Dating With Dignity

The truth is this, the man (or woman) who you dream of — the one who makes your heart pitter patter, the guy who is still interested weeks later, even though you haven’t had sex, the one who calls the next day, instead of vanishing after telling you he hasn’t had this much fun in years — this guy, will not randomly end up talking to YOU at Starbucks today. Unless, that is, you have done some serious work to prepare yourself for his (or her) arrival.

That said, I hear women and men consistently tell me they are, “ready for a relationship.”  In fact, I said it myself for three years.  I told myself, friends, and family that I was really enjoying myself, having fun dating, but if the “right” guy showed up, I would totally be “open to a relationship.”

Heard that somewhere before?

The truth is, I wasn’t ready.  Not even close.  Here were the signs:

1.  I kept meeting the “wrong” guys. Let’s see, they were nice, good-looking but not wanting to make a commitment.  They were super hot, but too young, too focused on their career or super not interested in dating a divorcee with three kids.  Or, they were really nice but I wasn’t attracted to them for a myriad of reasons.  I went speed dating.  Online dating.  I had a blind date with Chuckie, who my friend’s friend said was  ”successful and amazing.” What she didn’t tell me was that Chuckie would reveal somewhere between the appetizers and entree that he  ”felt sorry” for the stripper he had been recently dating so he gave her $10,000, to help her “get back on her feet.”  Needless to say, Chuckie was not a match.  I met the 43 year old hot  guy (At Starbucks, actually)  who had a foot fetish, which only became clear to me when on our 2nd date he wanted to see my closet.  It wasn’t until I broke it off with the the nice teacher guy  I dated for three months who happened to conveniently live 400 miles away that I realized I was just not ready.  Then, the question became why.

2.  I was really enjoying my independence, something I had never experienced before, and it had become very, very safe. I had been married at 22 years old, a wife for 17 years, and had never before lived independently.  And now, I truly enjoyed being in control of my life, my children, my travel plans, the remote control, my weekends and my bedroom.  I enjoyed deciding when I would exercise. When I would see friends.  And when I would hit an evening yoga class, eat cereal, and watch 10 episodes in a row of “How I Met Your Mother.”  I remembered hearing a friend of mine tell someone she was spending her weekend sans kids traveling to her boyfriend’s parents home on the East Coast to attend a Bar Mitzvah.  I thought, “Holy cow.  This is the last thing I would ever want to do with my weekend.  ick. bleck.  ugh.”  I was not ready.

3.  I began to wonder if I enjoyed my freedom, or was just terrified of losing it. Because I had never before had an interdependent relationship, I began to fear that  it wasn’t that I enjoyed my independence, but that I was mostly afraid of losing it.  I didn’t know if I could mesh “my” life with the life of another person.  I didn’t know if I could still feel strong, secure and love myself if there were a man in my life to shlep the suitcases up the stairs or pump my gas.  I wanted a relationship, or so  I thought, but at what cost to me?  Clearly,  I wasn’t ready.

And then, suddenly, I became ready.

When my mother died it hit me.  Suddenly, I knew the truth.  She had been married to my father for 45 years.   I knew then that although hooking up with hot guys had been fun, and quite frankly developmentally appropriate for a divorcee who married at 22, and that it had been quite empowering to take my three daughters camping in the wilderness solo, this was the ultimate truth; I didn’t want to leave this planet without experiencing these things:

1. true, unconditional love
2. intimacy
3. becoming truly empowered by my vulnerability, and
4. what it would be like to participate in an interdependent partnership.

“Yikes,” I thought.  ”This is a tall order.”   Then I remembered the vision I had created for my life.  A vision I had been working on diligently since December, 2006 when I did the Hoffman Process.  I remembered how hard I had worked to become authentic, real and independent.  And I knew, that the relationship I had with built myself was now secure.  Safe.  I knew that it was now my time to become ready.

