My Broken-Unbroken Heart

What was Jane Austin trying to accomplish when she developed strong heroines, spineless men, and dashing heroes? It seems without fail, Austin's women must first suffer from superficial love, followed by something greater--beyond explanation. But Austin's means are much more interesting than her ends. The complication of love--and its game, begs the question, are we all just waiting for the realization that what comes easiest and simplest is in fact our greatest desire?

There we were, sitting side-by-side on his couch, barely touching and all I could think was how strange it was to be sitting on the couch and in the room where so much had passed: passion, disappointment, maybe even love... And while we sat there, those elements were somewhere in the distance. Was it truly the past? I am not sure.

Two night later, I woke-up after falling asleep, tightly curled-up in my bed, with my computer in front of me. I hadn't physically moved from that position in two hours--but my mind had been racing. I dreamt we were in bed together and we kept changing positions. If we were having sex, then it was just the movement of sex: bodies wrapped-up in one another, at times sideways, upside down, parallel, backwards... it was if I was dreaming of a metaphor of our tumultuous but always respectful relationship. What stuck in my mind was the fact that he acknowledged his inability to decide if I was what he really wanted. Like our lazy Sunday on the couch, I waited patiently and uneasily.

Every time I've either decided to let him go or that I would no longer wait for him, suddenly he reapears opening himself up a little more to me. But it has never been about adding to any sort of foundation, rather he would give me some insight to one of his many layers--his complicatedness, his self.

While the heroes of Austin's novels who distilled honor, virtue, respect, and duty always displayed their deepest layer--love-- last, I wonder if it is possible to expect the same from men today. Or perhaps, Austin's world has not really changed today; we continue to anticipate the reply to a text message or email in the same vain the women of the 19th-century waited upon the arrival of a letter. Of course, they did not have sex to complicate the matter but they displayed their affections more strongly. Even desperately at times.

And where Austin's heroines wait desperately for love to find and validate them, today we put up barriers to delay it. We work, have increasingly demanding social lives, and are expected to accomplish something great for ourselves. Will our accomplishments be weighted in the final decision of life? Or will they be simply counted as means to pass the time? What exactly is it that we are waiting for? Perhaps we chose to create a movement because we can and we should-- but what exactly that movement is, I am not sure if it is any different from those heroines of a time we somewhat mockingly read about.

My Ulysses

I have never been a big fan of rugby. First off, I don't understand the rules. There doesn't seem to be any logic to how the game is played, and despite the occasional break through of a few players most of the time both teams just end-up in a pile of bodies. Supposedly a man man's sport, I get the feeling it is just an excuse for men to wrestle like they were young boys again.

I arrived in my new city of Dublin the same weekend of the Rugby World Cup, which was being played in Paris, the city I had just moved from. Although I could careless who won, I appreciated the irony in the juxtaposition of the two cities. As a fan of sporting events in general, I knew I would enjoy the buzz around the pubs during matches since both France and Ireland were big contenders in the event.

My first weekend in Ireland an Irishman, whom I had met through aSmall World--an invitation-only social network, offered to show me around Dublin. I eagerly accepted Mr. Irish Lad's offer, excited to see Dublin and break-in to its night life. Of course I was slightly nervous to meet him outside the DART station because unlike myself, his personal profile was not accompanied by a photo and the only description he gave me was "I am kind of tall with blondish hair."

Although he was no Brad Pitt he was certainly cute and as we walked the grounds of Trinity College we chatted easily. A lawyer who had grown-up in Dublin proper, Mr. Irish Lad had spent two college summers in the Hamptons teaching tennis. Our first stop of the night was a packed pub to watch the second half of the rugby match and followed by Ireland's win, we found our way to Cocoon, a lounge bar in the center of town.

While our conversations moved from one topic to the next, I remember my amusement when his mention of how much he enjoyed watching Sex and the City. This lead to an inevitable conversation about dating in our respective countries and our conclusion was that dating in the U.S. and Ireland was similar, which was interesting because I am not sure if he had even dated an American before. As I have never seriously dated an Irishman, I wondered to myself if this was an accurate conclusion.

From Cocoon, he suggested we go somewhere else although that somewhere was not specified. I took his lead and after about five minutes it seemed like we were walking away from the area where most bars were. My instincts were correct: he suggested that we go to his place where he had some wine; in fact, it was the direction we were heading in. I agreed, somewhat baffled by this new twist to the night. We had barely had a flirtatious moment and while I found him nice, I wasn't sure if I was even attracted to him.

