Sobering Up in San Francisco

Today I traveled to San Francisco.

My company policy is to take the cheapest flight, so I had to rise at 3:00 a.m. and catch a 7:00 a.m. plane. I wasn't real happy about that.

I prayed silently to the Universe to put me next to one or more cute single men, but in typical spiritual irony, I was squished into a middle seat between an 80-year-old man with no personal-space boundaries and a woman who seemed to be about 7-feet tall and downed Corona's the entire time behind her dark sunglasses. She had her bags stuffed between her legs in a paranoid thigh-clutch, declining suggestions from the old man to stow them overhead.

I felt better once I arrived. The sun was brilliant, and the view was poetic. I took a deep breath and decided to start my day all over again.

I took the BART train system to my hotel, and two young, good-looking gay men took seats next to me. They were dressed fashionably in skinny jeans and nice shirts, and one of them had a big hole in his ear that apparently was stretched out from gages. The minute they sat down, I was overcome with a strong, sickenly familiar smell. It brought a knot of bad feelings up into my throat, and my stomach hurt a little.

As the boys tried to piece together last night's events, my own memories choked me. Bad sex and tears came to mind, as I recalled so many foul-smelling nights when alcohol oozed from Mr. N/A's pores.

That was it.

I continue to discover signs I clearly missed that Mr. N/A had a drinking problem. I didn't know what that smell was... I just didn't like it. I presumed it was the stale odor of his cigars, and in the end, I could barely stand to kiss him, because his breath nearly knocked me out. But I didn't refuse his clumsy amorous advances, because I never knew when he would be in the mood again.

I don't know what else to say about that, but thank god I finished living that chapter of my story.

Dining with a Dentist

Last night a dentist took me to dinner. He's articulate and well-traveled, and, get this - he's writing a book!

This is when adult dating becomes difficult.

I really like the Rock Star, and even though I know he cannot give me all of the things I want and need, I enjoy his company. The dentist offers other attractive qualities, too.

My mother used to encourage me to "date around," but I was usually codependently loyal to one guy at a time. How do you date around without hurting someone? And how do you throw sex into the mix without hurting yourself?

To complicate things further, both guys are local, which makes it even trickier.

Sigh... I'm just never happy, am I?

Wanna Tip? Don't Expect One

New Jersey is the tipping capital of the United States (and I'm not talking about cow-tipping, for all my Midwestern friends). Forget about moving into a new house - every person that sets foot on your front porch will expect some green hands when the job is done, even if it isn't to your liking.

"Yo... I came here... gimme money. I didn't have to fuckin' show up, ya know."

I felt so proud when Mr. N/A would offer up big tips. He never forgot, and he was very generous. I thought he was kind and thoughtful to do that, but I didn't understand at the time that it's all part of the game here - the insurance policy to guarantee future indebtedness. He never forgot that part, either.

Fucking Godfather Syndrome...

(I must be ovulating; testosterone levels are up. I'd grab my balls if I had some.)

Late Night Random Thoughts About Men and Music

The Rock Star is bugging me a little. His obliviousness is bordering on thoughtlessness, and I don't like it. I keep thinking about Mr. Nice Guy and all of his positive attributes - and there definitely wasn't any problem at all in the sex-drive department, either. I miss him, but I wonder if it's better for his sake if I maintain the distance that's grown up around us once again.

I got a postcard from him a couple of weeks ago; I was so happy to get it. And I know he'll remember my upcoming birthday - he always does.

I've decided to treat myself to a Carolina Liar concert in NYC this month, but I don't know who to invite. My coworker said he would go, and I think we'd have a great time. The Rock Star is another option, but I'd probably have to buy his ticket - not sure I want to. Mr. Nice Guy would jump on a plane and meet me if I asked, probably. Or maybe I want to buy that very expensive front-row, center seat that's still available - just one - for myself and go alone. I could drool over my music and enjoy my very first rock concert with no one to spoil my evening - no pressure to entertain anyone but myself. I think I would sit there and bask in it like a drawn-out orgasm. Seriously. That's how much I like this music. (Not to mention, I'm way overdue for a drawn-out orgasm. Hell, I'd take any variety at this point.)

