There is something interesting about the guy in my life who prefers to be called “Mountain-Metro,” yet carries a “Murse,” (the official name of the man-purse). Several years ago, while still spinning in the vortex of Lost Girl hell, I reconnected with Murse through a mutual friend. At 43, Murse still has the hot thing going on big time. He is one hundred percent muscle. When you combine his steady diet of yoga, plus the 100 or so miles per week he logs on his custom-designed bikes, the end result is a twelve-pack plus much more. His ass is well….ridiculous. His biceps brilliant. When combined with Murse’s most tantalizing feature- incredible crystalline blue eyes, Murse is lethal.

Too add spice to his sizzle, Murses lives in Arizona, and is also someone I went to high school with. Now, before your hearts get all atwitter at this possible Classmates.com success story, let me tell you that Murse is the prototype for guys who date “Lost Girls” -a Lost Girl is a woman who may have outgrown the string of one-night-stands, but just can’t seem to shake the “No Dignity Dating” rituals that produce the same result – falling crazy in love with a man who is emotionally unavailable. Six months down the road, while the Lost Girl’s still putting out, he’s told her point blank he isn’t ready to commit. Yet still, the Lost Girl wonders, “Why…why isn’t he my boyfriend?

I spent my first evening with Murse laughing, reminiscing and listening to 70s music, with friends from high school. As I was in a relationship with JohnnyLock, ex-boyfriend, Lost Girl “love –of-my life,” I rebuffed Murse’s charming advances, despite the blue eyes and killer abs. Since then, like the tide, the relationship has ebbed and flowed.

When I returned to Phoenix for Spring Break the following year, the relationship with JohnnyLock had come to its devastating conclusion. Still stinging from John’s rejection, I “sexted” (sex texted) Murse eagerly, thus initiating the hook-up phase of my relationship with Murse. It was simple. When I came to Phoenix we met for drinks, laughed, and hooked up. Despite his invitations to stay the night, I would always leave though, unable to quiet my mind, the harsh grumble of his snoring torture. I had no interest in cuddling, nor the romanticism of the sleepover, and as a veteran Lost Girl, I knew waking at my house was critical to maintaining emotional distance. The relationship was perfect, until one Thanksgiving weekend, when Murse invited me to drinks with friends. Engaged in conversation, I noticed Murse’s head turn.

Uh oh.

Murse had locked eyeballs with the blonde a few feet away, a cute teacher he recognized from his daughter’s school. He turned to greet her. They hugged. I stood for a moment, waiting. Watching to see if the conversation would end. It didn’t.

I was hurt.

We didn’t have an exclusive arrangement, yet I was furious. I abruptly left the restaurant, halting communication with Murse for two years.

Last Thanksgiving, one month after my mother died, I texted Murse while driving on the 10 Freeway. Destination Phoenix.
“I’m in town,” I wrote.

Minutes later the phone rang from its spot on the console. It was Murse.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he said, his voice rising as he waited for my response.

“Bygones,” I replied. “People change….and, it has, after all, been two years.

Then, beyond my expectations of someone such as Murse, a man who typically feasts on Lost Girls for lunch, Murse apologized.

“I’m glad you called,” he said. “Really glad. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have ditched you that night. I’m sorry. I like you….I would like to see you.”

“Hmmm,” I replied, slightly confused by his apology. Then, I remembered the way his laughter made the corners of his eyes crinkle, the fact that we grew up in the same town, and those damn abs.

“Let’s hang out. Call me when you get in,” he said. “We’ll hike with the kids.”

Hmmm. Hiking wasn’t hooking up. And thus, the relationship with Murse took a new turn, shifting from ebb to flow. Murse invited me to dinner with mutual friends at a quaint restaurant in Scottsdale. We drank wine. Ate dinner. Shared appetizers. Laughed. Connected. We talked about raising daughters. Divorce. Struggling with our fears of losing independence while in a relationship. Murse enjoyed my company, it was clear. He invited me to hike the next day, planning an incredible afternoon of exploring the desert. Plans which included his daughter, my dad and my three daughters. After the hike, Murse took us to a café nestled in the red rocks. More laughter. Connection. Murse was into me. The next morning he called at 7:00 am inviting me to yoga. We did asanas, sweating side by side, and when class finished, Murse invited me to lunch. It seemed I was dating Murse. In fact, I had spent more time with him then anyone I had dated in Los Angeles.
Nevertheless, I was conscious. Aware. During these dates Murse frequently discussed his fear of commitment. His love of life as a single man. Freedom. The joy of riding hours and hours on his bike up into the desert mountains without having to worry about who or what he had left behind. It felt good to be with Murse, despite these conversations. It felt good to be pursued. It felt good to be with someone who shared common interests.

I left Arizona in November, unsure of where I stood with Murse. He called me frequently, but one thing became clear as the months progressed. I was looking for a relationship. And Murse, he was not. We spoke less often, as I intentionally moved Murse to the back burner of my consciousness. In December he called to wish me happy holidays. I thought about him again, but then quickly cast aside the fantasy Murse was interested in a relationship.

In April I returned to Phoenix. I had told Murse I was coming to visit, he was eager to spend time with me. We had dinner together, my dad and his girlfriend watching the kids as we went for drinks afterwards. Then he asked me to dinner. A date.

Or was it? He left the choice to me. I texted him.

“I might wear makeup tonite.

Might not even wear the oversized sweatshirt,” I wrote.

“Hmmm,” he replied. “Sweatshirt means we are just friends. Alternative = date. Your call.”

It was my call. Despite my certainty that Murse is not interested in a relationship, I decided I would wear makeup, ditch the big clothes and clumsy hiking shoes I had been wearing each time we were together. I considered my clothes carefully. Black boots. Short skirt with black tights. Plaid cap. Earrings.

When Murse came to get me he was shocked, pleased and smiled brilliantly. He made small talk with my family, as if he had been part of our clan for years. As we prepared to leave he gave me a gift; a small compass to put on my keychain.

“It’s so you never get lost,” he said. “Wherever you go.”

Tucking the compass into my purse, we drove to the dark wine bar where he shared stories of his past. Difficult childhood. His struggles with how it still impacts his life. His realization that until he tackles this hurt he may never be able to love someone with fervor. His realization that perhaps it isn’t his love of cycling that prevents him from making a commitment. Perhaps it is his fear of having to take care of someone like his father, his exwife. The people whom he had loved that had needed him too much. He opened his heart. I walked in. The date continued. Sushi. Ice cream. Walking hand in hand through Old Town Scottsdale. At midnight he took me home.

“This is a date,” Murse said. “And so it will end properly.”

Walking me to the door, he gently kissed me goodbye.

It had been the perfect date.

For the next few weeks, Murse called often. He came forward when he sensed I might be pulling away. But like I had been with Rockstar, this former Lost Girl wasn’t being manipulative. I was busy. Bat Mitzvah. Launching a website. Planning a seminar.

Two weeks later Murse came to LA. We both were too conflicted to admit he was in town just to visit me. I had already made plans for most of the weekend, I would make time to see him Saturday. I didn’t want to change plans for him. He didn’t want to intrude, he said. “No worries.” It was just a relaxing weekend in LA. Nevertheless, Murse phoned on Thursday when he arrived in town.

“Can you squeeze me in…. lunch?” asked Murse.

We then spent Saturday together as planned. Again, we laughed. Yoga. More connection. Shopped on the promenade.
On our drive back to change for dinner, we discussed whether or not we would sleep together. He had been thinking about it. I had been thinking about it. I had decided I would not have sex with him. I knew to do this would involve emotions. Expectations. Expectations Murse could not live up to.

“Girlfriends go away,” Murse said, putting his hand on mine, the conversation building. “I don’t want you to ever go away. I want you in my life always. We shouldn’t sleep together.”

Murse had taken the offensive, throwing a wrench in my plan. He had decided we would not have sex. He was being mature. Responsible. His confession proved that despite his flirtations, our connection with each other, Murse was holding to his truth; the truth that he is incapable of making a commitment to relationship.

Arriving at home, I told Murse to shower first. He undressed, revealing everything – revealing those abs.

I was conflicted. Aroused. Confused. Walking into my closet, it dawned on me. For months, I had considered Murse as someone with whom I could possibly have a serious relationship. When he lived in this category, I could not have sex with him.
The water running, Murse’s silhouette moving quietly behind the beveled glass shower door, I began to think. Realistically. Clearly, Murse was not in this category. I was adept at putting men into their proper category, and there have been many who have shifted into the “friends with benefits” category, on their way towards “just friends.” I knew then my relationship with Murse was headed this way. I didn’t need to withhold sex from Murse to determine if he was in it for the duration. He wasn’t. Of this I was sure.

The tide had gone out, ebbing as we had hooked up. And now, it had come back in. There was no future in Murse.

It was time to simply ride the wave. I took off my robe, opened the shower door, and shook out my hair.

“Hey Murse,” I said.

There is this element of maturity that requires knowing when to say yes and when it is best to say no, even when it is the last thing I want to do. Clearly, the big guy upstairs has some message for me in this area, as I have been getting plenty of opportunities to practice being the one who has to put on the brakes. When it comes to knowing when to stop myself from pursuing the great relationship with the wrong guy, saying no initially feels plain bad. Even though it is clearly the right thing to do.

I spent an incredible evening with Murse that night. We shared soup. A Caesar Salad. Orange Roughy. We walked Main Street holding hands. We shared pumpkin pie under twinkle lights, sipping tea. We laughed. Connected. We did what we do.
Upon returning home that evening, Murse crawled into bed, and lay on his stomach. He mumbled.

“Tired. Yoga…killed me.”

I had ridden the Murse wave til it’s end. No more sex with Murse. Murse knew, like me, that he needed to shut down. Protect himself. Protect me.

As I watched him doze off, I realized it was time to put on the brakes. Put away the fantasy that Lost Girls’ will hold on to forever. I am no longer Lost, however. I know when it was time to say goodbye to Murse, say yes to friends.

I have been collecting friends lately. Saying goodbye to Rock Star. Smart Guy. Murse. What’s more important, however, is when I am dating with dignity there are less resentments, hurts and dramatic endings. And so I continue.

Because this is dating.

Dating with Dignity.

Thursday, February 19, 2009 at 1:15pm | Delete
While this has been going around Facebook for weeks, it really made me think about perceptions, and how people make judgements based on perception. I know that perception is powerful, and in my effort to connect more deeply to people and bust right through perception, I have thus elaborated on the list I first posted.

