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Online Dating is Fucking Depressing – Part 1: “And then she sucked his dick in the restroom.”

12 Oct

online-dating-sucks

So, I’ve signed up, once again, to an online dating service. A different one, because I thought the previous was depressing and full of weirdoes, but, as it turns out, so is this one.

The last website seemed to be full of men, just dying to hit on me. I had literally just pressed “upload” on my profile, and within seconds I had a dozen messages in my inbox. Most of those messages were from creeps, men who were at least 20 years older than me, and/or requesting me to stay “open minded” to their unusual preferences. I did meet one sweet guy whom I dated for a while later on, so I will give it that.

This time, however, my inbox is completely empty. I fucking hate it. I’ve gone through the site. It is also full of weirdoes and creeps. But none of those creeps want to contact me. And for some strange reason I find that offensive.

Well, a whole 10 hours have passed now, and I’ve gotten one hit. It was from someone I thought looked like a nice guy and he wrote something about not being able to ignore my profile which was cute-ish. So I struck up a conversation with him which quickly moved from the web to WhatsApp to the phone. And there we were. A late night phone call in the quiet and darkness of midnight on a weekday in my house, my son snoring in the other room. I spoke to this dude for a full 20 minutes, in which he directly stated several times how attracted he was, not just to my body, but to my personality (which he knows how?), that he is generous in bed (good to know), that he would like to make me moan and that the sexiest thing in the world to him is to see a woman enjoy herself in bed (he doesn’t beat around the bush, this guy). He proceeded then to compliment me on how cute and un-weird I was, recounting a story from the week before about going out to a pub with his friend and how both of them hit on a couple of girls who were stupid and shallow. His friend was into one of them, and they were talking, and then “four minutes later she sucked his dick in the restroom” (quote). The other one, which he wasn’t really into, invited him to eat stew in her house. Stew.

I thanked him for the information. And when he said we’d talk tomorrow, I answered, absentmindedly “sure” and thought to myself – this is great stuff for my blog, maybe I should talk to him again. But I quickly remembered the dick sucking story, and decided that if he wrote me again I’d somehow let him down. I mean really, that’s more of a third-date-story. You give me all your weirdness on our first phone conversation and I’m going to lose interest.

Online dating is the worst. It just makes you feel bad about yourself. If I were to start a dating service, I would have servers sending people automatic messages every time they uploaded something, saying random flattering stuff just to make them feel good.

I really want to meet a nice guy. He doesn’t have to be the one, or even one of the ones. He doesn’t have to have amazing looks or like the stuff I like, or be amazing in bed. I’m just craving a quiet intimate moment shared with a partner, who’s warm, and considerate, and not an asshole. And this time, I’d like to try and get there without sleeping with an ex.

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That Girl

2 Dec

disclaimer

I’ve been reluctant to post about this, because I’ve been reluctant to admit it, but – we’re in therapy again. BD and I, trying to work things out, with the hopes of reuniting and giving our little boy the family we want so much for him to have.

I haven’t really talked much about it, I let almost everyone around me just assume that we’re separated, and on the way to a divorce (I bet they’re wondering what’s taking us so long). The few friends I have told, received the news followed by giant all-caps disclaimers: IT PROBABLY WON’T WORK OUT. NO POINT OF GETTING MY HOPES UP. WE MIGHT AS WELL GIVE IT A TRY, BUT, YOU KNOW, I DON’T REALLY THINK IT’S GOING ANYWHERE.

We have a good therapist. She’s practical and gets to the point quickly, which is good. And things are going well, I guess. We’re discussing moving in together for a trial period in a month or so. If this works out, it’ll be great. I mean, just think of the convenience: First off, having a live-in partner helping me raise my boy, and having that live-in incidentally be his father! There’s the little things – taking out the trash without worrying about leaving Baby at home. Going to the bathroom and, drumroll… Closing the door! Having someone to eat dinner with and spoon with at night. And then, there’s being able to have sex whenever I want, without it becoming a huge project. Only for that to become a consideration, we need to actually have sex, which we’re not, at all. God I miss sex. Sex is the best.

