No answers

I dreamt of you last night.

You looked good. Healthy, happy, fit. In love.

In the dream, a friend and I accidentally bumped into you…and her. It was a strange situation, as dreams often are. You were parked with her in a unknown Dream Park. I recognized the car and the license plate, which oddly were the same as in real life. Maybe they’ve burned themselves into my sub-concsious, because I’m so afraid of seeing them again. I’m always nervous that I’ll see that car parked somewhere and I’ll know that there is a chance that I will see you, and I will go to pieces.

In my dream, I didn’t go to pieces.  I caught a glance of the two of you, and asked my friend if we could move along quickly. “It’s him,” I explained to her, because she’s never had the pleasure of your acquaintance.

As I was in the midst of explaining our last tumultuous evening together, the night that you broke me utterly and for the last time – you appeared. You confronted me, upset, accusing. I explained that our meeting was purely coincidental. After all, it had  been almost six months (although it was strangely summer in the dream), and this was the first time our paths had crossed. Surely this was a good indication I wasn’t some kind of stalker. After all, the last thing I wanted to see was you, canoodling in a car, with her.

Boldly, Dream Me asked you the question that I’ve been fruitlessly asking myself for almost six months.

“Why did you lie to me? Why didn’t you have the guts to tell me the truth?”

Your face instantly worked itself into that big-eyed, caged animal look that I grew to recognize all too well over the past couple of years. I don’t know what you’re talking about, you said. I never lied, you said. “I told you the truth.  I told you that I didn’t want to be with you, I told you because I didn’t want to lie to you.”

“But you lied about her”, I replied. “Did you not think I would find out that she’s your girlfriend? We met her together, at the same time…or… at least I think we did. You said you met someone online, but you didn’t. You met her.”

Dream You began shuffling his feet.

“Your decision to move onto better things didn’t hurt me as much as the fact that you couldn’t even tell me the truth. After all that time, I didn’t even deserve that much respect in your eyes. And then you wiped me from your life completely – although that didn’t take much of an effort, because I was never really a part of it.”

It appeared as though you were about to open your mouth to say something in your defense, but then you stopped, and just looked at me. Big eyes that couldn’t – still can’t - comprehend why it should matter so much.

And that was when I woke up.  I still don’t have any answers or explanations. No apologies. Nothing.

Not even in my dreams.

Something

“Oh yes, this is a magical hat for you.”  She beams.  I blush.

I’m standing in front of a mirror in a tiny workroom off to the side from the main shop.  Light fills the space from the twelve-foot high window.  Colourful fabric and hats in various stages of conception sit on work tables next to sewing machines and torturous-looking hat pressing contraptions.

“Really?”

She is older than I am, with long, greying hair, pulled back.  Her partner, who has been in and out of the studio, pops in from the back room.

“I have to tell you,” he says, his eyes alight beneath the brim of his own hat.  “That seeing you in this hat, it makes me smile.  It’s making everyone smile.” He points to my companion, who has been standing patiently behind us in the main shop, watching everything transpire. 

He is smiling.  He nods.

I’m sorry I made you weep.

“The red in the fabric matches the rosiness of your complexion and the blue, well…you can see for yourself what it does for your eyes.”

I look in the mirror, nodding and smiling.

“It’s good to have someone to share the experience with, someone patient and supportive, like your friend over there.”

“Yes, it is.”

I feel like I’m using you, he said.

“Our friend, the one who told you about this place…I hope he’s well.  He’s a lovely man.  The next woman he’s with will be a very lucky woman.”  She’s looking into the mirror, into my blue eyes, I think.  How could she know?

Not for me.

“You’re right.  About the hat.  I’ll take it.”

It’s just like e-harmony, without the creepy people who paint

“But with your literary prowess, I’m curious for further descriptors.”*

Here’s an oldie, but a goodie.  Kind of like the author.

*****

I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t seeking something.   Aren’t we all?

