Yesterday the phone rang and, quite unexpectedly, the person on the other line was a woman--a writing program director--who wanted to give me a job. We were discussing the job, the teaching, the possibilities, when the director suddenly asked if I was married.
"You sound married," she said.
I wondered what part of my voice sounded married. What was it that somehow identified me as a girl who'd snagged herself a man? Was there a certain satisfaction in my voice, some kind of confident timbre, something settled and pointed?
"I'm not married," I said. "Not even close."
"Well," she said, "you sure sound like it."
I could have told her that maybe what she was hearing in my voice was along those lines, just not as drastic. I could have told her that for the first time in years I have a boyfriend, and that it was just recently settled that that's what we are--boyfriend and girlfriend--and I am still sort of surprised by it. It feels unnatural. It feels foreign. But maybe that's what she heard in my voice--some sort of half-surprised Hey, a boy likes me.
All of a sudden there's a quiet kindness in my life. It makes me feel foolish for wasting all those years and all that energy running after the Wily Republican, begging him to love me, love me, love me. It's a bit disconcerting to feel how simple a relationship with a boy can really be. I'd forgotten it's not supposed to be a fight every single day, that you're not supposed to wake up bristling and ready to take whatever small cruel thing--intended or not--that a boy sends your way.
It's also disconcerting to suddenly not be the single girl, that one friend who's always hopelessly bumbling through single life, who's always complaining that she doesn't have a man, that she can't find a man, that she'll never find a man, that she'll probably die sad and alone, save for the pack of cats she's named after famous literary figures.
I've been that girl for so long that not being her is going to take a little getting used to. I'll have to find new things to whine about. I'll have to find new ways to fill my time, now that I won't be busy being bitter or angry or frustrated at boys from my past.
I won't be the only one adjusting, of course. My friends--mainly Katy--will have to find new reasons to mock me. Now they won't be able to do 10 minute routines on the woeful state of my love life, on my choices in men, on how I am attracted to the suckiest guys of all time. Instead, they'll have to adjust their comedy routines to include the stupid things I did in grad school, any of the awful poetry I've tried to write over my lifetime, and how freakish I looked during middle school.
It's going to take some getting used to, especially for me, especially because I am very used to being single, to being the one who has adapted to stumbling alone through long stretches of life. But this newness--everything about it--is nice, and I'll take it. I'll definitely take it.
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Friday, July 13, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Being Honest
The other day I spent far too much time combing through photos of myself. I was looking through these photos to please my mother, to give her one of these photos so she could pass it on to the boy she wants me to meet and fall for. I had to look at all the pictures with a critical eye, an eye that asked Does that smile make me look fun or schizophrenic? and Does my face look even more horse-faced than usual?
After going through each of my albums and discarding possible photo choices for bad hair days, way-too-toothy smiles, and bad angles, I finally realized what a joke it all was. One photo to sum me up? One photo to convince a guy that I am fun and not completely unfortunate looking? It's too much pressure. Too much. And if I was really being honest, I would send a picture that had much less perfection in it, a picture that showed my true colors. Possibly a picture like this:
That's a picture that says a lot. It says, for instance, Dear Boys, this is what you would have to put up with if you dated me. As is evident in this photo, I like the following things: good earrings and silicone pot holders shaped like pigs. Love, Jess.
It's quite a bit more honest than some of the other pictures I chose. Quite, quite a bit.
After going through each of my albums and discarding possible photo choices for bad hair days, way-too-toothy smiles, and bad angles, I finally realized what a joke it all was. One photo to sum me up? One photo to convince a guy that I am fun and not completely unfortunate looking? It's too much pressure. Too much. And if I was really being honest, I would send a picture that had much less perfection in it, a picture that showed my true colors. Possibly a picture like this:
That's a picture that says a lot. It says, for instance, Dear Boys, this is what you would have to put up with if you dated me. As is evident in this photo, I like the following things: good earrings and silicone pot holders shaped like pigs. Love, Jess.
It's quite a bit more honest than some of the other pictures I chose. Quite, quite a bit.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
The Hookup
This is what my mother says to me this afternoon: "Don't you want to meet our friends' attractive son? We could go out to a fish fry tomorrow night. Or maybe I could slip him your e-mail address the next time I see him. Or maybe we should print off a picture of you. Yes, maybe that's what we should do. You decide on a picture, print it out, write your name and e-mail and phone number on the back, and I'll bring it to him. That's a good idea."
