My Polar Opposite » dating

Become the change you wish to see, or why I need to lose 40 lbs

mypolaropposite — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 02:16:34 +0000

On Monday I turn 38 and, as is wont to happen around my birthday, my penchant for self-reflection intensifies as I contemplate the next year of my life. This year, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to lose this nagging 40 pounds (okay, maybe 50 for good measure), get back into a size 8 and stay there for good. My decision has little to do with aging or healthy living, though I do feel better when I exercise regularly. Nor does the impending trip to Weight Watchers (or whatever program I’m giving myself as a gift) stem from a desire to fit into Lucky Jeans – plus anything sold at Express – again. Nope, I want to lose weight because I’m not attracted to fat men.

Damn the double standard, I like what I like

Now you’re thinking that I was a little hasty back there in my dismissal of the zaftig among men as undateable. After all, you men may say, who am I to be picky if I need to lose 50 lbs? Some of you might opine that men of all sizes like large women, or that I should learn to love myself no matter how much I weigh and I can still be sexy in a size 18. First off, picky is in the eye of the beholder and if I want a nice piece of salmon, don’t try to give me flounder and say it’s the same thing. I know what pleases me in dinner and in people and I know how to get it. Furthermore, trust me when I say that I love my curves and work them to their fullest advantage on the regular; I don’t have any self-hate with regard to my size. Why, then, do I think that dropping some poundage will land me the date of my dreams? Two words: buffet dinner.

The couple that eats together…

Have you ever been to Las Vegas, or any city that boasts cheap food in abundance? My Dad lives in Nevada and like all senior citizens, he likes a good deal. Buffet meals fit my father’s financial obligations because the portions are unlimited and he can always sneak out a chicken leg to eat later. If you go to Vegas and size up the patrons at the nearest food trough, you’ll always find a bunch of oldsters with stacks of food that may or may not leave the building before consumption. If I was on a fixed income, I’d bring plastic baggies and insulated totes to dinner. In addition to the geriatric set, you’ll also find many, er, robust couples parked in front of the all-you-can-eat sign. Apparently stuffing your gullet full of crappy foodstuffs constitutes a bonding as well as eating occasion. I’m not a fan of the entrée called “look, its fried” with “greasy” as an appetizer. And if I’m gonna eat a heart attack on a plate, I’ll have it made-to-order portion rather than sitting under a heat lamp where its cholesterol molecules gain strength hourly.

Unlike my brethren of the buffet, I have not maintained my pleasing plumpness by eating fast food, fried food, or empty calories. My waistline has been cultivated by large quantities of gourmet cheese, European chocolate, well-prepared meats, and expensive alcohol. Of course I inhale the occasional bag of puffed Cheetos, but I’ve never met a vegetable I didn’t like, and I bake my own bread. My fat has a pedigree, just like the rest of me, and it does discriminate against those whose sole culinary criterion is quantity. I’ve seen Mr. and Ms. Rotund waddle up to the buffet line, drool on the sneeze guards and put away piles of chow I wouldn’t even glance at. I’ve also seen them repeat the process in the same sitting, trying to pass of some sad piece of iceberg lettuce covered in Thousand Island dressing as a vegetable. Just who are they trying to fool?

Fat, not nasty

The food snob in me will never become one of those “shovel it in” people; I eat for taste and necessity, not just to fill my belly, so I prefer to savor what I consume rather than wallow it and swallow it. Watch an overweight person eat: they’ll either appreciate the vast array of what they eat, or just choke as much of it down as quickly as possible to make room for the next mouthful. Lack of chewing at the dinner table and messy eating habits were contributing factors to a few breakups in my past. There were other reasons those men were not long for my world, but they were also the two heaviest men I ever dated and had the worst taste in food. We couldn’t really agree on eating out because they wanted White Castle when I wanted to eat at Four Seasons. I exaggerate slightly, but not by much. And if I’m planning to sit across a table from someone for any period of time I’m expecting them to have table manners, talk to me during the meal, and agree that Olive Garden is not haute cuisine OR real Italian food in spite of the bottomless breadsticks.

What I’m saying here is that there are fat folks who are fairly oblivious to food and their various food-related habits portray that engagement. In my experience, these are the overweight people who wear lots of t-shirts, buy shoes at the supermarket and have bad haircuts, the “Fat Nasties”. On the other hand, there are people who consume more high-quality calories than our bodies need, and may consume those calories as foie gras and snifters of aged whiskey. They may be overweight, but wear good shoes and ironed clothes because they have respect for themselves and their appearance. Now I may be fat, but I’m no Fat Nasty in that being big doesn’t determine what I wear, where I go, or my social circles. I go to the beach and ride bicycles in spite of what my ass must look like in the seat. I choose friends because I like them, not because they make me feel skinny/pretty/less insecure about myself. And I’m incredibly well fed because my parents introduced me to escargot, the maitre d’hôtel and white tablecloths at an early age. I have some taste, y’all, and you better have some too if you want to hang with me.

The moral of this story is, I’m going to head to the gym after work today. I plan to make my outsides match my insides in hopes that nobody invites me to the all-you-can-eat rib joint because they think I need a truckload of dinner make me happy. I’d rather eat pretty food with a fancy-pants hipster who wants to make me happy in spite of the fact that we’re having dinner.

Armchair Therapist: Relationship Self-Analysis Edition

mypolaropposite — Mon, 10 May 2010 05:05:49 +0000

http://www.flickr.com/photos/gwen/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

This time, it’s personal (#NameThatMovie)!

