Once upon a time–six years ago–I dated someone who lived 735 miles away. I visited San Francisco often that year, usually hopping on a plane every other weekend for another adventure. I was fresh back into the dating scene after a tumultuous marriage and dragged-out divorce and an every-other-weekend boyfriend was perfect for me. We talked on the phone every night, sent emails and texts, and I was able to learn how to be myself again while exploring this new relationship in a very healthy-for-me-at-the-time way. The relationship ran it’s course, we had an amicable break-up and went our separate ways.
Fast forward to now.
Unbeknownst to the Internet At Large, for more than a year J-Mo and I have been in a long distance relationship. I live in Salt Lake City, he has been working in Middle Of Nowhere, Nevada. He works for a large civil engineering firm/general contractor that has projects like roads and pipelines and power lines in several western states. For a while he was only 250 miles away, a short(ish) 4-hour commute. But as the project he is working on has progressed, that commute has lengthened to 425 miles. Six-and-a-half hours. Each way. Since we started dating last February, with very few exceptions, I have only ever seen J-Mo on the weekend. He is managing this big project in Nevada that was originally scheduled to be complete in October. Last October. Then it was November. Then January. Then March. I should stress this delay is not faulty management on his part, it has everything to do with at least a dozen sub-contractors and environmental nazi’s with little regard to how their mistakes and delays can quickly cause delays on a massive scale and keep me husband-less 4-5 nights a week. Jerks.
This is something I felt really strongly I should not blog about, because the last thing I want to blab all over the internet is that I am home alone most evenings. Or even that my home is vacant most evenings as I am out with friends. I mean, even if I included a (fake) picture of my ferocious (fake) guard dog, or guard crocodile (also fake), it’s not wise to talk about such things.
I have tried really hard to be patient, flexible, understanding and to keep any complaints to myself with marginal success. That being said, these last few months have been particularly hard. The dragging on and on has taken a serious toll on both J-Mo and I. I know I have blurted out my woes to a few of you via email and gchat, and you have been remarkably sympathetic and kind. I didn’t think I would have this hard of a time adjusting. When I was finishing up my last semester at the University, I had a roommate and her fiancé and, literally, scores of single friends with whom to socialize. I found that I missed J-Mo, but could easily find a homework assignment or social distraction for a couple of nights until he came back into town. I am still trying to find where lies the appropriate line that distinguishes hanging out with my friends, and crashing a single’s only party. It’s one thing if it’s my girlfriends or my male BFF that I am hanging out with in the evening, but it’s another story entirely to regularly show up, alone, to single’s bash with several ex-boyfriends also in attendance, you know? I know a few married couple’s that I can always hang out with, but there is the awkward–usually only for me–bit about being the third wheel. It’s been a tricky transition, one for which I was entirely unprepared. Somewhere in-between the hustle to finish my last classes and exams, to relax and enjoy the Christmas holidays in Montana, and then turn around and plan a wedding I kind of forgot about the part the week after our ceremony where we would both go back to work. Me in Salt Lake, him in Nevada.
Oh.
Right.
Dammit.
I find myself scrambling/floundering to adjust to a lot more empty apartment than I had really prepared for and hours of free time I could hardly imagine as I struggled through studying for finals and managing wedding preparations.
It’s been really hard. On a regular basis the long-distance marriage thing feels like a hole in the heart, but sometimes it hurts so much it is, literally, difficult to breathe.
I can’t tell you how many times I have had to bite my tongue when I hear someone complain about their spouse working long hours. “Yes, but you still get to see him more than 2 or 3 nights a week.” When someone complains of a long commute and how it cuts into quality time with their partner or family, I have to quickly leave the room make an imaginary phone call. “Yes, but that commute is a daily one, not a weekly one.” Listening to someone complain about the three day business trip once a quarter makes me roll my eyes (usually only on the inside, thank goodness). “Three days? Are you kidding me? Try a week at a time, every week, for a year.” I am not proud of these thoughts, and I’m not writing them all down to try and somehow paint myself as a martyr or garner sympathy. I’m just being real and honest. The problem is that these acidic thoughts don’t make coping any easier and certainly don’t make me a better person. To my credit, I haven’t verbalized these thoughts, at least not to those who innocently and unwittingly incite them. Instead, I go home and cry, curled up in a suddenly too big and too cold bed by myself with my phone cradled to my ear.
He’s going the distance,
He’s going for speed
She’s all alone, all alone in her time of need.
The rest of the song may be inapplicable, but Cake has that part spot on the money.
The somewhat redeeming part of all of this is that I have had the opportunity (and–gold star for me–have taken advantage of it) to try a dozen different things to keep myself busy and my mind occupied. I have been going to lectures at the city library. I started my own photography challenge and signed up for a few photography classes at a local camera shop. I have renewed my efforts in the kitchen to include more homemade meals and less eating out. I have earmarked a couple of courses in the continuing education catalog to check out. I have been reading voraciously, and even started a book club. I have made a serious dent on some of the long-put-off projects that are waiting for me in little piles around our apartment. I have tried very, very hard not to decorate J-Mo’s “man cave.” It’s his space and he probably wouldn’t appreciate my taking it over to try my hand at another gallery wall or furniture arrangement. Or anything involving vinyl lettering. Or glitter. So far, his “cave” has remained as he leaves it every Sunday, although I can promise nothing for the long haul.
This week our long-distance marriage will end, which is not to say the marriage part will end, quite the contrary, in fact. This week the long-distance part of our long-distance marriage will finally be over. The project, or at least J-Mo’s role in it, is done. J-Mo is coming home.
