I've decided that I don't want to be perfect anymore. I am now unperfect.
It fits the new me. I'm tired of believing that I have to have a totally clean house with everything in its place. I'm weary of feeling that if I don't go out with makeup or groomed hair, that I won't meet the man of my dreams. Or anyone else for that matter.
I tested the theory today. My hair is now cut very short -- not sure I like it, but that's a holdover from my perfection obsession -- and I didn't comb it before I left for errands. While I was buying cat food, the cashier kept giving me strange looks -- not in my eyes, over my head. When I got back in my car I looked at my hair and saw it was sprouting up every which way.
Maybe I should rethink this new me.
Or maybe not. It's the wound of imperfection that women carry, and I see it everywhere, no matter our age. We are socialized to believe that if we are perfect, then the perfect man will love us. If we are nice, sweet, nurturing, obedient -- in short, the perfect appliance -- that the perfect man will hang around doting on us forever.
Well girlfriend, ain't so, are it. Giving the man everything he wants, grooming for him, getting buffed and thin for him, being available to him -- society's definition of perfection? -- just gives him what he wants and leaves us with the crumbs.
Nope, I don't want crumbs anymore. I want pebbles. Yes -- pebbles. One species of Antarctic penguin has it down, dude: The male has to bring rare pebbles to the female so that she can build her nest. In one version, I have heard that the guy builds monuments to her with these pebbles. If he gives her enough of what she wants, she will give him what he wants.
The relationship is really on her terms, with her rules. She is the dominant.
Pebbles. That's the ticket.
That means that we know what we want, we know we deserve to be courted and pleased, and that there are plenty more fish in the sea.
Remind me about this the next time I even deign to settle for crumbs.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
In My Belayer I Trust
I understand that not many people take up an extreme sport like rock climbing at my age. I also understand that no matter what a person’s age, there are always gifts in trying new activities.
For me, perhaps the biggest gift besides becoming totally ripped is learning to trust: life, belay partners, myself. When your life literally depends on the skills and attention and care at the other end of the rope, there just ain’t no room for bullshit.
From the first class at the training gym, I began to understand that the relationships formed in this community would be different. There is always an atmosphere of support and encouragement and vitality. The age range is about three to 75, but everyone shares the same addiction to the challenges of climbing. Safety is job one: You always check and double check how you are tied into your harness, and how your partner is locked in as well.
Trust begins there, on the ground. It develops as you express what you like about being belayed (the person on the ground feeds you the rope, giving slack where needed and keeping you tight so that if you fall, you don’t fall far), asking for help or whooping for joy. When you climb outdoors, where routes and bouldering are infinitely harder than the gym’s color-coded routes & preset holds, personal stories evaporate as you come face-to-face with the elements.
Trust is an interesting issue; after learning about my late husband’s affairs and other indiscretions, I’ve been dealing with it continually. For years I lost my trust that life was beneficent, that men were reliable and honest, that I was worthy of my heart’s desire.
Climbing has changed all of that. I recently had my first outdoor climbing adventure, five days at the surreal Joshua Tree National Park in Southern California. Besides braving the elements and a winter chill, I was amazed at how quickly caring relationships form and how the bonding between couples is more authentic (no passive-aggressive games) than I’ve ever witnessed.
I was able to accomplish climbs far beyond my perceived ability level because of group energy: You overcome your self-limiting beliefs because the group supports you and brings you along. You do your own work, to be sure, but it is the trust of others that you can achieve more than you believe possible, that gets you to the top. You trust each person there with your life. You trust the rock to support and to guide you, even when there are no clear holds for fingers or feet. You trust your instincts and your intuition and your technique to get you up a sheer 100-foot granite slab — and down again. You trust that those endorphins are giving you the thrill of a lifetime.
Trust is something that develops when the mind chatter shuts down and you are in direct relationship with what life brings you. Trust means that you have cleared away the ego’s fears and deal only with what my climbing buddy Mara calls “reasonable fears”: The ones that keep you alive and safe. All of the rest is nonessential. Trust means that you stop resisting and start allowing life as it is.
Climbing is teaching me to trust that life is beautiful, generous, rich and enigmatic. When I climb I am fully myself, radiantly happy and at one with the present moment. That is a trust I’m cultivating in all of my relationships, both on and offline. And it brings me into a new year with a new attitude and new musculature: Life is worth trusting. When we let go, it flows in magnificently — the power of being open to life. We don’t have to do anything but show up.
