Looking for Kat? You'll find me at Kat Wilder.
Wasn't that easy?
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, October 5, 2007
where I've been
I've decided to stop posting on this site for a while. But you catch all my ramblings at Kat Wilder's My So-Called Midlife
Hope you stop by ...
Hope you stop by ...
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Baby, don't hurt me
If you've ever been in love with someone who deceived or hurt you, it's hard not to carry that into the next relationship ... and the next ... and the next. It's like it becomes woven into the fabric of who you are.
Does it have to be that way?
Kristin stopped by this weekend to borrow a book, and we ended up sitting a few hours curled up all cozy on my couch, sipping a glass of wine and talking about — what else? — men.
She's been seeing someone for a few weeks, someone she really, really likes.
It seems as if he likes her, too — he calls her often just to see how she's doing and to ask her out. But there was something about the way she was talking ... a hesitation. I was curious.
"And ...?" I asked.
"And, well, I just don't know. Ever since Tony ..."
Ah, yes, spoken like a woman who'd been deceived.
"But he's not Tony!" I reminded her.
I could tell she wasn't hearing that though.
It's hard to put our trust in people again after we've been hurt. It seems natural that we'd want to be cautious when we first meet someone. I'm certainly not against taking it slow in the beginning; that's smart because it helps separate lust from love and puts the brakes on a desire to make a "relationship" out of someone who may be marginally fling material, let alone partner material. But I don't think it helps us to dump a former lover's — or lovers' — bad behavior onto whomever we're digging.
I mean, give the poor new guy a break!
And I don't think there's a way to get close to someone without understanding this: I may get hurt. If we carry fear of past hurts repeating themselves with new loves, we will always be on guard, and we won't be able to experience the person as our authentic self. We will only experience him through the filter of She Who Has Been Hurt/Wronged/Deceived.
Getting to know someone, sharing who and what we are — warts and all — and having someone share that with us, makes us incredibly vulnerable. But that's what intimacy does. I'm still going to choose that.
Do you open yourself up to all that a new relationship offers, or do you live in the shadow of those who have hurt you?
And if you feel that someone you're interested in is dumping former relationships' bad mojo on you, what do you do?
Does it have to be that way?
Kristin stopped by this weekend to borrow a book, and we ended up sitting a few hours curled up all cozy on my couch, sipping a glass of wine and talking about — what else? — men.
She's been seeing someone for a few weeks, someone she really, really likes.
It seems as if he likes her, too — he calls her often just to see how she's doing and to ask her out. But there was something about the way she was talking ... a hesitation. I was curious.
"And ...?" I asked.
"And, well, I just don't know. Ever since Tony ..."
Ah, yes, spoken like a woman who'd been deceived.
"But he's not Tony!" I reminded her.
I could tell she wasn't hearing that though.
It's hard to put our trust in people again after we've been hurt. It seems natural that we'd want to be cautious when we first meet someone. I'm certainly not against taking it slow in the beginning; that's smart because it helps separate lust from love and puts the brakes on a desire to make a "relationship" out of someone who may be marginally fling material, let alone partner material. But I don't think it helps us to dump a former lover's — or lovers' — bad behavior onto whomever we're digging.
I mean, give the poor new guy a break!
And I don't think there's a way to get close to someone without understanding this: I may get hurt. If we carry fear of past hurts repeating themselves with new loves, we will always be on guard, and we won't be able to experience the person as our authentic self. We will only experience him through the filter of She Who Has Been Hurt/Wronged/Deceived.
Getting to know someone, sharing who and what we are — warts and all — and having someone share that with us, makes us incredibly vulnerable. But that's what intimacy does. I'm still going to choose that.
Do you open yourself up to all that a new relationship offers, or do you live in the shadow of those who have hurt you?
And if you feel that someone you're interested in is dumping former relationships' bad mojo on you, what do you do?
Friday, August 3, 2007
When girlfriends go MIA
The Beatles can't get by without a little help from their friends, the Carpenters told us good friends are for keeps and James Taylor and Carole King both told us we've got a friend.
I wouldn't argue with any of them, but when you're going through a divorce and then start your new life as a divorced woman, your friendships get a workout even better than the one Madonna or Christina get with their personal trainers before they go on tour.
There's no way that I would have made it though my divorce without my girlfriends. Although I hid what was going on from most of them for a long, long time, they were supportive and loving once it all came bursting out of me.
They were not so kind to Rob, however. "What a creep," one said. "Bastard!" said another. And he was! But even though I know they meant well, looking back on it now — as I hear them rally around another friend whose marriage is likely to bust up — I'm wondering if that's as helpful as just being a sympathetic but nonjudgmental ear. I mean, what if we got back together? Those little dinner parties might be a little uncomfortable with Kat and The Man Formerly Known as Bastard in attendance.