In some ways I feel like that means the day-to-day part of our marriage is just beginning. We’ve been married for months, but I am suddenly nervous about living with him, you know, in the “7-days a week” kind of way, i.e. the “normal” way. I’m 87% ecstatic that he’ll be a one-residence kind of man, and that it will be our residence; simultaneously, I am 13% terrified that he won’t like living with me, that my much-needed puttering will annoy him, that my projects and piles will drive him crazy, that I’ll always burn the dinner and forget about the laundry and that, ultimately, he’d rather be in Middle of Nowhere, Nevada without electricity or running water. (I said I was terrified, not rational.) My concerns have been nagging a bit for several months, but with no end date in sight for so long it was easy to push them away as irrational. Or, at the very least, something to worry about when the time came.
The time is here. And I’m worrying.
Unfortunately, the well meaning assurance that it will all be okay has only made me feel like my concerns and worries are somehow invalid and unimportant and need not be fully addressed; that’s kind of the opposite sentiment a sympathetic friend is trying to convey.
Therapists and psychologists say that recognition of irrational behavior is the first step. But just because I can see the paradox doesn’t suddenly make me rational about the problem at hand. Tragically, when you, or he, reassuringly tell me that I’m making my way into CrazyTown and shouldn’t worry; that it’s not a big deal, people live with their husbands all the time and it works out; or that it will be just fine, I don’t feel better. (Technically, according to the U.S. Census bureau, it only works out 50% of the time, and that’s hardly a strong statistical argument to make me feel better.)
But, all that being said, the last few days of near-crippling worry will be met head on tonight by a bear hug from J-Mo. I predict that he will be able to kiss the worry right off in no time and in a few days I’ll shake my head and sigh at this spinning, scary place. Tonight J-Mo will be here, and he won’t be leaving again for quite a while. On Sunday J-Mo and I will spend the evening together instead of me stuffing my feelings into a pint of frozen yogurt while he drives back to Nevada. On Monday morning he will make the jaunty 1-hour commute to his company’s local office and—and this is the best part—on Monday night he will come home to me, eat dinner with me, and snuggle me to sleep. Rinse and repeat.
Halle-freaking-lujah!
You’ve been faced with problems that seem to have very simple solutions, right? And you’ve seen people faced with those same problems who somehow cannot comprehend the simple solution, right? Have you seen them struggle with something they are making much harder than it needs to be? Have you been that struggling person yourself? I know I have. The thing is there are some solutions that are so incredibly simple that it is irrational-bordering-on-insanity not to understand them and then utilize that understanding!
The concept of “good communication” in a relationship is one of those things.
Is it necessary?
Yes. Absolutely necessary.
Is it hard?
Usually, yes, it is kind of hard.
Do all versions of “good communication in a relationship” look exactly the same? Of course not. But it is essential that you figure out what form you need, and also–just as importantly–you figure out what your partner needs as well.
Good communication is not gossiping or passive-aggressive jabs or hints. Good communication requires honesty, vulnerability, directly approaching a topic or a person and simply stating what you want or need and asking for something to change. Written out like that it doesn’t seem like it should be that difficult, although for many of us (myself included) it isn’t something that comes naturally. Clear, open, non-passive-aggressive communication can be really hard.
Once upon a time I had a very strict rule that went something like this:
If someone says or does something that truly hurts my feelings or in any significant way upsets me, I have exactly seven days to bring the incident to light and come to a resolution. If I cannot do such a simple thing, after seven days I am no longer allowed to use that incident as ammunition, or refer to it as a grievance, and must let go immediately. I will not be one to hold grudges.
For quite some time the seven-day rule seemed to work just fine. After a few years it became the three-day rule, although these days I try to play by the 24-hour rule with varying levels of success. I will never be the kind of person who can resolve a big, emotional conflict on the spot. I just don’t have the emotional control to be rational and reasonable while I am hurting. I know this about myself and I refuse to indulge that ugly side of me–the temper-tantrum side who says things she doesn’t mean and then can’t take back. I refuse to give that version of me any more control than she already holds. That doesn’t mean I run away from a hairy conversation, it simply means that I give myself a little breathing room and time to calm down, and will then address the issue at hand. Lately I’ve learned to tell whomever it is I’m talking with when I will be ready to address it. It’s perfectly okay to say “Hey, I’m feeling really emotional about this, I’m going to take a walk and we’ll talk about it when I get back.” Or, “Um, I need to get my thoughts into some kind of order, can we talk about this tomorrow?” Or even “Wow, this is a lot for me, I’m gonna take 20 minutes and go have a double-fudge banana split with whipped cream and we’ll get back into this after that.” IT IS PERFECTLY OKAY TO SAY/REQUEST/DEMAND THAT! (Seriously, why don’t more people say that?) (Also, the banana split totally helps.)
Not long ago I spent a couple of very emotional days with a frightened friend. An old friend and a really amazing woman. The source of the emotional turbulence, and the fear, was from a complete and utter breakdown of communication in her relationship. I have been through the ringer in relationships, but her experience was eye-opening to me. I realized that it is possible to fall in love with someone and choose to spend your life with them and wake up, several years later, to a complete stranger. It is possible to not have the slightest idea of how to talk to your partner. I was shocked. Is this something that I take for granted? Have I ever taken it for granted? What if I am spiraling into a Non-Communication Hole and am completely unaware?
I decided that in my own relationships–romantic and otherwise–I needed to double my efforts to understand and be understood. Patience will be tested. Questions (thousands of questions) will be asked and asked again. Hearts will be bruised. Frustrations and tears will undoubtedly make a mess of my mascara. But dammit, I’m going to make sure I’m clear. I will only say things that I mean. I will ask the hard questions. I will not assume. I will not play a passive-aggressive game, hoping someone will be able to interpret it correctly. I will make sure that whoever is the second party in my conversations understands what I mean before letting a subject drop.
And when the conversation is settled on both sides, the subject will drop.
**Things are just fine with J-Mo and I, I’ve been thinking about this post for months and wanted to take a little break from the barrage of photos from the last two weeks.
The following questions and answers are part of my “Interview A Blogger”/”Please ask me questions to provide blog fodder” mini-series. I’ve tried to break up the questions into bigger categories and this is the last of them. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have!