Today I realized that I still have some work to do, but I’m learning a lot about myself. And, as a result, this is THE LAST POST I will write on the Friend Boy saga because I’m going to take my own advice. One of my Twitter followers said that she read my blog because I wrote something that really resonated with her, and I write it a lot: I cannot change other people, or their behavior; I can only change my reactions to what they do. So today, dear friends, I’m listening to myself and I’m changing myself. On November 14, 2005, I had a relationship breakthrough; I know the date because I put it in a Word document that I have saved on my computer. Fortunately, it weathered the untimely demise of my iBook so that I can look at it when I feel myself doing something stupid. My breakthrough went a little something like this:

I am going to be myself regardless of what other people think, or what other people want me to be.
When I am true to myself, I am happy.
Exactly who I am and exactly who I want to be is absolutely fine, and people will like me for who I am.
No matter what happens, and no matter what other people think of me, I will always know how lovable and deserving of love I am.
I will not hide behind narratives that I have created for myself to keep me from getting close to people.
I do not need to hide behind a mask of who I think I should be or how I think I’m supposed to act.
It is worth the work and the discomfort to get rid of my “racket” and be free to experience real feelings.
Now that I have this realization, my perspective, my relationships, my happiness will be forever changed – for the better.

That sounds all healthy and shit, huh? Now it’s time to add another statement to my list of relationship health reminders, just so I can look at it again and again:

I will not spend time and energy on people that do not appreciate me for who I am.

It’s hard to be self-aware and check yourself when you’re about to go down an unhealthy path, but I’m going to do it in public this time, so I’ll be shamed into treating myself correctly.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day, and I wrote what I believed was a really great post on how I’d been feeling now that my mother has been dead for nearly half my life. It was really difficult, and really cathartic, but I wrote it because when something is on my mind – and on my heart – I have to commit it to words. Also, many of you have lost loved ones and I’d like to think that in some way I’m helping other people with my blog topics. Or I’m making you laugh, which is helpful to me all the time. I don’t write for recognition, or sympathy, or empathy, but its nice when I get it. Judging by Twitter retweets, and comments here, on Facebook, and in person, I struck a nerve with a lot of people and I’m grateful for your reaction. I was most…surprised is the best word, I guess, that people who have never met me could be so caring about my feelings. Whether you honestly meant it or not, you said it, and I’m deeply touched.

My family and friends also reached out to me, knowing that Mother’s Day is usually hard for me, and gave the kind words that they always do. Conspicuously absent from any kind of comment was Friend Boy, who I know follows me on Twitter AND Facebook, but may not read the blog. For you eternal optimists and hopeless romantics out there, I know he saw my updates because he was on the grid. The best (and worst) thing about social media is that you can tell where people are, what they do, and when they do it. Sure, I might have been guilty of a little cyber-stalking, but who hasn’t? Friend Boy has been all over the internets, talking about whatever to whomever. Not a peep to me. No “saw your blog”, or “I know you were upset yesterday, how’s it going?” Only a Twitter request to do something for him. Humph! So basically, people who don’t know me from a can of paint went out of their way to comment on my blog, send it to other people, give me feedback, send me e-mail, cry while reading my words. But someone who actually knows me could not be bothered. Very telling, indeed. And I’m interested in a relationship with this person? Somebody check me back into the hospital because I clearly need to have my head examined…again!

You may be asking yourselves why I’ve devoted so much brain power to someone who ignores me and what’s going on in my life. Or wondering what difference it makes whether Friend Boy reads my stuff or says “hey dog, good work.” Because, ladies and gentlemen, I am The Queen of One-Sided Relationships. I date emotionally withholding men. I get all wrapped up in self-absorbed dudes and then try to change them into the caring mates that I want. I make excuses for why they don’t pay attention to me and I hang on far longer than is good for my psyche. I ignore signs that I should cut bait and hope that, when they’re finished whatever other thing they’re doing, they’ll be more into me. Know what? They probably won’t be more into me. Not because I’m doing something wrong, but because everything ain’t for everybody we’re not for each other. And my “racket,” for all of you Landmark Education folks in the audience, is that I’m somehow undeserving of male attention and will be alone forever, therefore choosing emotionally unavailable objects makes my worthlessness a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’ve blogged about this before, and when I put it in writing again, it makes NO SENSE to me. But it doesn’t have to make sense for it to be true.

I’m not mad at Friend Boy, or the Parade of Assholes that I’ve actually dated in the past. I’m angry with myself for being insane. You know, repeating the same pattern over and over, hoping for different results? People only do what they can get away with, and if they can get away with ignoring me most of the time and still get sex/dinner/attention/free web design services they’ll go ahead as planned. If, however, I stop myself from committing the energy to giving these men what they want and shift the focus to what I want and need, the universe will send me someone who appreciates me and the wishy-washy guys will just float away. I’m exaggerating the ease with which I’ll be able to change my thought and behavior patterns, but I hope you understand what I’m trying to say.