Two glasses of wine later, sitting on a leather couch in a very barren room, Mr. Irish Lad began to kiss me. Again, I wasn't sure what to think but the kissing was enjoyable... and I was slightly drunk. But that is where I took over the lead, and lead myself home shortly afterwards, despite his requests that I follow him into his bedroom.

A week went by without hearing from him, which I thought was kind of odd but to be perfectly honest only slightly bothered me. Who was this guy really?

The following Saturday I went to Fresh, a supermarket, with a friend. We immediately bee-lined it to pastry section when a cute guy walked up and mentioned that the muffins across the street were much better... I was so enthralled with the muffins that I barely noticed as my friend poked me in the side, mumbling "talk to him!"

Walking towards the meat section that is when I noticed him: Mr. Irish Lad. Although I wasn't quite sure if it was him or not, so I grabbed my friend and pointed him out. I spent the rest of the time in the store, sneaking around trying to get a better look. Funnily enough, Mr. Irish Lad kept walking in which ever direction I was headed in. I tried to keep my cool, certain it was him now. After I had seen him walk from the front of the store all the way to the back where I was standing, I found him standing within a few inches of me but he didn't say a word.

I had to keep myself from bursting out laughing at the immaturity of the situation. He obviously was ignoring me although he was following me around and I was too proud to speak first since he never bothered to call me after we went out. I had an ego to protect!

He finally, made his way out of the store without saying anything to me even though I was positive he had noticed me. After my friend and I paid for our groceries, I decided that I would text him to find out if it had actually been him.

Me: "Did I just see you in Fresh? Small World!"
Mr. Irish Lad: "You did, that's funny. Hope you're well."

I couldn't believe he had admitted it without even one single explanation or apology for his behavior! But I couldn't resists, pushing further I sent another text:

"And you didn't bother to say hi? I wasn't sure it was you! I am doing fabulously, and you?"

To which he responded,

"Good to hear, doing some work now, enjoy the sunshine."

Once again I was baffled at his behavior. First he admits he saw me but again won't offer any explanation. Perhaps I could have been mature enough to turn to him when I had the chance and say hello but if he had text me like I had, I might have at least lied or claimed "wow, that was you! I wasn't sure and didn't want to make a jerk of myself by approaching some stranger." But he acted unapologetic and yet cowardly at the same time about his behavior.

I think what bothers me about the whole situation is how strange it all is. There was no obvious reason for his behavior and really no excuse. Even though I wouldn't have sex with him that night we met didn't mean I wouldn't have been interested in it later. And when I left his apartment that night out there didn't seem to be any uneasiness when we said goodbye.

But perhaps this is how it works in Ireland. If you don't put out the first night, they don't want to see you again? Certainly different from the French approach-- at least they would have settled in for the chase a bit and if they didn't want to, they would certainly let you know. Yet, what is most mystifying--what if this is how Irish people date?

In my experience, most of the men who disappointed me, never blatantly disrespected me. Not to say some of them were not weak, taking the easy way out, at least they had the audacity to lie or stretch the truth. Of course, I often complain that my current fling hasn't called or wants something different than, me and I wish that he would just be honest and up front with me. But from this last experience, Mr. Irish Lad's method was much more deliberate--methodical even. No wonder Joyce, Beckett, Wilde, and others got out of Ireland as fast as they could and yet spent years obsessing about it. And while I am not Irish, just my name is, I am beginning to wonder if Molly Bloom wasn't completely misunderstood.

But like all new places there is the inevitable culture shock and this certainly translates to the dating scene. There will always be those nuances that you have to learn and accept-- whether you like it or not. At least I had the satisfaction of watching France beat Ireland 25-3. There is nothing like a pile of Frenchmen on top of a pile of Irish ones to make you smile.

For Your Ears Only

About a month ago, a colleague from the London office called me to ask for my assistance on a project he was working on. He had recently joined to company and I had heard of him mentioned time to time by others in both the Paris and London offices--from what I could gather was he was quite eager and ambitious, somehow always managing to juggle a number of tasks at once. Before I had even spoken to him, I felt slightly jealous. Although he has more senior position than me (well, he is one step up from myself), he seemed to be, from the threads of conversations I over heard, the star new guy.

He began his request by email, one that I was anticipating since I had over heard my editor on the phone unvolunteeringly volunteering my services to him. The email was polite but casual, simply asking if I wouldn't mind giving him a call when I had a chance. I wasn't opposed to helping at that moment but I was in the middle of some editing crisis so I put off calling him for a few hours. Not to be out polited, I sent an email back, promising to call soon.