For me, perhaps the biggest gift besides becoming totally ripped is learning to trust: life, belay partners, myself. When your life literally depends on the skills and attention and care at the other end of the rope, there just ain’t no room for bullshit.
From the first class at the training gym, I began to understand that the relationships formed in this community would be different. There is always an atmosphere of support and encouragement and vitality. The age range is about three to 75, but everyone shares the same addiction to the challenges of climbing. Safety is job one: You always check and double check how you are tied into your harness, and how your partner is locked in as well.
Trust begins there, on the ground. It develops as you express what you like about being belayed (the person on the ground feeds you the rope, giving slack where needed and keeping you tight so that if you fall, you don’t fall far), asking for help or whooping for joy. When you climb outdoors, where routes and bouldering are infinitely harder than the gym’s color-coded routes & preset holds, personal stories evaporate as you come face-to-face with the elements.
Trust is an interesting issue; after learning about my late husband’s affairs and other indiscretions, I’ve been dealing with it continually. For years I lost my trust that life was beneficent, that men were reliable and honest, that I was worthy of my heart’s desire.
Climbing has changed all of that. I recently had my first outdoor climbing adventure, five days at the surreal Joshua Tree National Park in Southern California. Besides braving the elements and a winter chill, I was amazed at how quickly caring relationships form and how the bonding between couples is more authentic (no passive-aggressive games) than I’ve ever witnessed.
I was able to accomplish climbs far beyond my perceived ability level because of group energy: You overcome your self-limiting beliefs because the group supports you and brings you along. You do your own work, to be sure, but it is the trust of others that you can achieve more than you believe possible, that gets you to the top. You trust each person there with your life. You trust the rock to support and to guide you, even when there are no clear holds for fingers or feet. You trust your instincts and your intuition and your technique to get you up a sheer 100-foot granite slab — and down again. You trust that those endorphins are giving you the thrill of a lifetime.
Trust is something that develops when the mind chatter shuts down and you are in direct relationship with what life brings you. Trust means that you have cleared away the ego’s fears and deal only with what my climbing buddy Mara calls “reasonable fears”: The ones that keep you alive and safe. All of the rest is nonessential. Trust means that you stop resisting and start allowing life as it is.
Climbing is teaching me to trust that life is beautiful, generous, rich and enigmatic. When I climb I am fully myself, radiantly happy and at one with the present moment. That is a trust I’m cultivating in all of my relationships, both on and offline. And it brings me into a new year with a new attitude and new musculature: Life is worth trusting. When we let go, it flows in magnificently — the power of being open to life. We don’t have to do anything but show up.
Like Bees to an Orchard
I never realized how much fruitflies were like guys. Guy fruitflies, that is. Apparently — and if you know this already, you can cut to the chase — male fruitflies that don’t get adequate sleep cannot stay focused long enough to follow the female fruitfly around the Petri dish and mate with her. They get distracted, clean themselves ... and then try to chase, but just can’t keep up.
Why does that sound so familiar. We know that guys can fall asleep all too soon after sex, but it appears that if we gals want the full monty, we’d better hope they are getting their zzz’s the night before as well.
Guys are also like bees to an orchard; I’m beginning to understand that they don’t so much disappear or run away as they are prodigal, and wired to be so. Of course when we were all living in caves, the men had to go hunt for game in order for their tribes to survive. So that leaving may be in male DNA at this point. As is the female waiting game.
However, it can still be alarming when the men go off unannounced and you have a strong sense it’s not about the buffalo.
I really believe I’m onto something here. If women can truly grasp that men and women are wired differently, and that in order to individuate and mature we have different tasks, then it wouldn’t be such a big deal if our guy doesn’t call every day. Or if he has to go into his “cave” in order to de-stress. Men have to separate from the mother in order to grow up; they also have to have space from their women if they are to be able to be with us fully.
That doesn’t mean they don’t owe us some good, true, honest communication.
I think that’s the bigger issue: It’s not so much that men disappear, it’s that they don’t realize that women tend to take it personally. I see this in online chat rooms all the time, and read about it in women’s magazines: Why does my guy vanish? Why doesn’t he call?
The other part of the equation is that women are socialized to be available and pleasing. We tend to think that if we are not there for the guy when he wants and needs us to be, then he will disappear. Well, sometimes that is true, and sometimes it is not true. But it’s worth consideration.
I’m still working on this part of it, so bear with me, but men are continually telling me that they love a confident yet mysterious woman. A woman who is not always available. A woman who has her own mind. Mind you, too often when we SPEAK that mind we are called bitches, but nonetheless, there are ways to communicate our wants and needs once we are truly clear about what they are.