Allow me to introduce my self….. authentic, flawed and spirited!

1. I went out for diving in high school so that I could go on road trips to away games with Jeannie Crabbe, who was my best friend. We went to exciting places in Iowa like Dubuque and Cedar Falls! Diving season in Iowa was cold, and we would sit in the back row of the bus trying to keep warm, waiting until the sunset turned into black night because then we felt hidden and secluded. Scheming was much more fun when attempted in the dark. When I was with Jeanne, sitting on that bus, I felt like I belonged somewhere. A feeling i didn’t experience much in high school.

2. The diamond fell out of my engagement ring on my wedding day. Even then I knew it was an omen, but I brushed the thought away. There were 250 guests waiting for me to walk down the aisle. I was 22.

3. I used to bite my nails until I was pregnant with Kloey. I was 30 years old, and went to a nail salon in Scottsdale where they put silk on my nails. I have worn silk on my nails since then. I like it better than acrylic because it suits me better. I think I bit them because I was nervous, but ultimately it made me feel powerful and rebellious because my mother couldn’t stand it. She always had long nails painted dark red. She wished more than anything that I would dress better. I used to wear Hanes Mens boxer shorts…that REALLY pissed her off.

4. After I gave birth to Rayna I was SO excited! I was ecstatic that I had another baby girl, but I was so thrilled that I could eat right away. I was STARVING!

5. I liked to have LOTS of people in the room during childbirth…it’s an excuse for a party. I am my mother’s daughter, right?!! My dad thought it was something he wanted to miss, but he ended up right there with us and it was a memory I will treasure forever!

6. I used to play school sitting on the staircase, pretending the staircase was my desk. I always wanted to be a teacher but my dad told me I wouldn’t ever make money if I became a teacher. He was right, but I treasure the few years I taught and the children and parents whose lives I touched. It is bittersweet to leave teaching children. I know that I am good at it, and it makes me sad that I am living proof that good teachers leave the profession because it is an economic sinkhole.

7. I had a big fat crush on Keith Partridge and Peter Brady. I have crushes every day. I have a crush on The Bachelor, Jason. I have a crush on a guy I saw in Yoga. I just love, love, love men. Sometimes, I even imagine some hot guy i see or talk to naked…. Do other women do this, or is it just me?!

8. The first concert I ever saw was “America” at the Five Seasons Center in Cedar Rapids! I loved going to concerts in high school. When I saw Tom Petty my friend Jeanne, (yes, the diving friend) went to sleep in the car while I mooched beers from guys who had fake IDs. I came back to the car when the concert was over!

9. I never went to prom, even though I was senior class president. I also had a very bad attitude about the entire thing. (sorry Sheila…!) Its interesting to meet other people who didn’t go to Prom, we feel instantly connected somehow.

10. I used to make up commercials in 5th grade with Kathy McCormick. Now I am teaching them to my children.

11. I sing 3 songs to Willow before bed, two of them are songs I made up. The other is one of a few my dad used to sing to me when I was growing up. I dread the day Willow gets too big, and no longer wants to hear the songs. I am sad that I don’t have babies anymore. I sometimes look longingly at moms with babies or toddlers. But then I get REALLY stoked that I can leave my kids alone for a few hours and that phase of my life is over. It’s hard to let go of phases.

12. I have to sleep with two pillows; one soft and the other as a firm placeholder.

13. I pretend that I need nyquil when sometimes I don’t. I am not one who is opposed to medicine or medicating to feel relief. However, when I hit my emotional bottom I was furious when someone suggested I take Zoloft, an anti-anxiety medication. Ultimately, I took it, but only for 6 months because one month after i started I participated in the Hoffman Process. The Process single-handedly changed my life.

14. My first kiss was during the movie Superman. I was wearing glasses and worried about those damn things the ENTIRE time. I got contacts shortly thereafter.

15. I went to France in 5th grade for a month with Michelle Fletcher. I kept a diary the entire time and gave each day a symbol to represent the day as being good, bad or awful. Seems I only wrote in the diary during awful days. When I was reading my old journals I kept from the age of 14-22 as part of research for my memoir, I noticed that throughout my life I rarely wrote when I was happy. Now I try to write every day, happy or sad.

16. I don’t call my dad, “Dad.” I call him “Zayde,” which is odd because he is not MY grandfather…. I called my mom “Gams” (which is short for Gammy, which is what my kids called my mother) I always make up names for people, and when I first started dating I rarely referred to any guy I dated by his first name, only his “given” name. Now I only refer to them by their first names. I think that means something deep!

17. I love not having to share the remote, but am now realizing that when I find the right person, he will share too.

18. I never pumped gas prior to getting a divorce. The other night I was on a date and needed gas in my car. I had driven because we were in my neighborhood. When the guy I was with offered to pump my gas, I felt as if he had offered to take me to Paris for the night…THAT’S how much I appreciated it.

19. The worst thing that happened to me, turned out to be the BEST thing that happened to me. Now, when things go awry (like most of 2008) I see it as an opportunity that God thinks I am ready for. I need to learn something new, and once I learn than I will experience more joy than I could imagine. I guess that’s why my life keeps getting better…!

20. I love MY bed. And when it comes to sleeping somewhere else, I have often wondered if leaving at 2am is an excuse to avoid being intimate with someone (there is nothing more intimate than waking up with morning breath and crack whore hair!) or just that I really like to wake up in my bed, with my pillows and my stuff just a few steps away.

21. I rode on the handlebars of a guy’s bike…and I was 42 years old when it happened. It was one of the top 5 times I consciously thought how much adventure and joy I have in my life. I am such a freespirit. The wind in my hair, balancing on the handlebars, cute surfer guy riding me through town. If I had a logo….it might represent that moment.

22. I didn’t drink for 22 years and then realized I could drink without being a drunk! It’s so anti AA, I know. Even though I am a huge believer in the 12 steps, I realized I had labeled myself without taking the time to know who I am and what I need.

23. I am now facing my biggest dream/biggest fear every day. I want to write. I want to help others in a significant way. And now the only obstacle in my way is fear. It’s so easy to “talk the talk,” but walking it and living it requires me to dig deep every minute of the day. I have to make choices about what my priorities will be, who I will seek advice from, and when I need to just listen to spirit.

24. My favorite place in the world is right in front of the Maui Marriott…on the beach… I spent one month in December healing on that beach from the challenges of 2008, which included the death of my mother, losing my job, having my purse stolen, and losing every single thing I had on my PC (including photos and videos of my family for the last 6 years). Throughout it all I had faith that once 2009 hit, my life would be transformed as a result of some sort of karmic reward for staying present in every horrific moment. Friends lifted me, family provided the wind in my sails, and the ocean breezes and hot sun reminded me that I am light and that I am always in the light. I knew I had let go of the pain when I heard that Rihanna song, Live Your Life while baking in the hot Maui sun on January 8. I cried, smiled and then sung out loud!

25. I’m not as tough as people think i am. Recently someone who had just met me said they didn’t perceive me as tough …or emotionally unavailable in any way. That is good news! As I am pulled toward manifesting my dreams and finding love my edges have softened. And that is very, very cool!

I’m on vacation in northern California with my three daughters, The Brit (who is my boyfriend), my father and his girlfriend of eight months.  For one week we have moved into a wooden house built on stilts overlooking a quaint lake.  Sitting on it’s expansive deck in a chocolate brown, Lazy Boy recliner that the Brit has moved to the deck from it’s place in the family room, the view of the lake is magnificent in the early morning light.    Shards of color, steel grey, almost a silver-ish brown brighten the tree line, each piece of light hanging like tinsel from the pine trees surrounding the lake.  The setting at Twain Harte Lake is the same it has been since I first vacationed here in 1998 with my two parents, husband, and three daughters, all of whom were toddlers at the time.  And while the picturesque views have not changed, nor has Bingo night on Tuesdays at 5pm, nor has the face of the elderly woman who writes lake ticket receipts in her slow, perfect cursive handwriting each day after carefully placing my crumpled five dollar bill in the metal cash box, there are many things that are different during this trip to Twain Harte.

First, my father is in a new relationship with a woman he met on Jdate in November, 2008.  He takes her on walks through the trees, holds her hand as he plays Monopoly with the grandchildren, and hugs her tightly when they think no-one is looking. The Brit is also here, rough-housing with my children in the lake, showing them how to row a boat, doing flips off the diving board, making the girl’s their favorite pancakes, brewing the perfect cup of coffee for me each morning, and whispering “love you’s” in my ear throughout each day.

Thus, I believe, I have been observing two men who are in love.

Which brings me to Steve Harvey’s New York Times  best-seller,  “Act Like A Lady.  Think Like a Man, ”  the book I have been reading while sitting on the sandy beach of Twain Harte Lake.  In between swims to the huge rock on the other side of the lake, “rating” each other’s dives, and preparing meals for this clan each day, I have made time to relax.  Read.  And contemplate whether or not Steve Harvey’s point of view coincides with mine, and with the dating process I teach to women who attend the Dating With Dignity seminars and workshops I hold.  And, most importantly, with what I have been observing this week, noticing if, in fact, Steve Harvey’s descriptions of men in love match the words and actions of the two men who sleep each night here in this cabin in the woods.

To begin, Steve Harvey writes there are three things men do when they are in love:  Profess.  Provide.  And  protect.  Harvey claims that once a man has decided that he wants to claim a woman as “his,” he will be vocal about it, professing his feelings readily to anyone who will listen.  For example, when a man brings a woman to a party does he introduce her as “my friend, Christine?”  Or, conversely, does he walk in with his arms around Christine telling Bob and Elaine that this, guys, is “my girlfriend, Christine.”  According to Harvey this man will then ensure Christine meets everyone at the party, bring her beverages and keep his hands near her throughout the evening to demonstrate to the crowd that Christine is his woman.

Next, Harvey says men in love have a biological need to provide for the woman with whom he is in a relationship.  Even if this man doesn’t have the cash he hopes because he is on his way towards building his dream career, a man in love will do what he can to make sure his woman is provided for.  Not only will he proudly buy her dinner, take her to the movies, make sure she has medicine if she’s sick, or  ensure she has enough RAM if her MacBook freezes interminably, he will make sure her garbage disposal is working correctly when it goes on the fritz.