Maybe the ad would look something like this:

Female professional, 35, seeks partner(s) for fun and perhaps a little frolic.  Note the “(s)”. If this bothers you, please don’t bother reading the rest.   The “(s)” does not signify threesome (sorry, fellas) or polygamy (sorry, Mormons).  It means that I am not actively (nor frantically) seeking an exclusive engagement.   However, like most things in life…everything is negotiable.

Wait, did I say that everything is negotiable? I misspoke.

In the interest of full disclosure, here are some important things that you should know:

(1) Although I will fight to the death to ensure that everyone has the right to it, I have no personal interest in the institution of marriage, and I do not measure my self worth by its presence or absence in my life.    If marriage is your only goal, move along.

(2) At the tender age of 35, I recognize that I am reaching the far side of my years as a child-producing entity. However, I feel no particular urge to have children, and will not view my life as a woman a failure if I never reproduce. If your only plan is to impregnate me in the next five years in order to ensure your legacy, please look elsewhere.

(3) I may have the random urge to kiss you passionately while walking down the street.  I rarely suppress these urges, especially in the evenings when a light snow is falling.  Or in the summer after a pitcher of margaritas on a patio. If you can’t handle being kissed in public, you should find another woman.

(4) I enjoy a glass of red wine after a long day at work. I like to take my shoes off, wiggle my toes, and feel the explosion of a big California zinfandel on my tongue. I hate drinking alone, and quite frankly, I view the dislike of red wine as a kind of character flaw.  As a side note, please don’t hold back if you feel the need to massage my aching feet.   If you cannot appreciate red wine, you and your bottle of Pinot Grigio should go home.

(5) The chances are good that I earn more money than you.  This doesn’t bother me, but it bothers some people.  If it hurts your ego when I pick up the cheque, I’m not interested.   Alternatively, if you always expect me to pick up the cheque, don’t count on hearing from me again.

(6) I endeavour in all instances to be reasonable and not make excessive or outrageous demands on the people I care about, and I understand that time is a precious commodity.  I’m busy, you’re busy, everyone is busy, all the time. However, I do expect the same courtesy from lovers as I do from colleagues, friends and family – return my calls, reply to my emails, and show up on time.   If you cannot reciprocate the courtesy and respect that I show you, or don’t understand why it’s important, you definitely should not have wasted your time reading this list. And you need to grow up and stop being such a narcissist.

(7) Sometimes my best endeavours fail.  Occasionally, I have passive-aggressive tendencies (thanks, Mom!), and I may argue with you over the most unimportant of issues (thanks, law school!).  I may hold a grudge, or pout like a child.  Sometimes wit devolves into sarcasm.  But I promise that I will always apologize, and I will never stop trying to correct these faults.   If you cannot forgive my carelessness from time to time (as I will with you), it would be best if you walked away now.

(8) As for frolic**, it will be prolonged, playful and passionate.   Time of day is not important. Locations are not limited.   However, I do have a preference for long, slow and tender over frantic and punishing – with the recognition that sometimes urgent fumbling can lead to the sweetest of pleasures.   If this sounds in any way distasteful to you, apply elsewhere.

Unfortunately, as stated explicitly up front, I cannot guarantee exclusivity, or length of commitment.  But if you enjoy the finer things in life and want to share some time with a more thoughtful companion, for a drink, for a meal, for a weekend in bed, for a week in London, or maybe even for a lifetime – perhaps this offer merits more serious consideration.***

*****

* For a further explanation, please see yesterday’s post.

** When originally published, I took some ribbing over the use of the word “frolic”.  But I kinda like it.

*** Offer not valid for married men, politicians, restauranteurs, blonds under the age of 30, Bay Street lawyers, men who take pictures of their genitals with their Blackberries, regulars of the Spice Route and anyone who lives within a 50 mile radius of the White House.

Square peg

I peruse the rows of books.

Why Men Love Bitches:  From Doormat to Dreamgirl

What Men Won’t Tell You But Women Need To Know

I shake my head and move on.  The rows are categorized alphabetically by last name.