So ladies, I say unto you: The next time your guy pulls a disappearing act, realize that it may not be personal. It is partly the prodigal nature of male energy. If you truly have a good relationship, if you keep your own life interesting and care for yourself well, then he will return. And return. And return.
You can count on it. He can’t help himself. We have that much power. We are the orchard.
Why does that sound so familiar. We know that guys can fall asleep all too soon after sex, but it appears that if we gals want the full monty, we’d better hope they are getting their zzz’s the night before as well.
Guys are also like bees to an orchard; I’m beginning to understand that they don’t so much disappear or run away as they are prodigal, and wired to be so. Of course when we were all living in caves, the men had to go hunt for game in order for their tribes to survive. So that leaving may be in male DNA at this point. As is the female waiting game.
However, it can still be alarming when the men go off unannounced and you have a strong sense it’s not about the buffalo.
I really believe I’m onto something here. If women can truly grasp that men and women are wired differently, and that in order to individuate and mature we have different tasks, then it wouldn’t be such a big deal if our guy doesn’t call every day. Or if he has to go into his “cave” in order to de-stress. Men have to separate from the mother in order to grow up; they also have to have space from their women if they are to be able to be with us fully.
That doesn’t mean they don’t owe us some good, true, honest communication.
I think that’s the bigger issue: It’s not so much that men disappear, it’s that they don’t realize that women tend to take it personally. I see this in online chat rooms all the time, and read about it in women’s magazines: Why does my guy vanish? Why doesn’t he call?
The other part of the equation is that women are socialized to be available and pleasing. We tend to think that if we are not there for the guy when he wants and needs us to be, then he will disappear. Well, sometimes that is true, and sometimes it is not true. But it’s worth consideration.
I’m still working on this part of it, so bear with me, but men are continually telling me that they love a confident yet mysterious woman. A woman who is not always available. A woman who has her own mind. Mind you, too often when we SPEAK that mind we are called bitches, but nonetheless, there are ways to communicate our wants and needs once we are truly clear about what they are.
So ladies, I say unto you: The next time your guy pulls a disappearing act, realize that it may not be personal. It is partly the prodigal nature of male energy. If you truly have a good relationship, if you keep your own life interesting and care for yourself well, then he will return. And return. And return.
You can count on it. He can’t help himself. We have that much power. We are the orchard.
Taking Out the Trash
OK. Here’s the challenge: How to be naughty without being trashy.
We’re assuming you don’t want to be trashy. I think it’s appropriate to take a page from Heartless Bitches International, of which I am a proud member. Why? Because it’s a side of being a woman I’ve never given myself permission to explore. It is not about lambasting guys just because you feel like it. No: It’s about finding your voice and being authentic, and not being afraid of your power as a woman.
That includes your sexuality.
What is naughty? Depends if you ask a man or a woman. Same for trashy. There’s a myth that men want two different women: the virgin and the slut. Those definitions are so loaded it’s not worth getting into here, but let’s just say that for some reason, society has dictated that women have to be EITHER sweet good nice accommodating and caretaking, OR sensual passionate sexy hungry and predatory.
That means we are split; when our “trashy” voice comes out, we are called bitches. Or, when our bitchy voice comes out, we are called trashy.
Mama, where is the justice in this?
I think it’s fun — and empowering as a woman — to be BOTH naughty and nice. For me, being “naughty” means standing up for myself, stating what I want (which means I have to know a lot about myself, including my most secret fantasies and desires), telling the truth about my thoughts (as well as having my own thoughts), and calling people on their b.s.
It means taking responsibility for my best life. It means having the courage to know myself and to be myself. It isn’t about taking out my problems or my moods on anyone, or not being nurturing. It means knowing who I am and acting on my own behalf. If some people judge my desires as trashy, well than that’s just their problem, isn’t it now.
Being naughty is fun because it teaches me how much larger a life can be, and how much more fun I can have. It helps me relax. Releasing my inner bitch means I refuse to feel guilty because I haven't measured up to someone else's standard of who I should be. New fave phrases: "I'm not deaf sweetheart, I'm just ignoring you." Or "Don't talk to my breasts, they're deaf."
Being trashy: If that means kinky, then what’s wrong with that, as long as it’s consensual? Sex has as many expressions as there are people in the world. If a guy likes to see me in heels, fishnet stockings and a corset, does that mean I’m trashy if I go along?
