Trade-offs

Sometimes, Truth just sneaks up on you and bites you in the ass.  You don't even know that the Truth is lying there, like a snake in the grass, until YEEEE-OWWW! you get caught up in one of those undeniable moments of reality.

Earlier this evening, we had a group study session--a group of four 30-something women, I should note-- and, as women are prone to do, the conversation wound its way around to men.  One woman was complaining about her husband and I must have had a bemused look on my face because someone else asked what I was thinking as I was listening to the story.  I shrugged and made an off-hand comment along the lines of "and that's why I'm glad that I'm single!"  Pressed for further explanation, I said the same thing I always say: that although there are nights when I wish I had someone to come home to, most of the time I enjoy my single-person living space.  I leave dishes in the sink when I want to.  I watch what I want on television.  My bathroom is always clean.  I can have oatmeal for dinner if the mood strikes me.  The other women nodded thoughtfully, and admitted that watching whatever they wanted on tv was a luxury seldom afforded by their husbands.  Smug with myself, I sat back and continued to listen to them talk about their men.

But later tonight, as I was lying in bed alone, a moment of loneliness struck me.  And then my earlier words came echoing back, carried forward on a wind of dishonesty.  Because, really, does it actually matter what is on tv?  Do dishes in the sink make me happy?  Yes, oatmeal is satisfying--and not having to cook a real meal is sometimes deeply gratifying!--but does it make up for being alone?  So while I have the ability to sleep diagonally across my bed and hog the covers, is that comparable to having someone who cares about you...and sets the rest of the other crap aside?

The truth is, I have conditioned myself to be someone who is cynical toward romance, disdainful of all things girly like flowers and diamonds, and dispassionate toward love. It's a defense mechanism, of course - and a weak one at that. Deep down, underneath the ridiculous "tough" facade, I'd really like to be swept off my feet. To have someone break through the barrier and call me on my antics. 

But what I want most from a partner is an equal: someone who is genuinely interested in me and who wants to open himself to me in return.  Someone who shares my passions, even if not always my point of view.  A man who will hold my hand through the highs and the lows and will honor our love by making himself equally as vulnerable in our private moments alone.

Life without these things is often incredibly empty - even if I have full control of the tv remote and my bedspread wrapped around me.

Dog days and dog dates

It's the dog days of summer here in Minnesota.  Steamy days are followed by sticky nights.  The locals like to complain about the heat but we all know it's pure bluster, because none of us wants Old Man Winter to return any time soon.  Here in the land of 10,000 lakes, we take to our patio bars like ducks to water during these hot summer days - sucking down suds and catching up with friends lost over the previous long winter. 

Last night was more dog than I ever dreamed...and it wasn't weather-related.  The date, Todd, and I met at a cowboy-themed bar in a nearby suburb: the patio there is rimmed with a kitschy split-rail fence and dotted with vinyl-upholstered table tops.  I arrived, ordered a drink, and waited.  I checked Facebook, scanned my email, and repeatedly checked text messages.  Ten minutes later, I was irked.  Ten more minutes later, I was ready to go when he finally showed up.  I blinked at him, wondering how the bright-eyed man in the photos on the online dating website could have morphed into this sweaty, disheveled slop in front of me.

 He gruffly apologized for his tardiness; evidently, he was on his motorcycle and couldn't call to say he would be late.  I shook off my ire and decided to open my mind.  After all, he was good on paper: a 43 year old man, divorced for over five years, and a PhD in engineering that landed him a great job with GE in the medical field.  I had reason to feel hopeful.

Fifteen minutes later, I was regretting my optimism.  Todd was bossy, insulting, and egotistical.  And that's being generously complimentary.  He blithely asserted that I was "too happy-go-lucky" and that anyone who had even a small amount of life experience would know better than to be so positive.  It wasn't worth proving otherwise, and I let the comment float away.  He tried again, telling me that it was too bad that I was pretty and knew it--there's nothing worse than a "woman who knows she's pretty" but in the next breath, he complimented my self-confidence.  The contradiction was lost on him.