Question: How old were you before you had your first boyfriend?
Answer: While I went out with a lot of people as a teenager I was actually already in college before I dated anyone seriously enough to call them my boyfriend. The relationship was kind of crappy and lasted far too long, and now that particular x-boyfriend is my cousin. Yep, true story, one that I’m sure has a moral but I’m too busy gagging over this x-boyfriend-is-my-cousin fact that I can’t think of it. Don’t worry, I’ve made up for a slower start in dating over the last decade with a double handful of relationships–some great, some bad, some down-right terrible–and thousands of dates. I feel like I’ve put in my time on the boyfriend front.
Question: Tell us about your first kiss. From Lisa at Books, Lists, Life.
Answer: My first kiss is really quite a boring story. I was 14 and my junior high had just put on a production of Anne Frank where I had really enjoyed being a stage manager and working on props and costumes. We were having a cast party after closing night where there were 4 boys and about 748 girls present; (most of) the girls were dead set on playing Spin the Bottle. This was the first, and last time I ever played Spin the Bottle. I don’t even know WHY people play Spin the Bottle. It’s a terrible idea. Spin the Bottle is just public kissing with people you probably don’t even like IN FRONT OF people you do like who now know you kissed someone else and so what if they don’t like you anymore? I mean, you know, if they even knew you existed in the first place. Who invented this game? Morons. That’s who. Anyway, I kissed B.A., another techie who was always nice to me before and after our very awkward smooch in somebody’s unfinished basement. He had red hair and freckles I always thought were cute and a severely lazy eye that always creeped me out just a bit. The kiss was just a peck, but it was in front of 50 people and with someone I didn’t even like.
Question: How long have you been dating J-Mo?
Answer: After several months of chatting and flirting and never being in town the same weekend, we started dating at the beginning of February and became exclusive shortly thereafter. Mind you, he could have asked me out months prior to our first date…a fact I try to remind him of on a fairly regular basis. I know, I’m terribly mature.
Question: I want to know more about your man. From Briana.
Answer: Not technically a question, but I shall respond anyhow. J-Mo is not perfect, but he is perfect for me. In addition to being kind, smart, a bit geektastic, and and terribly handsome (hello, do you see that smile? It kills me every. single. time.), he is sweet, considerate, and loves me more than I ever thought someone could love a person. On the flip side, I love him more than I have ever loved anyone, or ever even thought I could love someone. It’s like fairy tales and happy endings all over the place. The other night I was chatting with him and remembered something quite hilarious from the very early days of us dating. Unbeknownst to me when I agreed to go out with him, the Mo Family have a genetic predisposition to be extra charming. Seriously, the Mo-Men Charm is an actual thing, it is talked about at family functions and J-Mo’s Mom says it is what made her fall for his Dad. Okay, so Charmingness: J-Mo has it in spades. On our second or third date he pipes up with this warning, “Just so you know, you will probably fall in-love with me. You’ve been warned.” He explained the Charmingness disease and I told him that if I did, in fact, fall for him I was going to place all blame squarely on his charming shoulders. Ha. Touche, life, touche.
Question: What about your first kiss with J-Mo? What’s the story there?
Answer: I think it was our third or fourth date, we had gone to dinner and were watching a movie at my house. I had already decided I really liked him, so I curled up next to him on the couch and tucked my arm through his, my head on his left shoulder. After a few minutes he turned his left hand over and held it towards me to hold, confident and adorable and…well, I was hooked. (A guy who doesn’t play games? I am absolutely interested in that.) We watched the rest of the movie holding hands, me curled up next to him. When it was over I looked up at him, really really hoping he would kiss me. He did, and it was amazing. A-May-Zing. It was the kind of kiss that makes your heart race and your breath catch in your chest; I’m pretty sure he audibly ManSwooned.
(Can I tell you a secret? Well, two secrets, actually. Secret 1: The kisses have only gotten more amazing since then. Swoon! Secret 2: The above photo is not our first kiss. Shocking, I know. You probably thought I was the kind of girl who always documented that sort of thing, just in case.)
Question: What do you like the most about J-Mo? From K over at Two Adults, One Brown Baby
Answer: I had to think about this question quite a bit, actually. I love so many things about J-Mo, but when I had to narrow it down I came to two things that mean the most to me.
Thing 1: J-Mo is kind, he is one of those people who is just nice. He is polite and friendly and goes out of his way to help others. He is the kind of man who cares about people, and it shows. Babies and little kids flock to him and my niece, age almost-3, asks about him every single time I see her and runs up to him for a hug any time he’s around. He is sweet to me, he has yet to raise his voice or even speak to me with any kind of anger or disrespect. Sure, we’ve had disagreements and differing opinions–it’s not like he kow-tow’s to me or anything like that–but we can disagree without it turning nasty. Even on big things, even on emotional things, he is always kind.
Thing 2: J-Mo sees me as I really am, flaws and all, and he loves me anyway. He has not put me up on a pedestal where I feel I am unable to be myself, he does not roll his eyes or get bothered or miffed when I have my less than stellar moments (and believe me, I have them). He has this amazing ability to encourage the best of me and simultaneously, he is not disappointed or embarrassed or put out when I am just my regular, normal, not-best self. I am geeky and goofy and silly and quirky without worrying that he will think less of me. I have baggage and issues and unbloggable things that affect me in really horrible ways. I am snarky and sassy and feisty and stubborn–and sometimes downright pig-headed–but even on my bad days, or bad weeks I know that his feelings won’t change. (And yes, after those bad days and bad weeks I admit my pig-headedness, apologize and ask to try again.) J-Mo encourages the best parts of me to grow and develop, but he does not demand I change or insist that if I just tweak this or that, or get over this hurdle or that, or, you know, completely re-prioritize my life so he can really love me and then we can be happy. He loves me just the way I am; he is happy with me, and I with him, just as we are.