What I learned that becoming ready to be in a relationship was a process.  Hard work.  It was a time when I had to dig deep, ask for help. Get support.  And become educated.  I beefed up my investment in coaching and therapy. Attended workshops.  Did my homework.    And then, months and months later, when I had cleared my plate, the Dating Fast in full force, I knew I had truly become ready.

It was three weeks later that I met Jem, The Brit.

So then, are you ready?  Are you willing to go to any lengths–to do the work necessary to become prepared for your Starbucks moment?  Come find out next Tuesday, November 17, at a workshop I’m hosting, “5 Ways to Totally TRANSFORM Your Love Life for 2010.”  Your vision — your relationship –is waiting.  To register go to:

www.mcssl.com/SecureCart/ViewCart.aspx?sctoken=fc72dbb45ef245f1950eb4b6caf796b0&mid=11238FCC-6C84-4640-B4D8-817E72418500&bhcp=1

Each April in the mid 1980s, my mom and her best friend, Linda, would jam five kids between the ages of six and sixteen into a rented, vomit-brown Chevrolet minivan with stained velour seats. We would drive nearly 17 hours during this trip from Cedar Rapids, Iowa to Keystone, Colorado in which I would mostly sleep, wake intermittently and then begrudgingly ask , “When….when are we going to be there?”

I didn’t enjoy this drive. Mostly, I simply ignored the camaraderie of the other children while they laughed, played Mad Libs, and half drank cans of lukewarm Tab, crunched their Doritos and chewed the packs of gum our mothers had brought to sustain us on the 17 hour drive. I was bored, so I slept. I slept through the flat Nebraska terrain, layered with varietals of dirt, rubble and oil. Occasionally, I would open my eyes, heavy lids lifting, to see fields, usually bursting with bright yellows, olive, lime and bottle- greens during summer that were brown, russet, and completely barren. Hour upon hour, I drifted in and out of consciousness, the dull milieu never changing. Voices hummed like static. The CB radio cackled. Drivers commenting on the broken pieces of tarmac, or recently fallen snow stained and contaminated from the muck the cars, 18-wheelers and minivans like ours that zipped towards their destinations in Colorado and beyond.

I wanted to skip the night in the Motel-6, squeezed next to my brother on a queen-sized bed with the frayed brown coverlet. I wanted to eradicate time spent at truck-stop diners, pit stops at Pizza Hut and avoid completely the treacherous climb through the Rocky Mountains to Summit County, the home of Keystone Village and Arapahoe Mountain where we would ultimately ski. I wanted to be there.

In the 25 years that have passed since those annual trips to Colorado with my closest friends, I have learned not only to tolerate road trips, but to enjoy them. I now settle into the topography. I imagine faces, the interesting lives of those people who live in towns called Viejo, Morrisville or Chittenango. I take time to talk, connect with fellow journeyers, laugh, even sing. I listen to good music, relish books on tape I’ve wanted to read for longer than forever, or simply talk on the phone to people with whom I never have time for those life-sustaining one-hour long conversations.

I enjoy the journey.

In relationships, too, I have managed to overcome my childhood hate of the trek and the trip itself. I’m now able to put to rest the agonizing question, “when will we be there.” Prior to meeting The Brit I had been divorced, comfortably single with children. I learned to become independent. I created a life I loved filled with friends, spending precious time with family, and creatively exploring things like career, yoga and writing. Then, carefully, tenuously, I made the leap from single to seeking. Relieved to know what I wanted, I learned to successfully date with intention. I knew what I wanted, began to effectively vet out those men who weren’t a match for me.

Then, brilliantly, unexpectedly, The Brit came into my life. Jem had potential, possibilities unlike I had ever experienced. I luxuriated in the early phases of dating, enjoying the anticipation, the wondering, “does he like me as more than friends?” Then there was the first date, first kiss. Butterflies! We discussed exclusivity and soon we began to explore the different mutations of the word relationship. It wasn’t long then before we began the slow, arduous process of intertwining the life I had with my children into the relationship. It was tenuous, often nerve-wracking but I stayed present in each moment, taking it slowly, day by day. We decided to travel together. He met my dad. I learned he was good on trips. I relished in his take-charge attitude, the way he planned excursions, the way he fished with the kids, hooking the fish first then excitedly calling over my daughter to tell her she had a bite. Throughout the summer he hugged me when I cried, missing my mom who had passed away last September.