My mom used to say “the way you start off is the way you’ll end up” and “a leopard doesn’t change its spots.” Basically, if someone is kinda self-involved when you first meet them, they’re pretty much always going to be that way no matter what you do. So I’m writing off my interest in Friend Boy as destined to end up with me doing all the giving and none of the taking, and I’m nipping this “crush” or whatever you wanna call it in the bud. In the interest of filling my blog with aphorisms, I know that “the heart wants what it wants” and I can’t really turn off my feelings. I can, however, question why I even had them in the first place. Somewhere back in time, Friend Boy did show a passing interest in me. If you want to know the truth, he talked to me first, but that can only get him so far. The fact that this mishegas has turned into what I’ll call My First Mistake of the Decade is nobody’s fault. It will, however, be my fault if I sink emotional capital into this man when my investment doesn’t look like it will pay dividends. (I put my MBA to good use with that metaphor!)

So if you see me on Twitter talking about Friend Boy, will you please put me on blast? Remind me of this blog post, tell me you agree with me, or that I’m full of shit for not practicing what I preach. If public humiliation works for weight loss, then why not for the loss of my foolish ways? However, when you throw this post back in my face, don’t throw it that hard: you might break my ego.

Bipolars should be single: The final installment of The Friend Boy Chronicles

mypolaropposite — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 13:32:21 +0000

Controversial title, huh? Before you go off on me for suggesting that it is not possible for people suffering from bipolar disorder to maintain healthy relationships, read what I have to say here about myself and then feel free to judge me as you see fit.

Remember how I said that I was ready for love, talking all big about thinking clearly and prepared to make grown-up decisions like regular people? Well, I may have jumped the gun on that one and here’s how I know. Last week was a bad week. Not “check myself back into the hospital” bad; more like “I feel bad and I just want to stay in bed all the time.” For the most part, I did just that with the exception of a few showers, a job interview, and some talking on the phone. At some point this week, I realized that for the last few months I’d been riding high on a combination of endorphins, caffeine, serotonin (both natural and chemically-induced) and whatever other brain chemicals trigger bipolar mania. In case you care about my moods, this is everyday life for me, the stuff of 140 characters, not blog posts. My highs aren’t high enough to make me think I can fly or run with the bulls in Pamplona. They’re just high enough to make me feel slightly antsy, lose my appetite, and be really, REALLY productive. So, garden-variety Type A stuff with a little “I’m falling in love” sprinkled on top for flavor. For the record I am NOT falling in love, though I find it very telling that the “falling in love” feeling is a little bit like a manic attack. Blame it on the do-do-do-do-do-dopamine. And that infernal serotonin, which is the brain chemical my medications are responsible for altering. So…I guess I’m not really interested in Friend Boy, maybe I just need a new prescription.

In all honesty, last week was the big let-down, the big drop-down, and I went into my bipolar-depression cocoon which looks a little like this: staying in the house, avoiding people and commitments coated with an undefinable feeling of “blah”. Not bad enough to cry my eyes out (unless it was at the end of the last book I read – totally warranted, by the way) but bad enough to put my head under the covers and ignore the world. In the process of said ignorance, I grossly mistreated a classmate for whom I was supposed to do an internet project. Perhaps I over-committed myself when volunteering to help my friend promote his book, and one could identify my over-confidence in my own abilities as a by-product of a manic state. However, last week, in the midst of my depression-induced fog, I couldn’t quite focus long enough to work on said project, nor could I stomach the idea of talking to my classmate about my shortcomings. So instead, I didn’t return his phone calls. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to do the work, but I couldn’t get myself together enough to do it, or to talk about not doing it without resulting anxiety, hyperventilation and feelings of worthlessness. I’d worked myself up into a classic “I feel crappy and I feel guilty” moment when I had a huge realization: I was treating someone else the way Friend Boy – and several other men in my life – have treated me.

Stay with me, readers, while I break it down for you. My romantic life has been plagued by all manner of men who’ve virtually ignored me. I often asked, what did I do to deserve this? Nobody deserves to be ignored unless they’ve wronged you in some manner. Yet I continually give plenty of people the cold shoulder: recruiters, sometimes my Dad and my friends, my classmate last week, and my job once right before I went into the hospital. I’ve been making excuses for myself, believing that my behavior was justified because I felt “sick”, or because facing up to people would cause me too much anxiety. No matter the reasons, though, I was still in the wrong just like the dates that didn’t call me back, or the guys that broke up with me via silence instead of a direct form of communication. I’m not necessarily saying that I can’t get some man to call me back due to karmic retribution. Actually, maybe I am saying that very thing, that I’m putting into the world the same behaviors that I dislike so much in others and they’re coming right back at me. So until I can figure out how to manage my ownself in relation to other people, I probably shouldn’t be trying to date anyone. And that means, kids, that Friend Boy is a no-go until I can get my shit together. This is one of those “everything happens for a reason” moments, and why this “bipolar” should be single for just a bit longer.

For the record, I did contact my classmate and beg out of the project. He was probably disappointed, and I can live with people being disappointed in me for a while. What I can’t live with is people thinking that I’m a jerk, so I’m going to try very hard not to act like one from now on. Call me on that if you see me.

Public Service Announcement: Never take love advice. Ever.

mypolaropposite — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 18:18:51 +0000

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know of the Adventures of Friend Boy. If you’ve never read this blog before, let me sum it up for you so you don’t get confused. There’s a guy that I like and, as though I’m in seventh grade instead of a 38-year-old woman who should know something about something, I don’t know if he likes me back. My age has progressed past the “Do you like me? Check yes or no” note passed in study hall, but my emotional life is stunted and I remain trapped somewhere between a John Hughes flick and Basic Instinct. Take that exactly as it sounds. I sensed some kind of interest from Friend Boy but I don’t know how to act, whether to jump his bones or not talk to him. Suffice it to say, there’s a fair amount of internal struggle involved, and I’ve never asked anyone for their take on the situation.