This last question is from the charming and swoontastic J-Mo himself.
Question: Heidi, will you marry me?
Answer: Yes! Yes! and more Yes!
*Included with this answer were laughs and smiles and hugs and kisses and tears and more smiles and more tears and more kisses.
**No, this question was NOT submitted via blog comment or email, he’s far too classy for that. Stay tuned for the rest of this story. If you’ll excuse me now, I have to go kiss his face off. Again.
Alternate Title: All the Mushy Details on My Mysterious Man of Love
Quite a while ago I decided to keep most of my dating life off of the Interwebs. I’ve mentioned dates or relationships or even boyfriends here and there, but I haven’t blogged consistently about them for several years. Coincidentally, I also haven’t had a stable relationship that lasted for more than a few months in that time either. Until now. Readers, I’ve been holding out on you, I’ve been dating someone since the beginning of the year, and until the last few weeks I haven’t said a word about it. Now, if things were pretty casual, something like “oh yeah, we hang out on weekends, sometimes” that wouldn’t be too unusual (for me), but it’s been more along the lines of “we talk every single day, text/email back and forth almost constantly, and are together as much as we can possibly manage.” He is wonderful and I can’t get enough of him. (Have you upchucked at the lovesick mush yet? No? Good. Take another Pepto and keep reading. If yes, um, keep that vomit bag close because things are about to get ridiculously mushy around here.)
J-Mo and I met almost 10 years ago when my best friend Sara married his best friend and we were both in the wedding party. I only vaguely remember him; he wasn’t single at the time, and I was all of 18 years old. I remember noticing his amazingly gorgeous smile, and I remember thinking that whoever got to dance with him was one lucky girl. (I danced with the groom’s very tall, very skinny, mostly awkward but totally polite younger brother.) Fast forward to this fall when, for the first time in a decade, both J-Mo and I were single and living in the same state. Sara had this brilliant idea that we might get along quite nicely and she cyber-introduced us. We chit-chatted back and forth for a few weeks, we became Facebook friends, I unabashedly stared at every one of his photos, trying to find one with that captivating smile and recall any additional memories of the man I’d briefly met 10 years earlier. We exchanged numbers. We chit-chatted some more. He went out of town for the holidays, and I escaped to Mexico. We chit-chatted some more. We both went out of town again. FINALLY we were both in town the same weekend and we went on our first date. On our second date he brought me cupcakes he’d made himself with pink frosting and sprinkles to celebrate my birthday; by our third date I was already falling for this small-town boy with a heart of gold.
I am still pretty hesitant to share a lot of details about he and I, I feel fiercely protective of this relationship in ways I have never felt before. Things with J-Mo are better than anything I’ve ever experienced, and I am really reluctant to jeopardize or jinx that in any way. But, there is no point in mentioning as much as I have so far if I’m not gonna fill his character out a little more, right? Right. (Those who are squeamish over pending mushiness should prepare yourselves.)
J-Mo is hardworking, honest, humble, kind, sensitive, scruffy (yum!) and has a triple dose of charm that makes me weak in the knees. He encourages me by his unassuming example to work harder in my classes, to take more care in improving my relationships, and to be more dedicated to my faith. He “gets” me in ways that I never thought someone could get me, I feel like he sees me for myself, as I am, flaws and all. And most importantly, he accepts me for myself, as I am, flaws and all. (I think there is a bit from Bridget Jones’ Diary along these lines, no?) I’ve had a pretty rocky road to get here, and it has been so freeing for me to be able to talk about those experiences, the lessons I’ve learned and the ways I am trying to use them to become a better person without worrying about being judged or having my mistakes thrown back in my face. He listens, we talk about it, he smiles, he just…he gets me.
Two weeks ago I spent the better part of 10 days with J-Mo and the rest of the Mo family at his parent’s house in Montana (which I will be posting about for the next couple of days. I only took 800 pictures, it won’t be that intensive. Blink-blink. *Cough* Shifty Eyes). It was wonderful. Not only is he related to some of the funniest, most real and down-to-earth people on the planet, it was also the most relaxing vacation I’ve had in over five years. No stress, no worries, hardly any cyber-connectivity, no schedule, no intense heat or sun (I’m a fair, Nordic flower with skin cancer already under my belt, sunbathing just isn’t my thing), and a whole lot of Mother Nature.
Now, I am a total city girl, and J-Mo is a country boy. Montana has a lot of wide open spaces and not a lot of city, I feel like I knew J-Mo pretty well before this trip, but I loved seeing him in his “natural habitat.” I loved seeing these new sides of him that aren’t usually brought to the surface in our weekend dating excursions. J-Mo is the kind of guy who enjoys hard work, and is really good at all that manly-man stuff; truck stuff, dirt stuff, stuff involving tools, ya know, “Man Stuff”. He can also toast the perfect marshmallow and understands that s’mores are better with extra chocolate. He will play ball and rough house with the boys, take small people on 4-wheeler rides anytime they ask, will allow a 6-year-old girl to paint his toenails because it made her day (and mine). He knows how to snuggle kiddos to sleep and carry them up to bed without waking them. He loves country music, sings along with a gorgeous baritone that sends shivers up my spine, and is doing a damn fine job of slowly convincing me to let him take me out dancing. He will always open my door, carry the heavy stuff (and even the not-heavy stuff), hold my hand, and send me good morning and good night messages. J-Mo also indulges my love of going to the symphony, takes me on motorcycle trips, arranges hot air balloon rides, and he doesn’t roll his eyes when I say something like “We’re going to a party, you need a proper hat,” or “We’re hiking to the top of that cliff,” or “I just want a pony, a tiny one” (I say this a lot, actually), or “Wait! Stop! Pull over! I want to take a picture!” and then, ten minutes later, “Wait! Pull over! I need to take another one!” He calms me when I’m upset or frustrated, makes me laugh, and is a ridiculously good sport about my silly antics and nerdy ideas. His smile makes my heart go pitty-pat and one look from those big blue eyes absolutely melts my insides. I am giddy; and I have been giddy for months.