Then, nearly five months after we began dating, Jem said he loved me. Although it seemed I might burst from wanting to say it first, I was so grateful I had been patient, enjoying the process of getting to those three words, “I love you.” Six months into the relationship, we decided to live together. I cleared a space in my closet, emptied drawers and ecstatically anticipated the day we would move his things from a storage unit into my home.
As I have navigated the twisted pathways of this five-year journey from divorce to dating, and then to finding and experiencing love, I mostly enjoy the journey. Not that it hasn’t occasionally been fraught with periods of sadness, loneliness and the overwhelming fears that I was odd; that I was a person whose cloth wasn’t cut to be in a relationship. Nevertheless, I stayed in the process, relying on my deepest belief that because I had learned to love myself, create a life I loved, and had practiced living with peace, presence and dignity, that love would ultimately come into my life.

But then, something happened. It seemed I had arrived. Tantamount to turning off the ignition for the last time after that prolonged two-day drive to Keystone, Jem and I were living together. We were in love. My kids accepted him. In fact, he was driving them to school. Picking them up when I had to work. He had become my partner. We didn’t fight. There was no drama. It was exactly what I had wanted. In fact, my relationship with Jem was better than anything I could have even imagined possible. I had manifested a relationship beyond my wildest dreams.

Why then, did I wake some mornings wondering what might be next? At 43 years old, I had never experienced life without some sort of relational destination. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel I needed to continue working on becoming a better, more open and communicative partner, because I did. Instead, I had to recognize what it might mean to live in a more three-dimensional place. A place where there was no specific destination, just a curiosity to explore the relationship, the new life I had created, in more deep and meaningful ways. It was difficult though, because for the first time I wasn’t really looking to land in a concrete sort of place, get a specific thing I had thought I always wanted, or even look forward to a specific occasion I had dreamt about. It was more Twilight Zone thinking. Or, to paraphrase Jean Luc Picard, Captain of the Starship Enterprise, I had to “ explore strange new worlds…seek out new life…and boldly go where I had not gone before.”

And so I have.

Each day I appreciate where we are in this relationship. I feel the sensations, vibrating at various frequencies, feeling the nuances, exploring new tacks and turns as I move through the life I have created. I practice staying present, forcing myself some nights to close the laptop, breathe, stop moving. Even though my drive and determination to make my business work takes me far away from connection to Jem, my self, and my children, I stop to kiss Jem, smile, play Jenga with the girls, or laugh with Jem when he interrupts me in the midst of the most mundane task like emptying the dishwasher just to give me a hug, playfully grab me from behind, or chew on the corner of my ear. These days I’m thinking about things like my values. And that if I truly value love and deep heart-to-heart connection then I want to make our relationship a priority. I want to practice loving Jem, just like I practice yoga. Create time, making space knowing I can’t just show up one day, after a week or more expecting I will have the same strength or connection to spirit. I am learning to understand what it takes to have balance in my life. When it’s time to stay in bed past eight to feel Jem’s skin next to mine, and mush my pillow closer to his, just talking, or get to yoga at 7am, leave the warm, soft comforter in the dark to make it on time. I am learning when I need to choose between having lunch with a girlfriend, and knowing when I have to reschedule to attend my kids’ basketball games and volleyball tournaments. There’s time to skip listening to a marketing tele-class, miss yoga, again, and go volunteer in the school library.

These days there is no external destination, no mountain road to climb. There is just the journey I am taking inwards. I am now moving towards a deeper sense of myself. I am questioning how I can live with more integrity, discovering that life is giving me plenty of opportunities to question, create and choose the kind of lover, mother, entrepreneur, writer, daughter, sister, teacher and friend I want to be.

