Business Deals

I huddled next to the stove, shivering near the steaming pot of spaghetti sauce. I was at Great Salt Petre Cave in southern Kentucky with only a sweatshirt. I was without a coat and was not prepared for the weather. My buddy, MWR-Guy, was making dinner for the group of cavers who had gathered for the annual GSP Halloween party. I looked around the room of blue jean clad gentlemen. Bob was sitting on a bar stool, Bruce was leaning against the counter. Tracy was shelling hard boiled eggs. I joined her in her task.

As Tracy and I shelled eggs, Bob was splitting them, separating the yoke from the white, adding secret ingredients, spooning the filling into an empty bread bag, then delicately squeezing the yellow mixture into the waiting white shells. MWR-Guy was cooking pasta, his girlfriend was tending the tables and putting out the other dishes. Chris lounged on a chair nearby and nobody asked him to budge. Everyone has the right, at GSP to help or to just be. On that occasion, I chose to help.

I changed into my Nurse Betty costume after dinner, paraded around for an hour or so, won the prize for funniest costume. I was going for sexiest. I even showed the audience of 40 or so cavers, a white stocking clad thigh sporting a white garter. I’m hoping that I got the funniest costume because they didn’t have a certificate for sexiest, not because my leg was actually funny looking.

Garters do feel kinda funny, though. I’m glad I don’t have to wear them every day. They felt funny…but kinda sexy. Uncomfortable, but sexy.

I changed back into my jeans right after the costume judging and spent the rest of the evening sitting on my camp chair by the fire. I flirted a little with a few of the seemingly single guys, but none of them were very talkative. I watched with interest the antics of a fifty something newly married couple and the wife’s 21 year old, developmentally delayed daughter. Bruce, the new husband and the daughter teased each other, with barbs alternating between soft and semi sharp. Maggie, the mom, ran interference on occasion. I wondered what it would be like to be in each of their positions, new roles assigned as a result of the middle aged union. I wondered if I would ever have to deal with that particular circumstance.

After the campfire, I headed for bed. I had brought with me a tent and a sleeping bag, but had forgotten a cushion or air mattress, forgotten how hard a plywood plank feels on the back of a forty something woman, accustomed to a pillow top mattress. I had forgotten a pillow, forgotten woolen socks forgotten how cold it gets on top of a Kentucky mountain on a clear night in late October.

The sky was incredible, splashed with diamond dust and with visibility at least a million miles. I stood in the midst of the meadow, dried grass bending in its impending death, sheltering invisible critters, and raised my arms to the heavens in gratitude for the heavenly host before me. I sank to my knees in awe. I felt insignificant and omnipotent, all at the same time. It was comforting, in a way, to acknowledge all the chaos and order in the universe. How can I possible weep over outcomes, when it is almost impossible for me to play an impactful role in them. It is all either totally unpredictable or completely predestined.

I ended up sleeping in a cabin. The cabin was a simple wooden structure with five bunks, a few screened windows, a curtain across the screen door. It felt like I was sleeping outside, simply up off the ground on a plywood plank secured tightly to the unpainted drywall. Two others shared the cabin, but I didn’t know who they were. It didn’t matter. We were all family.

I have never had much trouble falling asleep, but that night, I lay awake and pondered the universe, pondered the cold, revisited some happy times, tried everything I could think of to coax my body to rest. The cold was just too cold, the plank was just too hard, the balled up sweatshirt serving as my pillow was just too small and floppy. I tried to think of times when I was warm and safe, so I thought of some of my time with Fabulous Guy, contemplated my upcoming date with New Guy, remembered some happy times with Magic Man and consoled myself with thoughts of my boys when they were babies. I would doze for perhaps ten minutes, then have to turn over as the left hip, or the right hip, demanded more blood flow, or my nose complained of potential frostbite, or the sleeping bag slipped over my face as I tried to huddle underneath and a dance with claustrophobia would waltz through my reverie.

I was also a little bit scared.

I was alone, in a cabin, in the woods, on the edge of a meadow, with people I didn’t know. I haven’t seen any slasher movies, can’t handle the violence, but I’ve read enough plotlines to get the gist of most of those stories, and they inevitably included people in my exact circumstances, although perhaps their teeth didn’t chatter as loudly as mine.

I have never been so glad to wake at dawn in my life.

I actually had to convince myself that I would make it through the night…that it was just a night, that time would pass and eventually, it would be morning. I learned yet another lesson in patience and perseverance, but I doubted if I would ever be truly warm again.

The next morning, I made breakfast. I fried 10 pounds of potatoes, whipped up a dozen egg omelet, toasted twelve English muffins. While I set about my tasks, I bonded verbally with Bruce, the aforementioned newlywed father. We cooked together, then breakfasted together, telling each other edited versions of our life histories.

“Cavers are all wounded people.” He said, looking me squarely in the eyes. “Remember that. We all come here for basically one reason. We come here to heal.”

I thought about that for a long time. I know that is why I’m there, why MWR-Guy brought me. He knows I need to heal.

While we were cooking, Bruce told me about his courtship with Maggie, and I told him about my sad romantic endeavors.

“Are you looking for love, or for sex?” he bluntly asked, catching me momentarily off guard.

“I’m looking for love!” I said aghast.

“You should just look for sex. It’s when you stop looking for love that she eventually finds you.”

“Oh, pshaw.” I answered. “I don’t have to look for sex. It’s everywhere. It’s like looking for dirt. I want love, and I sure as hell don’t want sex without it.”