Last, according to Harvey, a man in love will walk 10,000 miles out of his way to protect his woman.  Whatever it takes, a man in love will keep his woman safe.  Warm.  And dry.  He won’t let her pump gas, (for fear she might spill on her hands), carry a suitcase, or run to get something she mistakenly left behind in the car.  Instead, a man in love will insist he do these things for her.   A man in love may not, according to Steve Harvey, engage in long talks about his love for you or patiently wait while you try on two dresses that turns into ten, but he will profess, provide and protect if he is committed to you and the relationship.

Which brings me to The Brit, and my dad;  the two men whom I have been observing for the past six days.  According to Harvey, these men are both “all in.”  My dad, for example, generously provides for his girlfriend, having taken her on trips and purchased her small gifts in the past eight months they have been dating.  He has also taken her with him on various trips, introducing her to his friends of fifty years, smiling enthusiastically, as he introduces her as is S.O. (significant other.) And here, in Twain Harte, he has made sure she doesn’t have to walk too far, cook too much, or stay in the heat too long.  He protected her when we drove up the winding roads to Yosemite, constantly asking her if she was ok, if her stomach had stopped reacting to the twists and turns associated with mountain driving.  He professes his feelings for her the talks we’ve had while taking exercise walks, sharing how much he loves her, how she makes him happy.  Before he met his girlfriend he was married to my mother for 45 years.  Before she died of cancer in 2008, my father professed, provided and protected my mother, especially when it came down to the final year of her life.  Because of the era in which they both were raised, he was a man who never lifted more than a finger when it came to household chores. During the long months of her sickness, however, I saw him cook dinner, spoon feed her, help her swallow her medicine, rub her neck, and profess his love for her to anyone who would listen.  Despite his age, clumsiness and occasional short temper, he loves unabashedly,  deeply, and just as Steve Harvey describes in his book.

The Brit is more than 30 years junior to my father.  And unlike my father, the Brit is physically strong and able. A modern man.  Nevertheless, The Brit has spent much of his time this week protecting and providing for not only me, but my three daughters as well.  He has purchased them floating rafts, sweet treats, and helped them secure the screen in the window each night in their room before bed.  He has removed spiders.  Swatted flies.  He sat with them to play Boggle while I went for a run.  He lay next to them on the dirtied carpeted floor as they shared their secrets to successfully defeating “Bowser” in the Mario Brother’s game they have been playing on their GameBoy DS.  He has done the dishes and swept.  Packed the car.  Unloaded the car, and then taken the girls for a swim when his girlfriend just wanted to sit and read.  He has carried my youngest daughter over rocks so she could cross a river with her sisters.  He brought me ice when I was hot, my legs sticking to the sheets as I lay in bed one night.  Like my dad, the Brit is a man man who is in love.

I imagine I would have known this without reading Steve Harvey’s book.  After all,  it feels  dramatically different to be loved this way.  When a man is in love, REALLY in love, it feels so…so… obvious.  So clear.  For years I carelessly traded the precious minutes of my life wondering how men felt about me.  I wasted time and energy trying to guess.  Play games.  Strategize. Questioning their motives.  Intentions.  Steve Harvey has got it down.

Profess.

Provide.

Protect.

If you are wondering if that man you are dating is heading towards commitment, if he is serious about creating his life with you as his partner, step into the laboratory and observe.  Let me know.  I’m waiting for your story.

FREE TELECLASS!

ASK EVENT #1:  DAVID WYGANT, expert dating and relationship coach

September 10, 2009

3pm

Register at askdavidwygant.com

We have lots of new programs in the works at Dating With Dignity for September, including the first of several “Ask the Expert” FREE teleclasses on Thursday, September 10, 2009 at 3pm pacific. Just click on the registration webpage (askdavidwygant.com) and type in your specific question for our first expert, Dating Coach and Man Expert, David Wygant. (Check out DavidWygant.com to get an inside look at what David does for men in the world of dating!)

Go to AskDavidWygant.com, type your question, and then mark your calendar for the FREE teleclass on Thursday, September 10 in which David will answer the questions we receive from you.

During this call I get to play “Oprah” and interview David based on your questions, the most commonly asked questions of our Dating With Dignity Man Panelists, plus David to let you in on a few of the inside secrets he’s willing to share with this exclusive teleclass audience!

Have a great day, and a beautiful, blessed week!

Melanie had agreed to be my wing girl that night at Hurry Date’s big Speed Dating event in Hollywood.  While it was an event designed specifically for single Jewish femmes ages 35-45, my Catholic, 25 year-old partner in crime was up for the adventure.  It didn’t take much convincing Melanie when it came to meeting men.

I had chosen Melanie for this particular adventure because this dark-haired, brown-eyed beauty was an exceptional wing girl. In fact, it was Melanie who had suggested we hit a bar near my house called The Arsenal at 12:45 am, the previous weekend, after an unsuccessful evening of man-hunting. Within minutes of stepping on the dance floor, I became lost in the amber-light reflecting bits of orange and pale pink on the exposed shoulders of   the doe-faced eager women also engaged in the hunt.  It was then that Melanie began her approach, zeroing in on one of the 20-something men wearing a white baseball cap.  I too danced, grinding, moving my hips to the pulsing hip-hop beat.  Looking for someone to call Mr. Right Now, I met Eric and while we danced, our twisting torsos attracted towards one another like two magnets, I noticed Melanie nearby in the midst of a passionate kiss with baseball boy.  Melanie was a closer.  I was a closer.  She was the perfect wing girl.  The best fit  to accompany me on this dating experiment- the one thing I had yet to try in the five years I had been single.

We approached the restaurant in Hollyood where we were promised to meet 20 eligible Jewish men in 80 minutes.  It was 7:30 pm, thirty minutes before the speed dating would begin.  While I hoped that perhaps I might meet Mr. Right, I was mostly eager to meet someone with whom I could date casually.  A man with whom I could have dinner when I didn’t have custody of the kids, or sit next to at the movies on a Saturday night.

Martini’s, designed to give liquid confidence to the speed dating participants, were just $4.00 during this thirty minute pre-event “social.”  The bar was dark, quiet.  Too empty.  Red barstools lined the 6 foot bar, the mirror behind it reflecting rows of half-filled bottles, lonely tables covered with red polyester tableclothes and the vacant smiles of the two girls standing behind a four-foot registration table, lines of nametags set perfectly before them.  The scene did not bode well.  Where were the men?  How desperate had I become?

Melanie, the effervescent optimist, grabbed my hand, pulling me, smiling as she walked confidently towards the bar.  As a non-drinker for more than 20 years, I didn’t see any possibilities that this night could improve, but I had committed to Melanie.  I would stay.  I could speed date.  It was me who was, after all, the single Jewish female between the ages of 35-45.

Ordering a martini, then a 2nd, Melanie beamed, watching expectantly as the men began to enter the bar.  As a Jewish woman who has dated few Jewish men in 43 years, I knew what the men might look like.  However, as an avid “JDate” (an internet dating sight for Jewish men and women) customer, I was hopeful. I had, in fact, met several men who didn’t fit the stereotypes associated with Jewish men.  Yet as they entered, one by one, I felt my optimism fade.  Too short.  Oh God.  Balding.  Was this really was who participating in speed dating in Hollywood, CA?  The men began to file in more quickly as it became closer to eight o’clock.  Bad skin.  Again, too short.  I turned to Melanie, begging her to leave.

“Meli Mel.  Melanie.” I pleaded, trying to turn her attention away from her martini class, as she decided if having one more might take her too far past open-minded. “Let’s go.  We’ll get dinner. Go to Venice.  Puhleeeze….”

“It will be fun,” Melanie said, her eyes beaming, perfectly drawn liquid eye-liner lifting the corners to match her smile.

Then, a referee whistle blew, as the two girls from registration table hailed us speed daters up a dark, carpeted staircase to a private room.  The room was not large, yet somehow managed to fit five evenly-placed rows of four, two-top tables. Tea light candles glowed, half  warming the room.  It seemed like fake romance to me.  It seemed horrid.  I wanted to leave.

The registration girl blew the whistle, inviting the 20 men into the room.  She   then asked the crowd of women to take their places at the tables.  Once seated, we were each given a tent card with a bold black number typed on it, and the perky Registration Girl then explained this number was our number.  She asked us to put it prominently on the table at which we were sitting.  She then told us the men also had a number, and explained that we should write down this number on the speed dating card we had been given  if one of them was someone we wanted to date.  If so, we would then go home, login to the Hurry Date website and put a checkmark in front of those numbers representing the men in whom we were interested.  Then, if there were a match, Hurry Date would send us an email. This way each person could be rejected in the privacy of his or her own home. She also told the speed daters the men would circulate, spending four minutes at each table.  When the whistle blew, the men would then rotate to the next table.

The prospects seemed horrid, yet I was trapped.  Melanie had Martini-induced self assurance, enthusiasm and hope.  I had nothing more than a bad attitude.  Nevertheless, I sipped my diet coke, waiting for the whistle to blow.  Waiting for speed dating to be over.

I met Dave.  He was probably no more than 4 feet 10 inches tall.  He wore a grey suit.  His nose mushed when he spoke.  Dave asked me if I liked the beach.  Then, I met Ed.  His khaki pleated pants bunched as he walked towards me.   He pushed his glasses up further on his nose, sitting down as he fired questions at me pertaining to my hobbies, books I liked to read and my favorite movie.  Ugh. It was Jdate live.  An internet chat in which I couldn’t just click on the “x” to escape.  While Ed droned on, I noticed movement near the stairs.  A rustling.  Mumbling.  I turned my head quickly, noticing the two late-comers.  Two men.  One nametag said Steve.  One was called Eric.  Both handsome.  Both smiling. Both had potential.  I leaned back, relief infiltrating my cells, sending the corners of my mouth into a smile, changing my bad attitude into something resembling good. I leaned into the table, feigning interest in Ed, knowing the whistle would soon blow.

Epilogue:  I went on three dates with Eric.  He lived in Playa Del Rey, watched hours of World Series of Poker on TiVo, and was, in fact short, but good -looking, in a slightly bohemian sort of way.  He was not looking for a relationship.  He was, however, looking for sex.  Melanie went on one date with Steve, which turned into dozens.  She now lives with Steve and his eight-year-old son in Hancock Park.  They are engaged.

=

I do what I can to stay present in the moments of my life.  I meditate.  Go to yoga.  Use the tools I learned during the pseudo spiritual-bootcamp, The Hoffman Process, I attended two years ago in Napa, California.    To do this, however, I had to spend years working to understand the past, hoping that in doing so I might have some sort of future.  A future in which I could claim my heart, love another deeply, and even —have the guts to let him love me back.