It is a new road I have taken, a new path both unchartered and necessary. And as I walk I remember the words my cousin Joanie wrote in the journal she gave me when I was twelve years old:

“Enjoy the journey, babe. Life is at hand.”

I finally watched an episode of “Cougar Town” last night. Courtney Cox looked, “good for 40 plus,” though oddly plasticized. I must admit I felt quite relieved when my boyfriend, Jem, voiced his disgust at her botox and collagen, telling me he will love me the same when there are less people in the world who tell me I also “look good for 40 plus.” Which thus brings me to a conversation I had with my friend while walking Monday in which we discussed the issue of age, being a cougar, and why it’s OK to be a cougar unless addressed as “cougar” by someone in his twenties!

Here’s my point: Age doesn’t matter, unless it does.

I spent most of my five years as a divorcee dating younger men. My first post-divorce boyfriend in 2004 was 11 years my junior. He did, however, have two children and was also divorced. Mistakenly, I assumed that because he had children and had been through the process of marriage and divorce he had the emotional maturity required to be in a functional relationship. Needless to say, he didn’t. And, quite frankly, I didn’t either. Lesson #1: Just because someone has the same life experiences as you do, does not mean he/she have the maturity that typically comes from having those experiences.

After I dated Junior I tested the waters dating a few men closer to my age. I met a variety of men who belonged to different MANimal species including a few of the Quality Casual types, Mr. Murse (see blog on him below) and those whom I didn’t date more than once and thus could only be put into the category called, ” Excessive Talk About Ex-Wife and Custody Schedules.” During this period I realized once again, that while sharing many of the same life experiences, these men weren’t looking for the same things as me. Some were still recovering from loss, others were enjoying their freedom, and others just “weren’t a match.” Lesson #2: Dating is a skill to be practiced because it enables you to discern your non-negotiables, likes, dislikes and creates opportunities to practice connecting with people, whether or not you want to have them as a romantic partner.

I continued to attract younger men into my life, and it was during this time that I decided who was too young, and who was not. Too young is someone who has never seen an episode of “Happy Days,” or the “Carol Burnett Show.” Too young is someone who spends most of the date telling you he is “really mature,” or texts you at 11:30 pm asking, “where you at?” These men were perfectly appropriate when my relationship goal was to date casually while I was figuring out how I could keep my independence in relationship and determine what I was truly looking for in a partner. Lesson #3: It’s really is fun to realize you can attract younger men, and that you have it in you to stay up past closing time, but critical to recognize that it’s value is just that, a good time.

Once I became ready to be in a relationship and had identified what was negotiable and what was not negotiable, I knew that I would not be an age-ist (someone who dates regardless of age) because I knew that what I was looking for was a more wholistic package. I knew I wanted a man with emotional maturity, someone who didn’t want to have kids of his own, a person who was on a spiritual path, and who lived in Los Angeles. I am now in a relationship with a man who fits the bill in these areas and is eight years younger than me. Of course there are times when I wonder if he will love me when my crinkles turn to wrinkles. Or, if it really does matter that I have let too much time lapse between visits to the colorist. Mostly, however, I am centered and come from a place of self love, knowing that Jem fell in love with me. All of me. The good parts, the parts that are works in progress, as well as the woman who “looks good for 40 plus.” Which brings me to the most important lesson of all; Lesson #4: Most importantly, determine your values, decide what you are looking for in a partner, and then decide if age is important. Because in the end age doesn’t matter, unless it does.

While I considered blogging this morning about my weekend working with clients in the field as wing-girl, I decided it can wait until tomorrow. Foremost on my mind today is this; today marks 12 months since my mom passed away after her 9-month battle with lung cancer. While I know you come to this website to receive insights into dating and how to effectively bring love into your life, I thought I would share one of the most important lessons I learned from my mother. A lesson she would teach you if she could. In fact, she would probably invite you into her kitchen, sit you down at the circular glass table in the nook, then chat with you effortlessly while she prepared something spectacular for you to eat from her well-stocked freezer, refrigerator and pantry.