He nodded knowingly. “You just need to date a whole bunch of guys.”

“I did that!” I retorted hotly, and told him about my 53 first dates in the year 2005.

He nodded knowingly again. “and you couldn’t find anyone you liked in that year?”

“Well, sure, I found a few that I liked, but they didn’t like me. And the ones who liked me, I didn’t like.”

The knowing nod, only this time, he rubbed his whiskers, ran his hand over his gray ponytail, grinned a halfway toothless grin at me. “So, the ones you like, what do you do to them, why didn’t they like you?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” I say with an uneasy smile, feeling my heart lurch a little at the not too distant memory of my latest romantic fiasco. “I chase them away. I like them too much, too soon, want them too much, too soon. Even if I resist emailing or calling them, they can feel the emotion ooze from my pores every time they get near me, and trust me, when I’m like that, they can never be near enough. I get sick to my stomach every time I think about it, and I’m the one doing it!”

He stroked his chin. “Betty, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a CPA, I run a small accounting firm.”

“So you know about business, right?”

“Yes, “ I say cautiously, slicing semi-cooked potatoes onto a plate.

“Why don’t you just approach your romantic interests from a business perspective? At least at first, until they can get to know you, until you can get to know them.”

My face flushes. “What do you mean, a business relationship.” I spit out. “I’m not a prostitute. If I have sex with a guy, it is every bit as much for my benefit as it is for his.”

He roars with laughter. “That’s not what I mean. Take the sex out of it. Completely out. No sex.”

I look at him in confusion. “What’s the point, then, if there’s no hope of sex.”

“Did I say no hope of sex? No, I did not. I simply suggested that you take the immediate prospect of sex off the table, out of the equation, and you form a business relationship with the fellow instead. You do something for him. He does something of equal value for you. You observe each other. Spend time together working towards a common goal, not working towards the bedroom. It gives you time to know each other. To evaluate each other. Before you take off your clothes. Perspective changes so much when sex becomes part of the equation.”

I stood before him, slack jawed, holding a potato in one hand, a knife in the other.

He gave a worried glance at the knife.

I pointed at him, using the potato. He visibly relaxed. “You mean, like, he fixes my chair, because he likes wood working, and I plant some tulips for him because his yard is sadly neglected?”

He beams at me. “That’s it. A business relationship. Both sides contribute and receive equally.”

I shook my head. I don’t want a business relationship with him. I want an apology. I want him to come to his senses. I want a do-over, including sleepovers. I want sex and companionship.

I replayed the conversation with Bruce in my head as I drove the three hours back to Cincinnati. On my last dinner meeting with Fabulous Guy, he asked for something similar. He asked, basically, for permission to date others, for permission to take a step back, to take sex out of the equation, to just try to get to know each other without the confounds that accompany sleeping naked, with me or anyone else. I had given him a resounding no. My thinking had been that it is just too hard to lower expectations than to raise them. I’d rather have no expectations at all.

I thought about my relationships with my male clients. I have no expectations of them, other than those services we mutually agree upon. I thought about my relationships with my male friends. We do stuff for each other all the time. I don’t need to sleep with any of them to give them the opportunity to know me, or to take the opportunity to know them.

Is it possible for me to have a business relationship with someone I feel, or at least, felt, strongly about in the past? I thought about Magic Man. I have a business relationship with him. No money exchanges hands, but I help him edit words sometimes, he helps me with a few things around the house. Not often. Once or twice a year. He had offered the use of his backpack leaf blower and I had decided just that morning to take him up on it.

A business relationship. With a former lover. Not only was it possible, but I had done it before, without even realizing it. It didn’t change anything, not really in the long run, except kept the one really beautiful thing that we had together, which was a sweet friendship. Perhaps it is not necessary to throw the baby out with the bathwater when a romantic relationship ends.

Besides, perhaps, if I continue to think consciously of this next time I date someone, I can use the business relationship model to slow down my thinking, to put the brakes on consummation and focus on observation. If I’m to put my two month rule to the test, this would be a good way to monitor progress…and think of the things I could accomplish around my house. And his house! All the energy of scrambling towards the bedroom could be used washing windows and putting up wall paper.

I don’t remember any of this in any of the volumes of dating books which I have devoured over the past five years. This is a novel concept to my heart, not to mention other places.

I think I’ll try it.

I’ve taken my profile off of all the dating sites. The holidays approach, and I want to focus on my friends and family. I want a holiday from romantic angst. I know that I’ll dip my foot in the proverbial pond again, but I’d like to take some time to get my internal house in order, to match the progress I’ve made on the external one.

Wish me luck.

Oh, and I guess I should mention that it will be unlikely that you will read much in the way of ongoing romance on here for awhile. I’ll still write. But it might be boring stuff, like kids and accounting firms and kittens and winter blahs. Oh well. Spring will follow, and with it, hope for new beginnings.

Turbulence

What a strange time we live in now; political unrest, Wall Street crumbling, climate change and hurricanes in Ohio. The ground beneath me shudders and moans, yet still, the dahlias bear a showey grand finale, my kittens cavort and cling, the pond bubbles faithfully. I am in another melancholy month, highlit by another trek around the romance merry-go-round.

I feel almost guilty, going on a date on Sunday. A part of me wants to wait it out, see if he comes to his senses, keep my lips unsullied by someone else's kiss. That, of course, is the idealistic, rose colored glasses wearing chick with the tie dyed shirt and long flowing hair.