Sigh. I adore him.
In fact, I am so head-over-heels I asked him to put a pile of country music on my iPod–and I like it–and I bought Ree’s book. I think this means it’s getting serious.
Creepy Moments: A tale from my commute
- This morning a big, black, vintagey-looking hearse followed me to work. No, seriously. It showed up behind me somewhere in my neighborhood and followed me through downtown. Creepy? Yes. Worth a phone call notifying someone of my pending demise, kidnapping, or abduction? Not quite. And then I saw the license plate, “MORBID.” Seriously, I can’t make this stuff up.
Awesome Moments: Tales that make me happy
- My 4-year old niece called to invite me to her dance recital. It was perhaps the cutest thing I’ve ever listened to, she kept double checking with her mom about the date and the time and wanted to make sure I was there. Honey, May 28th is ALL yours. *heartmelt.
- Being swallowed up in his arms, slow dancing without music, barefoot and in my pajamas with his scruff tickling my cheek. *swoon.
- Being able to look back and see how far you have come; whether that is looking at the valley floor from the peak I just conquered, or looking back to where I was 6 months ago, a year ago or five years ago and relishing where I am now. *contented sigh
Blonde Moments: Tales from the University
- A few weeks ago, I walked to my car after class (as I usually do) and then spent 10 mins looking for my sunglasses; I checked my purse, laptop bag, my car, the top of my head. I thought I must have left them in my classroom, but decided to re-check my purse, my laptop bag, all the nooks and crannies in my car, and the top of my head–I tend to wear sunglasses as headbands. No glasses, so I hiked back across campus, as soon as I was inside my building, my left hand automatically moved my sunglasses from my face to the top of my head…yep, I had been WEARING them the whole time. Don’t worry, folks, I’m a natural blonde.
- Yesterday I drove to class, parked, and was rummaging around looking for my books and notes and such. I drive a stick-shift, so I had popped the car into first gear and turned it off, but I kept my keys in the ignition so I could finish listening to the song on the radio–yes, I still listen to the radio. I opened my car door, heard my car beeping at me and assumed I had left my headlights on. I flipped them “off”, locked the doors, and went to class. An hour later I returned to my vehicle, rummaging in my purse for my keys. I couldn’t find them anywhere. I rummaged some more. I put my books and notebooks on the hood of my car and really dove into the farthest recesses of my purse, checking all the pockets, shaking it to listen for the jangle of my keys. Nothing. (You know where this is going, don’t you?) Then I noticed my headlights were on, and my stomach dropped. I peered through the windshield and, as I feared, saw my keys dangling from my ignition, safely locked inside my car. To my credit, my car was turned off at the time. This is the first time I’ve ever locked my keys in my car, and I do not have a spare key floating around my apartment somewhere (a problem that shall be remedied today). I called the Salt Lake Police Department, because that seemed like a good place to start, SLPD no longer carries the tools to unlock vehicles, or they do but don’t respond to requests to do so. I called my insurance agent, but their office was closed. So, I did the responsible thing; I Googled a locksmith and called the one that guaranteed showing up in 15 minutes for $15 dollars, only to find that due to my nebulous location (they wanted the exact address and ZIP code…who knows the ZIP code to their university!? Or the address of the giant parking lot?) it would take at least 50 minutes to get there and would cost $15 for the technician to show up, plus at least $35 to open the car plus any other associated costs and hours worked. I begrudgingly asked if they take VISA and after my best attempts to give them directions (black Mazda, platinum blonde, parking lot in the northwest corner of Campus Drive and #### East, three rows west of the building, middle of the row, under the street lamp!) I hung up. And then I started calling people who might be able to help me out in the mean time, the men of my life have come through for me so many times before, I figured there was probably one of them who knew how to break into a vehicle. Right? B. was my first choice, and yes, he had the thing to pop the door open and no immediate plans…but he was also 1,000 miles away. S. answered the phone, but was stuck at an event for another few hours. J. didn’t answer, D. didn’t answer, B.B. didn’t answer, A. didn’t answer, M. didn’t answer, R. didn’t answer, (doesn’t anyone answer their phones anymore?!*) C. didn’t answer and L. didn’t answer. Finally, my friend Chris not only answered (yay!) but also gave me a fantastic tip–he told me to call the University Campus Police, AND he had the number memorized. Chris Wins!! Within 10 minutes a tall, skinny officer showed up, thanked me for giving dispatch excellent directions to my whereabouts and within 20 seconds had stuck the unlocky thingy down through the window and popped it open. Easy-peasy. He made sure my battery wasn’t dead (it wasn’t), assured me I didn’t owe him a thing, that his services were included in the price of my tuition. Then he tipped his hat and was on his way exactly 11 minutes after I made the call.
*I never answer my phone, and I listen to my voice mail every couple of months. I’m good about calling back (as are A. and D., thanks boys), but really, if it’s important you should probably send me a text. Or a homing pigeon.
Let’s talk about boys. Or, rather, let’s talk about men. After being burned terribly from a couple of relationships, it is sometimes easy to default into the “men are pigs” camp. Admittedly, from time to time I have been smack dab in the middle of that camp, and I would like to apologize to all of the non-porcine gentlemen for so insensitively lumping you in with the handful of jerks who give your kind a bad rap. The truth is there are amazing, kind, strong and delightfully masculine men everywhere. Granted, sometimes they are in hiding, but more often than not I think they are just quietly going about their business. The last couple of months I haven’t been dating anyone in particular (which is kind of new for me in itself, btw) but I have had the chance to get to know several really incredible men. I have been keeping tabs on (some of) their behavior, and frankly would love to see more of it. Instead of harping and complaining about how men are just so horrible and insensitive and blahbity-blah-blah, I thought I’d make a list of all the awesome little things that made my day in the hopes that these behaviors will be continued. Please note: Not a single one of these acts of chivalry were done for or because of snuggles or smooches. I don’t’ know why I feel like I should point this out (or the fact that it’s been a while since I was good and kissed, ahem), but I think it’s notable that these small acts of kindness and gentlemanly good manners were a natural instinct and not an obligation. At least, I like to think that’s what happened.