Flash forward to last night when I’m eating some dinner and chatting with my aunt. A few weeks ago I mentioned to her that I’d met someone I’m interested in dating. I’ll take an aside here to note that the family grapevine has morphed “someone I’m interested in dating” into “I’m dating someone new”; they want to marry us all off, and I think my godmother wants to plan my non-existent wedding because she had 3 sons and probably needs some girly wedding-dress shopping time. Anyway, my aunt asks me what’s going on with Friend Boy, and I mention that I haven’t heard from him in a while. Her first words, “Well you better call him!” She suggested that I call and say, “Hey, baby, what’s up? Whatchu doing? Why don’t we get together?” According to my aunt’s thinking, if I didn’t think a man was interested in me, I should try as hard as possible to MAKE him interested. Oooooh-kay, but I don’t think it works that way, Auntie. I spent a lot of money in therapy to learn that I can’t control other people or their behavior, but I can control my own reactions. I’m gonna say that again because that lesson cost me thousands of dollars: I cannot control the behavior of other people; all I can control is my own reactions. You can’t “baby, baby” someone into caring about you, which I mentioned to my aunt. I also offered that if Friend Boy wanted to take me out on a date he’d already have called me up and we’d be dating. Apparently my ideas were very 1920′s, and my aunt finally said something to give me pause: “If you don’t call him, I bet there are a whole lot of women who will.” Point taken. I sent a text.

I’ve heard many men – including my Dad, who is really good with all advice – say that if a man is interested in you, he will go out of his way to contact you. I’m gonna have to believe them, because last night I had a text exchange with Friend Boy in which I suggested we hang out on a night he wasn’t free. I suggested another day to which he replied, and I quote, “LOL..I can’t say yet…” We all know what that means. At this point I should admit that Friend Boy and I are working on a work-related project together, and my offer to get together involved some socializing followed by some work. Still, no plans. Which is exactly where I was before sending that infernal text. Actually, I’m in the “I feel like an idiot” hole for having my plans brutally rebuffed. So the rebuffing wasn’t exactly brutal since it was tempered with the ever-friendly “LOL”, it’s still a no. Which goes back to the whole idea of someone making time for you if they want to see you instead of seeing you if something better doesn’t come along.

I shouldn’t have taken my aunt’s advice, because I already knew it wouldn’t do any good. I’d already come to the conclusion that Friend Boy wasn’t really interested in me. First, he doesn’t read my blog, instant tip-off. If he wanted to date me, he’d be reading my words right now in an attempt to get to know me better before the next time we see each other. When combined with the years-worth of my Facebook photos he’s already pored over, this blog would form a pretty good representation of my personality. Also, he hadn’t made a move, and believe me I know moves when I see them. Today, after taking the unsolicited advice, I have gained no new information but have likely incurred the penalty of making a pest out of myself. All with someone that I would at least like to keep as a friend and blog collaborator (that’s the project we’re working on together). So I tell you that you should never take relationship advice from anyone. If you’re at the point where you need advice to get a relationship to go a certain way, it’s already too late. If your question for someone else is, “How can I get my boyfriend to propose?”, you should really be asking yourself, “What am I gonna do if my boyfriend doesn’t propose?” because you already think he won’t. See what I mean.

Now, if only I could get a VH1 reality show for all this wisdom…

Taking the lid off Pandora’s Box: #WetJamesFranco and celibacy

mypolaropposite — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 13:00:46 +0000

Blame it on #WetJamesFranco, an entity that I created solely to deal with my reaction to photographs from the actor James Franco‘s new Gucci campaign. One of my friends posted a link to Facebook or Twitter or something like that and I haven’t been able to stop drooling since. Or thinking about sex.

Photo courtesy of http://hollywooddame.com. And God. Thank you both.

Ordinarily I ogle photos of near-naked celebrities for sport. Just because I’m celibate doesn’t mean I’m dead and/or blind. And everyone needs eye candy, particularly during the winter months when all you see are people’s bulky outwear and the tips of their noses. Except for the young fellows in my neighborhood who still insist on showing their thermal underwear under extremely low-slung trousers. Looking at them isn’t appealing; it just makes me feel cold and sad. Enter #WetJamesFranco at exactly the right time, all cheekbones, pouty lips, sinewy muscles and clingy t-shirt. To be perfectly honest, writing this blog with the photo on the left visible is raising my blood pressure. I’ve always thought the actor James Franco was pretty, and he was very funny on SNL making fun of himself in the very ad campaign currently getting my knickers in a twist. But there’s nothing like a wet shirt clinging to a man’s perfectly formed pecs to move him from “aw, that’s pretty” to sex on a stick. #WetJamesFranco has become, to me, an entity completely separate from the actor from whom I’ve never gotten such a strong reaction. Ok, so his skin looks a little too airbrushed, but the contrast in the black & white film, the textures of the dripping clothes and, well, the wetness have made me a little obsessed with #WetJamesFranco. Since seeing the photo shown on the left, I have rediscovered a host of feminine stirrings, yearnings, and urges. I am horny!!! Gulp…