When I finally did call him back, I wasn't prepared for what I was about to hear. The request was simple enough but it was the voice that delivered the request that took me aback. I knew when calling London I was most likely going to speak with an Englishman. And in fact I call the city quite regularly for all sorts of reasons, speaking with English people all the time. But there was something about this particular voice that grabed my attention. And it wasn't just his voice, it was his delivery, and the manner of his sentences. We spoke for a very short time, less than five minutes. In this business there is not much time for small talk.

Our next phone call came perhaps the next day or two days later. Just a check-in really but this time we both managed to divluge some personal information. But still quite surface level--how long have you been working for the company, how are you enjoying it so far--but the questions were always delivered quite friendly and answered somewhat charismatically. The third time we spoke, I had previously sent him a somewhat panicked email apologizing for a delay in the project. He called back to reassure me that there was no rush and ask me what had happened. Our first alliance was built over that conversation and for me it was quite a relief. Most of the people I work around are quite senior to me, so those little details that you eventually learn to accept unconditionally and seem less important after a few years, were still sometimes lost on me. And since we work in such a fast paced environment there are many more important questions to be asked and answered. At least this time, a sarcastic comment wasn't perceived at as immature or inexperienced but, I can only imagine, with a cracked smile and nod.

I instantly found this to be a connection between us. Maybe it was a connection lost on anyone but myself, nevertheless, after that day I started to look forward to our conversations, even if they were short and sweet. Often, a few more personal questions are asked and we both slowly gotten to know a little a bit about one another. Yet, I still do not know what he looks like, how tall he is, what color his eyes are, the color of his skin and hair, or what kind or smile he has. Of course, what someone looks like is not everything but it is often the descriminatory tool you use when you meet a stranger for the first time. Whether or not you always want to admit it, the way in which someone looks play a big roll in your initial interest in that person.

Ok, before I go on, I will admit I have somewhat of a weakness for English accents. There is something charming and commanding in them as well as innately intelligence--maybe even a bit arrogant and snobbish but at times this can be a very attractive trait. I have even dated the odd Englishman here and there, so the idea that I find this faceless person's voice sexy is not a surprise. Rather, it surprises me how excited I get at even the thought of speaking with him. In the beginning it was his voice that I found to be a turn-on but as I have gotten to know a little more about him, I have not only found his voice to be sexy and charming but he, without knowing all of him, has become so as well. Clearly, it is not only physical and maybe I am attracted to him only because I don't know him therefore he truely has become the unattainable man.

I will only be in this position for a few more weeks before moving. I am sad to admit it but this will probably become the end of our converstations unless I suddenly find myself in London. He is like the pen-pale I once had when I was 12: I sometimes feel closer to those who don't me than with those who do. At the very least, he gave me butterflies during sometimes long and tedious days.

And if I do move to London well I won't hesititate to ask him for a drink. Let's just hope he doesn't have a girlfriend--a subject I doubt we will ever touch upon.

Break-up or Break-out?

I realized the other day that a number of these posts were written with one particular subject in mind. A real first for me. Usually, to post or to publish about one person allows me to free them from the grips of my subconscious--apparently I judged this one too soon. And in fact, I had. It had only been the upward climb along the roller coasters tracks-- I hadn't even felt the effects of what happens when you go down and then back up again, and then down and up...

Perhaps, I shouldn't have played into his games: his text message Friday evening provoked my "I'm too busy" response, followed by his "tomorrow?" The game began again early Saturday--a call at 11am could mean only one of two things and it would have been incredibly out of character for him to suggest we walk through the park holding hands. I refused a second time. If this was what we had finally surmounted to, well, I was at least going to enjoy it.

I consulted girlfriends, claiming I needed advice on how to deal with this new development. I knew what I was most likely going to do with or without their advice but I still needed to mull it over for some time. One friend told me I was nuts and was going to get hurt even if I said I was indifferent. Another said that I should go for it as long as I knew what I was doing, which made me wonder: do we ever really know what we are doing? I had no clue at that point but I knew I didn't want to appear too eager or obvious by the fact that I was over joyed we would be seeing each other again.

Later that day, I agreed to meet him for a nightcap. Code for guaranteed sex. It wasn't that I was desperate but the fact that I knew I would be comfortable. He knew what I liked and I knew what he preferred. I was tempted by the fact that no matter what happened the next day I would enjoy it.