So now I have some down time, since the holidays have provided a short break from work, and BD went on yet another one of his business trips. Time to myself and I have no idea what to do with it. I’ve become so used to working nonstop, I kind of want to work though my vacation, and I can – it’s not that I don’t have stuff to do, I just don’t think that would be smart. I really need a time out.

After taking Baby to daycare this morning I went running, which always makes me feel powerful and sexy and I haven’t done it in a really long time. My running music is horribly outdated, but I haven’t listened to it so long that even Thrift Shop didn’t get on my nerves. When I came back home, feeling energized, I took a nice long shower and was suddenly overwhelmed with memories, little fragments of a winter day, almost a year ago, January 22nd, the day that marks my biographical birthday, the day New Me was born. As the water rushed over my hair, my face, my body, I felt a tingle in my toes as I caught a glimpse of a head of auburn curls, enormous brown eyes and strong arms that used to crush me to pieces and make me feel alive.

But it wasn’t SG I was remembering, it was me. Beautiful, sexy, strong, energetic, creative, vibrant, healthy, happy me. The girl who somehow survived the flood; the girl who camped out on the beach, sipping Breezers all day and returned home with her hair full of sand, and didn’t feel guilty for a minute for leaving her 7-month-old with his daddy; the girl who kissed a guy she never met at a club when she was 10 kilos heavier with post pregnancy weight, but felt hotter than she could ever feel these days; the girl who painted abstract crap and hung it on her wall shamelessly because it meant something to her, and started a blog and wrote 83 posts, consistently, every day, and then every week, and then every other week, but never stopped; the girl who, while raising a baby on her own managed to change her career around; the girl who fell in love, not only with a beautiful, free-spirited red-head, but with her brand new self.

I can’t go back now, I can’t. How could I ever give her up?

But I have. I am. I look back at that girl and I think I must have dreamt her. Just as I dreamt those enormous brown eyes that looked straight into my soul, and those big pouty lips that whispered “I love you” before they devoured me.

Once Upon a Tuesday, Six Months Ago

21 Jul

“Have you heard of Margaret Atwood?” He asked. He was holding my credit card in his hand, tapping it repeatedly on the counter.

“No.” I answered, feeling uncomfortable, like this was some sort of test.

“And Haruki Murakami?” Now I realized that Margaret Atwood was a writer, and I immediately felt at ease. A bookworm like me, with a Masters in Literature, this was my territory.

“Sure.” I answered bravely.

“What have you read by him?” He asked inquiringly.

“The Windup Bird Chronicle,” I responded a little too quickly, please don’t ask me about specific details, I begged in my mind. It had been ages since I read it.

“And?”

“It was good. Though weird, I mean a little too weird, for me that is.” Apologetic smile.

“Weird is an understatement.” He answered to my relief. “I’m going through a Murakami phase right now. I’m reading everything he’s ever written. Have you read Hardboiled Wonderland? You should. I mean, it’s even weirder than the Windup Bird, much weirder. But you’d love it. I think.” A thin dark haired boy, who seemed barely 20 to me took my credit card out of Skating Guy’s hand.

“Two tickets?” He asked, looking at D who smiled and nodded beside me. A minute later my card was back in SG’s hand, and he was writing the closing time on the receipt and explaining to my friend and I where to pick out our skates. He was shorter than the dark haired boy, and seemed older. His hair was light and drawn back into a tight ponytail. He had enormous brown eyes, with long auburn lashes drooping over them heavily, which matched his oversized lips, the bottom of which I found especially tempting. Despite his overgrown features there was a softness to his bristly face.

“Have fun.” He said with a smile, and just as I turned to leave he added, “Maybe I’ll come skate with you later, if you want.”

“Was that guy hitting on me, or was he just being friendly?” I asked D.

“Hitting on you.”