There are a lot of complicated feelings if one of the "sisters" gets a divorce. We may be living in the year 2007, but sometimes the thinking is more like 1934, when "The Gay Divorcee" came out. Women, including your longtime female friends, are still afraid that single women — and that means you — are a threat to their marriage, and sometimes they are right — not because the new divorcee wants to be, but because a lot of men lose all sense of boundaries and reality.
Not too long after Rob and I split, I was hanging at the Sweetwater when I ran into a married neighbor I barely know beyond the occasional smile and "Nice day, isn't it?" chitchat. Somehow through the grapevine, he had heard of my split and at least some of the nasty little details. "Any time you want to talk," he said with a lusty pseudo-sweetness into my ear, "I'm here for you." And then he put his hand on my butt.
Right. You'll be the first one I call ...
But even if you haven't turned into a threat, some of your married girlfriends look at your newfound freedom and sexual explorations with longing and jealousy, especially if their marriage is on shaky grounds — and, sadly, I don't know many that aren't.
Somehow, you're ousted from the casual get-togethers and sit-down dinner parties unless there's someone they can fix you up with or you can find someone on your own. Five is an unhappy number for an intimate soiree.
But the true test happens in the dating world. That's when you learn a lot more about female friendships and females in general, and it isn't always pretty.
Several weeks ago, Kristin and I made plans to head over to the Buckeye for a glass of wine, maybe dinner — a little catch-up time. And, of course, flirt time.
That afternoon, I checked my cell phone voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me. Listen, about tonight ...”
I didn’t even have to hear the rest of the message. I knew exactly what was coming next.
But — glutton for punishment that I am — I listened anyway, partly miffed, partly disappointed and already working out alternative “Whom can I call?” scenarios in my head.
“Remember that guy I met last week, Paul? He called and wants to take me to Farallon tonight. I know we had plans but ... you don’t mind, do you? We can get together next week. Kisses!”
It wasn’t the first time Kristin had dumped me or another girlfriend at the last minute for a guy. And I must fess up — I’ve been guilty of that myself a few times in the past. But it’s been bothering me more and more, and not just because it sometimes has left me all alone on a Friday night.
It's why I hate call waiting — if you’re talking to me, talk to me. You can call the other person later. If it’s an emergency, she’ll get through. And if you make a plan with a girlfriend, don’t break it for a guy — and it’s always a guy.
There are exceptions to that, obviously, like if he happens upon tickets to "Avenue Q," a Giants game or a backstage pass to a Springsteen concert. I mean, I’m not the Girlfriend From Hell.
But if your girlfriend always dumps her friends whenever a guy comes calling, it sends a message: “You are only important to me when there are no other options with men available."
And if a guy calls a gal last minute and she’s always available, it sends a message to him, too: "I don’t have friends, activities, plans — or a life — without you.”
It isn't any better if she tells him that she’s made plans with a friend but she’ll "see if I can break them." If I were the guy and a woman said that to me, I’d think, “Hmm, if she’s so willing to break a date with a friend, one day she may break a date with me if a better offer comes along.”
Sean, the single dad I see from time to time, doesn’t get it.
“If a friend called and said, ‘Dude, that hottie I met last week just called and we’re going to get together,’ and we’d made plans, I’d say, ‘Go for it!’”
“But, isn’t it rude?” I protest.
“Babe,” he laughs, “he’s going to get laid.”
Hmm, it's obviously a gender thing.
Of course, just as distressing is the girlfriend who’s got a New Man, or the phase I call “O Girlfriend, Wherefore Art Thou?” You've been girlfriend junkies together and now you have to go cold turkey. You go from this intense "let's go here, let's do this" relationship and daily phone calls to ... nothing. She doesn't call to tell you which hot band's playing where and do you wanna go? Oh, she's still going — but with New Man. It's just as sad and lonely as a love breakup.
Of course, I'm ecstatic when my friends find love, or at least someone who holds the promise of it. And I know they feel the same way about me.
Maybe it’s just that, as a single woman I’ve come to realize — and truly treasure — the incredible comfort and love of girlfriends, and have tried to nurture that more than I ever did before. Husbands and boyfriends may come and go, but girlfriends hang in there for a long, long time. I mean, who else could I turn to for advice — “Definitely wear those jeans — they make your butt look great.” And who else is going to say, no matter how judgmental it may be, "Bastard!"
And so when I saw there was a voicemail on my cell phone from Kristin this week, I didn’t even have to hear the rest of her tearful message. I knew exactly what was coming next.
I called her immediately.
"Oh sweetie. I'm so sorry. Come on over and I'll make us some Cosmos ..."
I wouldn't argue with any of them, but when you're going through a divorce and then start your new life as a divorced woman, your friendships get a workout even better than the one Madonna or Christina get with their personal trainers before they go on tour.
There's no way that I would have made it though my divorce without my girlfriends. Although I hid what was going on from most of them for a long, long time, they were supportive and loving once it all came bursting out of me.