I think not. I think it’s important to explore our edges and find out just how much pleasure is available to us. The key is doing no harm: Especially to myself with self-criticism, for believing that I don’t have permission to live a fully sensual and pleasurable life.
I’m tired of the chastity belt that society has placed on women, emotionally and sexually. I say, let’s take out the trash and live again.
We’re assuming you don’t want to be trashy. I think it’s appropriate to take a page from Heartless Bitches International, of which I am a proud member. Why? Because it’s a side of being a woman I’ve never given myself permission to explore. It is not about lambasting guys just because you feel like it. No: It’s about finding your voice and being authentic, and not being afraid of your power as a woman.
That includes your sexuality.
What is naughty? Depends if you ask a man or a woman. Same for trashy. There’s a myth that men want two different women: the virgin and the slut. Those definitions are so loaded it’s not worth getting into here, but let’s just say that for some reason, society has dictated that women have to be EITHER sweet good nice accommodating and caretaking, OR sensual passionate sexy hungry and predatory.
That means we are split; when our “trashy” voice comes out, we are called bitches. Or, when our bitchy voice comes out, we are called trashy.
Mama, where is the justice in this?
I think it’s fun — and empowering as a woman — to be BOTH naughty and nice. For me, being “naughty” means standing up for myself, stating what I want (which means I have to know a lot about myself, including my most secret fantasies and desires), telling the truth about my thoughts (as well as having my own thoughts), and calling people on their b.s.
It means taking responsibility for my best life. It means having the courage to know myself and to be myself. It isn’t about taking out my problems or my moods on anyone, or not being nurturing. It means knowing who I am and acting on my own behalf. If some people judge my desires as trashy, well than that’s just their problem, isn’t it now.
Being naughty is fun because it teaches me how much larger a life can be, and how much more fun I can have. It helps me relax. Releasing my inner bitch means I refuse to feel guilty because I haven't measured up to someone else's standard of who I should be. New fave phrases: "I'm not deaf sweetheart, I'm just ignoring you." Or "Don't talk to my breasts, they're deaf."
Being trashy: If that means kinky, then what’s wrong with that, as long as it’s consensual? Sex has as many expressions as there are people in the world. If a guy likes to see me in heels, fishnet stockings and a corset, does that mean I’m trashy if I go along?
I think not. I think it’s important to explore our edges and find out just how much pleasure is available to us. The key is doing no harm: Especially to myself with self-criticism, for believing that I don’t have permission to live a fully sensual and pleasurable life.
I’m tired of the chastity belt that society has placed on women, emotionally and sexually. I say, let’s take out the trash and live again.
Dancing Away the Blues
I got to test drive about 40 guys last night.
It’s called “blues dancing”: A dance studio in San Francisco holds classes followed by an open dance every Friday night. Singles are wholly welcome; in fact, you get to dance with just about everyone in the room if you want to. It’s not a singles scene but a dance club, and though certainly men and women want to meet, it’s a community more than a dating site.
I danced for 14 years in my 20s and 30s — ballet and jazz mostly, and performed for chump change toward the end. I loved it, but a hip injury ended it. I hadn’t been dancing for years, so I went with some trepidation — and a couple of new girlfriends.
I also haven’t dated much since my husband passed away, so I was filled with even more self-doubt about not just the dancing, but guy end of things. Would I measure up? Would I be accepted? Would I be a wallflower or get out on the floor and boogie?
We showed up at 9 p.m. for the intermediate class, and were glad we did. The two instructors choreographed the hour well, demonstrating steps that we tried out with partners, switching every few minutes in an organized circle of pairings.
It was wonderful: I realized I was in the presence of a far more enjoyable form of speed dating than merely sitting in a darkened, dank night club pretending to be charming for 5.5 minutes per guy. These guys were thin and they were chubby; tall and short; sweaty and cologned; white and dark. They were charming and quiet, supportive and distant. And every one a gentleman.
Talk about relationships: It was a short course in getting to know a lot of men in a short time. The goal was to relax and let them guide me, to surrender to their body movements, to sense their way of interpreting the music and just enjoy the experience.
I enjoyed, I had trouble surrendering, and I only relaxed after three hours. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a man’s arms — 80 arms in an evening? — dancing, moving together, being sensual without being personal. The point was not to impress each other; it was to enjoy the experience of sharing a passion for dance and music —close physical contact without commitment. Safe sax.