“Geez, I’m so out of practice.” I smiled. “He was kind of cute, wasn’t he?” It was exciting to be noticed, and even more so by someone who seemed intelligent, someone who seemed to be interested in someone intelligent, and much more so now that I was single for the first time in thirteen years.

We stepped on the ice, our legs wobbly, attempting to stabilize ourselves, grabbing onto the rail. A few rounds later we were a bit more confident on the ice, and that’s when T joined us, sexy and energetic in her skinny jeans, tight top and perfect hair, bouncing about, giggling like a school girl as she stepped on the ice. Behind her was my guy, with his hair, and his lips and his Margaret Atwood.

“Huh. I guess he found T.” I told D, only slightly bitter.

“Actually it looks like he found you.” She laughed as the skating instructor popped up behind me with a “Hey.” I nearly lost my balance, which made him ask, “You OK there?” He’d be asking me that same question in the future, and the answer would be no, but right now it was “I’m starting to get used to this, but I’m counting on you to show me a few tricks.” Which he did. He had the appearance of the shy-quiet type, but he was actually rather talkative. We discussed books we liked, and books we despised, and books by Margaret Atwood that I promised to read.

“How old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-five,” The boy answered. “You?”

“Thirty-one,” I answered honestly. Screw it, if he wasn’t into me because of my age, he was welcome to leave. Pop music was blasting in the background, and I was feeling high on adrenalin. Half an hour later I was explaining the benefits of my Kindle to him, and he was defending the old fashioned paperbacks, and the irreplaceable feeling of flipping through their pages. “With my Kindle I can change the font size and read while I do stuff at home, like umm laundry.” And breastfeeding, I thought to myself.

“Laundry is important.” He laughed. Where do you live? I told him. “Roommates?” I smiled. “You could call it that.” He waited for an explanation. “Forget it, we just met. Let’s wait a bit longer before I shock you.”

“Uh-oh, you’re married with two kids aren’t you?”

“Not exactly.” I had a nice time flirting with him, and that’s what counted. It couldn’t last forever. I might as well tell him now, I thought, and go back to skating with my friends. “I live with my son.” I said. “Separated.”

“Ah.” Well? “He must be cute, how old is he?

“Seven months.” Nice of him to stick around and not bolt. So he’s polite on top of everything else, I thought.

“So, separated, is that like divorced?”

“Pretty much.”

“And that’s supposed to shock me, huh?” He smiled mischievously and we continued skating. “He must be grabbing stuff now, right?” He asked knowingly. “I read about that. Or is he putting everything in his mouth?” It took me a second to realize he was talking about my son.

“Both!” I laughed with relief.

It was ten o’clock and we were exchanging phone numbers, and setting up a date for Sunday. It would be my first date in thirteen years. I was as high as I’d been in a long time. I couldn’t wait.

It’s been six months since I first met SG at the Skating Ring. Five months, three weeks and two days since we sat at that bar on our first, magical date, since he kissed my shoulder and told me I was beautiful, and turned me on so bad that I had to follow him home and lie to the sitter that I had decided to watch a late-night movie. It’s been four months since we broke up for the first time because BD wanted to get back together and I was confused. Three months and three weeks since I told him I loved him, and he said it back. Three and a half months since we gave Baby a bath together and made animal noises, making him laugh hysterically. Three months since I cried into his shoulder, after a sick friend was told she’d have to have surgery. Two and a half months since I told him I was going to go to couples therapy with BD. Two months since I changed my mind but continued going nevertheless. Six weeks since I stopped therapy and spent and insanely passionate night with SG. One month, three weeks and six days since he told me he wanted to end it because he couldn’t be in a serious relationship with a woman who had a son. One month since I texted him miserably, desperately, and was answered with a straightforward, though kind goodbye. Four days since I found his email and foolishly wrote him a letter and got no response.

Less than a minute since I last fantasized that I might ever have him back.

Still a Little Yours

19 Jul

path

 

I tried to tell myself not to contact you again, especially when you were so explicit about letting go and moving on the last time we spoke. I don’t have your phone number anymore, and that makes things a bit easier. Still, I’m writing. Sometimes you have to be unreasonable. 