Some of these “thank you’s” are directed towards good friends, some to acquaintances, and a few to complete strangers.
Thank you for offering your arm while I picked my way across an icy, snowy street. And thank you for taking your arm back after we crossed. You weren’t trying to pull something or be extra flirty or whatever—you were simply being kind.
Thank you for scraping the 8 inches of snow off my car. I watched you from across the parking lot when you didn’t think anyone could see you. I saw, and I appreciate it.
Thank you for putting yourself between me and someone I really didn’t want to see. You literally blocked the undesirable person from my line of sight and spent the better part of an hour as a barricade.
Thank you for sitting by me so I wasn’t so tragically aware of my single status at a non-single function.
Thank you for offering me the more comfortable seat.
Thank you for your encouragement and support of all Good Things, and thank you for keeping me straight on the Not-So-Good ones.
Thank you for your heart-felt reply, and thank you for your concern.
Thank you for reaching up to the tippy-top shelf at the grocery store to get the chocolate I wanted, and thank you for smiling about it.
Thank you for always telling me the hard and sometimes brutal truth, and for saying it in a way that I actually will listen. And thank you for telling me again when I forget.
Thank you for opening the door and holding it for me, even though I was 20 feet away.
Thank you for keeping my secrets.
Thank you for offering solutions when I called looking for help, thank you for not laughing or blowing me off.
Thank you for caring so much and for so long.
Thank you for listening to me rant and rave about this, that or the other; and thank you for withholding your judgment.
Thank you for your compliments; they will not be forgotten.
Thank you for giving me hope.
Thank you for waiting around after everyone else had gone, just to make sure I didn’t walk out to my car alone.
Thank you for always being there, no matter what happens and how long it’s been since we last spoke; thank you for being my friend.
Thank you for encouraging some of my geekier tendencies, and also my more feminine ones.
Thank you for your concern, and for making sure that I was really okay after that Thing With That Guy at That Place That One Time.
Thank you for explaining the rules, I still don’t get them all, but I appreciate your taking the time and effort so I didn’t feel quite so out of place.
Thank you for always noticing my shoes; I am more than my footwear, but your comments about my heel-choice always make me smile.
Thank you for laughing with me when the situation became so awkward the only other option was to cry. Seriously, thank you.
In most of our lives there are moments where we are hit with something completely unexpected and out of the blue; an idea, a personality, an experience. Yesterday I was blind sided by such a moment; I was left speechless (which rarely happens, I’m usually overly verbose), and even now I have a hard time sorting out exactly how I feel about it.
Allow me to explain.
On second thought, I should probably summarize.
Not too long ago a friend of mine did and said several things over a couple of months that hurt my feelings. He was not hurting me on purpose, nothing like that, but his decision to deliberately withhold information built this monster that left me scared, exposed, and drowning in enormous pools of self-doubt. Ultimately I found my way out and the emotional hurts scabbed over (and I picked the scabs because I’m gross like that) and eventually left the kind of scar you wear as a badge.
Yesterday, unexpectedly and without provocation, this friend sincerely apologized. I was surprised and caught completely off guard; I didn’t know what to say or how to properly respond. My scars were instantly raw wounds, leaving me floundering in a tidal wave of painful emotions I couldn’t explain, let alone control. At first, I was shocked and angry that he knew (at least in part) the consequences of his action/lack of action and their ultimate affect on me. I was upset to think that he routinely took the easy way out, even if it meant that I would be hurt time and time again. I was angry at myself for not realizing this pattern earlier on and putting a stop to it. Soon enough, the anger subsided and was replaced with deep sadness, a sadness so pervading I had to fight back tears for the better part of the evening, without much success. (Meaning when a few tears escaped while I was in the middle of a room full of people I totally lied and blamed allergies, or a bit of mascara in my eye, or contacts that I don’t wear. I am slightly embarrassed to admit this happened more than once in the course of the evening.)
Today I can still feel the emotional aftershocks. I really don’t know why such a simple thing, an apology for bad behavior, has rocked me so hard. I wish I could explain how these few sentences have dredged up all these insecurities and hurts. I wish I could explain the myriad of emotions that are duking it out in my head; each fighting for the upper hand and my full attention.
I am struggling with an intense sadness mixed with a bit of mourning. I have these heart wrenching pangs of loss, realizing how different things could have been if he hadn’t acted the way he did. If I hadn’t allowed his behavior to continue without consequence. I am relieved to hear from him that he can see room for improvement in his life, that through self-examination he recognized a weakness in himself that must be addressed. (I cannot stress enough how essential this ability is in men and women; it is only valuable when coupled with the ability to act on these realizations, but that is another post for another day.) Even with that small bright spot, I still feel like a little piece of me is lost, wandering aimlessly through a dark place. I hope I’m wrong, but right now I can’t see anything farther than today. And right now I’m sad and lonely and have a stinging in my heart that won’t go away.
Yes, this is slightly cryptic and for that I apologize. I am not in the habit of using/abusing my place on the Internet by calling people out for their mistakes or flaws. I’ll talk until my fingers are numb about my flaws and mistakes, but not about those of my friends or frenemies; I know better.
In recent weeks I have re-entered the dating scene in full force. Well, half-force. I still have school and work and what-have-you. But last week I managed to go on four dates; four dates that ranged from blah to odd to awkward to down-right creepy. Now, I have been dating for a long time and have been on thousands of dates (it’s true, I’ve done the math. Don’t judge me.). I am not a dating expert, but I feel like I can make a definitive statement about what makes a good or bad date. Good dates do not need to cost a lot of money, they don’t need to be extravagant or the most unique idea on the planet.