They were not so kind to Rob, however. "What a creep," one said. "Bastard!" said another. And he was! But even though I know they meant well, looking back on it now — as I hear them rally around another friend whose marriage is likely to bust up — I'm wondering if that's as helpful as just being a sympathetic but nonjudgmental ear. I mean, what if we got back together? Those little dinner parties might be a little uncomfortable with Kat and The Man Formerly Known as Bastard in attendance.
There are a lot of complicated feelings if one of the "sisters" gets a divorce. We may be living in the year 2007, but sometimes the thinking is more like 1934, when "The Gay Divorcee" came out. Women, including your longtime female friends, are still afraid that single women — and that means you — are a threat to their marriage, and sometimes they are right — not because the new divorcee wants to be, but because a lot of men lose all sense of boundaries and reality.
Not too long after Rob and I split, I was hanging at the Sweetwater when I ran into a married neighbor I barely know beyond the occasional smile and "Nice day, isn't it?" chitchat. Somehow through the grapevine, he had heard of my split and at least some of the nasty little details. "Any time you want to talk," he said with a lusty pseudo-sweetness into my ear, "I'm here for you." And then he put his hand on my butt.
Right. You'll be the first one I call ...
But even if you haven't turned into a threat, some of your married girlfriends look at your newfound freedom and sexual explorations with longing and jealousy, especially if their marriage is on shaky grounds — and, sadly, I don't know many that aren't.
Somehow, you're ousted from the casual get-togethers and sit-down dinner parties unless there's someone they can fix you up with or you can find someone on your own. Five is an unhappy number for an intimate soiree.
But the true test happens in the dating world. That's when you learn a lot more about female friendships and females in general, and it isn't always pretty.
Several weeks ago, Kristin and I made plans to head over to the Buckeye for a glass of wine, maybe dinner — a little catch-up time. And, of course, flirt time.
That afternoon, I checked my cell phone voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me. Listen, about tonight ...”
I didn’t even have to hear the rest of the message. I knew exactly what was coming next.
But — glutton for punishment that I am — I listened anyway, partly miffed, partly disappointed and already working out alternative “Whom can I call?” scenarios in my head.
“Remember that guy I met last week, Paul? He called and wants to take me to Farallon tonight. I know we had plans but ... you don’t mind, do you? We can get together next week. Kisses!”
It wasn’t the first time Kristin had dumped me or another girlfriend at the last minute for a guy. And I must fess up — I’ve been guilty of that myself a few times in the past. But it’s been bothering me more and more, and not just because it sometimes has left me all alone on a Friday night.
It's why I hate call waiting — if you’re talking to me, talk to me. You can call the other person later. If it’s an emergency, she’ll get through. And if you make a plan with a girlfriend, don’t break it for a guy — and it’s always a guy.
There are exceptions to that, obviously, like if he happens upon tickets to "Avenue Q," a Giants game or a backstage pass to a Springsteen concert. I mean, I’m not the Girlfriend From Hell.
But if your girlfriend always dumps her friends whenever a guy comes calling, it sends a message: “You are only important to me when there are no other options with men available."
And if a guy calls a gal last minute and she’s always available, it sends a message to him, too: "I don’t have friends, activities, plans — or a life — without you.”
It isn't any better if she tells him that she’s made plans with a friend but she’ll "see if I can break them." If I were the guy and a woman said that to me, I’d think, “Hmm, if she’s so willing to break a date with a friend, one day she may break a date with me if a better offer comes along.”
Sean, the single dad I see from time to time, doesn’t get it.
“If a friend called and said, ‘Dude, that hottie I met last week just called and we’re going to get together,’ and we’d made plans, I’d say, ‘Go for it!’”
“But, isn’t it rude?” I protest.
“Babe,” he laughs, “he’s going to get laid.”
Hmm, it's obviously a gender thing.
Of course, just as distressing is the girlfriend who’s got a New Man, or the phase I call “O Girlfriend, Wherefore Art Thou?” You've been girlfriend junkies together and now you have to go cold turkey. You go from this intense "let's go here, let's do this" relationship and daily phone calls to ... nothing. She doesn't call to tell you which hot band's playing where and do you wanna go? Oh, she's still going — but with New Man. It's just as sad and lonely as a love breakup.
Of course, I'm ecstatic when my friends find love, or at least someone who holds the promise of it. And I know they feel the same way about me.
Maybe it’s just that, as a single woman I’ve come to realize — and truly treasure — the incredible comfort and love of girlfriends, and have tried to nurture that more than I ever did before. Husbands and boyfriends may come and go, but girlfriends hang in there for a long, long time. I mean, who else could I turn to for advice — “Definitely wear those jeans — they make your butt look great.” And who else is going to say, no matter how judgmental it may be, "Bastard!"
And so when I saw there was a voicemail on my cell phone from Kristin this week, I didn’t even have to hear the rest of her tearful message. I knew exactly what was coming next.
I called her immediately.
"Oh sweetie. I'm so sorry. Come on over and I'll make us some Cosmos ..."
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Has anyone seen my brain?
I don’t dwell on the missteps of my past, but I do have two very big regrets.