My journey as a truth seeker first began twenty years ago.  Frustrated, lonely and  already broken just four weeks into my marriage,  I sat slumped on the faded red and orange second-hand calico couch in Chicago, sucking down gulps of stale air as tears stained my 22 -year-old face.  We had just returned from the enchanted-less three-week honeymoon in France, and I had been watching episodes of General Hospital, One Life to Live, and All My Children, wearing just a flannel pajama top and sweat pants, for what had seemed like days without end.  A 30 second advertisement for Therapy Help Group kept blasting it’s emergency phone number during commercial breaks,  digits repeating incessantly, numbers screaming to me,  the noise like a rescue siren, shocking me out of the t.v. coma I had come to  appreciate.   Recognizing that marriage may have been the biggest oops of my life to date, and too ashamed to ask my parents for help, I desperately called the number, sniveling a pathetic request for a referral to the kind voice on the other end.  Within minutes I had the phone number of a therapist on Clark Street.   It was this therapist, Jan, who first set me on this path – this journey to excavate the murk that had settled in my heart, corroding my self-esteem and spirit.

Two months later, Jan gently explained the 10 pounds I had gained since returning from Paris was atypical, and that I had been hiding my hurt in boxes of Twinkies, endless bowls of sugared cereals, and bags of Chips Ahoy chocolate cookies. My new husband had left me alone consistently while he worked excessively to build his career.  More desperate than ever, at Jan’s suggestion, I went weeks later, shamefully to my first Twelve Step meeting.  Sitting in cold grey metal folding chairs, I spent 15 years in these meetings as I tried to understand why I wanted to fill  the holes that tattered my frayed soul with food.  And then, when the cravings and food obsession died, the hole still there, it seemed that perhaps love might fill the void in my heart.  Even though I had now been married for seven years, I still felt alone, and terribly rejected.

Nevertheless, my search for hope continued, as I reached out to therapists and  fellow-12 steppers, rummaging around my past for the reasons why, food now in check, I continued to stay in the marriage, my husband an elusive rebel who fed me emotional crumbs.  Nevertheless, I cherished these tiny morsels of affection and attention.  Doled out sparingly, they were distributed haphazardly when it was convenient for him, or would guarantee him something specific in return

Despite my search, crumbs were comfort.  They were all I knew.  My husband and I had nearly split twice thus far, his lack of attention and workaholism twisting into  failed deviant attempts to find fulfillment for both of us.  Then, after 17 years and three children, several near-misses that could have turned into disastrous affairs, it seemed that finally, crumbs were not enough after all.

In 2004, I was divorced and had been unsuccessful at dating.  I continued searching the images, events and memories of my childhood, looking for a reason behind my constant bad taste in men.  My latest lover was skilled in the art of offering crumbs, doling out little pieces of attention or affection that always left me hungry for more.  There was the romantic dinner, our tiny table for two nestled tightly near the cliff side in Malibu, wrapped in moonlight, waves crashing below, the twinkling lights make his blue eyes sparkle.  Then, there was the trip up the California Coast, exploring side roads and small cafes on the way to celebrate my 40th birthday at a quaint spa in Morro Bay.  Ultimately, though, all that was left were gestures:  a well-timed hug, or offering to snuggle with me one Friday night instead of  playing poker with his friends.  These were the kinds of crumbs I took, pressing my finger to the plate, poking the plate earnestly, making sure I did not miss even one.

It remained difficult to exist in the present.  I would wait, wondering what crumbs might come next.  I began to believe that sex, good sex, would entice him to commit, to offer himself…to finally fill me.  “Babe,” he would say.  “I love you,” his face pressed into my neck as he rocked on top of me.   I translated these words, selectively interpreting them,  “One day,  babe, I will bring you cake….”  Despite my best efforts, the only consistency in this relationship was my loneliness and confusion, taking me further away from my heart’s true desire.  One year later, this blue-eyed scamp cheated on me, having sex and a relationship with a blonde bimbo who was to Jeapordy what Vanna White was to Wheel of Fortune.  I was “ too old,” he said.  “Too many children.”  He left, taking the key he had given me to his house from it’s place on my keychain.  The key to a house I had helped him to furnish.  Closets I had cleaned.  Beds I had made.  The home I had helped him make for his children.  I sat crying as he turned to leave, the floral bedspread mussed beneath my bent, shaken sobs. Tissues littering the sheets, ripped pieces of shnarfeled toilet tissues hidden underneath the half-dozen decorative pillows that lined the king-sized bed.  I was sickened, ashamed, shattered by my broken heart.

As I am a Gemini, an independent woman born in the Chinese year of the Horse, this  traumatic event did one thing; it helped me become expert at putting feelings into compartments,  In doing so I became stronger, fiercer in my convictions.  I would build two boxes in my mind.  The thick, brick walls would be painted either black or white, representing two kinds of men; each with one of two possibilities: “potential relationship,”  or “casual.”  Each box was sound proof; I heard only words that helped me to decide in which box the newest man would stay.  There would be no movement between the two.  Using my boxes made me tough, a cavalier free-spirit.  The cool girl.  I knew what to expect.  I could live with no strings attached.

Recently, I told a friend that living this way had become simple.  I had now developed a quick intuitive sense regarding which him belonged where.  I had fun, met interesting men and was able to exit relationships before they progressed too far.  My life had become filled with friends, community and interesting dates.  Occasionally, when I wanted to scratch the” itch” I would have amazing sex with quality, passionate able-bodied men with no expectations.  Life was good.  And as long as I stayed out of the bakery, I didn’t miss having cake.  Didn’t miss love, being loved, or made to feel special by someone who cared.  I didn’t miss intimacy, and the connection that lasted beyond the swell and fall of orgasm.  After all, what man could compete with late night yoga, Tivo and Shredded Wheat  for dinner.  This made me happy. Cake was what lived beyond Saturday nights.  And I didn’t miss it.  Well, not too much.

That is, until I met The Brit.  The Brit has that accent, His voice is low, textured. Raw, gravel.  His wit makes me smile, sending butterflies darting backwards, forwards, moving arbitrarily from their place in the pit of my belly as he speaks my name. Or says, “come here.”   His green-grey eyes reflect light like shards of glass, his bright spirit bouncing off them as he smiles.  He lifts me up when he sees me, my toes weightless, his delight in seeing me making the nerve endings in my heart, my head, prickle.

Dating The Brit, I have ultimately landed smack dab, right in the middle of a damn good bakery.  We have potential.  We have magic, and we’ve had that conversation.  The non-negotiables have been discussed, the important questions asked and answered:  Does he want kids?  Is he open to having a relationship?  The Brit represents the potential for love and intimacy.  And yet, while I know that I have wanted cake for as long as I can remember, the truth is I have been scared.   I understand crumbs.  I understand dieting.  I understand starvation.

In my quest to date with dignity, however, I know I want more.  I want cake.  Frosting.  Sprinkles.  Pink rose petals.  Candles.  Celebration.  Song.

And while I am not familiar with this part of the journey, pacing, and taking it slow, I have not succumbed to the ahhhh of instant gratification.  Instead, I have enjoyed the fact that the Brit is giving me cake, one glorious piece at a time.  I savored the sensation in my fingers when he first touched my hand, lying side by side at the beach, on what would be our first date.   I cherished the amazement, the surprise I felt when he kissed me the first time by my car as we said goodbye.  Not thinking about what would happen next, just celebrating in the bliss of a first sweet kiss.  I began enjoying the process, sharing my heart, building trust, not rushing towards the destination.

There is a part of me that desperately wants to sleep with the Brit tonight, to wake up next to him without regret for having given too much, too soon.   That said, I’ve learned that when it comes to dating with dignity, the most important piece is putting value on that what I truly want, and that this is possible if I stay in the now.   Of waiting to have sex with The Brit.  Of having faith in the possibility of what could be if we have that hot sex when the time is right; when we have established a connection filled with light, and perhaps even the possibility of love.

And so then, this becomes the ultimate ahhhhh.  The understanding that in the power of saying “no” I can stay in the power of “now.”

=

I love my male friends.  They are my insight into man-speak, what I call “man-glish,” and provide important insights as I navigate through the rocky, unfamiliar landscape of dating.    I have heeded their advice too, because as a woman I have always sucked at following “The Rules” outlined in the bestselling book  written by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider.  In this book, Fein and Schneider detail rules women should follow to successfully get men into relationship, rules which mostly involving some version of playing hard to get.  For example, according to Fein and Schneider I should never talk to a man first, call him first and rarely return his calls.  They warn it could be dangerous if I open up too fast, and one of my favorite rules to break, go beyond casual kissing on the first date. Yikes!  If I were to have learned and then mastered these rules in some sort of mythical dating school, I would have either failed, or consistently found myself in the offices of Ms. Fein and Schneider, sent to the principal for a variety of horrific dating rule violations.

Bill, one of my best “man-glish” teachers advises me regularly, insisting men need to feel they are powerful.  In control.  They love the chase.  And so when I receive a text message from Artist Guy at 9pm one night, I panic.

“Hey, just home from work.”  Artist Guy writes.  “I could go to the gym.  Or not.”

I am frozen.  Paralyzed.  Shit.

Do I respond?  Do I wait 10 minutes, then respond?  Is two minutes too quickly?  Do I respond tomorrow?  Do I respond two days from now?  And, when I respond to Artist Guy, what the hell do I write?  WHAT are the rules?

After all, it is 9pm.  Is this text message a booty call?  I did not sleep with him on our first date.  Or, perhaps he simply wants to chat it up via text message?

I text Bill immediately, telling him the details of Artist Guy’s text, tip tapping on my iphone as quickly as I can, relieved that in asking Bill for advise I am stalling, buying  a decent amount of time in the “playing hard to get department.

“Artist guy texted me. I write to Bill. Should I text back?  Or, should I wait?

Bill responds quickly, which is one of the things I love most about Bill.

“Show him you are busy.  Girl, show Artist Guy you have a life!”

Show him I have a life?  I do have a life.  I am a single mother to three daughters.   I have two jobs, a book I am trying to write, friendships I value and maintain with love and care, volunteer work I do regularly, and it all involve zillions of responsibilities. I, for Godsakes, am planning a Bat Mitzvah.  And so I wonder, how could the timeliness in which I respond to a text, or whether or not I pick up the phone demonstrate to Artist Guy, or any man whom I meet, that I am busy?  What happens, for example, if someone calls and it is one of the rare moments I am not helping my children with homework, spending time with friends, teaching a class, preparing for work, or attempting to write?  Should I let it go to voicemail just so Artist Guy will perceive me as busy.  What, God forbid, if I actually want to talk to Artist Guy?