I could write a novel filled with the lessons my mother taught me. She taught me that two wrongs don’t make it right. She taught me to be nice. She taught me to write thank you notes. She taught me to have levels when setting a buffet table. She taught me to hire help to clean up after, whenever possible. She taught me to be an energizer bunny. She taught me to be a free-spirt. She taught me knit one, purl two, crack and bam. She taught me to say yes. She taught me that resting is possibly overrated when done too often. She taught me that using china can make a dinner party an event people will long remember. There’s more. My mom gave me her great genes, olive, smooth skin, delicate hands, long fingers, a pretty face that I have been blessed to pass to my children.

And while my mother gave me all these incredible gifts, I never stopped to really think of them as gifts until three years ago. It was during a residential spiritual retreat called the Hoffman Process that I stopped, finally, to take a look inside myself to uncover what I really had learned from my parents, and most importantly, to find some connection to my mother. Pegged as the clone of my father for my entire life, I was frusterated by my inability to connect with my mother, the women was was the mistress of making connections. What was missing? And then, a miracle occurred. Right there, in the middle of the redwoods in Napa, California. It hit me. Compassion. My mother’s compassion for others was immense, yet I had not yet found the ability to be compassionate, to myself, or to others. For days I dug deeply, searching desperately for what I knew my mother had given me. And then, the miracle. Compassion. There it was, alive in me. In fact, I was compassionate. And I could learn from her to exercise that compassion. To make that compassion strong, powerful, and as alive in me as it was in her. And in developing this compassion for others I came to have compassion for her. Compassion for all she sacrificed so that everyone – every single person she touched would be happy and feel loved – unconditionally. She wasn’t weak. She was powerful. She could put aside any difference to see the beauty in each person. To see their soul. She saw mine, even when I was not my best or highest self. When I was in high school and she received the brunt of troubles, my mother loved me. Unconditionally. My mom could find the best in a person, in any situation, no matter what they had done, and hold them high on a pedestal—honoring them in all his or her glory. Upon completing the Hoffman Process on that Friday in December, 2006, I rushed…literally running to my room to pick up the phone.

“Mom,” I said. “I love you. Many times I pushed your love away. I know this hurt you..and for this…I’m so sorry.”

To this my mother replied in her beautiful strong voice, filling with sweet relief, “It’s what I wanted Marni. I only wanted you to let me love you.” My mom wanted little. She just wanted people to let her love them, and as those who knew her first-hand can tell you, it was so very very easy to do.

It was then that I truly came to marvel at, and admire her incredible sensitive side, and a heart so big I thought it might burst with love. So, what will I take with me, share with you? What gift of all these gifts? It’s the gift of connection. Connection to others through compassion. For if I can have compassion than I can honor my mother, and live my life as she would, so that as she watches over me, she smiles and says as she did whenever she taught me something new,

”Perfect…marni….that was perfect.”

My mom; the mistress of love, laughter and connection.

When I married my husband in August, 1986 at 22 years old, it was because I had issued an ultimatum. Looking back, it’s clear it was, in fact, the ultimatum that poisoned the entire 17-year marriage, leaking its horrific toxins with side effects such as resentment, anger and neglect, into the cells of the relationship. The result was a slow and painful death in 2004.

When I first met my ex-husband, Rob, in 1984 I was living in Scottsdale, Arizona. I was spending the summer after my sophomore year at Tulane University visiting my cousin, Kathy, who worked with Bob as a sales person. In between dips in the apartment complex pool, trying to survive the 110-degree heat while driving my grandmother’s 1976 beige Chrysler Cordoba, a car in which the air conditioning was most always malfunctioning, Kathy found time to introduce me to her boss, Rob, just nine days before my 19th birthday. When he declared after just a few weeks of dating that he wanted to be in a “serious” relationship, I leapt at the prospect.