I'd sort of like to take my two daughters, but they'll be with Mr. N/A for the weekend.

One of the greatest and most difficult things about being a single adult is that I get to make all the decisions, and I don't have to consider anyone else's needs or wants. But sometimes, I just don't have any idea what in the hell would make me the happiest. It's like I think I've just got one shot at it or something - do or die. And so I become paralyzed and do nothing instead, which rarely brings me the joy I seek.

Dream Big - Write Now

I'm thinking about writing a book.

It sounds funny to me just to type it - it's like saying it out loud. What a stupid idea. Doesn't everyone want to write a book? Doesn't everybody think they can? And yeah, I'd like to meet Oprah and discuss my best-seller on her show, too, by the way. I want to sit in her chair and see the red soles of her Christian Louboutin shoes up close and personal.

It's really a little more than a dream - I sort of feel compelled to do it. Driven... by something deep within my soul. Called... by something outside of myself. I have lots of crazy ideas. But this one just won't go away.

The Rock Star is a creative soul, and he actually follows through on most of his ideas. It's pretty inspiring for someone like me, who has paved highways to hell and back with my good intentions.

I've been working on my study - clearing clutter and organizing the stacks of supplies until I can afford storage solutions. I have a desk, a comfy chair, and a nice view.

I think I'm ready to write.

Rock On...

So, the Rock Star had a big show at The Stone Pony in Asbury Park last weekend. The crowd was sparse on a rainy October night compared to the presumably packed house at the Jersey shore in the warm summer months, but nevertheless, the boys played their hearts out and had the onlookers dancing and shouting for "one more song" at the end of their set.

I felt really proud to be the bassist's date.

It's been a real roller-coaster ride with him so far. I waffle between ambivalence, admiration, and aversion from moment to moment.

Since this is my first local relationship since my divorce 4 years ago (and I originally dated him long-distance, too, so maybe it's been over 20 years since I dated anyone nearby), I feel like I need to give it some time in order to distinguish the real challenges from those heavy trunks of emotional baggage I've been carrying around. It's not easy.

And I still haven't introduced him to my children, so it hasn't even gotten to the real-life stage yet. I'm still trying to figure out if he's good for me.

My brain and gut are working as a team, soaking up information I see and hear and feel and know, turning it around and around, matching it up with data already processed, and filing it away for future analysis. I subconsciously keep a running detailed mental diary of everything that comes out of his mouth in order to check for inconsistencies (thank you very much, Mr. N/A).

And then there's the sex-drive thing.

I'm not sure what to do about that. We don't seem to be a big match in that area, but I keep reminding myself that one of my big problems is that I get codependently attached to inappropriate men too quickly because of my craving for physical attention, and that maybe it's actually better to move slowly. One of the qualities I like about the Rock Star is that he is sensitive and values emotional and spiritual connections, and that maybe he is lugging his own trunks around and isn't quite ready to trust and be completely vulnerable with me. He definitely has a sex drive - it's just a little different from mine. But maybe I'm the anomaly.

I'm trying to remember to maintain my boundaries around non-negotiable things and to find refuge behind them for the scary things I'm still unsure about. At the same time, I want to be a little bit flexible and willing to step outside my comfort zone to try a new behavior pattern or experience. Right now, I think all I can manage is to lick my finger and stick it out to check the direction of the wind.

My Space - Put Out or Get Out

Having learned how to establish some boundaries in my relationships, it's challenging to invite someone to share my life.

Previously, my space was his space, because I really had no space of my own at all. He was my reason for existing, and I couldn't wait to become "one." I had no Self. I not only wanted him in my space - I needed him there. And I wasn't going to let him leave.