Back in the 80’s when I was dating my ex-husband, I was immediately thrown by his declaration on our second date that he wanted to have a “serious” relationship with me.  As I sat across the table from him, just 20 years old at a college town restaurant in Tempe, Arizona, I chose to accept his request to be “serious.”  After all, what a catch to find the one 23 year old male capable of making such a request?  He was tall, had a job and I was still a college student.  I dove into that “serious” relationship without following any rules.  I was available when he called.  I slept with him straight away.  I never kept him waiting, and dates were never brief.  And while I may have sucked at “the rules,” I was quite simply following his lead.  Our second date included meeting his mother, he consistently skipped plans with friends to have dinners with me, and for months my ex-husband went to work at noon, a habit which my roommate, who was also his employee, did not appreciate.  And so it continued, both of us relentless rule breakers.  We met in June and in September I decided not to return to New Orleans where I was a sophomore in college, moved to Arizona and then proceeded to feverishly break rules with abandon.  When he was offered a job in Chicago one year later, I told him I wouldn’t move there with him unless we were engaged. He had never even asked me to move.  He had never mentioned marriage.  And although I sucked at following “the rules,” I was engaged and married two years after we met,  at the young age of 22.

Thus, as a divorcee my “man-glish” training has been crucial.  I’ve witnessed my twenty something friends live by “the rules,” without  much consideration.  Never hesitating, they are instinctual rule followers.  While drinking her morning coffee. Lisa smiles as she sees an incomng text from Buck, a potential suitor.  Lisa carefully finishes her sip, reads the text and then confidently puts her phone down stating, “Buck texted.  I will text him back later, during lunch.”

And so I wonder, perhaps “the rules” do not apply to grown ups with jobs, children and responsibilities?  I, for example, could not text Buck back during lunch, because this is when I will choke down my sandwich, make dentist appointments, call the caterer and quickly shoot off an email with the to-do list for the handy man.   After lunch I will barely have time to pee.  So in an effort to do as Bill says, show the Buck’s of the world that I am busy, that I have a life, am  I supposed to skip one of my responsibilities, one of the actual things that truly makes my life busy, so that I could, in fact, text  Buck during lunch?   Will this then adequately demonstrate to  Buck and the rest of his gender that I am busy, simply because I didn’t text him back when he wrote in the morning –which was the time when I had a few spare moments to  TEXT BACK BUCK?!

A few weeks ago I met Rock Star online,  a 38 year old professional with exceptional good looks.  And while I was cautiously optimistic that Rock Star did, in fact, look like his photos, I was interested. Apparently though, there are also online dating rules.  And, of course, I suck at these too.  According to Topdatingtips.com,  online dating rules require that I don’t initiate conversations via email.  That, in fact, I am not to initiate contact or pursue, and that I am supposed to “allow men to come to me.”  Strike one.  I emailed Rock Star first.  Within minutes, Rock Star wrote back, asking for my phone number. According to the dating tips experts, I’m “never supposed to provide a true phone number,” however, I did.  Strike two.  And then, I struck out.  “Always respond to emails at least three days after receipt,” the website recommends.  Ha.  I suck.  I wrote back instantly and provided Rock Star my very, very true phone number!  Within thirty seconds my phone was ringing, an unknown number flashing on the screen.  Curiously I looked towards my phone, pausing briefly as I watched it flash on my nightstand.  But as a relentless rule breaker, I answered immediately, the enthusiasm in my voice revealing my interest in Rock Star, my good intention leaking unabashedly through the phone lines.  Rock Star and I spoke on the phone for hours that night, although now I had allegedly outed myself as available, and according to our friends at “Top Dating Tips,” desperate.

Damnit.  Damnit. Damnit.  Once again, a rule breaker.  However, what Bill and those experts at Topdatingtips.com don’t know is that this just happened to be one rare night in which, although technically  available, I was quite busy.  Busy living my life. My kids were at their dad’s house, and I had just emerged from a ridiculously long, water-wasting hot shower after a 6:30pm yoga class. When I returned home I had joyfully indulged in my favorite single woman, post yoga dinner — cereal.  I had then climbed into bed, grabbed my laptop and signed on to the dating website simply to check in.  Thus, while I was technically available, did Rock Star really think me desperate because I had simply engaged in something close to a real-time conversation with him in my attempt to return his emails quickly.  In fact, if I were to have spotted Rock Star across the bar or at Starbucks we would have had an actual conversation, without the required three day delay.  And in fact, had he asked for my number I would have most definitely given it to him.

For two weeks Rock Star and I tried to meet.  I, however, was busy.  Truly busy.  Between spending time with my kids, dinners with friends, and work I had to keep saying no when Rock Star asked me out.  In fact, he had to ask me out three times before I was available.  I was not playing hard to get.  It’s just….well…. I am hard to get, because I, in fact, have a full, rich life.  And, when we did meet, it had been a spontaneous decision to meet him late night after I had dinner with very close friends, three days prior to our scheduled date.    Before dinner we had texted each other, agreeing to meet if we finished our previous commitments before it became too late.  Driving home at 11:00 he texted, telling me he was finishing up with a client dinner and would call as soon as he was able.  Hmmmm, I thought to myself, knowing the rule nazis would not approve if we were to meet closer to midnight.  Arriving home, filled with resolve to follow the damn rules, I went upstairs and quickly took my makeup off.  I had saved myself, I thought.  I could not meet him without makeup and the cute  outfit I had just taken off,  favoring loose fitting sweats and an oversized grey t-shirt.  I had not even shaved my legs.  Clearly, I had saved myself.  Jumping into bed I grabbed the remote, plugged in my phone and settled into the pillows confident when he called I would, once again, tell him we would meet in a few days as planned.  Moments later the phone rang, and within minutes I heard myself agreeing to meet him, trusting my intuition that Rock Star was sincere, his velvet southern voice serenading me with reassurance.

“We need to meet,” he said. “We’ve been talking for weeks, babe.  I feel like you are my long distance girlfriend. It feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks,” his voice sang.

Hanging up I felt relief, not shame as I expected.  I was going to hideously violate every rule ever written.  And, I was looking forward to finally meeting him after looking at his pictures for weeks. I had Googled him. Myspaced him.  Facebooked him. I had checked and rechecked and it was time to discover if he was as kind in person as he had been via telephone and text, and it would be truly impressive if he were still attracted to me without makeup or date clothes.  Ten minutes later, dressed in purple yoga pants, a blue v-neck t-shirt and my black school-girl glasses I went downstairs to answer the door.

Opening the door my heart lunged, and I smiled, looking into his eyes smiling back at mine. Dressed in a high fashion black leather jacket and skinny jeans, Rock Star looked exactly as he had in his pictures.  He was tall, a hint of scruff, and the small lines crinkled near the corners of his eyes as he smiled at me.  Within seconds, he was inside the doorway,  pulling me into his arms tightly, whispering in my ear.

“It feels so good to see you,” he said.  “To be with you. ”

We continue to hold each other, both not wanting to let go except briefly to look into each others eyes, drinking in the fact that our expectations have been met, even surpassed.

“We met online,” I say, shocked that it could be true. That all my rule breaking hadn’t resulted in a lifetime of man purgatory.

Rock Star pulled me closer then, lifting my chin into a perfectly choreographed kiss.  We went to my living room, and sitting next to him on the couch I comfortably crossed my long legs over his.  We talked, hugged each other tightly, laughed, and made out like teenagers til 4am, recklessly breaking rule after rule with carefree abandon.  I even let Rock Star sleep in my bed that night, delighting in the caresses of this man, a man who felt he had discovered a jewel.  A man who thought that I was brilliant for taking this risk with him, that I was his treasure.

Since that first date three days ago, I admit that I have, on several occasions wanted to text Rock Star, or call him to tell him I am looking forward to our next date.  I have, however, waited to be “chased,” allowing him to call first because he is a man who doesn’t play games, and I know he will call.   Rock Star isn’t breaking rules by showing his interest in spending time with me, revealing his excitement to see me soon, sharing his struggles with the reality of surviving in tough economic times, or just to tell me he thinks I’m amazing.   He is a man who, like me, sucks at “the rules” or more likely, isn’t playing games anymore either.

So to some, like Ms Fein and Schneider, as well as the experts at TopDatinTips.com,  I still suck at playing by “the rules,” at playing games with men.  But, the truth is I don’t suck.  I’m just living my life, and have ultimately decided that in my quest to be vulnerable, I am done playing games.  Maybe games, in fact, are just for kids, 20 somethings who don’t need to read “the rules,” because playing by rules is just what they do instinctually.  Most likely, however, it’s time for me to leave the sandbox and the games that are played there in pursuit of a man who has also chosen to walk away, leaving his shovel, ball, and bucket in the sand next to mine.

Marni Battista is a 42 year old divorced mother of three daughters ages 13, 10 and 6 who lives and dates in Los Angeles, California.  With a Masters in Elementary Education, this former nursery school teacher is re-inventing herself as a professional writer and pursuing a career as a Certified Life Coach.

=

If the saying, “food for thought” was not, in fact, a metaphor, I would be stuffed.  A glutinous truth seeker and someone who has been on more than 50 first dates in the four years since my divorce, I have spent hours binging on rich chocolate thoughts such as what the hell happened to the faux prince charming I met online, Rockstar, the truths behind the  “Cracking the ManCode” seminar I attended a few weeks ago,  and  why I am experiencing relative ease in dating Smart Guy, another internet find who trips my trigger but hasn’t pushed my buttons.

Rasberry Pate de Fruit Layered Over Almond Hazelnut Praline

Chuao Candies

Hmmmm….Anything with almond hazelnut praline in its description sounds amazing, delicious, a treat that can not be left sitting for too long in the box of chocolates.  And thus, when I saw Rockstar’s online profile I thought he was most definitely hazelnut praline.  Tall, blond and amazing thick dirty blond hair. This 30 inch waist, one- time actor and successful fashion photographer was one piece of  chocolate candy I couldn’t wait to devour.  And although our schedules didn’t mesh for weeks, I was enjoying the fact that I knew he was there,  nestled in the decorator box waiting for me to inspect more closely.

I was thrown though when he sent me a picture from his Iphone directly to my email.  This picture was no headshot, and quite unlike this two pictures online.

I wondered to my friend Maya, “I’m not sure if he’s cute.  Is he cute?  Is he?