A Few Do’s and Don’ts:
- Do have a plan, which is not to say it needs to be an expensive or elaborate plan, but have a plan. Options are totally okay, by the way. Sushi or Mexican Food or Pizza? Art gallery or movie or walk through the park? Or even Redbox or a board game? But have a plan, okay?
- Do not pick me up and then expect me to come up with an agenda for the evening on the spot, I’d rather just say good night and go back to What Not To Wear reruns.
- Do engage in conversation. I like talking, witty banter, conversations about deep, meaningful topics or hilarious chats of no consequence. You are not the Dalai Lama, if you were I would be fine just standing in reverent silence of your awesomeness. But, again, you are not the Lama, so prepare to talk about something.
- Do not base your entire conversation on the following: video games, fantasy football, or the strategy of NASCAR. A mention is not a deal-breaker, but unless you are sure your date is as passionate about gaming, fantasy sports, or turning left for 4 hours, keep it to a minimum, okay?
- Do flirt appropriately. Dorky one-liners are charmingly awkward and more endearing than any Rico Suave moves you’ve polished over the years on dozens of unsuspecting women.
- Do not stare at my chest. Or my ass. I realize I am not wearing a nun’s outfit or Polygamist Chic couture but I am not dressed like a whore. I realize you are a man and will probably check out what I’ve got. But do not a) make it a point of conversation, or b) be all creepy and misogynistic about any woman’s girly parts. Enough said? Okay.
- Don’t answer your phone mid-date and proceed to have a 10 minute conversation with your buddy about going to see Jackass. The irony is not sexy.
- Do be yourself, please. If “yourself” is a snoozefest or an asshole, we probably won’t go out again. But if “yourself” is quirky or geeky or charming or awkward, but REAL, there is a shot.
Now, these are not a complete set of dating rules. But it’s a good place to start. I would like to point out that after dating someone for a little while, some of these are not so much of a faux pas (talking to a buddy on the phone, updating your date on your fantasy football league, etc.).
Last weekend I attended the wedding of a very dear friend; the ceremony was beautiful and the happy couple was shining and glowing and so in-love it would make you nauseous—in a good way. The man who married them said something that hit me like a ton of proverbial bricks, and I would like to paraphrase it here:
“In a little while, Mr. Groom, something will happen and you will find your Bride’s angelic halo is askew and slightly dulled; she is not perfect. However, instead of pointing out her flaws and demanding the halo be righted, you need to go to a quiet place and sincerely ponder the things about yourself that are not perfect and that need to be improved upon. After making a short list of your own flaws it will surprise you how quickly again she will shine. In the same vein, Ms. Bride, when you discover a smudge on your Groom’s armor, when his horse seems not so white or his shield so shiny, I want you to go somewhere private and make a list of your own dents and smudges. In just a moment Mr. Groom’s armor will again be dazzling and his heart pure.”
I love this. I love the idea that to find happiness in a relationship one must perfect oneself instead of constantly pointing out the flaws in your partner. (As a disclosure: I am well-aware that I am not perfect; I am constantly in the middle of having my rough edges worn off, a process called “life” that will hopefully turn my harsh and spiky bits into beautiful, smooth spaces.)
Once upon a time a very wise teacher interrupted a mob of angry, self-righteous men who were ready to stone a woman to death for her crimes. This man said “He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.” Her crimes are not my crimes, and that mob is not this mob, but in recent weeks I have been assaulted with virtual stones, and the emotional cuts and bruises have been cause for thought, concern, frustration, tears, rage and finally resolution.
I have dated several people throughout my time as a blogger and with the notable exception of my ex-husband, I have never spoken ill of a former love interest on this site. I believe in freedom of speech, but I also believe strongly that slander and libel are not only unbecoming but also hurtful, unnecessary, and a very quick way to land yourself in the middle of a lawsuit. I am not running a dirty, muckraking campaign; highlighting the flaws of a former boyfriend will not benefit anyone. I will not broadcast the unknightly characteristics of someone I used to love. I will not write a defamatory post (or 3-part mini-series) using personal and private moments from the relationship as ammunition in a one-sided virtual crusade. I do not feel the need to splash his most intimate hurts and struggles across the pages of the internet, demanding you agree with my actions or validate my behavior. I do not need to justify why a relationship didn’t work out to my readers, to my friends, or to my family. It just didn’t work out.
I don’t want bad blood, and I don’t want bad karma. I was hoping to get away with not having to write the “End of the Relationship” post, but recent events have caused me to reconsider.
The Bulldog has been mostly absent from this blog for a number of months. Things were great, then they were rocky, and now they are over. He is a good man and in many ways a great man. He is loyal and patient and romantic. He has written notes, sent chocolates, flowers or sour-patch kids and even a massage therapist after a particularly rough week. He has played his guitar, offered foot rubs, and indulged my love of long motorcycle rides. The Bulldog has a “Hero Complex”, but mostly in a good way (if there was ever an End-of-the-World crisis situation I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have at my side). In so many ways he is amazing and wonderful. But in just a few ways, he is not the guy for me—and those are the reasons we are no longer together. Even with his faults and flaws, I wish him happiness, health, love and success.
The End.
Over the last couple of weeks I have had several sightings of ex-boyfriends—nothing overly dramatic or explosive—I just keep having these coincidental run-ins at the grocery store, on campus, at a concert, through an out-of-the-blue email. Most of these instances have been rather pleasant, we were friendly, exchanged niceties, asked the appropriate questions and proceeded along with our own activities. I would like to take this opportunity to thank The Universe for mostly normal ex-boyfriends. Example: to date not a single one has been listed on America’s Most Wanted, featured on Jerry Springer, or convicted of some horrible crime. This may seem like ludicrously low expectations, but sometimes a girl needs a reminder that she has a little class when choosing someone to date.