I just returned from four magical days in beautiful Berlin. It was lovely – quiet and calm, the exact opposite of the everyday turmoil of my life. This peace that I felt there, brought back memories, made me think of you, and I suddenly had a strong urge to know what’s up with you. Still at that same job? Have you read that book we talked about? Made any important decisions? Had any interesting thoughts? It’s not exactly longing, this feeling, well maybe a little. But mostly it’s an honest interest in someone who used to be a close friend, and suddenly I have no contact with him. 

This year has been the most challenging, interesting, emotional, turbulent year of my life, and you had a part in it. I often think about everything that’s happened to me, and even more about how I have dealt with it all, about the narrative I put together, that ties all these events together and gives them meaning. 

I think about the time we spent together and everything I’ve learned from it. You have a unique ability to see people. I still feel that you managed to see me in a way that I hadn’t been seen in a really long time. You’re sharp, and you think outside the box, and that’s because you don’t even live inside this box called ‘normal life’ or ‘Earth’ or ‘acceptable’. You live entirely outside of the box. But life sometimes calls for thinking inside the box. And I think it’s a huge challenge for us to find the balance – where do we consent to doing what’s expected of us, so that we can lead reasonable (that word again) lives, and where do we draw the line and refuse to cross it. I’m still looking for the balance, and maybe I’ll never find it, just as I may never figure this world out completely. That’s the beauty of this road I’m taking, that it’s full of plot twists, and dramatic changes, and lessons, and surprises, and I love each and every one of them, even when I hate them – I still love them. 

I understand today more than ever that I have the power to choose my own path, to live my life as I wish to. All the doors are open, the choice is mine, and all the possibilities that lay before me are good ones. I understand today that I can’t go wrong, as long as I stay true to myself. It looks like my narrative is changing again. 

I’m not writing you because I want to get back together, although a part of me would give anything to spend another senseless passionate night with you. But in the morning, I know we’d reach the same conclusion we have before. We both want different things. There is a huge gap between what we expect of a relationship and what we want from the future. 

They say that people fall in love, because it makes them see the best in themselves. When I was in love with you I felt that I was the most beautiful, the smartest, the happiest, the sexiest, the most special woman in the world. I think you felt the same with me. I hope so. Today, I just feel like I’m in love with life, in love with this journey. I hope you are too. 

Still a little yours.

 

 

 

 

It’s not you, it’s me.

5 Jul

It’s not you it’s me.

It’s not who you are. It’s not your sweetness or your intelligence, or your sensitivity. It’s not your looks, or how good you are in bed. It’s not your gorgeous red curls. It’s not your naive perspective of life. It’s not your ideology. It’s not your crushing arms and the way they used to hold me. It’s not the way you started it. It’s not the way you ended it. It’s not your response to my text telling me to let go.

It’s not you, it’s me. It’s my self doubts. It’s my need of affirmation. It’s my yearning for affection. It’s my loneliness. It’s my childishness. It’s my motherhood. It’s my horniness. It’s how I interpreted your love for me as proof of my worth.

It’s not how you kissed my shoulder, it’s how my shoulder met your lips. It’s not how your lashes fluttered over your big brown eyes, it’s how I looked into those eyes and saw myself reflected in them, it’s not how you loved me, it’s how badly I needed to be loved.

It’s not you, it’s me. It’s not your goodbye, it’s my fear of letting you go, in case I never find anyone who can see me again, love me for who I am, simply, wholy.

 

My ‘What Is’

15 Jun

bed

I opened my eyes this morning and saw that head on the pillow beside me, naked of those gorgeous red curls which have been chopped off mercilessly when we were apart. Sleeping with heavy eyelids, long auburn eyelashes resting on the top of his cheeks, and those enormous pouty lips slightly parted. It wasn’t a dream. He did come over last night, I did open the door to him in those sexy yet nonchalant pajamas. He did look at me for several long seconds and then pull me into a crushing, overwhelming embrace.