Annoyed, I excused myself to use the restroom.  As I walked away from the table, I could feel his eyes penetrating through my clothes and I shuddered.  When I returned to my seat, he was ready:

"You know, I can tell from the way that you walk that you must have a tilted uterus," he breezily announced.

I stared at him.  I had no idea what a tilted uterus was, since no one, not even my OB-GYN, had ever said those words to me, even in the course of two pregnancies.

"Every man should be able to recognize that in a woman, because it makes a difference in how he interacts with her," he continued, oblivious to the horror filling my face.

"I took ten years of classical ballet--that's the reason for my posture and walk," I informed him shortly.  What the eff is in this man's head, I thought.

"Well, I'm sure I'm right," he replied dismissively.  "Knowing about the tilt of your uterus means I know how to touch--"

I cut him off.  "Hmm.  Interesting stuff.  Anyway, so tell me about your daughter?"

Without missing a beat, he launched into a proud recitation of his daughter's accomplishments...and thereby saved me any further awkward conversation.  I sighed inwardly, checked my watch, and made my exit plan.

Later that night, as I recounted the ugly details to my best friend, she laughed at my misfortune.

"That's what you get for dating educated men, hon!"

Two to Tango

It's often said that you can't change other people.  Being the creatively-minded person that I am, I thought for sure that I could get around that little rule if I changed myself in order to meet the needs of the relationship.

So imagine my surprise when my perfectly crafted plan washed away like a sandcastle in high tide.

It wasn't like I didn't try.  I worked hard to learn new ways to communicate, to resolve conflict, to caretake his heart and find happiness.  I toned down the sarcasm and spoke plain English about my worries, fears, and troubles.  I told him what I needed when I was hurting.  I told him how to make me happy.  I left him space to be a boy and get in trouble with his buddies.  But the more I did, the more he pulled away and refused to meet me in the middle.

I still don't know why that is.  Maybe it was him, maybe it was me, maybe it was the poor circumstances of our relationship.  I do know this: I could try to write up an after-action report and dissect each moment, searching forensically for guilt or absolution.  Or I could move on, taking lessons where they appear naturally and finding peace in the future, rather than sorrow in the past.

One clear-cut lesson is this: it takes two to tango.  You can't drag your partner around the dance floor, hoping that he'll pick up the steps in a song or two.  You can't just yank him up out of that chair and lead him to the floor; disaster is sure to ensue in that scenario.  If he doesn't want to be there, you'll only end up tripping over each other and you may even get seriously hurt in a fall.

Sometimes, partners are afraid to tell us "no" - so they go through the motions.  But that's equally as dangerous, because it lures us into false security.  When he's going through the motions, he's not really listening to the music...and the next thing you know, he missed the uptick in tempo, you trip and fall, and he just turns and walks off the dance floor.

If he's late to the dance on a consistent basis, that bears examination as well.  My last partner gave me many signs--a lot of which I missed because I wasn't ready to face them.  One big sign was his consistent inability to show up on time--or sometimes, show up at all.  It should've been the single biggest "he's-just-not-that-into-you" sign of all, but I refused to see it for what it was.  Instead, I would scold him, he'd apologize and promise to do better...and then he'd fail again within a few weeks.  If someone doesn't want to be at the dance, isn't that telling you something about the status of your relationship?  Above all, your partner should look forward to spending time with you.

I am sure that in due time, other lessons from this latest flop will become apparent.  I like to think that failure isn't such a bad thing--that learning from bad experiences is a success of sorts.  I am still working all that out--and trying to do so without letting it drag me down emotionally.  This is a big task.

There is a great TED talk given by Kathryn Schulz about failure--about what happens when we're wrong and how it feels when we think we're right.  I encourage you to spend 15 minutes and watch it:
http://www.ted.com/talks/kathryn_schulz_on_being_wrong.html