I’m sorry that I didn’t buy that cute little $1 million two-bedroom cottage around the block when my neighbor couldn’t give it away for $300,000. And I’m so incredibly sorry that I didn’t invest in 3M, maker of Post-its, because if I knew back then that I’d have to rely on those colorful sticky papers to remember things instead of my middle-aged brain, I would be a multimillionaire.
A forgetful one, true, but still …
My mind has begun to fail me in the most unusual ways. It often takes me a half a day to remember what I ordered for dinner at D’Angelos just two days ago, but I can remember every word to Don McLean’s “American Pie.”
What exactly is that about?
Lately, I’ve been feeling a lot like Marina, the heroine of “The Madonnas of Leningrad,” whose mind is slowly losing a battle with Alzheimer’s, but she can recall every detail of the paintings in Leningrad’s famous Hermitage museum and where they hung.
I am trying to negotiate the art of dating with a midlife brain. If you’re in a monogamous relationship, it’s no problem. But if you’re trying to play the field as I am, it can often be about as surreal as a Dali painting.
Sean and I were having a playful, leisurely morning after a playful, if slightly more energetic night. It seemed a good time to have “a talk.” Nothing serious, mind you — just a clarification of a conversation we’d had a week or so before that I’d been mulling over. Something about the “women you just sleep with” and the “women you date.”
It’s important to know which category one’s in.
“Babe, remember a few days ago we were talking about …” I started, keeping it casual, nonaccusatory and inclusive. Hey, I’ve been around men long enough to know how to kill a dialog before it even starts.
I watched as his face transformed from playful to serious and back to playful. “No, I don’t because I never said that,” he said, as he ran his hand lightly down my back and then gently smacked my butt. “Must have been one of your other guys.”
Ouch! Even though we both date others and aren’t in a committed, monogamous relationship, being confronted with an in-your-face promiscuous reality still stings.
But even worse than the ouch factor — he might have been right! One of the “other guys” might have indeed said that. No matter how careful I try to be about remembering who grew up in Philly and who in Long Beach, who has three siblings and who has two, whose ex is on Prozac and whose sister is on Zoloft, I make mistakes. Often.
The midlife brain is ripe for creating misunderstanding and utter befuddlement. It forgets things. It confuses things. It loses things.
And if you don’t have a long-standing supportive, loving network — like a husband or a committed partner — you are all alone.
I remember when my mother got her midlife brain. Objects, places and people became replaced by one word: Thing.
“Honey, can you bring the thing to me?”
“Mom, what thing?”
“You know, the thing, the thing.”
Because repeating “thing” will somehow make it clearer ...
But that was back in the days when kids were polite to their elders.
Now that I’ve morphed into a version of my mother and “thing” is increasingly slipping into my vocabulary, Trent, my 14-year-old, isn’t quite as understanding.
“Trent, honey, can you please bring the thing to me?”
“Get the friggin’ ‘thing’ yourself. I’m not your slave. I don’t even know what the heck you’re talking about. Can’t you speak English?”
So much for my long-standing supportive, loving network.
When I threw myself into the online dating world after my divorce and put my profile up on a few sites at one time, I knew I couldn’t rely on my brain alone to keep Mr. Larkspur separate from Mr. Novato and Mr. San Francisco.
At first, I printed out each man’s complete profile and carried around the three or four with whom I’d be in contact that day.
That worked OK for a while — although it practically filled a briefcase — until I got an unexpected call on my lunch hour one day.
“Hey, Kat. How are you?
“Um, good. How are you, um …?”
“Bobby. Great. You know, I really liked chatting with you. I think we should get together and take that bike ride this weekend. You game?”
My mind raced as I tried to figure out, who was Bobby? The 45-year old never-married techie from Corte Madera who looked kinda cute, or the 51-year-old-still-bitter-over-his-divorce musician from Fairfax? I hadn’t brought his dossier with me to work!
That’s when I knew I needed to carry a little bit about each guy with me at all times. So, just like in grade school, I created little crib sheets with a few basic but essential facts. Name, age, single/divorced, kids/no kids, activities, cute/not so cute. I bundled them up, alphabetized, in a rubber band and plopped them in my purse … until I switched from the heavy black leather winter purse to the creamy woven summer purse and the bundle was left at home.
Clearly, I needed help.
I needed technology.
I needed Excel. Yeah, I know it’s a spreadsheet program for businesses but I had some business, too. The business of love.
So I drove to Best Buy to check out the latest gadgets that would help me. After more than an hour of comparing the pros and cons of the BlackBerry versus the Palm versus the Treo, I left with the new Amy Winehouse CD and a frazzled brain — the very reason I needed a stupid PDA!
And then I thought, this is crazy. I’m not going to spend $400 to keep my mind and my men in order. Either my brain was going to have to get with the program, or my men were going to have to get with my brain and repeat themselves. Maybe they’d see my absentmindedness as a bit endearing.
Or perhaps I needed to date much older guys who were struggling with memory issues of their own.
When I got home, exhausted, my cell phone rang.