We fell into a relationship quickly during college. Living in separate cities during the five months I went to Washington, D.C. to complete an internship made for a strained long distance relationship. That and my mother’s 50-s era warnings about men “never buying the cow when they get the milk for free” lead to me issuing an ultimatum, ultimately signing our marriage’s death certificate. He agreed, and unenthusiastically followed through with the wedding.

It took 17 tumultuous years for this marriage to die. While the specific cause of death listed on the divorce certificate is not “ultimatum,” it was, in fact, the ultimatum which was the poisonous seed that took root. These roots spread into a tangled web of twisted cords pulsating with negativity, hurt and resentment.

The residue from this ultimatum lived inside me for years, even after the divorce. Next came my one-year, off-and-on again relationship with Johnny Rock. Even when I should have issued him an ultimatum, I was too afraid. I suffered from Post Traumatic Ultimatum Syndrome and I couldn’t do it. I should have said something like, “Leave your wife.” Or, “Come home before 5am, or don’t bother coming home.” But I had taken a vow, swearing off ultimatums. I didn’t know then there might be a way to live in some shade of grey, a place where it was appropriate to lay down the law. Or, that there was a place where I could speak my truth yet understand the needs of the other person. Live with compassion, self love, and kindness.

In September, 2006 Johnny Rock broke our monogamous agreement, spending several nights with a born-again Christian, blonde, TV game show host. This deception was more than I could handle, as I realized that there must be some middle ground between ultimatums and the persona I had developed during the relationship with Rock. With Rock I was forever saying words like, “It’s cool. It’s ok. No worries,” trying to convince myself that being treated like shit could somehow be translated into something resembling appropriate boyfriend behavior. I refused to issue ultimatums. It had destroyed my marriage. My lack of righteous anger, however, with Rock destroyed me. It was then that Rock’s ex-wife suggested I go to the one-week spiritual boot camp that forever changed my life. During this nine-day retreat in St. Helena, California, I participated in the Hoffman Process, which helped me to uncover the self-love that I had lost somewhere between marriage, divorce, and disgrace.

Throughout the next five years I learned to enjoy my life, to speak my truth, demand respect, and date with dignity. I learned to say no, say yes, and have fun exploring what I wanted from men, and what I didn’t want. I finished graduate school and met new friends. I built and led a thriving community of Hoffman Graduates in which I felt loved and loveable. I took trips with my children. Taught them to camp, to ride the subways of New York and to smile even when the flights are delayed and the airport is closing down.

And then, in May, 2009, five years after my divorce, I met The Brit. I had been dating him seriously for two months. I had never been so blissful. It had become clear that, after five years of being single, I was starting to fall for him, hard. When we began to discuss the possibility of moving into an exclusive relationship, The Brit hesitated, his grey eyes red-rimmed.

“You mean so much to me,” he said, looking into my speckled eyes. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. It’s just… I’ve only recently divorced. My shrink says I shouldn’t, that I should think about it.” His voice trailed off, the last words barely perceptible. He knew it wasn’t what he felt in his heart. He knew he wanted to be with me. It was clear. His eyes were pleading for me to somehow see behind the words, to see his truth, his authentic self.

We were laying on the faded green couch in my living room, and while we had not consummated a physical relationship, I knew that if we were to move forward it would require some sort of exclusive arrangement.

“I feel the same way about you, you know that, right?” I whispered back, sitting up now, pulling away from his embrace. “I care about you. It’s just that, well…. I know what I want, and I don’t need practice holding back my feelings.”

He answered slowly, knowing that his words might result in me telling him to leave. Something he didn’t want to happen. He didn’t want to lose me. He didn’t want to take his Nespresso machine from its new place in the kitchen. He didn’t want to miss movie nights with my three daughters. He was falling in love, yet his intellect kept batting down his emotional self, trying to convince me, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t socially acceptable to leave a relationship and then move into another one so quickly.