I ask her if I should write my height and weight, my likes and dislikes on the back, too. "You know," I say. "Long walks on the beach, sponge candy..."
"Listen," she interrupts, "I'm just worried he's going to meet some other girl before he meets you. He's such a nice boy, Jess."
My mother sounds so sincere and a little heartbroken--as if she's imagining the friends' attractive son meeting some girl, falling for her, bringing her to the next bowling party--and that's why I say okay, okay, I'll do it. I'll find a picture. I'll write my name and e-mail and phone number on the back. I'll sit around try not to think how sort of lame that makes me seem, how desperate. My mother, after all, thinks it is a good idea. My mother also thinks that her boyfriend's gay black belt son is not gay, so her judgment can sometimes get iffy, but I want to make my mother happy. She's mostly stopped giving me the normal pep-talk, the one that involves her saying things like you're actually lucky you're single and everything will work out in its own time. Now sometimes when she looks at me I think it looks like my mother is wondering if she gave that pep-talk a little too fervently, if she's worried I'm actually starting to believe I'm lucky and that things will come my way if I just wait around all patient-like.
This attempted hookup smacks of disaster. Any attempted hookup that involves me smacks of disaster.
Katy once tried to get me interested in one of her husband's friends. He worked in some sort of meat-packing plant. He had a child. He drove a purple Grand-Am, which--if I remember correctly--had pink flames on its side. He had nine and a half fingers--a result of a tragic accident at the meat-packing plant.
Katy also tried to get me interested in another of her husband's friends. This one lived in a trailer, didn't own silverware, didn't do dishes except for once a month (if you were lucky), slept with every dirty girl and stripper in town, and got fired from a job--even the Happy Chef--every few months.
My uncle has tried. My mother has tried. My cousins have tried. My friends have tried. It has only worked once. Once.
That once was Ex-Keith. He'd seen me once at a party thrown by mutual friends. He liked what he saw, and he asked his best friend about me. His best friend asked his girlfriend, who was my best friend's sister. Then, at a baby shower thrown for my best friend's other sister--who had, consequently, been knocked up by a man who moved away with his gay lover several months later--my best friend's non-pregnant sister, the one who was dating Keith's best friend, grabbed me by the arm and towed me into their parents' bedroom. The bedroom was small and cramped. I felt a little nervous. The sister was looking at me with big eyes, telling me she had something to tell me, to ask me.
"What?" I asked. "Just what?"
Then she told me about Keith, how he thought I was cute, how he wanted to take me out. "I know it's all very overwhelming," she said, "so I thought maybe we'd all go on a date together. A double date. Very low pressure."
A week later I was sitting across from Keith at an Olive Garden in his hometown. I was eating chicken parmesan and praying I didn't get a little crazy with the knife, send a hunk of the chicken catapulting into my lap. Later that night Keith and I stood awkwardly at the foot of the sister's car while she and her boyfriend said goodbye with loud, loud kisses. I told Keith I had fun. I was shivering. I was thinking low pressure my ass. That's when Keith put his arm around me, tipped my chin up for a kiss. And that's when I realized it was all worth it, that things were going to be okay.
So maybe someone will have that kind of success with me again. Maybe someone will find me a boy who will give me his coat because it's just so cold out, it's starting to snow, and the sister and her boyfriend won't stop making out. Maybe someone will find me a boy who will take me to the bottom of a ski hill at the end of the night--just when everyone is doing their last runs before slipping out of their skis, just when everyone is doing their fanciest, most elaborate, best moves of the night. And maybe this boy will sit there with me and tell me all his best stories until it's late, until they're shutting the lights off and the whole world goes dark right there in front of us. Maybe I can have that sort of luck again. Maybe it can start this way. Maybe it can start with a picture and my name and e-mail and phone number on the back.
Maybe.
I ask her if I should write my height and weight, my likes and dislikes on the back, too. "You know," I say. "Long walks on the beach, sponge candy..."
"Listen," she interrupts, "I'm just worried he's going to meet some other girl before he meets you. He's such a nice boy, Jess."