At one switch, the teachers asked what combination of steps we had not done yet. The choices were big vs. small, fast vs. slow, and something called “fuzzy kitten” vs. “Ninja.” I hadn’t been feeling competent with some combinations, so I looked into the eyes of my large, sweet, sweaty partner and said, “I can do big and fast.” Without skipping a beat, he replied, “Honey, you’re every man’s dream!”
Touché. That loosened me up. I saw how hard I have fought for my independence over the years, how hard it is to trust and allow a man to lead. I listened to myself apologize for making mistakes. No one cared; it wasn’t about being perfect — hello, female conditioning! — it was about relaxing and flowing. I knew this, yet watched myself fall into old behaviors. I questioned how I could still be strong and follow, to let them lead yet still be myself and honor my own rhythm and strength. I let them support me, but it often made me feel powerless. When I finally stopped analyzing and thinking, I got into the movements and my body took over. At last.
The format at this event is that women can ask men to dance, with impunity. So I did. No one turned me down. Though we rarely spoke while dancing, we got to know each other through a blending of energy. I enjoyed melting into the experience and feeling how it was to be touched, cared for, guided and nurtured by so many different kinds of men who weren’t after anything but enjoying my presence as well.
It was enlightening: The dancer became the dance; I think I’ll go back next week.
It’s called “blues dancing”: A dance studio in San Francisco holds classes followed by an open dance every Friday night. Singles are wholly welcome; in fact, you get to dance with just about everyone in the room if you want to. It’s not a singles scene but a dance club, and though certainly men and women want to meet, it’s a community more than a dating site.
I danced for 14 years in my 20s and 30s — ballet and jazz mostly, and performed for chump change toward the end. I loved it, but a hip injury ended it. I hadn’t been dancing for years, so I went with some trepidation — and a couple of new girlfriends.
I also haven’t dated much since my husband passed away, so I was filled with even more self-doubt about not just the dancing, but guy end of things. Would I measure up? Would I be accepted? Would I be a wallflower or get out on the floor and boogie?
We showed up at 9 p.m. for the intermediate class, and were glad we did. The two instructors choreographed the hour well, demonstrating steps that we tried out with partners, switching every few minutes in an organized circle of pairings.
It was wonderful: I realized I was in the presence of a far more enjoyable form of speed dating than merely sitting in a darkened, dank night club pretending to be charming for 5.5 minutes per guy. These guys were thin and they were chubby; tall and short; sweaty and cologned; white and dark. They were charming and quiet, supportive and distant. And every one a gentleman.
Talk about relationships: It was a short course in getting to know a lot of men in a short time. The goal was to relax and let them guide me, to surrender to their body movements, to sense their way of interpreting the music and just enjoy the experience.
I enjoyed, I had trouble surrendering, and I only relaxed after three hours. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a man’s arms — 80 arms in an evening? — dancing, moving together, being sensual without being personal. The point was not to impress each other; it was to enjoy the experience of sharing a passion for dance and music —close physical contact without commitment. Safe sax.
At one switch, the teachers asked what combination of steps we had not done yet. The choices were big vs. small, fast vs. slow, and something called “fuzzy kitten” vs. “Ninja.” I hadn’t been feeling competent with some combinations, so I looked into the eyes of my large, sweet, sweaty partner and said, “I can do big and fast.” Without skipping a beat, he replied, “Honey, you’re every man’s dream!”
Touché. That loosened me up. I saw how hard I have fought for my independence over the years, how hard it is to trust and allow a man to lead. I listened to myself apologize for making mistakes. No one cared; it wasn’t about being perfect — hello, female conditioning! — it was about relaxing and flowing. I knew this, yet watched myself fall into old behaviors. I questioned how I could still be strong and follow, to let them lead yet still be myself and honor my own rhythm and strength. I let them support me, but it often made me feel powerless. When I finally stopped analyzing and thinking, I got into the movements and my body took over. At last.
The format at this event is that women can ask men to dance, with impunity. So I did. No one turned me down. Though we rarely spoke while dancing, we got to know each other through a blending of energy. I enjoyed melting into the experience and feeling how it was to be touched, cared for, guided and nurtured by so many different kinds of men who weren’t after anything but enjoying my presence as well.
It was enlightening: The dancer became the dance; I think I’ll go back next week.
One Slimey Dude
One Slimey Dude
I call him "Eel Man," one of the slimiest dates I ever had.