I haven't had long flowing hair in a decade.

The other part wants to jump right back on that proverbial horse. That, of course, is the chick fighting her mid-life libido surge.

Another part wants to trade it ALL in for peace, for a long period of time without pain, without angst because I know, based on almost a decade of experience, that the high of romance comes with the price tag of angst. At least, it does for me.

I'll let you know what I do on Sunday.

Anger Management

I read on the elliptical. Every morning, Monday through Friday, I can be found riding Larry, my legs pumping furiously, my nose buried in a book. I tend towards female authors, female protagonists and the book I'm reading now is no exception. In this book, and in the last book I read, and in most books I read, if the woman is presented with a cheating husband, she gets angry. She kicks him out. Sometimes, she throws things, and it is all expected.

When my ex presented me with an admission of infidelity, did I react normally? Did I do as he expected and boot him out of the house? Did did I throw things? No, I sat with him on the bed, held him in my arms for two hours until he stopped crying. I compromised things I never thought I'd be able to compromise in an attempt to keep our family together.

What's wrong with me?

I can honestly say that the only person who has incited me to anger over the past several years is my oldest son.

The men I date, without exception, cannot make me angry, no matter how badly they treat me. My forgiveness is swift and decisive. No backward glances. Is it because deep down, I think I deserve to be mistreated?

It is awkward for me to allow a man to open car doors for me. I've been doing for myself for so long that I feel uncomfortable sitting in the car while the man goes around to get my door. I feel uncomfortable allowing a man to purchase my dinner, even on a first date, I feel the need to offer to share the cost. I wonder why that is. Is it because deep down, I don't think I deserve to be treated to dinner, don't deserve the extra energy of opening my door?

As I delve deeper into the intricacies of the eating disorder I have, the more childhood memories surface, the more damaged I feel.

I was talking with my business partner and we were discussing normal childhoods. She casually mentioned a conversation with her husband, where she was asking him, "Didn't your mother constantly critisize? Didn't you feel like you couldn't do anything right when you were growing up?" He looked at her and said, "No."

No.

He didn't feel like he was always wrong growing up.

I shook my head in empathy with my partner.

"Yeah," I said. "Like, didn't your father ever grab you by the hair, shake you, and say 'what's the matter with you, are you STUPID?'"

She looked at me weird.

"No, actually, my father never did that."

I blushed.

I guess I'm even more messed up than she is.

But then....maybe I deserve it.

Ok. I've created another blog for my memoire, because some of you may not want to read about abusive childhood. You can access it from my profile or at Winters' Triumph.

I found the manuscript of Winters' Triumph that I wrote ten years ago. I thought of another place it might be a couple days ago while driving my car, and this morning, went to look. At first, it looked like a bust because all I could find was old tax returns and wills from before my divorce. I started taking things out of the old rusty black filing cabinet in my garage, home to too small ice skates among other such treasures, and found it in the bottom of the fourth drawer.

The manuscript is thirteen chapters, 47 pages of single space type, chronically my earliest memories up to age 14. Interspersed are vignettes about my own parenting experiences, which trigger memories of my childhood. I talk a bit about my husband, about the happiness of being married to him. He left two years after I wrote what I wrote.

I have grown a great deal as a writer in the past ten years. I don't like the rhythm of the story nor does it contain the beauty I think I'm capable of creating. I'm not sure what to do. Regurgitating all of it from scratch seems redundant and a waste of time, but I hate editing. Add to that the typing involved, because I didn't find the electronic file, only the paper copy, and the task seems herculean.

I have three other unfinished writing projects, books that live partially on paper, primarily still in the cobwebs of my imagination. This was my first and I feel a need to finish it first, to pave the way for the others. I wonder if other writers experience this, the need to get the first born out of the way so the siblings have clearer passage.

For now...I'm typing the words I wrote last week, just to get them on paper. Perhaps later, I will juxtapose the original story and you, my friends and readers, can help me choose the next step.

Under no circumstances can any of you allow yourself to feel the tiniest bit of pity for the little girl I show you. She is not to be pitied. She is to be honored and applauded, for surviving, for refusing to succumb to sadness, for continuing to live a life primarily of joy.

Faux Fathers

It is fitting, as I start the process of recording my childhood in this very public forum, that I talk about my other fathers, the ones not related to me by blood or birth, the ones the universe sent to me as an adult, to perform the function I thought I’d have to live without. To make up for the deficits of my biological father, four men have come into my life to guide me, to cheerlead, to kick me in the proverbial behind, to kiss my forehead when my life seemed to be falling apart. I won’t name names, and perhaps, in the deep moment of grief in which I find myself, I may not be able to dub them pseudonyms for this post.

My faux fathers ranged in age from 15 years older than me to 38 years older. They have all paid me money for accounting services, at one time or another, but three of the four were sporadic clients at best. I’m glad I depended on them only for advice and not for the rent. I lunched frequently, at different times in my adult life, with all four, sometimes trading the tab, but always, just the two of us. Not once did any of them ever make a sexual advance, nor even an innuendo, although we talked about sex, (not the act itself, but the need for it, and for romance) sometimes in great detail, as part of our periodic exchanges. I think they were intrigued by how I think, by my openness, by my caring and compassion. Only one of them agreed with my political views, but that never stopped any of them from sharing their opinions with me, and they were always respectful that I had views that differed from theirs.