My mother sounds so sincere and a little heartbroken--as if she's imagining the friends' attractive son meeting some girl, falling for her, bringing her to the next bowling party--and that's why I say okay, okay, I'll do it. I'll find a picture. I'll write my name and e-mail and phone number on the back. I'll sit around try not to think how sort of lame that makes me seem, how desperate. My mother, after all, thinks it is a good idea. My mother also thinks that her boyfriend's gay black belt son is not gay, so her judgment can sometimes get iffy, but I want to make my mother happy. She's mostly stopped giving me the normal pep-talk, the one that involves her saying things like you're actually lucky you're single and everything will work out in its own time. Now sometimes when she looks at me I think it looks like my mother is wondering if she gave that pep-talk a little too fervently, if she's worried I'm actually starting to believe I'm lucky and that things will come my way if I just wait around all patient-like.
This attempted hookup smacks of disaster. Any attempted hookup that involves me smacks of disaster.
Katy once tried to get me interested in one of her husband's friends. He worked in some sort of meat-packing plant. He had a child. He drove a purple Grand-Am, which--if I remember correctly--had pink flames on its side. He had nine and a half fingers--a result of a tragic accident at the meat-packing plant.
Katy also tried to get me interested in another of her husband's friends. This one lived in a trailer, didn't own silverware, didn't do dishes except for once a month (if you were lucky), slept with every dirty girl and stripper in town, and got fired from a job--even the Happy Chef--every few months.
My uncle has tried. My mother has tried. My cousins have tried. My friends have tried. It has only worked once. Once.
That once was Ex-Keith. He'd seen me once at a party thrown by mutual friends. He liked what he saw, and he asked his best friend about me. His best friend asked his girlfriend, who was my best friend's sister. Then, at a baby shower thrown for my best friend's other sister--who had, consequently, been knocked up by a man who moved away with his gay lover several months later--my best friend's non-pregnant sister, the one who was dating Keith's best friend, grabbed me by the arm and towed me into their parents' bedroom. The bedroom was small and cramped. I felt a little nervous. The sister was looking at me with big eyes, telling me she had something to tell me, to ask me.
"What?" I asked. "Just what?"
Then she told me about Keith, how he thought I was cute, how he wanted to take me out. "I know it's all very overwhelming," she said, "so I thought maybe we'd all go on a date together. A double date. Very low pressure."
A week later I was sitting across from Keith at an Olive Garden in his hometown. I was eating chicken parmesan and praying I didn't get a little crazy with the knife, send a hunk of the chicken catapulting into my lap. Later that night Keith and I stood awkwardly at the foot of the sister's car while she and her boyfriend said goodbye with loud, loud kisses. I told Keith I had fun. I was shivering. I was thinking low pressure my ass. That's when Keith put his arm around me, tipped my chin up for a kiss. And that's when I realized it was all worth it, that things were going to be okay.
So maybe someone will have that kind of success with me again. Maybe someone will find me a boy who will give me his coat because it's just so cold out, it's starting to snow, and the sister and her boyfriend won't stop making out. Maybe someone will find me a boy who will take me to the bottom of a ski hill at the end of the night--just when everyone is doing their last runs before slipping out of their skis, just when everyone is doing their fanciest, most elaborate, best moves of the night. And maybe this boy will sit there with me and tell me all his best stories until it's late, until they're shutting the lights off and the whole world goes dark right there in front of us. Maybe I can have that sort of luck again. Maybe it can start this way. Maybe it can start with a picture and my name and e-mail and phone number on the back.
Maybe.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
The Christian Singles Are After Me
The word dating scares me.
This is probably because I've never been very good at it. I'm a little too spastic and nervous to be a good dater, a confident dater, a girl who is able to go on many dates with many boys. My roommate Megan is the exact opposite. She is addicted to dating. She will go on a date with anyone, even boys she's not exactly attracted to. She has a good attitude about it. She thinks everyone deserves at least one chance. Actually, they deserve more than that. If Megan has a bad first date with someone, she will still say yes to a second date because she's as big a believer of second chances as she is of first chances.
I wish I could be like that. I think it requires a certain strength that I don't have.
The notion of dating is everywhere lately. It bombards me on the TV, in my e-mail, even when I go out to dinner with my girlfriends. Everybody's dating or talking about dating.
Twice this month I've received an e-mail with this subject line: THOUSANDS OF CHRISTIAN SINGLES ARE WAITING FOR YOU!
Why I got on the list for this particular brand of spam is beyond me. It's not like I'm cruising Christian singles sites. It's not like I'm mooning around and telling people I want some nice Christian fellow to come woo me with sweet talk about Jesus. I don't think Jesus is appropriate first date talk. Of course, what do I know? It's not like I've been going out on a lot of first dates. If we don't count that dinner with one of the nine fingered groomsmen from Katy and Matt's wedding--because he said he wanted us to double for a nice steak dinner, and I'm a girl who likes a fine steak, even if it means informing Katy I have no interest in this groomsman, even though he's a very nice boy and she better not tell him there's going to be some kissing at the end of the night--if we don't count that night, then I went on approximately two first dates while I was in Minnesota.