It was Sean.
“Hey. You know, you were right.”
“I was? See! Um, about what?”
“About women and dating and sex. I remember something like that.”
“You do?” I said, feeling a tad smug.
“Yeah.”
“And …?”
“Date.”
I had no idea what he was talking about but it seemed like the right answer. So I wrote “Date!!!” in big letters on a hot pink Post-it and stuck it on that thing that’s in my bedroom.
Gee, I wonder where he’s taking me …
I’m sorry that I didn’t buy that cute little $1 million two-bedroom cottage around the block when my neighbor couldn’t give it away for $300,000. And I’m so incredibly sorry that I didn’t invest in 3M, maker of Post-its, because if I knew back then that I’d have to rely on those colorful sticky papers to remember things instead of my middle-aged brain, I would be a multimillionaire.
A forgetful one, true, but still …
My mind has begun to fail me in the most unusual ways. It often takes me a half a day to remember what I ordered for dinner at D’Angelos just two days ago, but I can remember every word to Don McLean’s “American Pie.”
What exactly is that about?
Lately, I’ve been feeling a lot like Marina, the heroine of “The Madonnas of Leningrad,” whose mind is slowly losing a battle with Alzheimer’s, but she can recall every detail of the paintings in Leningrad’s famous Hermitage museum and where they hung.
I am trying to negotiate the art of dating with a midlife brain. If you’re in a monogamous relationship, it’s no problem. But if you’re trying to play the field as I am, it can often be about as surreal as a Dali painting.
Sean and I were having a playful, leisurely morning after a playful, if slightly more energetic night. It seemed a good time to have “a talk.” Nothing serious, mind you — just a clarification of a conversation we’d had a week or so before that I’d been mulling over. Something about the “women you just sleep with” and the “women you date.”
It’s important to know which category one’s in.
“Babe, remember a few days ago we were talking about …” I started, keeping it casual, nonaccusatory and inclusive. Hey, I’ve been around men long enough to know how to kill a dialog before it even starts.
I watched as his face transformed from playful to serious and back to playful. “No, I don’t because I never said that,” he said, as he ran his hand lightly down my back and then gently smacked my butt. “Must have been one of your other guys.”
Ouch! Even though we both date others and aren’t in a committed, monogamous relationship, being confronted with an in-your-face promiscuous reality still stings.
But even worse than the ouch factor — he might have been right! One of the “other guys” might have indeed said that. No matter how careful I try to be about remembering who grew up in Philly and who in Long Beach, who has three siblings and who has two, whose ex is on Prozac and whose sister is on Zoloft, I make mistakes. Often.
The midlife brain is ripe for creating misunderstanding and utter befuddlement. It forgets things. It confuses things. It loses things.
And if you don’t have a long-standing supportive, loving network — like a husband or a committed partner — you are all alone.
I remember when my mother got her midlife brain. Objects, places and people became replaced by one word: Thing.
“Honey, can you bring the thing to me?”
“Mom, what thing?”
“You know, the thing, the thing.”
Because repeating “thing” will somehow make it clearer ...
But that was back in the days when kids were polite to their elders.
Now that I’ve morphed into a version of my mother and “thing” is increasingly slipping into my vocabulary, Trent, my 14-year-old, isn’t quite as understanding.
“Trent, honey, can you please bring the thing to me?”
“Get the friggin’ ‘thing’ yourself. I’m not your slave. I don’t even know what the heck you’re talking about. Can’t you speak English?”
So much for my long-standing supportive, loving network.
When I threw myself into the online dating world after my divorce and put my profile up on a few sites at one time, I knew I couldn’t rely on my brain alone to keep Mr. Larkspur separate from Mr. Novato and Mr. San Francisco.
At first, I printed out each man’s complete profile and carried around the three or four with whom I’d be in contact that day.
That worked OK for a while — although it practically filled a briefcase — until I got an unexpected call on my lunch hour one day.
“Hey, Kat. How are you?
“Um, good. How are you, um …?”
“Bobby. Great. You know, I really liked chatting with you. I think we should get together and take that bike ride this weekend. You game?”
My mind raced as I tried to figure out, who was Bobby? The 45-year old never-married techie from Corte Madera who looked kinda cute, or the 51-year-old-still-bitter-over-his-divorce musician from Fairfax? I hadn’t brought his dossier with me to work!
That’s when I knew I needed to carry a little bit about each guy with me at all times. So, just like in grade school, I created little crib sheets with a few basic but essential facts. Name, age, single/divorced, kids/no kids, activities, cute/not so cute. I bundled them up, alphabetized, in a rubber band and plopped them in my purse … until I switched from the heavy black leather winter purse to the creamy woven summer purse and the bundle was left at home.
Clearly, I needed help.
I needed technology.
I needed Excel. Yeah, I know it’s a spreadsheet program for businesses but I had some business, too. The business of love.