I met him online through Craigslist in my early and desperate dating daze; the list was a place I frequented after my husband died and I discovered all his affairs and other betrayals. On ether, Eel Man seemed wonderful — good convo, apparently decent looks shadowed under a baseball cap, mad about health, the outdoors, fitness, spirituality. We spoke by phone a few times, long conversations that melted into the night. Nothing sexual; he was a gentleman of the old school, with a comforting voice. Single and available. And he checked in often to see how I was. He seemed to communicate well. What a peach!
We set up a first date for dinner and the SF 49ers opening game. Color me stoked — I’m mad about sports. But my car broke down that morning and I couldn't meet him at a pre-arranged place. He didn't want to drive the 50 miles round trip to fetch me and thence to the stadium 50 miles away. Oh, and dinner: sharing a can of eel and some cooked millet on the way. Say what?
I should have recognized signs of incompatibility and cheapness, but I wanted to be out with a guy, apparently any guy. I wanted to feel that someone, apparently anyone, was attracted to me.
We rescheduled for the following Friday night, a free-form event at a modern dance studio in Berkeley, Calif. We seemed to have so much in common so I leapt at the chance to dance.
We agreed to meet at a nearby BART station and go in his car from there. He told me to dress informally, but I wanted to look sexy. I dressed in loose dance pants and a super tight sparkly cami top. He called right before arriving. This guy was so considerate!
The first shoe dropped as he pulled up in a prehistoric, ratty car. When he got out of the car. He looked prehistoric, ratty. I immediately felt overdressed and underwhelmed; I knew my red flags were waving at me but I ignored them. I wanted a date, dammit.
Fred wasn't anywhere near as nice looking as his picture; he was downright creepy. I shook his hand hello, and it was clammy. He smelled of sweat and I wasn’t sure ... We talked for a few minutes, he asked if I felt safe going with him. I lied and said yes. I got into his filthy car and wished I hadn't. But in those days I didn't have the power or self-esteem — the sass or the bite —to honor my gut instincts.
We got onto the freeway and he began to drive so fast and recklessly, I was white-knuckled. He asked if his driving bothered me and I lied again and said no. He talked nonstop, bragging about taking 100 supplements a day and listening to self-improvement tapes while hiking in nature. He seemed the antithesis of earlier chats. I was terrified but desperate. I went along, accommodating, appeasing, negating.
For convenience and stupidity, I left my purse and cell phone in his car, took my water and $8 admission fee. We arrived early; the warm-up music was mesmerizing and relaxing. A former ballet dancer, I went into my own space and danced with my eyes closed. I was aware of him all the time though, wanting to be close to me. I was hypervigilant and uncomfortable.
At this weekly dance jam everyone dances with others. Some couples writhe together, some people hook up for later, and others just come to dance. Soon Eel Man came over and reached out his hands for mine, and I instinctively jerked away. I did not want him to touch me. He was taken aback, and in that moment I awoke from my trance. I knew I had to get out of there; I would dance a short while and then get my things from his car and leave.
But an hour later, he was gone. I panicked — how many stupid things could I be capable of out of desperation for a man’s attention? I went looking and found him hooking up with another woman and leaving the premises. I caught up with him and demanded my things and the woman immediately said she wasn't going home with him. I said I didn't care, I just wanted my stuff. She kept apologizing and I almost laughed in her face. I DON’T CARE.
Eel Man took me to get my purse, but made no effort to help me get a ride. Public transit was at least a mile away and it was pitch black in that industrial section of town. I was at least an hour’s walk away from the closest BART train, two hours from home at best.
Then he actually asked if I'd like to go out again, and for the first and only time that evening I found my real voice and said, "You must be joking!” It was the beginning of a long climb out of social conditioning that tells women they must accommodate the man at all costs, lest they be abandoned and lonely in their dotage.
And so I walked. Unerringly forward and alert. I was so angry at myself but I saw the comedy of errors and knew I had grown some. The signs had all been there, but I was too afraid of my loneliness and wounding to heed them. I had acted like this was the last guy on earth who would ever ask me out. I had acted like I owed him something.
When the bus doors opened, I told the woman driver that I had walked away from a bad date and I didn't have exact change. (I didn't.) She let me on for free, sympathetic, and dropped me at BART. While I waited, so relieved, for my train, the platform filled with well-dressed older patrons of a nearby theater event. I was so relieved and happy that I drew the attention of an elderly woman came and sat next to me.
She says, "I heard you tell the bus driver that you'd had a bad date. My husband died ten years ago, I'm 73 now, and I'd like to start dating again. Any advice?"
I call him "Eel Man," one of the slimiest dates I ever had.