I'm not a dater. The boys I've known and loved have sort of just fallen into my lap. But I'm wondering if that needs to change. I'm not getting any younger, after all, and my friends are slowly but surely moving in with significant others, getting engaged, and getting married. This makes me nervous.
A few nights ago I was sitting in front of the television and the new commercial Match.com is running flashed on. It's a slick commercial. Clever. The whole thing is shown in black and other very dark, very stealthy colors. The voice-over is calming, whisperish. It's okay to just look, it says.
Oh, I hate myself for admitting this, but I looked. Later that night I logged on to Match.com to see what kind of Buffalo men were advertising themselves as single and ready to date. The results weren't amazing, but I did find one man whose profile showcased wit and impeccable grammar. That made me feel a little better.
But it's not like I'm willing or ready to throw myself into the dating ring. I guess I'm still being a silly girl and hoping for some grand, beautiful gesture that will just come around on its own. Without any work on my part. I just want to stand here and have the right man fall down next to me. Maybe when I look down I'll be surprised to see he's someone I already know. Maybe he will be a complete stranger. I just want it to happen naturally and easily. I don't want to have to worry about first dates, first impressions, good outfits, the right hairdo, appropriate conversation topics, that dreaded uncomfortable first-date silence.
I just want a boy to be with, and I just want him now.
This is probably because I've never been very good at it. I'm a little too spastic and nervous to be a good dater, a confident dater, a girl who is able to go on many dates with many boys. My roommate Megan is the exact opposite. She is addicted to dating. She will go on a date with anyone, even boys she's not exactly attracted to. She has a good attitude about it. She thinks everyone deserves at least one chance. Actually, they deserve more than that. If Megan has a bad first date with someone, she will still say yes to a second date because she's as big a believer of second chances as she is of first chances.
I wish I could be like that. I think it requires a certain strength that I don't have.
The notion of dating is everywhere lately. It bombards me on the TV, in my e-mail, even when I go out to dinner with my girlfriends. Everybody's dating or talking about dating.
Twice this month I've received an e-mail with this subject line: THOUSANDS OF CHRISTIAN SINGLES ARE WAITING FOR YOU!
Why I got on the list for this particular brand of spam is beyond me. It's not like I'm cruising Christian singles sites. It's not like I'm mooning around and telling people I want some nice Christian fellow to come woo me with sweet talk about Jesus. I don't think Jesus is appropriate first date talk. Of course, what do I know? It's not like I've been going out on a lot of first dates. If we don't count that dinner with one of the nine fingered groomsmen from Katy and Matt's wedding--because he said he wanted us to double for a nice steak dinner, and I'm a girl who likes a fine steak, even if it means informing Katy I have no interest in this groomsman, even though he's a very nice boy and she better not tell him there's going to be some kissing at the end of the night--if we don't count that night, then I went on approximately two first dates while I was in Minnesota.
I'm not a dater. The boys I've known and loved have sort of just fallen into my lap. But I'm wondering if that needs to change. I'm not getting any younger, after all, and my friends are slowly but surely moving in with significant others, getting engaged, and getting married. This makes me nervous.
A few nights ago I was sitting in front of the television and the new commercial Match.com is running flashed on. It's a slick commercial. Clever. The whole thing is shown in black and other very dark, very stealthy colors. The voice-over is calming, whisperish. It's okay to just look, it says.
Oh, I hate myself for admitting this, but I looked. Later that night I logged on to Match.com to see what kind of Buffalo men were advertising themselves as single and ready to date. The results weren't amazing, but I did find one man whose profile showcased wit and impeccable grammar. That made me feel a little better.
But it's not like I'm willing or ready to throw myself into the dating ring. I guess I'm still being a silly girl and hoping for some grand, beautiful gesture that will just come around on its own. Without any work on my part. I just want to stand here and have the right man fall down next to me. Maybe when I look down I'll be surprised to see he's someone I already know. Maybe he will be a complete stranger. I just want it to happen naturally and easily. I don't want to have to worry about first dates, first impressions, good outfits, the right hairdo, appropriate conversation topics, that dreaded uncomfortable first-date silence.
I just want a boy to be with, and I just want him now.
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