So I drove to Best Buy to check out the latest gadgets that would help me. After more than an hour of comparing the pros and cons of the BlackBerry versus the Palm versus the Treo, I left with the new Amy Winehouse CD and a frazzled brain — the very reason I needed a stupid PDA!
And then I thought, this is crazy. I’m not going to spend $400 to keep my mind and my men in order. Either my brain was going to have to get with the program, or my men were going to have to get with my brain and repeat themselves. Maybe they’d see my absentmindedness as a bit endearing.
Or perhaps I needed to date much older guys who were struggling with memory issues of their own.
When I got home, exhausted, my cell phone rang.
It was Sean.
“Hey. You know, you were right.”
“I was? See! Um, about what?”
“About women and dating and sex. I remember something like that.”
“You do?” I said, feeling a tad smug.
“Yeah.”
“And …?”
“Date.”
I had no idea what he was talking about but it seemed like the right answer. So I wrote “Date!!!” in big letters on a hot pink Post-it and stuck it on that thing that’s in my bedroom.
Gee, I wonder where he’s taking me …
Friday, July 13, 2007
You don't know Jack (or Kat)
Sometimes when you catch a glimpse of yourself as viewed through someone else's filter, you have to wonder whose reality is the real one — theirs or yours?
I was over a friend's house recently, catching up and enjoying the slide show of the pictures she took of the backpacking trip she, her husband and another couple took in Utah's Bryce Canyon National Park.
The photos were amazing, and they reminded my of my wonderful backpacking trip there some 22 years ago.
"You backpacked in Bryce?" she asked me, astonished.
"Yeah. Didn't I ever tell you that?"
"No, and I just can't even imagine you carrying around a 50-pound pack and roughing it. I mean, I've never even seen you without your stilettos and mascara on!"
I laughed along with her, but something inside me was annoyed. I was a big backpacker and camper back in my teens and 20s. How could she only know the fussy girlie side of me?
But the more i thought about it, the more I realized she'd only known me as the Mrs. to Rob, and his idea of roughing it was having to stay in a Motel 6. Rob hadn't backpacked or camped since he was a Boy Scout, and when we married, I gave up that part of me, too. He didn't ask or tell me to; I did it because he wasn't all that interested in it and, as much as I was, I was more interested in him. When Trent was born, I figured at some point we'd start going on family camping trips because boys love that stuff, right? But it never happened, and eventually my backpack, tent and sleeping bag made their way into the Goodwill donation bins.
When Rob and I divorced, I realized that I really missed that part of me. I love my weekly hikes and bike rides and occasional canoeing and kayaking trips, but I want to reclaim the more outdoorsy "me," too. And I know now that whomever I eventually partner with, if that ever happens, will want to backpack and camp with me — or will at least support my desire to do it on my own or with my friends.
Now, I know that loving and living with someone means all sorts of compromises and adjustments. Nothing wrong with that. But I know many people who have either given up something they love to do, or a part of themselves that they love, to be with their partner, but .. is that the way it has to be? Do you have to lose a part of yourself to become part of a couple?
What have you given up for love?
I was over a friend's house recently, catching up and enjoying the slide show of the pictures she took of the backpacking trip she, her husband and another couple took in Utah's Bryce Canyon National Park.
The photos were amazing, and they reminded my of my wonderful backpacking trip there some 22 years ago.
"You backpacked in Bryce?" she asked me, astonished.
"Yeah. Didn't I ever tell you that?"
"No, and I just can't even imagine you carrying around a 50-pound pack and roughing it. I mean, I've never even seen you without your stilettos and mascara on!"
I laughed along with her, but something inside me was annoyed. I was a big backpacker and camper back in my teens and 20s. How could she only know the fussy girlie side of me?
But the more i thought about it, the more I realized she'd only known me as the Mrs. to Rob, and his idea of roughing it was having to stay in a Motel 6. Rob hadn't backpacked or camped since he was a Boy Scout, and when we married, I gave up that part of me, too. He didn't ask or tell me to; I did it because he wasn't all that interested in it and, as much as I was, I was more interested in him. When Trent was born, I figured at some point we'd start going on family camping trips because boys love that stuff, right? But it never happened, and eventually my backpack, tent and sleeping bag made their way into the Goodwill donation bins.
When Rob and I divorced, I realized that I really missed that part of me. I love my weekly hikes and bike rides and occasional canoeing and kayaking trips, but I want to reclaim the more outdoorsy "me," too. And I know now that whomever I eventually partner with, if that ever happens, will want to backpack and camp with me — or will at least support my desire to do it on my own or with my friends.
Now, I know that loving and living with someone means all sorts of compromises and adjustments. Nothing wrong with that. But I know many people who have either given up something they love to do, or a part of themselves that they love, to be with their partner, but .. is that the way it has to be? Do you have to lose a part of yourself to become part of a couple?
What have you given up for love?
Sunday, July 8, 2007
When parting's not so sweet
I’ve had enough romantic breakups to know that they’re never really easy or all that kind, even if at some point you can get past things and become “friends.”