Become Your Own Matchmaker:  8 Easy Steps for Attracting Your Perfect Mate

Act Like A Lady, Think Like A Man

“It’s not here, of course it’s not here,” I mutter under my breath.

An overly-eager sales clerk pops up.  “Can I help you find a particular title?” she chirps, like some kind of mechanical bird.  Oh come on, she knows what section of the bookstore this is. 

The Loser section.  The section people turn to when they are looking for justification.

“No, thank you,” I mumble.  I hope she hasn’t heard me talking to myself.

The truth is, I have no idea what I’m looking for.

Why Mr. Right Can’t Find You:  The Surprising Answers That Will Change Your Life

How To Make Someone Fall in Love With You in 90 Minutes or Less

I laugh despite myself.  This is not my section.  The book I’m looking for isn’t here.

The book I am looking for will explain why I don’t want what everyone else seems to want.  The book will explain why it’s very common, but no one ever talks about it. 

I began searching in the bookstore after I read the following on Salon:

At 29, I’m not looking for a man. I’m six months out of a nearly two-year relationship so void of passion and emotion that I might as well have been alone the entire time. For the past few months I have enjoyed traveling by myself in Asia, avoiding all offers of romance. One pale Englishman in Laos asked me, his eyes wide and moist, if I wanted to have a bit of fun with him.

“Fun for whom?” I asked and went to bed early that night with my book, happy that I only had to share my room with the large frog on the wall of my bathroom.

“Oh my God,” I wrote to a friend.  “Is this what people think I believe?”

It is not what I believe.  Far from it.  In fact, it may be the saddest thing I have ever read in my life.  Claiming to prefer the company of an amphibian over an Englishman (however pale), or any other human being, is a bit much, don’t you think?

Blame it on thousands of years of conditioning.  Blame it on “Eat, Pray, Love”.  Blame it on feminism, or any other “ism” you prefer.

But I don’t believe in it.  Not for me.

Women imposing abstinence upon themselves, telling themselves that surely some kind of enlightenment will come from not acting upon their sexual desires.  Where is the choice, exactly? 

Where is the joy?

Are we simply wives and mothers?  Or sluts?  Or celibate singletons, proving our self-worth by denying our sexual pleasure?  Where do these perverse ideas come from?

I want to read the book that tells me that it’s alright to enjoy a life that includes love and yes, perhaps sex (gasp!), without the confines of tradition.  I am still relatively young, independent, successful and intelligent.  If I don’t want a traditional full-time committed relationship, does this mean that I give up a lifetime of love and passion?  Must I sign up for the whole package or walk away, empty handed?  If things don’t work out with the Prince, must I choose the frog? 

There must be another choice, I tell myself.  There must be another way.

And so, I continue to search.

Unroll your Jump to Conclusions Mat

“So, how was your date on Friday night?”

I pause.  Rifle through my Monday morning-addled brain.  This should be filed under “Friday, night of”. Think, think, think…

“My date?”

“We saw you at Oliver and Bonacini’s on the patio.”

Finally, the file appears. 

Friday, night of: 6:00 to 7:00 p.m., Oliver and Bonacini’s:  Drink with ex-colleague to catch up on life.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

My current colleague has a huge grin on his face, as though he’s finally caught me. 

I don’t usually like to write about colleagues here, but since he put me in a brutally awkward position last Christmas by asking me if I would like to be featured on a “matchmaking” website he was building, I feel as though I can loosen my nearly-airtight bands of discretion in this instance.* 

“Oh, that wasn’t a date.”

His face falls a little, but I sense that he doesn’t believe me.  Because, of course, I need to lie about these things.

“That was me having a drink with an ex-colleague to catch up on things.”

But thanks for starting a rumour. That’s just swell.

You see, I’ve had this argument repeatedly with others.  “A woman cannot engage in business development in the same way that a man would, because everyone will always assume that the woman is coming onto the man, or vice-versa,” I would say.

“Wow, someone’s got a high opinion of herself,” I could hear them thinking. “Why would she think that anyone would care if she’s dating or not?”

Well, score one for me in the “I told you so” category.