I met him online through Craigslist in my early and desperate dating daze; the list was a place I frequented after my husband died and I discovered all his affairs and other betrayals. On ether, Eel Man seemed wonderful — good convo, apparently decent looks shadowed under a baseball cap, mad about health, the outdoors, fitness, spirituality. We spoke by phone a few times, long conversations that melted into the night. Nothing sexual; he was a gentleman of the old school, with a comforting voice. Single and available. And he checked in often to see how I was. He seemed to communicate well. What a peach!
We set up a first date for dinner and the SF 49ers opening game. Color me stoked — I’m mad about sports. But my car broke down that morning and I couldn't meet him at a pre-arranged place. He didn't want to drive the 50 miles round trip to fetch me and thence to the stadium 50 miles away. Oh, and dinner: sharing a can of eel and some cooked millet on the way. Say what?
I should have recognized signs of incompatibility and cheapness, but I wanted to be out with a guy, apparently any guy. I wanted to feel that someone, apparently anyone, was attracted to me.
We rescheduled for the following Friday night, a free-form event at a modern dance studio in Berkeley, Calif. We seemed to have so much in common so I leapt at the chance to dance.
We agreed to meet at a nearby BART station and go in his car from there. He told me to dress informally, but I wanted to look sexy. I dressed in loose dance pants and a super tight sparkly cami top. He called right before arriving. This guy was so considerate!
The first shoe dropped as he pulled up in a prehistoric, ratty car. When he got out of the car. He looked prehistoric, ratty. I immediately felt overdressed and underwhelmed; I knew my red flags were waving at me but I ignored them. I wanted a date, dammit.
Fred wasn't anywhere near as nice looking as his picture; he was downright creepy. I shook his hand hello, and it was clammy. He smelled of sweat and I wasn’t sure ... We talked for a few minutes, he asked if I felt safe going with him. I lied and said yes. I got into his filthy car and wished I hadn't. But in those days I didn't have the power or self-esteem — the sass or the bite —to honor my gut instincts.
We got onto the freeway and he began to drive so fast and recklessly, I was white-knuckled. He asked if his driving bothered me and I lied again and said no. He talked nonstop, bragging about taking 100 supplements a day and listening to self-improvement tapes while hiking in nature. He seemed the antithesis of earlier chats. I was terrified but desperate. I went along, accommodating, appeasing, negating.
For convenience and stupidity, I left my purse and cell phone in his car, took my water and $8 admission fee. We arrived early; the warm-up music was mesmerizing and relaxing. A former ballet dancer, I went into my own space and danced with my eyes closed. I was aware of him all the time though, wanting to be close to me. I was hypervigilant and uncomfortable.
At this weekly dance jam everyone dances with others. Some couples writhe together, some people hook up for later, and others just come to dance. Soon Eel Man came over and reached out his hands for mine, and I instinctively jerked away. I did not want him to touch me. He was taken aback, and in that moment I awoke from my trance. I knew I had to get out of there; I would dance a short while and then get my things from his car and leave.
But an hour later, he was gone. I panicked — how many stupid things could I be capable of out of desperation for a man’s attention? I went looking and found him hooking up with another woman and leaving the premises. I caught up with him and demanded my things and the woman immediately said she wasn't going home with him. I said I didn't care, I just wanted my stuff. She kept apologizing and I almost laughed in her face. I DON’T CARE.
Eel Man took me to get my purse, but made no effort to help me get a ride. Public transit was at least a mile away and it was pitch black in that industrial section of town. I was at least an hour’s walk away from the closest BART train, two hours from home at best.
Then he actually asked if I'd like to go out again, and for the first and only time that evening I found my real voice and said, "You must be joking!” It was the beginning of a long climb out of social conditioning that tells women they must accommodate the man at all costs, lest they be abandoned and lonely in their dotage.
And so I walked. Unerringly forward and alert. I was so angry at myself but I saw the comedy of errors and knew I had grown some. The signs had all been there, but I was too afraid of my loneliness and wounding to heed them. I had acted like this was the last guy on earth who would ever ask me out. I had acted like I owed him something.
When the bus doors opened, I told the woman driver that I had walked away from a bad date and I didn't have exact change. (I didn't.) She let me on for free, sympathetic, and dropped me at BART. While I waited, so relieved, for my train, the platform filled with well-dressed older patrons of a nearby theater event. I was so relieved and happy that I drew the attention of an elderly woman came and sat next to me.