Maya replied patiently.  “Is the picture downright bad, I mean, really, is he…like…ugly in the picture?”

I thought, considering the pixels once again.

“No, not ugly.  But for sure not as cute as those pics online.”

“No worries,” said Maya confidently.  I’m sure….. he’s cute.”

I was patient, and as life gets busy, not to mention the picture dilemma, it made it easier to wait and get to know him over the phone.

When I met Rockstar the first time at my front door, though, it was as if I put my nose right inside the glorious candy box.  I inhaled, savoring how good it felt to be in his warm embrace.  It was gourmet!  Yummilicious.   He had looked good, now this piece of candy smelled good too.  When we kissed, it was confirmed.  Rockstar was one treat to delight the tastebuds.   In fact, when I first met Rockstar I didn’t even poke the bottom to see what kind of filling I might find inside that inviting candy coating.  Nope, before I even had more than one nibble of this EliteMeeting.com morsel, I thought he might be worth getting myself a case of.

After dating a few weeks,  however, I began to sense this guy was not turning out to be milk chocolate on the outside, delicious hazelnut praline filling inside.  A few “I’ll call ya laters” that went unfulfilled and what seemed like a case of chronics lateness left me disappointed.  And as I began to consider that this piece of candy might just be a one-hit wonder, I remained open to the possibilities, my taste buds blinded by the first class packaging.

And then there was the date, our last date.  The setting was magnificent.  A candlelit dinner where we sat tucked away in a dark corner at one of LA’s most hip restaurants.   Our table for two enveloped by sheaths of white linen, swagged effortlessly throughout the small alcove, marble pillars creating the feel of Mozambique and Arabian Knights.  We drank wine, laughed, shared an entrée.  Friends joined us for dinner and there I observed, pleased, as Rockstar held my hand, mixing brilliantly with my friends. Filled with good food, friends and wine we returned home, spending five minutes in his Range Rover parked outside my house singing.  Our most loud, horrible voices filling the car, as we rocked the entire lyrics to “St Elmo’s Fire, a classic from the 1990s.     It was a great date.  And of course, there was the proverbial telephone call the next day, heralding the evening as one of his best.

“Honey,” he said.  He had called me honey from the getgo.

“That was amazing.  The best.  Oh my God…honey.”  his Tennessee drawl made me return to thoughts of the chocolate center, milk chocolate coating, swirls and twirls the perfect compliment to it’s magnificent taste.  And for sure, inside there had to be pure hazelnut praline.

“Honey….,I replied.  “It was fun….amazing…but I don’t think  the lyrics to that song are “Dough Horizon…” I laughed thrilled we now shared an inside joke between us.

“I’m going to finish moving this week, then you will see my new studio.  Honey…Its gonna be….dope. I can’t wait for you to see it.   I’m thinkin’ Wednesday.”

“Perfect,” I said.  “No kids Wednesday, that’s great.”

And then, I took the big bite, the one where you find out exactly what kind of filling lies hidden inside the delicious milk chocolate.

I hit Rasberry Pate de Fruit.  And I, for one, do not like fruit in my chocolate!

He replied,

“Uhhh…honey…I’m not sure Wednesday.  Maybe Thursday.  I don’t know.  Not sure when….  It’s has to be…perfect.  I holla at you later.”

Ick.  Uck. Choke.  Gag.

This is when it’s time to spit. Into the trash.  A napkin.  The street.  Really, I’m not eating Rasberry Pate de Fruit.  It’s not worth the calories.  Which is a good thing, because in essence, this was the last conversation I had with Rockstar before he began to vanish.  Disappear.

The taste of Pate de Fruit still lingers as I try to figure out what the hell happened to Rockstar.  And while I’m thrilled I didn’t invest in a case, box or even one full piece of Rockstar,  my curiosity regarding “disappearing man syndrome” inspired me to attend a “Cracking the Man-Code” seminar given by Matt Boggs, a relationship expert and author of “Project Everlasting.”

Breakfast Buffet, Ritz Carlton Hotel, Laguna Beach California

My best guy friend, Chris, has been suggesting I attend Boggs’ seminar for months, as Chris is my go-to guy for interpreting men and the meaning behind their often confusing actions. He knows that when it comes to men I have difficulty playing by the famed “Rules” coined by authors Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider more than five years ago.  Coming off the Rasbery Pate de Fruit, I was ready for something a bit more conventional.  Something filling.  A menu I could really sink my teeth into, foods with substance and heartiness but that also offered a few delicacies I could savor amidst the more traditional fare.

And there it was, the ultimate food for thought.  A buffet waiting for me in Orange County;  “Cracking the Man-Code: 6 1/a Secrets to MANifesting and Getting the Love You Deserve.  Now, I’m not going to divulge all the secrets I learned at Boggs’ incredible two hour chick fest, but I will tell you that for the more than 40 plus attractive 30-40 year-old women in the room, the code was definitely cracked.

Although I’m not a meat eater, there is plenty of carved roast beef in Bogg’s theory.  According to the Man Code, men, who were traditionally hunters in prehistoric times, have not changed much in the last thousands of years.  Boggs’ asked us to imagine that men can’t multitask effectively because they operate within metaphorical “apartments” that exist in their brains.  The result is this; when my man is in the football apartment, he can’t dis about the couple at dinner last night because, for goodness sakes, he is in the freaken football apartment.  Apparently, these apartments have no windows and the door is exit only, in that a woman can’t get inside the apartment.  Her best bet is to wait, siting quietly and join in the task at hand.  While I knew this intellectually, I had always blamed men, thinking they didn’t think that what I wanted to say was important.  Or, that they didn’t care what I was feeling.  Turns out most times, I was talking to those men while they were firmly entrenched in one apartment or another.

A case in point. I was driving to dinner with a male friend of mine, Neil.  This down to earth cool British guy is someone I dated once or twice, but we opted for a friendship instead.  Nevertheless, as friends, Neil exemplified perfectly the apartment theory.

“So,” says Neil with concern in his voice as we head down Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica looking for a place to park the car.  “Tell me, what happened with that women who told y’tales about your daughter without giving you any details?”

Ahh, I thought, enjoying his British accent.  Sweet Neil. Not only did he remember our conversation a few days before where I told him about the phone call, but he was thoughtful enough to ask me how it resolved.  Cared enough to see how it had turned out for me and my 13-year-old daughter.  Just as I launched into the answer, Neil clearly stopped listening.  He had spied an empty parking space and was trying to ascertain if the meter was one hour, two hours or not in effect on a Friday night at 8 pm.

“Hmmmm..can ya read that meter?” asked Neil, cutting me off mid sentence.

While my instinct was to get pissed and think Neil an uncaring cad for interrupting me in the middle of my vulnerable expose on parenting a teenager, I remembered the apartment theory.  I sunk my teeth into that rare roast beef and savored its tenderness.  Clearly, Neil was in the “parking apartment,” thus incapable of hearing my answer.  It wasn’t that he didn’t care, he just couldn’t listen to me and park the car simultaneously.

Now that I have cracked the code, I knew to stop talking.  Wait until the parking task had been completed.  And then, once the car was safely in gear and parked, key out of the ignition, Neil turned to me and said, “Now, what happened with your daughter?”

The Man-Code Buffet also featured other tasty morsels, like reasons why men such as Rockstar vanish or disappear.  Sinking my teeth into this information was like enjoying the hollandaise sauch on eggs benedict,  the crispness of hash browns with sautéed mushrooms, and the crunch of crispy maple smoked bacon.   I now understood Rockstar may  have floated off into never- never land because, for him, the hunt of Marni, the lioness, had ended.  Although I had followed his lead,  it didn’t matter.  I had become too accessible.  I jumped right into the trap.  Game over.  Hunt ended.  And that, according to Boggs, is no damn fun for men like Rockstar.   While I am a rule hater, according to Bogg’s, I need to get over it because men need to hunt.  It’s in their DNA.  They must do it.

There may be other reasons Rockstart vanished.   For example, according to Man-Code theory, often when men get caught up in the sexual part of a relationship they lose their ability to reason effectively.  And, when a man is in the lust apartment, he thus can’t effectively use his intellect to assess his true feelings.  As a result, they disappear in order to think things through.  Sometimes they come back.  Sometimes they don’t.

Of course, there were an array of breakfast pastries on the Boggs Buffet.  Croissants in the form of tidbits about why I really shouldn’t sleep with men until the relationship has evolved into something I am looking for.  And as the scrambled eggs with goat cheese, basil and sweet red peppers melted in my mouth, I understood why I need to let the man take charge, a task that is often difficult for me, as Boggs shared his theory on the pitfalls of being a woman who tends to bring a significant amount of male energy to the dating table.   Again, it seems that men just need to be men.  Neanderthal’s with hearts, pretty faces and much less hair than their prehistoric predecessors.  Hmmm, I thought, perhaps next time I should let the man decide whether we want a table in front, or sit outside under heat lamps.

And then there were the desserts, and the sweetest, most luscious fruits.  The Man-Code seminar came complete with a “man panel” on hand to answer questions by  women attending the seminar.  Three relatively good looking men, two single and one married,  spent 30 minutes helping women in the audience interpreting questions such as, “Why do men ask for your number, but then never call?”  Or, “How come women shouldn’t sneak off and pay ahead for the bowling, movie, or dessert on a first, second, or even third date?”  I savored each taste as I sampled the marscapone honey dip and maple crème fraiche.   Then bite after bite of the fresh tropical and seasonal fruits.

The Man-Code Buffet had been satiating.  I left satisfied, filled with new understanding that while men might be modern day Neanderthals, it’s just because they are wired this way, and that most importantly, to know them is to love them.  To understand them is to work with them, not against them.

Driving back from the OC to Los Angeles with my friend Lindsay, we both burped unabashedly.  We were full, two women content knowing we had cracked the code and would ultimately MANifest  love we both deserved.

“Stir it Up”  and Hot Green Tea

Julienne vegetables, gingery garlic sauce over brown rice, soba noodles or daily greens.

Real Food Daily, Santa Monica California

And then there is Smart Guy, another man I met online, also at EliteMeeting.com.  According to Elite we were a 94 percent match, having many things in common such as location, age, primary interests and income.  What really got me with Smart Guy, however, was that he mentioned a book in his profile, The Four Agreements, that I also read and it seemed it was one of the precepts for his philosophy toward life.