I adapted to his lifestyle with vigor. With Mr. N/A, I traded washcloths for soap-and-hand, Jiff crunchy peanut butter for Skippy smooth, and Protestantism for Catholicism. I gave up television shows and music and my geographic residential preference. I drank things I didn't really want to drink, and I went places I really didn't want to go. I smiled and made conversation with people I didn't like, and I pretended to be okay with his cigars in my cedar sweater chest.

I can't DO that shit anymore.

I'm finding it nearly impossible to share my space with the Rock Star. He obviously has a Self, and he's not too interested in compromising that at all for my needs and wants. I don't think he's a nasty person - just a little oblivious.

I feigned interest as he took out every one of his 20-some guitars and explained to me the features and differences. The whole time, I was thinking, "When is he going to touch me?" I sat through a few too many adult cartoons as I quietly resented missing the only two shows I bother to watch on television anymore. I lay cuddled up next to him thinking, "When is he going to touch me?"

My sex drive is dwindling and being snuffed out like a pathetic candle at the end of a boring dinner party. Since my Self is not being cajoled by raging hormones, and since I'm now acutely aware of my own needs, I don't feel compelled to compromise anything at all.

Rock My World

I've shut down my online dating profiles while I continue to see the Rock Star. As I've said, it's a curious experiment that leaves me in unknown territory.

For example, the other night, he went home sick from work, and told me he was shaky and feverish and planning to go to the doctor the next day. You may know that I do not have a Nurturing Nurse personality type anywhere inside of myself. It just doesn't exist. But before I knew it, I had told him I was heading out later on a dog-food emergency, and did he need anything from the store? I didn't expect him to say yes. He wanted medicine and iced tea. I ran into the grocery, grumbling under my breath that I was being stupid for doing this for him. Why should I be so fucking nice? He hasn't seemed overly concerned with my needs so far. I berated myself for being a flaming codependent, and I headed to the freezer section for one of his favorite ice creams I'd heard him mention before.

Damn it.

I drove to his house with the goodies, and I was shocked at the response… he was grateful. He thanked me numerous times (sincerely) and told me I was so sweet to take care of him. I was a stranger in a foreign land.

I used to be a kind, giving person. Really. But living with a narcissist put an end to that. After years of shopping multiple stores weekly to satisfy all of Mr. N/A's ridiculous food requests, I finally blew my top one day and told him to get his own "fucking turkey." (The Fucking Turkey story was definitely a pivotal point in that relationship.)

So here I was, being nice… going out of my way for another person, and I didn't know how to handle it when he didn't ask me why I bought Tin Roof Sundae instead of Rocky Road.

I was thinking that maybe the purpose of this relationship is to teach me how to be caring and giving again. I've really lost that part of myself, and I know it's a necessary part of a healthy relationship. Part of my hesitation with Mr. Nice Guy was that I knew I was entirely too selfish to be with such a generous man. Consequently, I ridiculed his giving nature in my mind and told myself it wasn't masculine.

Sigh…

I'm still in the raised-eyebrow stage with the Rock Star, but he sure is nice, and I've enjoyed our time together. His band performs this weekend down the shore, and I'm really looking forward to seeing him in action. Later this month, they hit the infamous Stone Pony in Asbury Park, where Springsteen used to jam with local NJ musicians. I can't wait for that.

Maybe I'll even be nice.

Ms. Big Shot

Photo by Laverrue

Yesterday I had to commute to our office in Shelton, Connecticut for the day. Luckily, I live pretty close to a train station, so I hopped an Amtrak heading north and avoided at least 6 hours of highway traffic.

After living in sweats as a stay-at-home mom for 9 years, and then working in a very informal office of about 15 employees for a year and a half, I'd sort of forgotten about briefcase-toting corporate America. But there she was, in all her glory, at the Trenton train station at 7:00 in the morning, in the guise of smartly dressed men in dark suits and trench coats.

As the train slowed to a stop in front of me beside the platform, I scanned the cars as they went past and felt like I was in a movie. Hundreds of professionals occupied the seats, reading the Wall Street Journal, typing furiously on laptop keyboards, and thumbing the roller ball on their Blackberry's to check email and text messages. Most of the exposed ears had familiar white earphones hooked on them, connected to iPods or iPhones.