I haven’t seen a naked man in a while, and it really didn’t bother me much. Until now. I should probably let #WetJamesFranco off the hook a little bit because my brain has been focused on sex, or at least on the connection between sex and dating and relationships. I’ve got to contend with my attraction to Friend Boy, who I haven’t even kissed let alone seen naked. Ok, I have seen pictures of Friend Boy in cycling gear – which doesn’t leave much to the imagination – but I don’t think that really counts for much. My interest in his spandex was much more to rule out unseemly physical defects than to acquire positive visual stimuli, if you know what I mean. Nevertheless, I’d completely rejected the idea of coming on to Friend Boy, as that behavior has

The full Gucci Sport ad. Let's take a moment to thank James Franco's parents. And God.

always been the point at which my relationships go all pear-shaped. I’d convinced my conscious mind to conjure nothing more than a hand-holding situation with Friend Boy. Then I see #WetJamesFranco‘s photos and all of a sudden I’m dreaming about Friend Boy and I rolling around on a couch, unable to keep out hands off each other. If I had cigarettes when I woke up from that dream, I would’ve smoked them. Yeah, more than one!

You see, here’s what I think is going on: my brain and my body are actually working together. I’ve opened up my rational mind to the possibility of relating to someone romantically. More amazingly, my rational mind doesn’t associate positive emotions with fear and rejection, as has happened in the past. I can acknowledge that while I may hope for a romantic outcome in my relationship with Friend Boy, I don’t expect it to happen so I can focus on the enjoyment of actually getting to know him without getting all hemmed up in subterfuge. And because my brain is enjoying itself, and my heart is a little more open than it usually is, my libido is getting ready to follow along. Thankfully, the libido is not leading the discussion these days, so I can relegate my x-rated activities to REM sleep while maintaining my actual celibacy. At least for a while.

It has come to my attention that if Friend Boy actually reads this blog, and our relationship takes an undesirable turn, I may no longer feel so positive about myself. Perhaps, but a therapeutic breakthrough is a breakthrough. And I’ll always have #WetJamesFranco.

Honesty is NOT written all over my face

mypolaropposite — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 13:30:03 +0000

Sometimes I meet my blog fans and Twitter followers in person, and they remark that my social media personality is exactly the same as my real personality. I’m a firm believer that “what you see is what you get” should apply to people as well as to computer programming and The Flip Wilson Show. I’m the most honest and upfront person you’ll ever meet. I am incapable of faking an emotion because my every thought comes across on my face and, eventually, out of my mouth. You always know where you stand with me. My proverbial balls are always to the wall, no holds barred. Except for the fact that I’m such a liar and I’m full of crap.

Before I lose all credibility, I should clarify what I mean by that last statement. Anyone who knows me has been privy to the beauty of my trademark honesty. Ask me for an honest opinion, I’ll give it. Even when nobody asks, I’m still compelled to give it. “Yes, those jeans make you look fat, that lipstick makes you look dead, and if you don’t take off those shoes I’m going to take them off you and burn them.” A friend from college used to brush her hair when I came to her room because I told her one day that her hair looked like a haystack or something. Happily, we remain friends and she still makes a point of brushing her hair before she sees me. My seeming disregard for other people’s feelings extends into my professional life as well. “That layout is crap even though you spent the better part of the week working on it: are you lazy or just incompetent?” “These concepts make it look like you’ve done a lot of work, they’re all off-strategy and only half of them mention the brand name above the fold. Did you even READ the brief? Start over.” An advertising agency creative once told me that while my words were harsh, my voice was so pleasant that nobody realized I’d chewed them out until, like, 30 minutes later. Call it a gift. But my verbal gift does not apply to dating. There I usually clam up like…well, you get what I’m trying to say.

Mind you, I’m not actually dating Friend Boy, but I like him. As previously stated, my feelings, and the thoughts and feelings regarding experiencing said feelings, give me agita. Then I obsess slightly because I’m still figuring out how to live in the present without letting my old patterns ruin the moment. The good news is that I have clarity on the behaviors that made me unhappy in male relationships. The bad news is that because I spent so many years trying to orchestrate other peoples’ reactions, I never learned how to interpret them them. To put a fine point on it, I feel like I’m 13 years old again and I don’t understand boys except to get nervous when they talk to me.

Here’s what I mean: Friend Boy and I talk and email and communicate on Facebook pretty regularly. He told me the other day that he’s spent much time looking at my pictures on Facebook. And then he said something about seeing me smile and knowing me, something like that. What exactly is that supposed to mean? Was he: (A) just making conversation; (B) interested in me romantically and, as such, fond of looking at my smiling face when he can’t see me in person; or (C) currently amassing a shrine to me that covers one entire wall of his apartment. Sometimes there’s a fine line between “adorable” and “a door ’bout to get slammed in your face, restraining order to come”. I ruled out the psycho option because Friend Boy and I have a mutual friend, whom I trust. But when he made his confession, I was torn between two reactions. Half of me wanted to say, in my best sarcastic tone, “Stalker much?” The other half of me searched for some combination coy phrase/flirty gesture as perfected by various female protagonists in 1950′s romantic films. What did I do? Nothing. When I think of it, I’m pretty sure my face was absolutely blank for the first time in my life. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t say anything either. That never happens. Help!!!!

Perhaps its best that I’m caught off guard with Friend Boy. If I’m just cruising along without a relationship map, then I won’t be able to concoct any self-defeating reactions (good), or use my defense mechanisms to diffuse my insecurities (better). This is probably what they call a breakthrough and, if it is, then I’m probably on my way to my best reactions ever: the kind of emotional honesty and sincerity that lead to a healthy relationship with myself, and with whatever “Boy” comes around.