She says, "I heard you tell the bus driver that you'd had a bad date. My husband died ten years ago, I'm 73 now, and I'd like to start dating again. Any advice?"
If the Abercombies Fit ...
Is it me? Or is it the Abercrombies. I’m 50+. (No, no, not my Abercrombie jeans, they’re size zero. My age!) After years married to a dear but obese man decimated by diabetes, I seek youth in all its hunky chunky healthy glowing glory. I want to be in the presence of perfect chiseldom. The Abercrombie ad model— six-pack abs, come-hither stare, store-front lure.
It’s a phase. Picking up where I left off. Bear with me.
So here I was, shivering in front of a dance club waiting for Julian to show. I watched couple after couple sashay up the steps, looking at me. Other guys flirted. I was still there, waiting stupidly, when some left hand in hand an hour later, looking at me again, grinning wildly.
Humiliated, I didn’t even go inside to dance. I just left, angry and foolish and feeling old. The whole way home I heard my mom’s fave phrase, “The girl always gets egg on her face.” That ticked me off more than getting stood up. Although she was wildly popular in college, it’s possible my mother had sex only twice in her life (I have an older sister, so it couldn’t have been that bad). Why I should have believed her maxim, I don’t know.
Julian never showed. He never called. That still doesn’t make her right.
Still, getting stood up was better than my date with Eel Man. This was a guy so good on paper. OK, online. He was into health and spirituality. He was interested in me, intelligent, and we seemed to share interests. What could it hurt to go dancing.
But when I met him in person, what a creep. I went anyway; I was desperate. When Fred hooked up with another woman, I left (relieved) and walked 2 miles in the dark to a bus stop. Explained I had walked away from a bad date; driver let me on without paying. An elderly woman on board heard, and asked me for dating advice. Say what?
Gals, listen up: When a guy takes 100 supplements a day and thinks a cool dinner date is sharing a can of eel while he drives a ratty Honda, pay attention. We do not want this. We can do better. We do not have to follow through with a commitment just because we were raised to be polite.
Eel Man wasn’t even an Abercrombie. Maybe my relationship to my own body is the reason I crave the musculature. I love myself when I’m physically active. I am complete. I know who I am, and I am happy.
Maybe it’s the sports connection I’m really after. In the interim between dates, I’ve taken up indoor rock climbing. At first it was a way to meet guys but ho, the joke’s on me: I’m so addicted to the sport, and apparently rather good at it, I forget to look around.
Who knows, maybe one of ‘em’s already looking at me. I am in rather Abercrombie shape.
It’s a phase. Picking up where I left off. Bear with me.
So here I was, shivering in front of a dance club waiting for Julian to show. I watched couple after couple sashay up the steps, looking at me. Other guys flirted. I was still there, waiting stupidly, when some left hand in hand an hour later, looking at me again, grinning wildly.
Humiliated, I didn’t even go inside to dance. I just left, angry and foolish and feeling old. The whole way home I heard my mom’s fave phrase, “The girl always gets egg on her face.” That ticked me off more than getting stood up. Although she was wildly popular in college, it’s possible my mother had sex only twice in her life (I have an older sister, so it couldn’t have been that bad). Why I should have believed her maxim, I don’t know.
Julian never showed. He never called. That still doesn’t make her right.
Still, getting stood up was better than my date with Eel Man. This was a guy so good on paper. OK, online. He was into health and spirituality. He was interested in me, intelligent, and we seemed to share interests. What could it hurt to go dancing.
But when I met him in person, what a creep. I went anyway; I was desperate. When Fred hooked up with another woman, I left (relieved) and walked 2 miles in the dark to a bus stop. Explained I had walked away from a bad date; driver let me on without paying. An elderly woman on board heard, and asked me for dating advice. Say what?
Gals, listen up: When a guy takes 100 supplements a day and thinks a cool dinner date is sharing a can of eel while he drives a ratty Honda, pay attention. We do not want this. We can do better. We do not have to follow through with a commitment just because we were raised to be polite.
Eel Man wasn’t even an Abercrombie. Maybe my relationship to my own body is the reason I crave the musculature. I love myself when I’m physically active. I am complete. I know who I am, and I am happy.
Maybe it’s the sports connection I’m really after. In the interim between dates, I’ve taken up indoor rock climbing. At first it was a way to meet guys but ho, the joke’s on me: I’m so addicted to the sport, and apparently rather good at it, I forget to look around.
Who knows, maybe one of ‘em’s already looking at me. I am in rather Abercrombie shape.
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