One of my faux fathers died last week.

I read his obituary in the newspaper that another client left on my desk. The memorial service was a week ago Sunday. I called his wife, and we cried together on the phone, and then I sat at my desk and wept into my hands. Tears streak down my cheeks as I write this now. My business partner found me crying at my desk, and rubbed my back in sympathy, as I hiccupped to her my memories.

“How lucky you are, Betty,” she murmured, “to have had so many fathers.”

And she’s right.

I had a message to call him a couple weeks ago and never got around to returning his call. Now I never can. I hadn’t done billable work for him for probably 5 years, and knew that what he wanted was simply to come and have lunch with me. Regret is a powerful thing. I’m struggling hard to keep guilt at bay.

He was the first client I ever entertained as an entrepreneur. I had just hung out my shingle and my office was still in a spare bedroom. He came to my house to interview me as an auditor for his Section 8 housing project. I brought him coffee served with my good china, on a silver coffee tray. I didn’t get the job; he chose my former employer because she was less expensive. A few years later, he called me back, asked me for some consulting services, and I told him I’d do it if I could have his audit, too. It was another example of second place being the next best thing to first.

That was seventeen years ago.

He was such a good friend. Everytime he came to see me, to pick me up for lunch, he’d do a double take when I walked into the foyer. Everytime. “Betty!” he’d exclaim. “You look FANTASTIC.” And he’d hug me, and kiss me on the forehead. He was Irish and old fashioned and opinionated and warm and funny, and heartbreaking in his devotion to his wife and his children and grandchildren. Every lunch, I’d hear about his latest trip to take his family to Cancun, or Hawaii, or Kiawa Island.

He’d tell me stories of Catholic grade school and growing up without a dad, and the pain he inflicted on his mother. He sorrowfully shared how he adopted his wife’s mother, to try and make up for his bad behavior to his own. He was a dreamer and a schemer and a man with a heart as huge as the buildings that housed his Section 8 tenants.

When I went through my divorce, explaining to him the circumstances, he sat across the table, dumbfounded. He held me in his arms, in a father hug that became his trademark with me. “You’ll find someone else,” he said. “Enjoy this time, play the field. It took me ten years after my divorce before I found my wife, but it was worth the wait.”

He loved my writing. I’m not sure how taken he was with my accounting skills, but he loved reading my latest story, often exclaiming that he was sure that before too long, he’d see my name on the NY Times bestseller list.

It’s probably been a year since I lunched with him last.

I raise a glass to him now, my Irish Dad, my faux father friend.

Milestone

I swung the grocery cart in an arc towards my car, wedged between a minivan and an SUV. I perused my mental to do list as I glanced at the time beaming from my phone. I had two and a half hours to make dinner and coax my children into dusting. Guests would arrive at 5:00. As I snapped the phone back together, and closed the trunk on my most recent last minute purchases, it began to sing to me. I recognized the number as the New Guy, coming to meet me for the first time at this particular dinner party.

“Hi New Guy,” I said cheerfully into the phone.

“Hi, Betty,” he said tentatively. Alarms went off in my head. “Are you at home?” he continued.

“No, I’m at the grocery store,” I replied, “What’s up?”

“Uh…I can’t make it, afterall.” He said, regret and defiance jockeying for position in his voice.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, I will send you an email, but I can’t talk right now.”

“Ok. Yeah, I’m sorry, too.”

“Have fun with your friends.”

“I will…” a question lying wait, wanting to be asked.

“I’ll email you….or I’ll call you tomorrow evening.”

“Ok. Bye.”

My dinner party came and went. We all crowded around my kitchen table, along with my two younger sons and traded quips and stories and laughter. Around 8:30, they all filed out the door and after straightening the kitchen, I sat down at my computer. My inbox astericked an unread message.

I opened his email, reading about his concern that our spiritual differences would cause too deep a divide, hampering our ability to be truly intimate. I dialed the phone.

“New Guy?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Betty.”

“Hey. How was the party? Did you by chance read my email?”

“Yes, I did. The party was fabulous. As to your email, I think you are jumping the gun a bit.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been thinking and rethinking this whole thing all night. I did jump the gun.”

“We haven’t even met and there are so many other factors to consider. We may not like each other, at which point spiritual differences are totally moot. On the other hand, if we did like each other, spiritual differences, when rooted in love, compassion and understanding, have a habit of adapting to each other.” I spoke quietly, authoritatively.

“I know you’re right. I should have come.”

“New Guy, I didn’t call to talk you into changing your mind. I called because I realize you are new to this whole dating thing, and I wanted to warn you not to jump the spiritual gun…next time.”

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“I mean, the next time you connect with a woman, when you find someone that you can carry on an intelligent conversation with, who makes you laugh and who encourages a feeling of comfort, wait to make a decision about that person until after you’ve actually met her.”

“I know,” he quickly countered. “You’re absolutely right. I want to meet you.”

I sighed. “Like I said, I’m not trying to change your mind, only caution you for next time.”

“You mean, you don’t want to meet?”

“New Guy, I am a tender hearted woman. You’ve rejected me twice. I don’t think my tender heart could risk you doing it a third time.”

“Oh.”

“Have a nice life, and New Guy, good luck in your search. I hope you can find a woman to match you.”

His voice broke. “You, too.” He said, so quietly I could hardly hear him.

