he really not look into the future, a play or two, to see where that strategy would land him?

Bad move.

The end.

Third Date Expectations

A few years ago, when I was in the process of re-entering the dating world after a nearly ten-year hiatus, a friend (who happens to be male) told me that there are expectations that a third date will end with sex.

I remember staring at him, wide-eyed and childlike. "You're joking, right?" I asked.

"What's the big deal?" was his response. "Be glad. Sex is better when you're dating, it just doesn't happen as much as when you're married".

That conversation took place about two and a half years ago, and is probably the biggest influence in my extraordinary ability to find enough deficiencies after the second date to avoid a third.

I'm about 20 minutes shy of a third date, and I can guarantee this one will end much like my first two third dates.

The end.