Armed with man-code knowledge I was eager to meet Smart Guy.  We met at the Urth Café, a down-to-earth spot in Venice, California.  Featuring an array of whole bean organic coffees  hand selected fine teas, the menu also offers healthy salads, soups and desserts.  Smart guy arrived with that just woke up look, tossled brown hair, board shorts and a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words, “Argentina,” on it.  I had managed cute, but casual in jeans, black sweater and a black and white plaid cap.   We talked easily, and within minutes he was sharing his views on life, his belief in the laws of attraction, his desire to avoid wheat, alcohol and dairy, as well as his latest business venture which promises to help people make money through enjoyment.  I was thrown off a bit, as this run of the mill vegetable happened to also look quite scrumptious… like chocolate, in fact.  Dark chocolate, my favorite.  Eighty percent cocoa.   Smart Guy carried on, his words proving to me he was 100 percent vegetable.

I have been dating Smart Guy for a short time, and I like him!  He continues to be the best looking vegetable I’ve found, which often throws off a woman who is used to being attracted to hazelnut praline with raspberry pate de fruit. I used to just choke down the fruit, now I’m thinking I like veggies as an entrée, chocolate for dessert!  Smart Guy makes me think.  He makes me smile.  He’s super sexy, and to top if off, he calls when he says he will.  He flirts via email.  Texts to tell me he has had a good time after a date, and then,  calls again the next day just to say hi.  Smart Guy even cooked me dinner, yes vegetables and lentils smothered in a most delicious miso dressing, at his place, and because Smart Guy looks vegetable yet has that chocolate thing going for him, he suggested we eat a piece of the flourless chocolate cake I had brought first, before we had dinner!  In the hooking up department, Smart Guy has been respectful as well as passionate, allowing me to enjoy each moment.  In fact, during one heated moment Smart Guy straight out said, looking me directly in the eye, that the journey toward the destination is just as fun as the arrival.  Did I mention he looks like Godiva?

When I am with Smart Guy it’s healthy.  It’s green tea and lemon.  Hot, sweet and warming, leaving me with good, tender-hearted feelings of calm and quiet joy.  There is no drama, no bloat from excessive feasting on sweets that taste good in the moment but result in bad feelings and hurt.

Most important, Smart Guy reinforces what I have learned for myself when it comes to food, thoughts and life.  Be Moderate.  Don’t eat too much.  Don’t think too much.  And enjoy each moment for what it is, knowing that it is just one part, of all the parts that are necessary, on the Food Pyramid that makes up my rich, delicious life.  Life is too short to diet I have learned.  Starving now leads to binging later,  and eating until I can’t move makes me feel bad.  Life is enjoying everything in small bites.  Don’t workout too much.  Eat candy.  Enjoy bread, pasta and crackers. Savor stirfry, roasted broccoli and jasmine mint tea.  And  allow myself  the pleasures I deserve as long as they are consumed with peace of mind, presence of sprit as well as heart, and  bowlfuls of dignity.

=

Divorced after a 17 year marriage, I plunged back into the dating scene to find that when it came to men I was lost.  Misguided.  Confused.  What did this mean to be lost?  It meant that I dated from a murky, wreckless, and shameful place.  A place in which I seemed to lack mojo.  Self-esteem.  Dignity, attracting men lacking emotional conciousness, decent communication skills, and whose words and actions NEVER matched.   Lost?  Me? Ugh.  This truth was difficult to swallow, especially when I thought I had come so far, graduating as I had from the days of the “hook up. But twenty years older and one divorce later, I quickly discovered that when it came to finding love, I was frustrated by my inability to attract the love I deserved, despite my intelligence, reasonable good looks and success in so many critical areas of my life.

And thus, despite my outside fantabulous-ness, I couldn’t seem to shake those dating rituals that produce the same result – falling crazy in love with a man who was emotionally unavailable and worse yet, six months down the road, I was still putting out yet no closer to commitment. What’s more, these  men, known as “Hunters,” seemed to be spending less time with me, dates turned into nothing more than last minute DVD nights at his place (a shabby apartment too far from my neighborhood) and despite the fact that he had told me point blank he wasn’t ready to commit, I believed whole- heartedly that perhaps, if I became what he wanted, it could change.   I spent most nights, however, wondering,  “What have I done wrong?”  “Why….why won’t he be my boyfriend?”

For example, back in my Lost Girl (LG) days, I was a master at the  “Intentional Leave Behind, a Lost Girl tactic in which one dubiously leaves a personal item such as lip-gloss, an earring, or favorite sweater in his bed sheets, bathroom, or nightstand as the perfect reason to contact him hours later.   Not sleeping with him yet?  No worries.  This former Lost Girl once deviously removed the ATM card from its place in my wallet, dropping it effortlessly between the console and passenger seat of his car.  Oops.  Intentional Leave Behind.

I was also a Ninja Lost Girl, kicking serious butt as  I made “Target Acquisitions” a feat in which I purposefully acquired his possessions, their value steadily increasing in size and importance as a metaphor to represent acquisition of the guy himself.  There was no trick I did not have in my Lost Girl arsenal, including the cunning ability to morph schizoid “Planner Girl”.   As Planner Girl, this former Lost Girl did her best to get the him to commit to plans one week, one month, even six months in advance thinking that said commitment would provide the security necessary to ensure he would stay in the relationship long enough to see these plans through.

Like all Lost Girls, I spent too many hours obsessing about how to get the nameless “hims” in my life to pursue me.

Last week I had dinner with a lost girl in crisis, tears teetering on the edge of her smoke brown eyes.  As we sipped lattes and nursed her broken heart between forkfuls of black forest chocolate cheesecake, it became clear that she couldn’t stop loving her jerk, because she didn’t believe she deserved to be cherished, adored and respected.

Lost Girls are everywhere, I have noticed.  Camouflaged, their physical beauty, open hearts and kindness make it impossible to see what they are missing inside.  Many have successful careers.  Friends and families who love them.  These girls don’t appear to be broken.  Yet, their aching need to love and be loved, the desperate quest to find validation of their love-ability from a man they have put on a pedestal, makes them jump blindly into a relationship with the one man who will hurt her most.

While some Lost Girls can be seen from afar, this brilliant disguise makes  them hard to recognize.  What they don’t tell you is that behind this façade is a girl who lives from a place of doubt and lonliness.  What they don’t tell you is the story of how it happens.  What it looks like.  And how it always will end.

How the Lost Girl Gets Her Guy

First off, the “Lost Girl “ (LG) is not patient, whether she is already in a relationship, or waiting to pounce on someone new.  While there are degrees in which a Lost Girl will put off taking action, she is mostly doing so with clenched jaw and curled toes, pulling her cell phone from her purse repeatedly, desperate to see if he has called, resisting the temptation to call or text herself.  While she hangs on, the Lost Girl contacts her friends to discuss when she can call, every possible reason why her crush hasn’t telephoned her, or to brainstorm a valid reason to initiate conversation.  From the minute she first makes eye contact, she’s impatient.  If she see’s him in a bar, she wonder’s when will he approach?  If she gave him her number she sits, waiting.  Tip, tip, tapp, rolling her fingers on the kitchen table. Sigh. Eat a donut.  The Lost Girl just can’t wait.  She wants to plan their first vacation, get a pet together, or eat from the same fork. She wants to buy sheets together, meet his parents, and exchange pet names. As a result, this directionless dame makes one of the most crucial dating mistakes possible straight away – she pursues her target!  While prowling the love jungle, this little tiger just doesn’t understand that men need to pursue women, that they require the hunt to feel like the chest-beating apes from which they descended.  But the LG does not care, as a feminist she believes that waiting by the phone for him to call is so old-fashioned.  This brilliant love junkie rationalizes her behavior expertly and, once a man has caught her eye, the hunt begins. The Lost Girl begins to fill her time with hours and hours of man-stalking, the first step in the frenetic quest to hook her guy.

Step 1:  Online Stalking

Merely obsessing won’t give the Lost Girls the gratification she requires. She needs validation.  The lengthy, circuitous discussions on the when’s and why not’s of this particular guy with her Lost Girlfriends can’t meet her needs.  So while her favorite love song plays on the radio, she takes action.  The plethora of online social networking websites are just a click away, making stalking online is a cinch.  Facebook. Myspace. Google. The Lost Girl will take advantage of these wesbsites sneaking a “quick fix” frequently throughout her day, making an immediate “friend request” so that she can look at his pictures, stalk his friends, and possibly even (gasp!) write on his wall.  Relentless in her quest for information and a false sense of connection, the Lost Girl is determined to find out the following:

1.     Where does he work?  Where is his gym?  Where does he go for happy hour?  And who the heck is that girl in the pictures from last weekend?

2.     The number and type of girls who are his “friends.”  Are they bimbos?  Smart girls?  Colleagues? College friends? And really, who is that girl in the pictures from last weekend.  Wait….is that the same FREAKING girl that is in his birthday party photos as well?

3.     Where does he hang out? Lost girls can spend hours that melt into days just reading comments, “wall” postings, looking at pictures etc, clicking on his friends, his friend’s friends, his friends, his friend’s friends and his friend’s friend’s friends.  Wait, is that her Aunt Myrna?

4.     His direct email address and possibly even his phone number.  Once she has this information the obsessing mounts into a frenzied mind game.  Should she text ?Email him?  Instant message?

As the online stalking crescendo builds, and the Lost Girl can no longer stand the thought of devoting one more day to looking at his pictures, emailing  them to her friends, monitoring his status updates, wall postings and any other comments he makes, the LG must take action.   Enough circling for this tiger, the LG must pounce

Step 2:  Initiating Contact

Our girl is lost so she can’t wait a second longer.  What’s next?   Simple: this  creative lass crafts an opportunity to initiate contact with her man. An event. A little thing that she knows he can’t say “no” to if she asks at just the right time.

The scenario in her mind goes something like this:

“I really like Tom, he likes me too.  He is really busy, but…. I’m sure since he’s a photographer…. he would love to go see my friend’s latest exhibit at that gallery downtown.

Never mind that Tom hasn’t called our Lost Girl since meeting her three weeks ago at a bar.  The Lost Girl, forever fueled by the few texts he did return, thinks,….why not?

Of course, Tom will most likely decline.  But a Lost Girl never gives up.  It’s time to employ operation “Stake Out.”

The Stake Out

A master at the Stake Out, our Lost Girl investigates where her man hangs out.  Perhaps he mentioned he likes to work during weekend afternoons at a particular coffee shop.  Suddenly, this coffee shop becomes a new home for the Lost Girl –she takes her laptop, has lunch with her friends, even runs in for a quick coffee – all under the guise of casual business.  But really, our smart LG is, in fact, staking out her man.  It doesn’t seem to matter to the Lost Girl that this joint is on the other side of town.  Forge on she will!   Our Lost Girl proceeds to frequent the place (bar, restaurant, etc.) in hopes of making contact with him.