But a few breakups have happened lately in such an unsettling way — and I don’t mean Britney’s famous text message to her then-hubby, K-Fed — that I’m wondering if we’re on to a new trend.
The “I’m Going to Spend a Weekend Romancing You and Then I’m Going to Dump You” breakup.
It happened first to Jennifer. She met Carl, a fortysomething dad who lives in Healdsburg. A few of us headed up to Wine Country for a day of wine-tasting, and there he was — all dimples and smiles and crystal blue eyes that clearly were focused on Jennifer and Jennifer only.
We all chatted until it was time to head back on the highway, and he gave her his e-mail address. “Write me,” he told her.
She didn’t waste too much time before e-mailing him, and they had a few flirty exchanges and phone calls before she invited him to spend the weekend.
It was even more romantic than she had hoped — they had so much in common — and she started to get gushy. “I think I could fall in love with him,” she told me, all starry-eyed.
“You barely know him,” I counseled her, like the mom that I am. “Take it slowly, so you don’t confuse lust with love.”
When she had to call on a client not too far from Healdsburg, she told him she’s be in his ’hood, and he asked her to spend the weekend with him. It was just as magical as the first time.
Until it was time for her to leave.
Carl suddenly got quiet.
“What’s up?” Jennifer asked, as her glowy mood changed to one of confusion.
“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this but, I don’t think we’re right for each other,” Carl said.
“When did you feel like that?” Jennifer said, holding back the tears.
“I’ve felt like that for a while now.”
“But you still invited me to come here?”
Carl was silent. Jennifer left, hurt and questioning how someone could ask a woman to spend the weekend with him when he knew he wasn’t into her. Well, unless it was just about the sex.
Anna had a similar experience, but she and John had been seeing each other for a few months. He took his profile off the online dating site; she did, too. He was the one calling her, just to chat and to make plans to see each other.
Here is a good man, Anna told us — kind, courteou s, interesting, smart, sexy as could be and honest.
So she was stunned and hurt when he called her Monday from a Phoenix business trip — after a wonderful weekend together during which he cooked her a fabulous meal and they never left his bed for very long — to tell her that he was breaking it off.
“But why?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it for the last week, and I don’t think we’re a good match.”
“The last week? Then what was this weekend about?”
Anna was fuming. She felt so betrayed. And rightfully so.
She and Jennifer saw their weekends as an indication that things were deepening in their relationships, while the men were either getting in one last booty call before dumping them or were trying to sort out their feelings.
I’ve always thought that there isn’t a good way to breakup, but I suppose there can be a better way — certainly better than being hurtful, deceptive or downright cruel.
One friend told me that when he and a former lover split, they approached it this way: they realized they didn’t have the same ideas of what their future looked like, and even though they weren’t heading in the same direction, that did not negate the genuine love and friendship that they had together. That’s not to say that it still wasn’t a painful breakup — it was — just that it’s easier to absorb when you acknowledge the truth. Sometimes we try so hard to make a relationship be what we want it to be, that we’re not really seeing it for what it is.
I can’t say that’s what happened a few years ago when I spent a weekend with Olivier Martinez — well, it wasn’t really Olivier, just Jean Claude, a look-alike French businessman in town for the week — but we definitely had different expectations.
We met at the Clift, where Mia, Jennifer and I were enjoying post-theater martinis.
He entered the bar, my pulse raced and my jaw dropped.
“Oh my!” I gushed to them. “I think Olivier Martinez just walked in!”
And then, from across the room ... he smiled at me. I smiled back, and the next thing I knew, he was standing next to me.
Jean Claude and I spent the rest of the night chatting. I was fascinated by his tales of what single life is like in Paris. I was eager to show him my city, so we made plans to get together Friday.
Friday spilled into Saturday, and we had a great time exploring the city, strolling SFMOMA, eating, talking, laughing. He was charming, smart, sweet and just so darn cute. But ... I wasn’t sexually attracted to him, try as I might, and I found myself just going through the motions. I think we was too sweet.
But, hey, he lives in Paris, I live here — it’s just a fling, I thought.
We kept in touch by e-mail, and when he came back to San Francisco a few months later, we met for lunch. But when he suggested we get together that night, I had to tell him the truth — we weren’t clicking sexually, so let’s just be friends.
Basically, I dumped him.
I’m not saying that the men who wooed Anna and Jennifer weren’t sexually attracted to them. I don’t know. But maybe they needed a few days “living” together before they could really figure out what was — or wasn’t — clicking for them.
That’s OK, but I still think there must have been a better way to handle sharing that with Anna and Jennifer.
Way before her romantic weekend fiasco, Jennifer had asked me why I never spend an entire weekend with a man.
As much as I like the idea of a romantic two-day rendezvous, I haven’t had one since Jean Claude. I’m too busy, I convince myself. I’ve got to catch up on all those things that I don’t get to do working full time — bills, housecleaning, yard work, errands — and my mom duties, too.
But perhaps the real reason is something much more subconscious — I just don’t want to get dumped!