And people wonder why I like to keep my personal life out of my office.

This is why.

* At the time, I couldn’t tell if it was an elaborate way of setting me up with one of his friends, or an actual attempt to pimp me out like a prostitute.  Clearly, the look of disgust on my face as I handed back his business card wasn’t pronounced enough to scare him completely.  NOTE TO ALL MALE READERS:  Do not ask your female colleagues to join your escort service.

Epiphany

“It’s hilarious that you laugh at your own jokes.”

“Is that a bad thing?” 

He looks over and smiles.

“No, I think it’s kind of cute.”

Reality Monday

[Dramatic music plays.  The tribe members file into the Council area, looking dirty, malnourished and flea-bitten.  Our fearless author, A, is wearing the immunity necklace.]

If you think I'm a bitch in real life, you should see the way they edited me on the show. Source: MSNBC.com

PROBST:  Welcome to Tribal Council, Survivors.  [Insert profound comment about fire representing life, etc. etc.]  Since this season is all about A, she gets to wear the immunity necklace to every Council, and unilaterally decide which one of you is having your torch snuffed.   And no, that’s not a euphemism, so don’t get all excited. 

Let’s start with you, A.  Can you please explain to me why you let this band of jokers onto your island in the first place?  Are you some kind of sucker for punishment?

A:  Well, Jeff, I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly stupid woman…

[snickers and eye-rolling  from the rest of the tribe]

PROBST: It doesn’t look like they agree with you.

A:  [agitated]  Alright, alright, so I’ve made some bad choices.  Who hasn’t made bad choices?

PROBST:  Soul Patch, would you agree with that?  Did A make a bad choice by keeping you on the tribe?

SOUL PATCH:  Huh? [startled out of a daze]  Who me? 

PROBST:  Have you been smoking the jungle plants again?

SOUL PATCH:  Hey, I’ve only been arrested once.  Twice.  No wait, once.  What year was that?

PROBST:  Just answer the question.

SOUL PATCH:  A is definitely not making a mistake by keeping me here.  She needs my supersperm to re-populate this island.  Besides, I don’t have a job to go back to if she decides to kick me out.

PROBST:  Brilliant answer.  What about you, Playboy?  Why should you get to stay?

PLAYBOY:  Because I’m a well-endowed smooth talker.  And I like to wear a tie.  Isn’t that enough?

PROBST:  That may be the most… narcissistic…answer I’ve ever heard.  Don’t you bring anything else to the table?

PLAYBOY:  I’m good at making up stories that aren’t true.  Especially about my sexual exploits.

PROBST:  Charming.  And how about you, Cheater?  Is there any reason why A shouldn’t just feed you to the sharks?

CHEATER:  I swear, this is the only time I ever cheated on my wife.  Well, except for that other time.  And that incident last summer.  But other than those…three..well…four times…I’ve been completely faithful.

PROBST:  Ouch.  You’re so sleazy, I’m not sure a shark would actually eat you.  But, I think we’ve heard enough. 

A, can you give us any good, sensible reason why these creeps are still hanging around?  Isn’t it obvious that they should have gone a long time ago?

A:  Well, Jeff, I guess I figured that if I kept them around, they might eventually show some redeeming qualities.

PROBST:  Oh come on, really?  Didn’t your friends warn you?

A:  They tried, but… I voted them out so that I wouldn’t have to listen anymore.

PROBST:  Smooth move, Little Miss Smartypants.  Love is blind and dumb.

A:  Watch it, Probst.  This is still MY show.

PROBST:  Good point.  Time for you to cast your vote.

[A walks around the fire to the voting area.  The music plays.  She writes and deposits the slip of paper.]

PROBST:  I’ll tally the…uhhh…vote.  The tribe member who is voted out must leave the Tribal Council area immediately.

[Probst opens the container, unfolds the paper and starts to laugh.]

PROBST:  A has decided to vote herself off of the island.

A:  Can you blame me?  What are you doing tonight, Probst? [wink]  Wanna grab a burger?

[Cue closing music and credits.]