Waiting in the foxhole of love

mypolaropposite — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 02:55:34 +0000

I’ve lost the use of my heart, but I’m still alive

Y’all know Sade ain’t never lied about a broken heart, and she really nailed it with “Soldier of Love”. All the sisters and some brothers too, understand what she’s talking about. Love rolled over your ass like like a wooden pin over Granny’s biscuit dough and you feel just as squishy and shapeless. Or you’ve been used and tossed aside repeatedly like an empty crack vial, thinking you’re just as dirty and useless. Yep, I’ve been there a few times. Sometimes it really hurt, sometimes it didn’t even register, and every time I wondered why I didn’t just let the errant hairs grow out of my chin and adopt a houseful of cats. I must confess that I have gone a fair amount of time without using tweezers. And, I have stared longingly at the “Crazy Cat Lady” action figure on my bookcase. Eventually though, I give in, commence to plucking, put the Cat Lady face down on the shelf…and get hit by another grenade in the war of romance.

And now? Well I’m suited up, Lieutenant, put me on the front line. Okay, I’m not so much ready for battle as sitting in the barracks inspecting my weapon and praying for safety. I kinda met someone (!) and I could possibly be interested in maybe going on a date with him (!!). Potentially. I’ve hung out with this guy – who shall henceforth be known as “Friend Boy” - exactly twice, and my rational mind has wisely declined to set expectations and engage in unrealistic fantasies. But somewhere in the hazy recesses of the brain, my emotional mind is telling me to “make a move” on Friend Boy and and go for mine. When I can’t equivocate her into shutting up, she concocts a scenario in which I tell Friend Boy that I like him, grab him by the ears, and plant one on him. This dream won’t, will not, come to fruition, which freaks me out a little.

I’ve been torn up inside, I’ve been left behind…I have the will to survive

Since I started dating at 17, I’ve been trying to manipulate men into doing what I want them to do. I blame my subterfuge on being a late bloomer who was never on the receiving end of the numerous crushes I had on male friends. I lobbied my first boyfriend into initiating physical contact; I made the first gestures toward holding hands, kissing, making out and he followed willingly. Those awkward teenage moves got me into relationships through my late 20′s, all of which ended at my bidding. The boyfriends that pursued me willingly also broke up with me, and broke my heart in the process. Not to be defeated, I set my sights on the “adult” sections of Craigslist for the kinds of relationships (read: sex only) I thought I could control. It turns out that no matter how I tried to intellectualize my foray into commitment-free nookie, I couldn’t get into it and I decided to be celibate. Following said decision came a few weeks in the psych hospital where I learned that the last 16 years of this love warfare have been against myself. Doing battle with my heart to feel good at any cost. Entering periodic skirmishes with my mind to escape the sadness, the uneasiness, because I didn’t want to pay attention. I’ve been out for over a year, and through so much therapy that I catch my negative self-talk in process. Dialectical behavior therapy is my friend, and I am doing my work to diffuse negative patterns and form alternatives. Marsha Linehan would be proud. But I’m still shell-shocked, suffering from mild relationship PTSD, and looking for my new love playbook without sex and manipulation.

I’m at the hinterland of my devotion, I’m in the frontline of this battle of mine but I’m still alive

So back to Friend Boy. When I met him we engaged in some mild flirting as might transpire between two people who are digging each other. The last time we saw each other was at a party, and I felt comfortable thinking, “Hey, I like this guy.” I believe there is some level of interest on his part, though I don’t know for sure. And when I don’t know something for sure, I get antsy and forget everything I know about being a normal human being. So I waged an internal war with myself, and there was no clear winner. I spent 1/3 of the time playfully ignoring Friend Boy and another 30% of the time touching him too much and looking at him (I believe) like I had stars in my eyes. I spent the remainder of the evening mentally mounting a familiar offensive to corner him in the kitchen; then I’d catch myself and literally sit on my hands and/or turn away. Crazy much? Why yes I am, thank you for asking. I’m kinda hoping that Friend Boy was so enamored with me that I didn’t seem that erratic, or that he was thinking about something else and didn’t notice.

I will see Friend Boy again in a few days, and I will behave in a manner befitting a celibate, late 30′s woman who has a handle on her own sanity regardless of the silly things she sometimes does. For all I know, Friend Boy is a sane, late 30′s man trying desperately to step over the casualties in his own relationship past. I’m pretty sure I could love with that.

Nothing says I love you like legal services

mypolaropposite — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 20:04:49 +0000

You’ve already read my first anti-Valentine’s Day rant, but here’s where I tell you why the entire “holiday” just leaves me cold. Everyone who’s selling something is trying to get us to buy their wares to symbolize our feelings for a loved one. Jewelry makes sense, the diamond industry being what it is. After all, De Beers has convinced us that a lifetime of love, companionship, smelling your flatulence and doing your laundry is worth 3-months’ salary. Chocolate is a gift I can always support, plus there’s a chemical in cocoa which induces the euphoric, falling-in-love feeling that you may want from a romantic interlude. If you’re kinda dumb and not creative, Hallmark and American Greetings has you all the pre-fab sentiment you’ll need to convince your girlfriend that you’re at least good at choosing sappy cards. And the marketer in me will even support rosy-hued electronics and durable goods as tokens of emotion. But legal services?