“I have no interest in dating anyone else,” he said now. He looked into my eyes more intently now. Willing me to see what he wanted to say, the phrases behind his eyes. Words like “love,” “happiness,” “fun,” and “joy.” “I don’t want to be with anyone else. This is all bullshit, I know. I know.” He sighed.

I hugged him then, smelling his scent, rubbing my cheek on the soft bristle of his ten-day-old beard. Its softness comforting, me despite what I knew would come next.

“Then, we need to slow things down,” I said, turning away from his searching gaze. “We can date each other, spend time together, but not like it has been. I need to create some space. It sucks. But it’s what I need to do to give you what you need.”

“Can we still see each other tomorrow?” he asked. “Our dinner in Laguna with…”
I interrupted. “Of course, it’s a date we had made. A plan. And then when it’s over you will drive me home. Kiss me at the door. It will be difficult, but it’s what we need to do.” He sat up then, smiling, hugging me tightly, his relief at not losing me strengthening his resolve to never let me go, despite the decision he had made.

It was difficult to leave him the following night. We had dinner in Laguna with friends, sneaking in kisses between the banter. I leaned into him, walking back to the car after dinner, planting bittersweet kisses on his neck. We kissed for nearly an hour in the car outside my house, my heart ricocheting off my ribcage as I wrestled with alternate feelings of elation then sadness before forcing myself to walk inside, alone. Waking Saturday morning however, I felt proud of my belief that if I held on to what I felt was right in my gut, whether it was in the form of The Brit or not. Either way it would be the perfect outcome for me.

Throughout the next day I spent time with friends at a Bat Mitzvah celebrating their daughter’s 13th birthday. It was then, watching husbands and wives snuggling together in the cold summer air that I realized for the first time in five years I was ready to be in relationship, whatever label it might wear. I wanted to huddle, snuggle and laugh with the Brit. I wanted someone next to me, to share memories with, to be mine. I wanted a partner. Not in the Jerry McGuire, “you complete me,” sort of way, but the way in which I had imagined it might be in a healthy, functional relationship. A way in which a man might add new dimension to my life, invite me to grow in new ways, and share myself. It was crystal clear. I was ready.

And then, it struck me;

I wasn’t single.

I was in a relationship with The Brit. We could call it whatever we wanted, yet The Brit’s words, actions, eyes and heart screamed relationship. Couple. Us. We. Our lives had become intertwined in the two months we had known each other. I was, in fact, one piece of a half.

After dropping my daughter at her dad’s house, I returned home that evening to the kitchen table where my papers, computer and unopened mail lay waiting for my attention. I had just been working on developing content for a seminar, and office supplies littered the long butcher-block table. I picked up the phone, dialing Kathy, the one person I knew who would to listen to my emotional gore.

“I’m done being single,” I said when she answered. “I’m ready to do something different, to take a chance.” My voice intensified, lifting as I uttered the truth of this realization out loud. I told her the story of my realization in Malibu, that despite the fact that The Brit felt it wasn’t proper to be in what modern 21st century culture would call “a relationship,” we were, in fact, in one. I knew things were different than they had been 25 years ago when I had given Bob the ultimatum. I hadn’t given one to The Brit, yet unlike what I had done with Johnny Rock, I had taken care this time to examine what I wanted. To look closely at what I was getting from The Brit. And then determined that it didn’t matter to me if he was ready to “x” the “in a relationship” box on Facebook, or not. I decided I didn’t need to hold The Brit responsible for Johnny Rock’s mistakes, or the mistakes of all men who make bad choices. Instead, I had compassion for his feelings. Understanding. I knew he wanted to honor himself. Yet I also knew there might be some compromise that would enable us to further explore the relationship. I picked up the stapler near the computer, tossing it back in forth in my hand, its weight steadying.