Nobody snuffs a torch like Peachy. Isn't he dreamy? Source: MSNBC.com

Post Mortem

“Do you want to know the truth?  The truth is that I never slept with her.  Never.  Your friend is either completely deluded or he lied to you.  You should have heard the things that he was saying about her.  It was disgusting.  You know what he’s like.”

“I know what he used to be like.  He’s always been a good friend to me.”

“I never, never did the things he said.  She confided in me because he treated her so badly.”

“He does seem to hate you.”

“Well, I’m not a fan of his, either.”

The smoke from his cigarette drifts up, toward the night sky.  There is a half litre of white and a half litre of red on the table.  A compromise. 

“I wish I wasn’t so attracted to you,” he finally says.

“Sorry about that.  So, when’s the wedding?”

“Soon.”

“You’re sending me messages, again.  And you’re getting married.  Soon, even.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“This sounds incredibly self-serving, but I’ve been down that road, and if you think it’s going to get better, chances are good that you’re fooling yourself.”

“You’re probably right. I don’t have your courage, I suppose.  To leave.  To change.”

“I wouldn’t call it that. A healthy dose of insanity, perhaps.”

Pause.  Smoking. Drinking.

“You know that I can’t see you anymore. It’s wrong. I will not be the person to break up your relationship. You would hate me forever. And things have changed for me. Things are very different than they were six months ago.”

“So, do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Does he love you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah.”

“It is what it is, I suppose.”

“I want for you to be happy, with someone who loves you. Who can really love you in the way that you deserve, every day.”

“Thank you.”

He lights another cigarette.

I sip my drink.

Honour amongst thieves

Dear friend.

I’m sorry that I wasn’t here for you tonight.

I lied to you.  Instead of helping you, I decided to take a chance and open my heart to someone who probably never deserved it in the first place.

As expected, he ripped it out and left it lying on Yonge Street, somewhere between Wellington and King.  If you go there, you may still see the bloodstains.

Because you love me, I know that you will understand.  And I know that if you were here right now, that you would comfort me, because that is just the kind of person you are. 

Actually, you would probably order me a glass of wine, and tell me that I’m gorgeous, but my sweater isn’t made of cashmere.  That’s why I love you so much.

I wish I had made a different choice, and I know that I will never be so foolish again.

Forgive me.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson

in-gé-nue  [an-zhuh-noo, -nyoo; ngenue]

 1. the part of an artless, innocent, unworldly girl or young woman, esp. as represented on the stage.

 

Not so long ago, I was at a karaoke bar with a group of younger friends.  A tall, handsome twenty-something fellow with enough personality to fill the entire room had just relinquished the microphone to the DJ.  I found his turn on the stage amusing, and, fuelled by at least one giant mug of beer, decided to share my thoughts on his performance.

After a short and largely inaudible conversation, he looked me squarely in the eye (or as squarely as he could, given his level of intoxication) and said:

“How old are you?”

I laughed and gave him a look that could only be translated as “rude…bold…but you’re cute, so I’ll forgive you.”  I considered being evasive.  Before I could admit the truth, he said:

“Wanna make out?”

Koo-koo-ka-choo, Benjamin.

Although I had seen it coming for a while, that was the moment when I realized that the ingenue was gone for good.  I was not expecting to be so comfortable, so accepting, of the change.

Women are told by society and the media to fear their middle age.  Yet, with age comes experience, knowledge and security.  Prosperity.  Freedom.

When I was 26, I was certain that I knew all of the answers.

Now that I am approaching 36, I am less certain.  But, I am more confident in my abilities.  I care less about what people think of me in the superficial sense, and have less fear about expressing my own opinions, which now surprisingly carry more weight.

I am the professional, the expert, the boss, the soon-to-be mortgage holder.

I am no longer the long-lashed ingenue.  

As flattered as I was by the offer, I could only laugh, shake my head and walk away.

 

I think your self emerges more clearly over time.
-Meryl Streep

 

Who could resist the delicious Ms. Anne Bancroft?