If (shock and horror!) the Lost Girl knows nothing about her guy’s frequent watering hole or grub hub she must corral her friends (fellow LG’s, who else?) to tag along for a drink at the bar where they first met.  Loyal as they are, her girlfriends will protest. But well versed in the art of persuasion, our Lost Girl is brilliant and will convince them.  Once out with her wing-girls she will spend most of her time casing the joint in search of him.  So singular in her focus, she doesn’t even look at other guys.

The Stake Out:  In Pursuit

If he shows up, the LG is instantly flustered, even though she has been waiting for hours to see him, she now avoids eye contact and hopes he sees her first.  In the event he doesn’t see her (he is actually having a good time with his friends), she makes the approach, acting as though she was just “on her way to the bar” to buy a round of drinks for her wing girls.

LG:  Hey, Tom?

Her voice goes up an octave as she utters Tom’s name

LG:  Wassup?  What are you doing here?

TOM:  Hey beautiful.

LG now breaks into “Cool Girl” mode, pretending to watch the baseball game that’s on TV at the bar, offering to buy him a drink just before it becomes awkward and his boys approach.  After all, she was “on her way” to the bar to buy a round.

From this point onward, our LG is Tom’s “date” for the evening.  Some Lost Girls will possibly buy more drinks for the crew, maybe suggesting a round of shots for Tom and his friends, while others just linger, even if he leaves to allegedly go the restroom. When he is near, her body language is forward. She is constantly touching his arm, shoulder or leaning into him, and oo-oo-oeey does he smell good.  And because our friend “Tom” (like any other drunk guy) is responsive, it is fuel for the fire.  He puts his arm around her, pulls her close, kisses her neck.  Most likely Tom has had a drink or two, pulling his LG over to the corner for a little tonsil hockey.  In the haze of alcohol and lust, the LG now believes Tom is really “into her”, and acts accordingly.  When last call is over and the lights come up, Tom invites our LG back to his place to “hang out.”  The Lost Girl usually goes home with her crush, leaving her friends at the bar recklessly, not stopping to understand that without her car she will wake at Tom’s place, now dependent on him for her exit.

Although this may be only the second time she has seen Tom, these two look like quite the item as they leave the bar. Half-wrecked, arm in arm, you can be sure our LG tigress is headed straight to Tom’s bed (or couch, kitchen, stairwell of his apartment complex, or car).

Four Reasons the LG is into this Particular Guy

#4 He’s hot…rich….or she is somehow impressed by his resume

For some LGs, looks and/or income are everything.  They can’t believe Mr. Abrocrombie model wants to hook up with her. (I can’t believe HE’S into me!!).  This translates into he thinks I’m beautiful (even if I don’t).  He thinks I’m desirable (even if I don’t).  He thinks I’m good enough (even if I don’t.)   It might just be hooking up, but to the LG the hookup is a BIG green light – he’s into her.  He makes her feel seen.  He makes her feel lovable.  To the lost girl, it means this guy could be her boyfriend!

#3 He’s charming

The charming man is funny, witty, educated and says just the right things to make the LG swoon.   He’s perfectly polished – opening doors, touches her gently on the small of her back as he directs her into his car at 2am to take her to his place to have sex.  He acts the part of the boyfriend adeptly, when he is with the LG.  But out of sight is out mind, my dear girl.  This guy has no long-term interest and only spends time with the LG when it works for him.

#2 When he’s with the LG, she feels like the most important thing in his life

This man calls the LG “Gorgeous”, “Beautiful”, “sexy.”  He pours it on thick in order to make her feel like the most amazing woman he has ever met, but the Lost Girl should not be fooled! He does this with every girl!

#1  He makes her feel seen, special, loved or some other important feeling she believes she can’t get on her own.

While all of these may be important to some degree, LGs are all over the map in regards to which is most important.  Some LGs just fall for the hot guys, or guys who offer to fly them to Maui over the holidays, no matter what.  Other’s cannot resist the charming smile or polished charisma of a guy who may not be exceptionally good looking.  Most important, however, the LG will grab onto the one guy who makes her feel like she is the most important thing in his life.  But his charm is a tough act to maintain and may last just a week or two – but she has sampled a morsel of this decadent cake, will settle for less than she should (see section on “Crumbs”) and will try to recreate those feelings interminably.  Once she’s had a taste she’ll do anything to hold to the possibility he will make her feel that way again.  Even if he only intermittently gives her the attention she deserves, it is enough to power the LG forward in her desire to hold on to this relationship.  And who’s she kidding?  Relative to all the other loser ex’s she’s been with, (this guy who happens to actually have a job, is age appropriate and actually remembers her birthday) this guy is a GEM!

What they don’t tell you, is the Lost Girl is going to be hurt.  He’ll cheat.  He’ll lie.  He’s never ready to commit.  Her heart will be broken.  What they don’t tell you is that this vicious cycle will continue interminably…until the Lost Girl learns that in order to love and be loved by another, she must first love herself.

=

It’s been almost four months since December 11, the date I was fired from my job as a nursery school teacher.    December 11 is also the date when my ex-husband and I split.  He asked me to sleep elsewhere that night in 2004, and thus made a reservation for me at the Loews Hotel in Santa Monica.

On December 11, 2004 I had dinner at Chez Jay, a famed Santa Monica dive bar/ restaurant with my closest friends.  I didn’t drink alcohol during those years, but I still don’t remember much of that night except playing “lighter olympics” in my bathrobe in the hotel room with friends, and an overwhelming sense of fear and amazement that this was all happening to someone like me, a nice Jewish girl from Iowa.  Although I was a well-educated, upper middle class mother of three young daughters, this night marked the end of 17 years of marriage.

Hmmmm, I thought four years later when my childhood friend, David, who also now lives in Los Angeles, chose Chez Jay as the meeting place for our previously scheduled dinner the night of December 11, 2008.

“Yes,” I replied enthusiastically when David asked me if I knew of Chez Jay.  “I think it’s kismet..or some such thing… to go there,” I said telling him of the December 11 coincidence.  “I got fired today,”  I added with the same amazement that this was happening to me, the nice Jewish girl,  a teacher, from Iowa.  It seemed perhaps  Chez Jay could forever be the place I would go to mark endings, to ponder new beginnings.

During dinner David and I laughed much, reminiscing on the odd details of growing up in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.  We discussed how much love my mother threw around this Podunk town during the 1970s and 80’s.  We remembered her cooking.  My parents.  David told me my dad was funny, and that growing up he always thought they were cool.

Upon leaving Chez Jay nearly 3 ½ hours later, I realized it felt different this time to leave something I loved.  Things were different.  I had evolved.  Grown.  And while I was in deep pain from the shock of losing my job, it hadn’t been debilitating.  I knew I would survive.  Perhaps even flourish, because this time I had faith, and felt that while a door had closed, an expansive, floor-to-ceiling window had opened.  When I arrived at Chez Jay, anger and hurt had made my day dark and desolate.  But I had managed to laugh uproariously with David, enjoy myself despite the darkness, and I knew the next day I could wake up to sun pouring through that window of opportunity if I held the right attitude.  Then, I knew, all I had to do was walk through it, eyes open.  Heart willing.  Mind open.

My life since December 11 has, in fact, been filled with light.  Turns out, getting fired can be a good thing.  Losing my job gave me the gift of time, time to manifest a dream I had imagined as if it were some far-fetched fantasy.

“If only I could write,” I lamented to my friends.

“I want to do something where I can create, produce,” I had told Dina, the Life Coach I worked with in July, 2008.

If only.

Sitting down to make my dreams come true has not been easy.  “If only,” is such a brilliant excuse, after all.  It’s much easier to defer responsibility until the moon, sun and stars align perfectly.  Wait for something magical to happen. A sign.  An answer.  Or someone to tell me what to do.

Faced with a blank page, a list of things I want in my life, and seven or more hours each weekday is daunting.  I have to have discipline.  Focus.  The ability to say, “no” to lunch with friends, willingness to sit down and write when I want to take yoga class at 10:45 on Tuesday morning, the power to let the phone go unanswered, even when it is someone with whom I would love to have a chat.  Instead, I have to remember what my teacher at the Hoffman Institute taught me;  my “to-do” list is more than “have to” obligations written on my Icalendar.  This list is the steps I must take, one by one, to manifest my vision.  To make my dreams come true.

Each day since December 11, I cross items joyously off my list as I reach each goal.  Looking carefully at those things I haven’t accomplished, then begrudgingly referring to my calendar to set aside specific time to get it finished.  Sometimes I grimace.  Sometimes I procrastinate, I would rather take a nap.  Sometimes I do.

I have learned I work in bursts, that writing is something I do best for just 2 hours at a time.  I have learned that Facebook is a no-no, that Mediabistro.com is brilliant.  I understand the Writer’s Market may not be what I thought it was, that writing class is good, but writing mentors are priceless.  I have learned to forego Starbucks for Instant, to realize sometimes it’s good to work in my bedroom, but sometimes its better to work at the kitchen table.

I remember that day in January when I first sat at the huge farm table, papers spread haphazardly in kitchen, the dream of what I want my life to look like formed.  A golden vision in my head.  Nothing but time in front of me.  Fear standing in the way, blocking the view.  I stuck my tongue out at that fear, sat down, sighed, and began to work.

Three months later, I am celebrating my success.  I have sent more than three dozen query letters to magazines, E-zines and journals, and today learned that one is interested in publishing something I’ve written.  I have a deadline April 1 for a feature article in Westside Magazine.  I’m putting final touches on a book proposal I’ve written with two friends, written six new chapters for my memoir, and sent the 178 pages I’ve written thus far to my supervisor at Writers Bootcamp.  I am in a training program to mentor new Hoffman Institute Facilitators, and have landed my first client as a Life Coach.

I can now spend time playing outside with Rayna and Willow when they are home from school, volunteer in Willow’s classroom regularly, and network with new colleagues who are Life Coaches as well as published essayists and novelists.

Yesterday I was listening to XM 51, The Coffee House.  It’s my new favorite.  I heard an incredible acoustic interpretation of Semisonic’s “Closing Time, a song I have sung along to dozens of times.  For the first time though, I heard these lyrics…

… every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end..

And that’s when getting fired is a GOOD thing.

=