Let’s talk about dating for a minute, shall we? I know the last few months I have been terrifically light on posting anything at all. Part of that is a lack-of-time issue. Part of that was some romantical dramatics. And then there is your general “I’ll shove this under my virtual (proverbial?) rug instead of splashing it about the internet” kind of situations. At any rate, I have something I need to toss around a bit; please tolerate my indulgence.
Favorite Ex-boyfriends (or ex-girlfriends*): I certainly hope you have one. Until recently, my favorite ex-boyfriend was Berkley/Adam/Dr. Mac. I can’t say enough nice things about him, both as a boyfriend and as a dentist (seriously, Salt Laker’s, he’ll fix your teeth real good.)—but instead of singing his praises I’d like to talk about someone else. I have to tread carefully here, I don’t want to smash anyone’s toes and I certainly don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I do, however, want to discuss something important; I need to write about it to give myself a little clarity on the subject. Blogging is a form of therapy to me, so imagine you are sitting in a big, comfy leather chair with a notebook, pen poised, and imagine I am laying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, telling you a story.
I usually begin stories like this with “Once upon a time,” but I feel awkward starting out that way while I’m on the couch, it seems disingenuous or something. Moving on. I’ve never talked about Blue Eyes before, at least not here, I wouldn’t ever describe him as my “boyfriend.” But in the interest of full disclosure he and I hung out/dated for a while not that long ago. Our “break-up” was very mutual, drama-free, and took all of 3 minutes to communicate. (Why can’t all break-ups be like that?)(All these terms are in quotes simply for the purposes of this post. If you aren’t boyfriend/girlfriend with someone you can’t very well break-up. And since I never thought of, called or referred to Blue Eyes as my boyfriend…well, you see the logic, right?) There are some fundamentally awesome things about Blue Eyes; he’s smart, and witty, and easy to be around. He enjoys conversationalizification as much as I do (yes, that’s a word. Sound it out.) and most of our interactions revolved around long discussions about Life, Love and the Meaning of the Universe. (Yes, The Universe. Blue Eyes can be a bit of a geek at times and has all sorts of opinions about The Universe. It’s part of his charm.) Like anyone, he also has his flaws (as do I—a whole pile of them). Like most relationships, there were some fundamental things between he and I that just wouldn’t work out, which is fine. Blue Eyes and I are still friends, good friends, actually. In fact, I think he and I are better friends now than we were while we were hanging out. We aren’t as close (as is expected), but I think we are better friends.
Does that make any kind of sense? Let me try and explain, because this is the reason he tops my list of Favorite Ex’s. In our conversations (both before and after the “break up”) I came to realize some massive, fundamental flaws in myself, and have made changes towards accepting and correcting those flaws. I also realized I had made enormous life decisions based on some very skewed, irrational data, and have made steps towards realigning some priorities. For the record, it takes a very good friend to be able and willing to point these things out. And for whatever reason, Blue Eyes was the first friend who was able to do so in a way that did not immediately put me on the defensive, determined to fight for my position to the death. (Ok, maybe not to the death.)(Actually, that is probably a true statement…I can be pretty stubborn when I want to be.)
I don’t really want to get into the nitty-gritties of the conversations, but we’re talking about Big Things here; things like family and whether or not to have kids, relationships with siblings and parents and God, what it means to be a Good Man or a Good Woman. I also believe at some point the merits of DVD vs Blu-Ray were discussed (him), heels vs. ballet flats (me) and the benefits of Robert Downey Jr. vs. any other leading man. Big. Important. Stuff. Now I’ve had similar Big Conversations with a dozen other people, and the end result has always been my feeling a need to be defensive and stubborn on my position and refusing to acknowledge there might be another way to see the situation, but somehow Blue Eyes managed to help me see another way. Several other ways, actually. I don’t really care to analyze “why” or “how” that happened, I’m just glad it did. I feel like I was boxed into this smaller, darker life (one of my own creation and choosing, mind you) and he somehow swooped in like a pirate (do pirates swoop?) and chopped a big hole in it and now I’m trying to figure out what to do with all this sunshine. Regardless of circumstances or timing or the who, why, when or how—this “hole of sunshine” phenomenon has been a really good thing for me. It’s big and exciting (and scary) to see the life you thought you had all planned out alter a little, or a lot. It’s also big and exciting (and a little scary) to wonder what other places need a little more sunshine.
I think this is what shrink’s refer to as a “break-through”. So, despite any other component or circumstance of this relationship with Blue Eyes, he changed the way I think, he changed the way I see myself and how I fit into my world, and he did all of that without any kind of agenda, without any malicious intent, and without any real idea that it was happening. Blue Eyes unknowingly took some tremendous risks on me, navigating some potentially explosive conversations (explosions on par with Krakatoa, not a little firecracker) and loaded situations and he showed me these little trails through them I had never noticed before. He brought out some of the best things in me and despite the fact that he won’t be around in ways to see or enjoy the end results of that break-through, I can really only attribute their discovery to him. Blue Eyes is an amazing man, an incredible person and a loyal friend. It is a rarity that a (straight) man can blaze through your world, leaving a wake of unicorns and ponies and rainbows and all other Good Things…I suppose there is also some nerdy detritus in there somewhere…USB cables and zombies and chess tournaments and what-not; what I’m trying to say is I am a better person, a more whole person, and a stronger person because of him. And for that, my friends, he is (and will most likely remain) on the top of my Favorite Ex’s list.
*The asterix is not because I have a favorite ex-girlfriend, it is because the phrase is not mine. “Favorite Ex-girlfriend” is the title of a song (that I love), written by someone I love. I don’t know the protocol for mixing two men I care about into the same post, but I feel they must be mentioned together or not at all. If that is some kind of massive faux-pas, I hope those who could take offense will opt to forgive instead. I’m just trying to be emotionally honest, even when it is tricky.