“You know,” I said, holding the stapler now firmly in my right hand. “If The Brit doesn’t want to call what we have a relationship, he can call it….a STAPLER.. or whatever he wants to call it. Truth is, it’s the best relationship I’ve been in. It’s the best stapler I’ve ever had. The Brit tells me how he feels. He’s affectionate, passionate, attentive, loyal, kind and loving. He tells everyone who will listen that I am his woman. He plays with my kids, gives them rides, listens to their stories and watches the movies they create on their Macs. His actions show me how he feels every single minute of each day. That said, why the hell should I push away the man who cares for and adores me? If we need to call it a STAPLER, instead of a….a…relationship…or whatever we want to call it… then it works for me, for now.”

I smiled, listening to Kathy’s encouraging, supportive words.

“Exactly,” she said. “Marn, just because a man calls it a relationship doesn’t mean it won’t end, or that you won’t get hurt. The chances are the same whether you are in a STAPLER, or a relationship. Enjoy this. Let yourself be. Let The Brit be. Just be together.” I smiled. This felt like my truth. It felt right. I knew I could not just live with the STAPLER, but that I would thrive in it.

I had made plans to have dinner with a friend that night, but agreed to see Terminator with The Brit after dinner. I rehearsed what I might say to him while walking down the street from dinner to meet him at the movie theatre. It was good to see him, to laugh and to resume our partnership as if nothing had changed. The movie ended, and we agreed to have tea at our favorite hotel set on the water’s edge in Santa Monica. The Brit and I always had important conversations while we sat side-by-side on the soft beige couch which lined the walls of the lounge at Casa Del Mar. I squeezed more lemon into my tea and then sighed, turning towards The Brit, ready to explain to him that I wanted to be with him, that it didn’t matter what we called it.

I told him of my “ah-ha” moment: that whether or not he was my boyfriend according to my relationship status on Facebook, he had been a perfect boyfriend. He smiled, pulling me towards him as I twisted on the couch to lean into his chest. Feeling his arms around me, I knew it was the beginning of something new, a STAPLER. But this stapler didn’t feel like the cool, metal, heavy object I had held in my hand earlier that day. It felt warm. It felt safe, like easing into soft cool pillows at the end of a long, tired day. It felt like a relationship.

Three weeks later The Brit and I celebrated my 43rd birthday at Casa Del Mar. He rented a hotel room, inviting the children to swim for a few hours with us at the hotel, before dropping them at their dad’s house for the evening. As the sun began to set, we headed up the Pacific Coast Highway to eat dinner at Geoffrey’s, a romantic Cliffside restaurant in Malibu. Sitting at the intimate table overlooking the sea, the moon rising in the sky, The Brit pulled something small and grey out of his breast pocket.

It was a stapler, made of shiny steel and light brown plastic. Written on it was an inscription, its small cursive lettering gentle, inviting me to look closely at the words. It said, “You are amazing. Love always, Jem”

It said “love.” It said “always.”

I have been in a relationship with Jem since mid-June. In early July we changed our Facebook profiles to read, “In a relationship.” We’ve taken several trips together this summer, most with the three kids in tow. Jem makes killer pancakes that my kids love. He brings me coffee each morning, in whatever kitchen we find ourselves.

Having been first to say “I love you” in each of my previously failed relationships, I had first-hand proof that being the one to bring love into a relationship can send ripples of pressure, ick, and panic throughout the testosterone-filled core of a man. The words had been sitting in my throat for weeks, but I was determined to let him say it first.

So, I waited.

Sometimes I waited patiently, sometimes not. There were times when we were traveling together in July that I thought those three words so loud, I could swear Jem might hear. Then one night in August, laying face to face in the soft down pillows of my bed, he said it.

“I love you.” His eyes, so close to mine, were serene, filled with peace.

It had been worth the wait. It had been worth living in a stapler. Exploring the possibilities.

“I love you too,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck, practically leaping from my space in the bed into his chest, furrowing my head into his warmth. “So, so much.”

This is a relationship. And while the “Stapler” is gone, the silver stapler on which the inscription is written sits on my desk to remind me of what is truly important. This relationship did not come from an ultimatum. It came from love. Love for myself. Love for him. Love for each other.

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!