I felt a thrill as I stood there, waiting for the train to stop in my black stilettos and wine-colored sheath dress. I wore a classic black trench of my own, but my briefcase was a stylish Donald Pliner bag stuffed with mints, makeup, fruit and water. I carefully stepped into a car and made my way to an empty seat. I was a part of the corporate crowd for the day, and I had smartly dressed the part. I felt like a cool kid.

I started to scan the crowd for good-looking men, remembering my fantasy about meeting a stranger on public transportation, but I quickly gave up and turned to a book and my own Blackberry roller ball.

The ride was smooth and quiet until we hit Penn Station. The buzz of activity sent a pulsating energy through the air that can only be found in New York City. The smell of coffee was strong, and I felt superior for a moment as I judged them all for being ridiculously addicted to a hot brown liquid. A thin older woman took the seat next to me and proceeded to sneeze and blow her nose all the way to Connecticut. That wasn't part of my fantasy.

I spent the day in a beautiful office boardroom, with huge plush leather chairs and my own personal desk pad that defined my space at the deep cherry table. I asked and answered questions and dragged Corporate Lisa out of her hiding place to survive the day. I felt like a big-shot and an idiot all at the same time.

I finally got back home to my kids and my house, and I thought about all the crazy commutes and travel Mr. N/A did for the sake of the office during our marriage. I think he really got off on the big-shot part, and I guess he drank to handle the feelings of inadequacy that can accompany that. What a sad life.

Today, I worked from home in my sweats, and I still haven't brushed my hair or my teeth. Ugh.

It was fun to be part of the rat-race for a day, but I really prefer my humble, quiet life in street clothes, where I don't feel like a big-shot or an idiot – just a tired single mom who is grateful to be gainfully employed.

Running Around

I don't know how much I've blogged about my running, but it's become such a critical part of my life that I need to write about it.

I remember running a mile or two sometimes when I was a teenager. Although I didn't do school sports, I was an active dancer and for-fun tennis player, so I was in decent shape.

When I decided to audition for the Washington Redskins Cheerleaders, running became a lunch-time staple to keep my weight down and stay in good physical condition. I took my "WalkMan" and listened to tapes of Phil Collins and ABC.

Later, I ran off and on, but I always hated it, and mostly it happened inside on the treadmill. This March, I took up power walking on the treadmill at home in an attempt to maximize my time at home with the kids and limit my treks to the gym. I decided I didn't need to run.

Eventually, I took my walks to a walk/jog, and then I started to get a little bit bored, even with the television in front of me.

A marathon-running friend of mine encouraged me to try running outside. No way, I protested. I hated running, really, and I wasn't very good at it. He suggested a good pair of running shoes and told me to map out a path I could do outside.

I used Map My Run to sketch out a 4.25 circuit around my neighborhood. I tried it.

I immediately became hooked – as in, I can't NOT run.

So now, I'm running my 4.25 miles about 4-5 days a week, and I have become pretty creative with squeezing in 45 minutes to reap the benefit of the "high" and the long-lasting sense of well-being that follows. My iPod usually plays Carolina Liar over and over and over again, but sometimes I switch out to other motivating tunes.

I soak in my world around me – the smells of freshly cut lawns and of sawed-off lumber for framing the new homes going up… of dinners on the grill and the strong pine scent of evergreen groves I pass on the back stretch. I take in breathtaking vignettes touched by the morning or evening sun, and I admire the landscaping ideas of my neighbors. I'm titillated by the strong construction workers and their bulging muscles, and I pretend I don't notice when they look up as I pass. My music takes me to another level of being. I'm keenly aware of my body and my legs and the effort I exert as I breathe in rhythm with my stride, yet I feel like I'm outside of myself, watching. My spirit soars and sometimes I just can't stop smiling.

I love myself when I'm running.