Writing on Dating

I am concerned that writing this blog, or more specifically making it public, is narcissistic. My friend (and roommate) assures me it is not. But I just sent the link out on my Twitter feed and I’m still not sure.

I am dating, or at least starting to attempt to date, just like millions of others. And I’m sure hundreds of them are also writing about it (or maybe even millions). And I’m just not sure what will make what I write worthy enough for others to read. But putting it in the universe somehow makes it more exciting, and less overwhelming. And maybe, someone will relate to something I said, and she (or he) will feel like someone else in the universe gets it. And maybe she (or he) will leave a comment, and then I will know someone else gets it.

I do know I won’t be writing names in this blog. If anything, you may see initials. But I want to write truly, without people getting called out.

I spoke to a very nice guy on the phone tonight for 40 minutes. It was a good step. One that capped a weekend of feeling like it’s all going to be okay again, like this is not so scary. And I think writing this blog helped get me there.

1,261 Days of Ex

Sometimes in my life a movie can get a message across at the approximate moment when my friends are about to give up on trying.

I saw the film 500 Days of Summer yesterday afternoon. If you haven’t seen it yet, stop reading now (unless you like spoilers).

For me there were two take-aways from this lovely, yet honest film.

1. I have yet to go to a liquor store in a robe and flip flops and buy Jack Daniels and Hostess twinkies. I have yet to go anywhere and buy Jack and twinkies. That means I’m already doing better than the friend I attended the movie with who did admit she has done that (but in sweats, not a robe). I’m 61 days into my break-up, so I think I’ve avoided that phase (whopee! one phase I did avoid!)

2. In the film, Summer wasn’t sure. She had moments of doubt. Looks crossed her face that, sadly, unlike Tom, I recognized. And after she ended it, she moved on. She found someone she was sure of. It was so very simple.

My ex-boyfriend was not sure. In three years, he was never sure. Why did I want to be with someone who was not sure? The woman I strive to be is not okay with “not sure.” Will he ever change from being “not sure” to “sure” about me? There is a possibility of about 0.0001%. I’m not going to count on that.

The act of watching a young man’s relationship and break-up unfold on the screen, of watching Tom’s “500” days of Summer, made me realize, I need to move on from my 1,261 days of Ex. It was two months ago tonight that it ended for him. It needs to end for me. Just like Tom, it’s time to find my “Autumn.”

The Meaning of “Date”

Six years ago, while walking from Harvard Square to Central Square, my dear college friend looked at me and said, “We’re so lucky. We get to go on dates all the time.”

The “we” was him, a handful of other gentleman, my best friend with the same name as me, and myself, who all lived in an adjoined apartment building–the boys on the 4th floor, the girls on the 3rd, on Green St. in Cambridge. We were each other’s social circle, a “rat pack” of sorts. And it was not uncommon for one of us two girls to be out for dinner, a movie, a walk, or ice cream, with one of the four boys. It was innocent and fun. There was no pressure at the end of the night, or expectation. Despite the lack of butterflies, those were some of the best nights of my life. They are all blended together now, imperfect memories of maybe 100 dates during my last 12 months in Boston.

I wanted more than anything, that year, to have a boyfriend. But as we so often do in life, I look back now and know I would never trade all those date nights to have had some guy, who did not know me or love me as much, and who would have probably broken my heart.

You see, what I’ve realized, is friends, true friends, don’t break you heart. They endure your pain with you, and find ways to make you laugh. And they take you on the best kind of dates–even when you are a miserable person to be around.

I’m not sure yet, after almost 30 years of living, that all the wonderful dates with a new guy who turns into a boyfriend and maybe even a husband, are worth the pain of the days that follow him breaking your heart. What I am sure of is going on a “date” with a good friend, lady or gent, will not end badly, and will stay with you, as your truest friends do, for all your days.

Who Knew…Bocce?

I joined a Bocce Ball league to meet people—namely men. When I received the names of my teammates, I was happy to discover it was four guys and one lady.

I was the first on the scene for game one. I picked up my brick red Bocce team shirt and waited anxiously to meet my fellow Bocce-ers. As my teammates arrived, I was excited to see the area filling up with men.

As the game began, and we started to dominate the other team, I found myself laughing and joking with all five teammates. After our big 16-6 win, we walked to the sponsor bar and planted ourselves at the lone open picnic table. We proceeded to consume six pitchers of beer—a pitcher apiece. We talked about jobs and hometowns and sex.

The guys did what every group of guys loves to do when they find willing females—ask for sex tips. And, despite having just met them, my female teammate, who was eerily similar to me (except not single), and myself doled out any tips we could think of that weren’t cliche or overused.

In the course of one evening, and two more Bocce, beer-filled evenings, I realized this had not become about meeting men. It had become about starting over. I was creating friends who didn’t know me because of my ex-boyfriend. People whose first impression of me was throwing a ball and drinking a beer.

I like who I am around my Bocce teammates. I am not broken-hearted.

I thought the best way to move on was to find a new man. But first I had re-create my life. Who knew Bocce ball would be the start of starting over?

Drunk Texting an Ex is for the 18-22 Crowd

I will not deny the college set their drunk texting. For my generation, it was part of our  “first relationship” experience.

But at the age of 27, there is no longer an excuse for drunk texting. Unless, maybe, it’s to say “I love you” or “Sleep Tight” to a current significant other. But when it’s to your ex-boyfriend, and it’s slobbery and messy, it does no good.  I have done it on two separate occasions since our break-up two months ago, both of which I woke up regretting.

My very good high school friend is the nicest guy to his ladies that I know. And even he reached a breaking point with an ex-girlfriend who hung on too long. She sent one too many text messages, drunk or not, among other slightly stalker-ish behaviors (leaving chocolate at his front door). And he who never gets angry or exposes a temper, wrote a harsh email, an 8 out of 10 for harshness, telling her he needed her to leave him alone.

On the same day he sent that email, he gave me the best advice I’ve received since my break-up. The shorter version: “Don’t be her. Move on. Don’t be the one who keeps pursuing that which is already lost.“

Right now my ex doesn’t mind the drunk texts. It makes him feel good about himself that I’m hanging on. But there will be a day, in a week or a month or a year, that he will not be so nice about it. Moral of the story, he doesn’t need to know how I feel anymore. Drunk or not, my texts need to be sent elsewhere.

Reason #1 Why Guy Friends Are Essential

I received the following email (word-for-word) yesterday from a guy friend. I had, only an hour earlier, expressed my frustration to him about the online dating service I joined a week ago.

“LESS SPORTS, MORE SKIN.

OK.  At least a little less sports (or lead with something else) and you probably should put your body type up.  Also, a less frumpy head to toe picture would probably help.  Your profile reads “nice, sweet, friendly, heavy set softball player who will make a really good friend. Great target for dorks, scumbags and 50 year old men”

OK, it’s not really that bad, but I am trying to make a point.  Sun dress, flip flops, no hat.  (Or Jeans, t-shirt, no hat) That’s what the fellas need to know.”

What girlfriend would have ever looked up my profile and said “MORE SKIN.”

Within three hours of removing all “frumpy” photos of me in a baseball hat, and adding a few full body shots, I had been contacted by 5 men, two of who would qualify as very decent.

Post-critique, I am officially on an online dating roll. And now I know to never navigate the online dating waters without consulting one of my boys.