I pressed the disconnect button and was so fucking proud of myself. I will NOT allow a man to put me in a position of having to talk him into spending time with me. I will NOT negotiate my worthiness for a relationship. If they invest the time to talk to me, to email me, to be with me, and can’t see it for themselves, far be it from me to show them.

I think I passed a milestone.

My therapist would have been so proud.

The Shivers

I shivered and shook in my bed last night. Shivered and shook for over a hour.

Sadly, it was only because the temperatures dropped dramatically yesterday and I'm too stubborn to turn on the heat. I did wash the down comfortor, ran it through three cycles of the dryer so that it was fluffy and warm, but even that could not warm the chill of sleeping alone on the first cold night of the year. Despite the shivering, I slept soundly. I almost always sleep well. It must be all the exercise, limited caffeine, and having not inherited the worry gene. Especially the worry gene because guess what? I'm having a dinner party tonight and quite unexpectedly, I have a date for that party.

(g)

This man will meet me for the first time ever tonight, at my house, with my sons milling about, my best friends clustered around me. He will see my fishpond, the dusty shelves in my family room, the not quite polished painting in the boys' bathroom, and he will see me, acting hostess when he meets me for the first time. As I write this, it sounds like a recipe for disaster.

Perhaps I was actually shivering in fear rather than cold last night.

I don't think so.

I spent three hours talking on the phone to him last night and if I discerned anything about him, I discerned that this is a nice man. A nice man. Somewhere in the conversation he decided that after two weeks of writing to each other lenghty stories of our lives every day, he simply didn't want to wait another moment to meet the woman behind the words.

I'm a little excited.

Maybe that caused the shivers last night.

After refusing the date on Friday, I had decided to myself to wait the entire three perfunctory weeks after being dumped before I went out with anyone again, but what's a woman to do? I wonder if I am really giving this guy a fair shot when the last wound is still so raw. Then I shake my head and think to myself, "Get a grip, Betty. You only knew Fabulous Guy for two months. You're not getting any younger, and (here's where I smile) It is so totally his loss." I tossed my head and said into the phone, "Of course you can come to my dinner party."

Timeless

I stayed home by myself tonight. I had an invitation to join a date for the Circleville Pumpkin Show, but my heart just wasn't in it. In time, but not tonight. I read tonight. I did homework for my CBT class, and reviewed a friend's presentation on Monday. I talked to my youngest son for a bit, and had dinner in front of my webcam with a girlfriend now living in South Carolina.

I feel like I'm in a sort of limbo, waiting for my heart to heal so that I can move on to the next stage.

I've been waiting for my heart to heal for a very long time. It seems timeless.

My friend in South Carolina is blissfully in love. She left her husband just a year and a half ago, and a part of me is outraged that it is taking me so very long to find what she seems to have found in such a short time. I wonder what lesson the universe is trying to teach me. I wish I could learn.

I went to a seminar today and instead of listening, I wrote eight pages of my childhood story. I'll type and post those pages over the next couple of days, so be forewarned. Some of it is not pretty, not funny, not at all entertaining. But the story is real. It is hard truth. I wrote it as part of the process of expunging some of the trauma in my never ending quest to solve some of my life's most urgent questions. I apologize in advance to any of my siblings who may read this and recall things differently.

Dancing with Fear

I'm reading a book right now called Where or When by Anita Shreve. Her books tend towards the darker side of heartache, and this one is no different. She writes about a middle-aged man, married to a woman with whom he shares almost no common passions except for their children. He reads the paper one day and sees a picture of a woman he knew from one week at camp when he was 15. He had fallen in love with her on sight 30 years prior and felt a similar reaction when he saw her picture all those years later. As luck would have it, the woman was also in a rather loveless marriage, also with children. During their initial communication, after six or so letters with him applying gentle pressure for them to meet, she tells him to stop writing. Her guilt is too strong, but inside, she is fervently hoping that he will NOT stop.

Of course, he doesn't stop. I don't know what happens next, but I'm guessing they have an affair.

Often times, when fear takes a spin around the dance floor with our emotions, we push people away while hoping they will pull us back in.

I’m writing to a man on Yahoo. Two days ago, he sent me an email, telling me that he needed to stop writing to me because he was going through some financial hardships and didn’t think he was in a position to pursue a relationship the way he’d like to. I read between the lines and responded to him that I would respect his wishes and discontinue our correspondence, but that I was looking for companionship, not a bank account, and that I enjoyed long walks in the park and dollar movies just as much as being wined and dined. He wrote back with a big sigh of relief, saying he was hoping I would react like I did, sent a long friendly email, with a hope that we can meet in person soon.

I thought about our exchange all day, especially after reading about a similar such exchange in the book. The push/pull at the beginning of a relationship is so hard. Beginnings are hard. Fear plays an important role in how a relationship proceeds. It’s a wonder anyone ever gets together, especially folks at our age who have accumulated a massive maze of scars through which prospective partners must maneuver.

I don’t get the whole fear thing. I seriously don’t understand it. How can one be afraid of love? Of course there is the potential of hurt, but the cost/benefit analyses that go on in my head always, ALWAYS balance in favor of the risk because the reward is so immense. Ironically, I think it is my fearlessness that is so scary to the men I try to attract. Perhaps they think I won’t need them because I am so damn independent, or perhaps they think I’ll overwhelm them with the intensity of my feelings, feelings they are fearful they will never be able to return because the risk of trusting is so great.

That, I can understand. I overwhelm myself at times.