But a few breakups have happened lately in such an unsettling way — and I don’t mean Britney’s famous text message to her then-hubby, K-Fed — that I’m wondering if we’re on to a new trend.
The “I’m Going to Spend a Weekend Romancing You and Then I’m Going to Dump You” breakup.
It happened first to Jennifer. She met Carl, a fortysomething dad who lives in Healdsburg. A few of us headed up to Wine Country for a day of wine-tasting, and there he was — all dimples and smiles and crystal blue eyes that clearly were focused on Jennifer and Jennifer only.
We all chatted until it was time to head back on the highway, and he gave her his e-mail address. “Write me,” he told her.
She didn’t waste too much time before e-mailing him, and they had a few flirty exchanges and phone calls before she invited him to spend the weekend.
It was even more romantic than she had hoped — they had so much in common — and she started to get gushy. “I think I could fall in love with him,” she told me, all starry-eyed.
“You barely know him,” I counseled her, like the mom that I am. “Take it slowly, so you don’t confuse lust with love.”
When she had to call on a client not too far from Healdsburg, she told him she’s be in his ’hood, and he asked her to spend the weekend with him. It was just as magical as the first time.
Until it was time for her to leave.
Carl suddenly got quiet.
“What’s up?” Jennifer asked, as her glowy mood changed to one of confusion.
“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this but, I don’t think we’re right for each other,” Carl said.
“When did you feel like that?” Jennifer said, holding back the tears.
“I’ve felt like that for a while now.”
“But you still invited me to come here?”
Carl was silent. Jennifer left, hurt and questioning how someone could ask a woman to spend the weekend with him when he knew he wasn’t into her. Well, unless it was just about the sex.
Anna had a similar experience, but she and John had been seeing each other for a few months. He took his profile off the online dating site; she did, too. He was the one calling her, just to chat and to make plans to see each other.
Here is a good man, Anna told us — kind, courteou s, interesting, smart, sexy as could be and honest.
So she was stunned and hurt when he called her Monday from a Phoenix business trip — after a wonderful weekend together during which he cooked her a fabulous meal and they never left his bed for very long — to tell her that he was breaking it off.
“But why?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it for the last week, and I don’t think we’re a good match.”
“The last week? Then what was this weekend about?”
Anna was fuming. She felt so betrayed. And rightfully so.
She and Jennifer saw their weekends as an indication that things were deepening in their relationships, while the men were either getting in one last booty call before dumping them or were trying to sort out their feelings.
I’ve always thought that there isn’t a good way to breakup, but I suppose there can be a better way — certainly better than being hurtful, deceptive or downright cruel.
One friend told me that when he and a former lover split, they approached it this way: they realized they didn’t have the same ideas of what their future looked like, and even though they weren’t heading in the same direction, that did not negate the genuine love and friendship that they had together. That’s not to say that it still wasn’t a painful breakup — it was — just that it’s easier to absorb when you acknowledge the truth. Sometimes we try so hard to make a relationship be what we want it to be, that we’re not really seeing it for what it is.
I can’t say that’s what happened a few years ago when I spent a weekend with Olivier Martinez — well, it wasn’t really Olivier, just Jean Claude, a look-alike French businessman in town for the week — but we definitely had different expectations.
We met at the Clift, where Mia, Jennifer and I were enjoying post-theater martinis.
He entered the bar, my pulse raced and my jaw dropped.
“Oh my!” I gushed to them. “I think Olivier Martinez just walked in!”
And then, from across the room ... he smiled at me. I smiled back, and the next thing I knew, he was standing next to me.
Jean Claude and I spent the rest of the night chatting. I was fascinated by his tales of what single life is like in Paris. I was eager to show him my city, so we made plans to get together Friday.
Friday spilled into Saturday, and we had a great time exploring the city, strolling SFMOMA, eating, talking, laughing. He was charming, smart, sweet and just so darn cute. But ... I wasn’t sexually attracted to him, try as I might, and I found myself just going through the motions. I think we was too sweet.
But, hey, he lives in Paris, I live here — it’s just a fling, I thought.
We kept in touch by e-mail, and when he came back to San Francisco a few months later, we met for lunch. But when he suggested we get together that night, I had to tell him the truth — we weren’t clicking sexually, so let’s just be friends.
Basically, I dumped him.
I’m not saying that the men who wooed Anna and Jennifer weren’t sexually attracted to them. I don’t know. But maybe they needed a few days “living” together before they could really figure out what was — or wasn’t — clicking for them.
That’s OK, but I still think there must have been a better way to handle sharing that with Anna and Jennifer.
Way before her romantic weekend fiasco, Jennifer had asked me why I never spend an entire weekend with a man.
As much as I like the idea of a romantic two-day rendezvous, I haven’t had one since Jean Claude. I’m too busy, I convince myself. I’ve got to catch up on all those things that I don’t get to do working full time — bills, housecleaning, yard work, errands — and my mom duties, too.
But perhaps the real reason is something much more subconscious — I just don’t want to get dumped!
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