“Treat Yourself This Valentine’s Day”

This week I got an outbound, direct-to-consumer electronic communication (what you civilians call “SPAM”) from LegalZoom. I’ve done some research with them on setting up my LLC, so I get and e-mail about once a week about their services. The latest message was different, though. It had a Valentine’s Day theme. And pictures of conversation hearts. And a call to action that I show my love this month with a last will and testament. Boy is that the antithesis of romance. I guess I should be glad that LegalZoom didn’t offer to work on a pre-nup.

Yeah, I know I haven’t been keen on building up Valentine’s Day as the last bastion of storybook love but stay with me for a minute. No matter how much I kvetch about it, the fantasy of romance is quite beautiful. You know what I’m talking about: the perfect atmosphere, the perfect music; he talks openly about his feelings for you and how smart and pretty you are; she has nothing on under her dress, then she does that thing in bed she’s promised to do for months…heaven! The presentation of probate papers or signing 8×14″ documents figures nowhere in that illusion. Romance is about dreaming and emotions and getting swept away, and legal services are about reality and thinking and careful planning. Very rarely do I get sprung on a guy then engage in extensive fantasies about going with him to the notary public. Similarly, some guy whipping out his corporate seal doesn’t get me hot or give me the warm fuzzies, no matter how much of a geek I am.

Give Me a Gift I Wouldn’t Get for Myself

LegalZoom took all the fun out of romance – or feigning romance – by peddling some pedestrian, everyday stuff in the middle of the February and pretending that its cute and cuddly. If I form my LLC now, does the official filing come on pink, rose-scented paper with a free heart-shaped box of chocolates? Because that’s what I expect when you pitch it to me in a Valentine’s Day wrapper. Besides, a gift is something that someone gives to or does for you. If you give someone a trademark application as a V-Day gift you’re basically giving them a bunch of work to do. Even if the process is online and fairly straightforward, your beloved is clearly going to think of you – and perhaps not so kindly – as they’re reading fine print, checking their e-mail for confirmations, and generally worrying that they’ve done something wrong. How sweet of you!

I did think of a legal activity that does connote love and romance: filing for divorce. It might not mean lovey-dovies for everyone, but I’m sure that some affected parties would consider it cause for champagne, flowers, and celebration.

Boycotting Valentine's Day

mypolaropposite — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 15:48:44 +0000

Somebody put a fork in me because I’m done: I am officially calling for an embargo on Valentine’s Day and all its associated shenanigans (except for the chocolate that goes on sale the day after, since I haven’t completely lost my mind). This year, I’m not

Image licensed under Creative Commons by thedesignsuperhero.com

sending any cards, or wishing anyone a Happy-Happy, or acknowledging the so-called holiday in any fashion except to encourage others to join me in abstaining. Take that, Cupid.

The origin of Valentine’s Day hoodwinking

First let me remind you, dear reader, that Valentine’s Day is a faux holiday, not commemorating anything that I care to remember. According to Wikipedia, the first association between the martyrs St. Valentine and courtly love may have begun with a poem by Geoffrey Chaucer to celebrate the engagement of King Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia in 1380 or so. Apparently Chaucer was all about the love birds and flowery language, which I must have missed when I read The Canterbury Tales. Another thread of history attributes the “holiday” to Pope Gelasius, who simultaneously declared February 14 St. Valentines Day and outlawed the Roman mating festival called Lupercalia. While I’m not necessarily a fan of a dating “lottery” that involves getting slapped with animal hide, I might prefer random pairings to the concepts of soul mates and being together forever. At least in a lottery situation, there’s a chance I’ll actually get a date.

Dating in February does not equal a date for Valentine’s Day

Right about now I’ll assume you’re thinking, “If she was seeing someone, maybe she’d be a little more sold on Valentine’s Day,” and you would be wrong, wrong, wrong. My previous longish-term relationships have all seen mid-February and have weathered all manner of sentimental notions that Valentine’s Day be filled with hearts and flowers. As it turns out I needn’t have bothered to celebrate with the “Parade of Assholes” in my past. There was the guy to didn’t believe in Valentine’s Day (turns out he was right), but did believe in meeting me at work to pick up a chocolate cake I’d baked for him. You see, I was under the delusion that I’d spend some part of the evening feeding it to him, or at least licking frosting off my own fingertips in his presence. Ha! Then there was the trip to Boston with a would-be suitor which resulted in backed-up traffic, missed dinner reservations, and starting my period so I was extra-crabby during the entire debacle. I did get a stuffed animal and some red cinnamon candy out of the mishegas so all was not lost. I think my high school boyfriend may have come up with a card and a waxy chocolate-flavored heart that got thrown in the trash. The point is, whether romance is dead, or pressure to conform leads to romantic failure, Valentine’s Day a deux can end up being a dud.

image licensed by Creative Commons 2.0 via Flickr

In spite of my pitiful showing I have had romantic moments, in the middle of Autumn even. Once, the boyfriend of the ill-fated Boston trip had the notion to draw me a bath, light candles, and order me dinner one Friday night when I had to work until 8PM. The man for whom I baked a cake sent me coffee and bagels at work one morning. The fact that I wasn’t there to receive them that day is another issue entirely, but he did get credit for thoughtfulness. And my most wonderful February 14 moment occurred at a martini bar in Hollywood with a bunch of girlfriends. Some were attached, some were not, be we all decided to toast each other that night rather than focusing on some guy. We had a total blast, so much so that the staff repeatedly asked us to keep it down. Apparently our raucous laughter, conviviality and celebration was bothering all the sappy couples in the dining room. Pfft! I believe that a table of happy, drunk, single women spends more money than 5 couples monitoring their intake so they don’t feel bloated, lose their erection, or fall asleep during the sex they’re obliged to have after dinner. And drunken women tip better than some dude who spent all his money trying to impress his girlfriend with flowers and candy and fancy wine when he usually drinks Bud Light.