When I was in therapy three years ago, we discussed the varying levels of emotional intimacy of which people were capable. Some people are limited in their abilities to connect at a deep level. Obviously, I would not be happy with someone who needed to keep me at arm’s length. I am very much a cuddle up right next to a person sort. I like touching and sharing, both of feelings, thoughts and bodily fluids. It’s a package deal, in my book. Not everyone is comfortable with that. Some people need to keep their inner worlds protected.

Based on my history, the scars wrought across my emotional landscape, one would think I’d be a prime candidate to be one of those people. Not so.

The only way I insulate myself is with a few extra pounds. Get past the fat, and I’m an open book, complete with a reference library.

I was talking to a friend of mine about the issues of weight management, and told him that it all comes down to love. People with eating disorders use food as a substitute for love.

He looked at me, trying to understand. “I can understand that for other people, Betty, but not for you. How can you possibly not feel loved? You are loved by so many.”

I stared at him incredulously. He reads my blog! How could he not know?

I didn’t answer him because the question stunned me. Love is so totally central to the issues I have with my weight. It is true that I am loved by many, but I am not loved by anyone in the way that a man loves a woman. I am not loved romantically. I may occasionally be lusted after, but no one loves me. In the movie Moulin Rouge, the Ewan McGregor says, over and over, “the greatest lesson we can ever learn, is to love and be loved in return.” I haven’t learned that lesson yet.

Quite frankly, I’m considering dropping out of school.

It’s not because of fear, it’s because of exhaustion. It is exhausting to live with the angst of new relationships. I have yet to learn the zen of taking each moment, one at a time, to be able to trust that moments follow, one after another, if one can just let them be and not try to force them. I struggle with that lesson. I seek the warm cloak of companionship, but that doesn’t come until the beginning has birthed herself, squawling and red, and has sucked at the breast of complacency. The angst never gives way to comfortable, easy trust, so beginnings are naturally stillborn.

I am afraid that until I learn that lesson, until I trust the process, I’ll never be able to take the moments, just as they are, and let them be enough.

Just as I don’t understand someone refusing to try because they are afraid of being hurt, I recognize that trying, over and over, without knowing how to stop trying, and just let be, will have the same net result. Both people end up alone.

I don’t want to end up alone.

Because that, my friends, is the ONLY thing for which I am truly fearful.

Wild Words for Wild Women

Quotes found in my Wild Words for Wild Women calendar…”It is better to break one’s heart than to do nothing with it.”-Margaret Kennedy, screenwriter

This has always been a philosophy of mine, as if one can’t tell that from my blog. I’ve been rethinking that, as of late. Perhaps a more reserved approach is called for as I head into my fifties. After all, I’m not a teenager any more. I’m a grown woman. It’s time I started acting like one.

“Perseverence is failing nineteen times and succeeding the twentieth.”-Julie Andrews.

Huh.

I like that. I’m nothing if not persistent. Um, what number of heartaches am I on? It is time for my luck to change.

Then Shelly Winters said, “I am the modern, intelligent, independent-type woman. In other words, a girl who cannot get a man.”

Maybe we really are related! Actually, getting them is not a problem, keeping them is…keeping them interested or keeping me interested. Longevity is what I lack. I trust that the universe knows what she is doing. I trust that for some reason, she thinks I’m not ready, and until she changes her mind, I need to just chill. Be like a leaf and just let go. Easier said than done.

And then Linda Barnes, bard of the “whodunit” genre quipped, “I have no-fail chemistry. A guy turns me on, he’s the wrong one for me.”

I think we’ve been drinking the same water.

And actually, the guy is only wrong for me, until he is right. I am only attracted to really nice men, almost across the board. I know that in the end, what is supposed to happen, will happen. I had a wonderful marriage that lasted for 17 years. If I am to have true love again, I don’t think that it will be because of anything I do or have done. It will be because it was meant to be. I’ll just have to wait and see.

It will happen again.

I’m sure of it.

In Heat

I’ve mentioned the new kitties that reside at my house; a mommy cat and two kittens. They are an incredibly delightful addition to my family, providing hours of entertainment and boat loads of affection. I watch the two kittens tussle with each other, hiding in wait and pouncing on each other, chasing their mother’s tail. What is even more indescribably cute, is watching my 80lb dog play with the kittens. She is just as enthusiastic as the kittens, but as gentle with them as their mother.

They are fearless of her. They have enriched her life, as well, providing her with the company and entertainment she craves, especially now that my oldest son is now living out on his own.

On Saturday, as I sat here on my computer, I watched the gray kitten fall asleep sitting straight up. He wobbled a few times before I took pity on him and ensconced him safely in the crook of my arm while I typed. The girl kitty is warming up to me, finally. She likes sleeping in my bed, but her favorite place is behind me as I work on the computer, between my warm body and the back of the chair.

My favorite, though, is not either kitten, but the Mommy kitty, who has totally captured my heart. She is diligent, but firm with her kittens, and dotes on them in a style with which I greatly identify. She purrs if I even look at her sideways, and follows me around as I do my chores, curling up on the table next to my desk while I work at the computer.

She recently weaned her kittens, just in time for her to go in heat. She is part Siamese, and is already a rather talkative kitty, but now, she talks nonstop. Except, I’m not sure I’d call it talking. She yowls. Morrrrooow. MorrOOOOwww. If I coo to her, she stops yowling, and answers me in her normal voice, a question at the end of each mew, but if no one is paying attention to her, she paces and she yowls. She acts very excited when she gets in the vicinity of any kind of pointy object. She walks around with her butt up in the air, ready and in position, just in case an opportunity presents itself.