Life, I am slowly beginning to realize, is life. I know that seems trivial. One of the pre-Socratic philosophers, Parmenides, claimed that we can only speak and think of what is “for being is, but nothing is not.” This is my life, this is my what is. I am 32 years old, mother to an incredible one year old treasure, soon-to-be-divorced. I have a close friend, a beautiful, witty, unbelievably caring and giving person who’s putting on a hell of a fight with the big C and learning to allow people to be there for her, as she’s always been there for them.

This is my life. I have a steady job and a less than mediocre income. I have an accountant who flirts with me shamelessly every time we meet. I have a strong backbone and support system of friends and family who will always be there for me in times of trouble. I have great tits, even after breastfeeding, and my body will never be as tight as it used to be before childbirth, or as tight as it… has never been, frankly. But I’m learning to love it as is, to embrace its curves and lushness.

This is my life. I was in love once with a boy, so badly that I lost myself. I wrote a blog post about him and tagged it “rape” and then erased that word, but then edited it and tagged it again. And now I have an ex who wants to get back together, to whom I’m saying a strong, confident “NO”, which has been a long time coming, and a lover whom I’ve chosen to welcome back into my life, who pleasures me in ways I never realized were possible, to whom I’m choosing, for now, to say “YES”.

I don’t know what I want or where I want to go next, but I’m excited to find out.

This is my life. This is my what is. And I love it, even when I hate it. I love its twists and turns, I cherish its gifts, I embrace its painful lessons. I want to feel and experience everything it has to offer me, for as long as it’s offering.

The Many Many “Me”s in Me

15 May

Many "Me"s

My friend R has a theory that we are basically managed by many different “Me”s, who have different needs, different interests, and don’t always get along. There’s the Emotional Me – in my case, she just wants to be loved. She wants to be accepted for who she is, by a man, I’m sorry to say, because she needs that validation, she needs it to know that she’s good enough. She’s like a little girl, seeking warmth, wishing to be taken care of. She’s been pretty dominant in my life in the past couple of months. There’s the Independent Me – She says fuck it. I can do it on my own. I HAVE to do it on my own to prove to myself that I can. If I always depend on others, I’m always going to be let down and hurt. There’s no way I’m letting anyone let me down again, ever. I have to protect myself and all the other “Me”s. And the only way to protect us all from having our hearts broken is not to let anyone in. I guess Independent Me is also Protective Me. There’s Logical Me – She’s very level headed and target oriented. She has an excel file filled with lists and numbers for every single aspect of life, including love. She wants me to get a vibrator BTW because she thinks I’m too horny to make decisions these days.

There are other “Me”s too. I don’t even think I’m aware of them all: There’s Mother Me, there’s Sexy Me, there’s Career Woman Me, and Fun Me, and Over-analyzing Blogger Me. All of them want to be heard and given a place in my life, and ignoring any of them is not an option.

My friend R says that our psyche is like a tree. When given suitable conditions it grows wildly, in every direction. But build a wall on its side and it will become deformed, growing in all directions except one. All the needs of all the “Me”s have to be met eventually, even though they often contradict each other. It’s like being a mother of ten kids. You have to take care of them all, you can’t just groom the eldest and let the others die of deprivation.

Luckily, there’s one Me, who steps in at times of contradiction, at times of crisis – Super Me. Super Me isn’t always around, but she’s summoned when things get out of hand. She steps in and says, Jesus, what a mess you’ve made here. When are you ever going to learn to get along? Then she sighs, rolls her eyes, and starts delivering orders: You, Emotional Me, step aside. I know what you want, and you’re going to get it, but not now. Sit down and wait patiently. And you, Sexy Me! Give everyone a break and just buy a freaken vibrator, will you? Where the hell is Logical Me when I need her? Hey, where have you been for the last two months, what were you taking a nap? Get back to work, can’t you see we’re in the middle of a crisis here?

Well, just wanted to let you all know that Super Me is back. And while Emotional Me is pouting on the side, most of us are relieved and eager to see how she gets us out of this one.