Romance is fleeting, but love is here to stay. At least it should be.

What I’m saying is, don’t wait for some greeting card company to tell you when or how to feel good about your beloved. And if you’re between mates, don’t let some marketing campaign make you feel like that kid in elementary school who didn’t get any conversation hearts from his classmates. It’s arbitrary and artificial. If you don’t believe me, note that even White Castle offers reservations and candlelight for you and your valentine. I can’t imagine what’s more enchanting: the smell wafting through the restaurant during your dinner, or that emanating from your bottom once the meal is over.

And now for Something New???

mypolaropposite — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 16:41:20 +0000

An excerpt of this blog appeared on Alphanista.com. View it here: http://tinyurl.com/yg7r7lp

I used to think I was different than everyone else, a true individual with very unique experiences. Apparently, I’m just a statistic.

According to a Yale University study among women with advanced degrees, Black women are twice as likely never to have been married by age 45 than White women. Tell me something I don’t know. Most of my friends are single, educated sisters who can’t get a date…a date with anyone we like, anyway. On the other hand, well damn! My singlehood has been documented and confirmed by sociologists, which makes it some kind of fact. Grrrr!

But wait, there’s more! More than any other group studied, Black women are we’re less likely than even our men to have college-grad spouses. Think about that for a minute, and realize that it’s because Black men are more likely to marry White women, while Black women would rather find a Brotha with a GED than cross over into “something new” territory. Yep, that information is in the study too. I’m not really liking these options: someone hand me a cocktail or a pint of Haagen-Dazs!

Like every woman in America, I guess I have a fantasy about my potential mate. He’s tall, dark and handsome…to be clear, he’s taller than me, darker than me, and I find him handsome but that doesn’t mean he has to look like Blair Underwood. Actually, I did date a guy who looked like Blair Underwood, but that’s a story for another time. My Fantasy Brotha – and he is a brotha – has a background like mine, which is to say he went to college, was raised by both parents, and is really smart and kinda geeky. Hey, I dated that guy too. A few times. And when it didn’t work out I veered away from my fantasy and towards the reality of dating different kinds of men.

I’ve gone out with guys who aren’t as educated as me, who don’t have professional jobs, and it wasn’t for me. Look, I have nothing against a high-school graduate; neither of my parents went to college. And, degree or not, my Dad is one of the smartest men I know. If I could find someone like him I’d have a browser window open right now for Blue Nile, ready to propose. But the non-diploma’d men I’ve dated were intimidated by my friends from college and business school. And they were intimidated by my family, which happens to be full of college people. But my family is the loving/caring/sharing kind of family, not the snobby kind who one-ups each other at dinner. I’m gonna need to be with someone that will do the Electric Slide at the family reunion, because fun and bonding doesn’t come with a certificate on the wall. And its not like my friends walk around saying, “Let us gather and wax sentimental about the alma mater. Boola Boola!” or start sentences with “When I got my MBA…” But occasionally I’ll want my guy to come to the Yale-Harvard game and get drunk at the parking lot tailgate. And when he’s standing in the chug line-up next to me, I want him to feel comfortable with the guys tapping the keg. I really don’t think that’s a lot to ask for.

Similarly, I don’t really want to marry a White man. When I was in high school, I kind of assumed that I’d marry a White guy because I didn’t really socialize with Black guys. This wasn’t intentional, but rather a by-product of bussing and gifted programs where I was the only Black student in my class for years. When there were other Blacks, they were female. Right now, I won’t go into what I think is wrong with that situation, or the institutionalized racism inherent in the educational system…again, a story for another time. Suffice it to say that I had crushes on White classmates and had them over to my house, and did some serious hanging with White guys in college, but I never dated any of them. I never dated anyone at all until I graduated from college and met some Black men that didn’t think I was corny. I’m sure my dad was thrilled. And so was I, not only because I actually had dates, but because I dated dudes I really connected with. Black men feel like home to me and at the end of the day, I want to come home. Now don’t call me a racist ‘cuz I still have plenty of White friends. Yet some things about them remain strange to me. Like, where are the washcloths? Don’t y’all use them when you take a shower? When I’m staying at your house, I expect you to give me a towel and washcloth, not a towel and a bar of soap, know what I mean? My Black husband would get it, and we’d pack some extra terrycloth when we visit. Then there’s the hair thing. The mother of a Caucasian friend actually put her hand in my Afro before we were even introduced! Imagine if that came from my man’s mother? I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say it’s a bad idea to bitch-slap potential family members, even if they do dumb stuff.

So you see, I’ve explored the options and I’m gonna have to stick with my original “tall, dark & educated” plan or suck it up and be single. Actually, there could be hope with one of the nice Pakistani cab drivers that always tell me I’m beautiful. Some of them are doctors in their country. And we’d have nice brown babies. It’s something to consider, but the jury’s still out.