There are times when I know just how she feels.

Jennifer and I were discussing our respective disappointments in matters of the heart on Saturday. After my last heartbreak, I was seeking ways to keep history from repeating itself.

“I know,” I said, in a moment of clarity. “I just won’t sleep with the guy until I’ve known him for at least two months. That way, at least I won’t have involved other anatomical parts before I know whether or not our hearts should be involved.”
Jennifer looked at me, saying nothing.

“OMG, you’re right!” I said, reading her thoughts. “That means that right up until the moment I meet a guy who is spongeworthy, it will be a minimum of two months before I have sex again!”

The thought depressed us both, and we sat there, glumly, contemplating our celibate futures.

“Hey….” She says with some excitement. “What about guys you’ve already slept with? They wouldn’t be subject to the two month rule, would they?”

“You’re right!” I exclaimed enthusiastically.

Somehow, just thinking that I could call up a lover who had come before (so to speak) cheered me immensely, as unlikely as I am to do do-overs. Once a lover has gone, usually, they stay gone, both from my heart and from other parts. Sometimes, oftentimes, they morph into friends, but rarely…I’d say never, but I don’t like to use the word never…do they reenter the proverbial bedroom.

Last night, Kevin and I attended the Red’s Match season ending celebration at the Underground Railroad Freedom Center. We saw a movie, heard some speeches, feasted on pizza and salad, and comingled with kids from baseball teams all over the city. I stood in line, plate in hand, waiting for pizza, when I felt I little bubble of happy Betty wiggle its way to the surface.

I savored it.

It was just a little bubble, but I sighed in contentment, realizing, once again, that it doesn’t take long for her to resurface. It’s my nature to be happy, to not wallow for long in discontent. I can’t promise no melancholy posts, but I can promise a smattering, regardless of my other calamities, of appreciative posts for the blessings I have.

There are so very many.

One of which is a cat in heat.

Another is being blessed with a little of that myself, regardless of how long until I get to use it.

I miss him.

Better Than Sad Movies

I watched two sad movies over the weekend. Jennifer and I went to see Night in Rodanthe, or whatever the Richard Gere movie is. Tonight, I watched The Shell Seekers. My favorite book is Rosamond Pilcher’s The Shell Seekers, and apparently, they made a movie of the book, but I don’t think it did very well. I enjoyed it.

They stuck with the author’s story.

In both movies, married women have affairs with the one true love of their life, then the guy dies, and the woman has to go on. I cried profusely at the end of both of them, because I am such a believer in one true loves. Actually, I think we can have more than one, at least, I hope so. But I believe in passionate and lasting love. I think that intense love goes on, no matter what happens in the relationship.
It started me thinking about the loves I’ve lost, the good that came from them, the lessons I’ve learned, the acute chest pain and pleasure I can still muster for all of them. There aren’t a great number, just four, and considering that I have now been a mature, single woman for eight years, I think I’m lucky. All four of them broke my heart, meaning, they chose to leave me. All four of them chose to be with someone else, instead of me.

I wonder sometimes, if they think of me, if they ever wonder at their choice. Every time I’ve ended a passionate relationship, I’ve had doubts. I’ve reached for the phone, and stopped myself, because the intrinsic reasons behind the breakup haven’t changed, so why put them through more heartache and indecision?

What I learned from watching these two movies this weekend, though, is that as much as it hurts to be rejected, I’d rather feel a thousand times the pain than to have anything tragic happen to any of the men I’ve loved. Perhaps the women in the movies take solace in knowing that they were the one true loves for their deceased lovers, but I’d rather be second place. I’d rather take comfort in the knowledge that I still breathe the same air as them, that should I need them, they are a phone call away.

Not that I’d ever call, but still.

Besides, as I’ve preached before, second place is the next best thing to being in first.

I tried to close my garden for the winter, and prepare beds for tulip bulbs, but I still had too many flowers blooming. How does one relegate bright blooming blossoms to the compost heap? How does one cut them down, faces lifted to the sun in one last desperate attempt to woo the fertility goddesses? I gathered seeds instead, securing them in labeled zip loc bags.

I stood by my garden, fascinated that so much still blooms, and wept in gratitude. I have made love so many times to my garden this year. I will miss her in the coming months, but I know she waits for me, and just like in the sad movies, true love goes on, even after winter’s death, to be born again in the spring.

America the Beautiful

Driving home from St. Louis was a treat. Kevin is such an easy companion. I feel fortunate to have sons whose company I genuinely enjoy. He did his homework en route and I watched his pencil fly across the page, his lower lip tucked under his teeth in concentration. Kevin hardly ever complained, even of boredom, the entire trip. He was adept at finding something to enjoy in his quiet, introspective way. I was so proud to call him my own.

The scenery on the way home was spectacular. Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain. For fall trees changing their gowns, from green to gold to russet and maroon. For farmlands rich with food, for the forlorn farm houses dotting the horizon. For roadside lakes sparkling a deep blue, a mirror to the sky, twinkling in a diamond studded celebration of the sunlight beaming from above. For whisps of clouds lounging across the sky. My heart glowed with appreciation, despite the heavy mantle of sadness that has weighed on my shoulders since Monday. I know the mantle will lift, and everyday brings a slightly lighter load.

I only knew him for six weeks, although it felt like so much longer. I have retraced my steps and my words and have come up surprisingly empty handed of things I would have done differently. I’ve never been a sour grapes kind of person, preferring to keep the happiness I’ve felt with someone in a tissue wrapped memory box in the attic of my mind. Sour grapes seems to sully the good memories and feelings that I long to preserve. Instead, I usually find something about myself to blame for the disappointment.

While I still turn up my nose at sour grapes, it has occurred to me that this time, perhaps it wasn’t my fault after all. Fabulous Guy mentioned that he had felt like he was on a Radio Flyer wagon, careening down a hill, and he didn’t know if he should pull up his feet and enjoy the ride or scrape them on the gravel and brake. Obviously, his feet found the road while mine were firmly planted on either side of the black handle guiding the wheels. Is that a fault or simply a difference? I think it’s just a difference.

Perhaps next time, I’ll check out the wear on the bottom of the guy’s shoes before I get anywhere close to his wagon.

It’s a learning process. I’ve learned so much over the past few years, and am actually proud of myself in how I handled this one.

Tomorrow is bulb planting day. Is anything more hopeful than a tulip planted in the fall? Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, indeed. For plumes of color, scented walkways, crocus’ trumpeting the arrival of spring.

Run & Gun

As I speak...er...type...I'm sitting in a hotel room in St. Louis. My 13 year old son is snoring in the next bed. We are here because my sister's husband built a Ford Cobra in 1991 and now races it once a year. I met her here at the annual Run & Gun to keep her company for a few days. We are having a great time.

I will post some pictures, if I can, as soon as my BIL sends them to me.

The testosterone around here is intoxicating. These are focused men, adrelaline coming out of their pores. But they still check out the cute chick with the Baby Doc (my sister is a pediatrician), wife of the F16 pilot. I'm enjoying the attention, and am savoring the opportunity for Kevin to commume with manly men, to ride in fast cars, to entertain and engage with my sister.

I lost my key today. Numb as I feel from my recent bout of heartache, I could barely think past the panic. We searched everywhere. Three times, we emptied my purse, one paper receipt, one grocery list at a time, but still, no key. We retraced our early steps. We went back to the ticket room. In desperation, I offered a $20 reward to Kevin if he found my key.

Earlier, we had walked half a mile to the autocross track. I had a nail coming up through my boot and was reluctant to retrace those steps. At the offer of the reward, Kevin took off, walking all the way to the autocross, climbing the tall stadium seats, Kevin found it at the top deck, where apparently, my sunglasses had caught on the key as I took them from my pocket.

We all appropriately honored him as the hero he was, and he took a ceremonial run around the track in the beautiful red Cobra.

All is right in my world again, with the exception of the empty space residing behind my left breast. It's only day two. It's already lessening. As always, I'll survive.

Five men clamoring for my attention on Yahoo. Why can't I seem to get excited about it?

Circling the Wagons

Special thanks out to my friends, who are so lovingly circling their wagons around me. I appreciate each and every one of you.

More on this when I get back from St. Louis.

Breast Plate

I play Spider Solitaire every morning as a barometer for my day. If I win, it will be a good day. If I win three times in a row, my current romantic interest will call, will write, will pay attention to me.

It doesn’t work, but I do it anyway.

I am extremely good at figuring out complex maneuvers to win the game. I will back up and redo a variety of different strategies before settling on the one that moves me forward the most. It takes up a good chunk of my time, time I could spend writing. It soothes me, in some strange fashion, to think that my cleverness can determine the route of happiness. Like, maybe, I could control the outcome by winning as many games as possible, with the least amount of key strokes.

I could control.

I won five out of six games yesterday, and guess what. I didn’t control the outcome.
I really liked Fabulous Guy. Can I say that again? I really liked Fabulous Guy. And, despite the events of yesterday and the day before, I still think he is Fabulous.

I won’t go into the reasons why. He rated privacy as a 9 on my list of questions, and I will respect that for him. I would like to talk about me, though. That’s the whole point of this blog, anyway.

For many men, especially the ones that seem to attract me, it seems that love is like a buffet line. They are careful not to fill their plates too full of Betty just in case there’s no room for a serving of Nicole when they reach the end of the table. For me, and I think for many women, love is like a sit down dinner at a nice restaurant. I peruse the menu and salivate over many dishes. I remember what made my mouth water from previous visits. Sometimes I try something new, often I go with old standards. But, and this is important, once I make my choice, I sit and savor and enjoy and rarely wish I had ordered anything different. I don’t give even a passing thought to missed opportunities on the menu.

But that’s just me.

I’m a jump in head first, enjoy, regardless of the brevity, the closeness and tenderness that I am capable of feeling for another human being. I revel in the emotion. I am fairly fearless when it comes to feelings. I have no armor, no means of protecting myself from hurt.

Today I am sad. I am sad because the pattern has repeated itself yet again, and this was one time (ok, maybe it was the twentieth time) that I was really hopeful that I would have a different outcome. Which is crazy, because if you keep doing the same thing, the same way, why would the outcome be different? I was able to rein in the attention I gave him. I didn’t send him emails. I rarely called him, or initiated IM conversations. I did not give him this blog address. I was not, however, able to rein in the feelings I allowed myself, and those feelings get communicated no matter how hard I try to hide them. I was not able to armor myself, to keep from getting emotionally involved.

It’s funny, but up until today, this very morning, I’ve always thought that was part of my charm.