The rest of the day passed in slight agony. I wasn't sure if I had made the right decision and worse, I was somewhat fearful that he might change his mind about the entire rendez-vous when the time came. I should have canceled right then and there because twenty minutes before we were supposed to meet he text messaged that he was too tired to see me. I wanted to throw-up or at least write a nasty text back but I did neither. Instead I promptly deleted it, put on my heals, and went out. I was not playing anymore and I would only admit indifference. Martinis and vodka shots at the bar down the street would suffice.

Two weeks later, I was out with friends enjoying one of those nights you could never plan. I hadn't spoken to him since the night he pulled out but his radar must have gone off again. "Where are you?" the message read. I gave in this time for no other reason to take what I had wanted to take from him previously. Fueled by liquid courage, I arrived at his apartment ready to pick a fight and of course he found it to be a turn on.

I left his apartment the next morning, practically sneaking out in the same manner that I had the first time we had spent the night together. "Got back together with my man last night but I think I was dreaming, he didn't feel quite right," ran through my head as I walked the few blocks home. What I hadn't realized was that it wouldn't be the same anymore because I wasn't the same anymore. Selfish sex is only fun during a one night stand not when you've projected everything you want someone to be onto him. He won't ever deliver.

In real time, it took another week for me to realize this when he stood me up for an engagement he promised he would accompany me to. But the wonderful thing about it was I finally got it through my head that I was completely wasting my time! And between all those broken promises I found something even great--the confidence to demand more.

-C

What is it About Men?

A little more than a month after my last torrid affair, I was finally starting to feel better about its ending. Perhaps some of my angst came from the fact that the ending, well, wasn't really an ending. It was more like pushing the hold button indefinitely, something I wasn't entirely O.K. with but it made me feel better about all the time I had spent thinking about the relationship and where it was headed (apparently only into the abyss of 'what if').

However unsatisfying the sort of non-ending was, it did relieve me of the immediate expectations that had left me disappointed so many times before. I knew there was no need to check my messages twelve times a day wondering if he'd called. I knew he wouldn't and I needed to know this solidly and without exception to be able to move on. In the beginning, it worked for all of five days before he did send me a message. It was the first day of this new official status for us and he was sending me a message! How dare he, I thought at first and then false hope set-in. We were supposed to be moving on and he was calling me, which must have meant that he didn't really want to move on.

Yet, we kept our distance from one another, perpetuated by the fact that we were both extremely busy but we didn't break communication from one another all together. One message lead to another and soon enough I realized I was making plans to tentatively meet up. In the meantime, I was spending time with friends and going out to new places in attempt to meet someone new. A few days ago, I did happen to meet someone I thought was very cute. And he was from Brazil-- a place I have never visited before. We hit it off right away and those initial hours when you first meet someone new had been forgotten until then. Those little nuances and ways in which you try to touch one another, the excuses you come up with to stay longer, and finally that first goodbye.

Everything leading up to that first goodbye indicated that it would be as great as the rest of the night. And while I can't say it was completely awful it just wasn't what I entirely expected. It was the person haunting my subconscious and it was those fireworks I was desperately seeking. Thinking about it now, it is no wonder I felt so disappointed-- I put everything I've got into that first kiss! It was strange and unfamiliar, which strikes a cord with curiosity and desire for more but in this case it just wasn't everything I wanted it to be.

Nevertheless, it was exciting and I wasn't opposed to getting to know this Brazilian some more. The next night we met up again...late. And after I had already been out with friends. It was probably not the best time to see one another again for only our second meeting. But I was feeling reckless--I needed to prove to myself that I could have whatever I wanted. That was a mistake since I was simply projecting my lost desires onto someone else, so of course when I did invite him back to my apartment I was extremely disappointed at the performance.

Amazingly, I didn't care much either. It was not what I wanted and there was no use in getting hung-up about it. As someone who has a hard time admitting to herself how much she might care about certain people and certain situations, I finally let myself realize that I just wasn't ready to move and it was probably time to start dealing with that.

Yet, what is is about men? If the saying is true, all you need to get a date is another date, then the one who I truly desired's radar went off because not less than 12 hours about the Brazilian, he called. Be careful what you wish for they might ultimately say!

-C

My thought of the week....

Is it really true? If you let someone go they will come back to you? My idealistic, Sagittarius side wants to say yes! And perhaps, like a multiple choice exam I should just stick to my instincts... But if it is true, life does not play fairly.

?

My Final Confession, "Relationship Guru" published in The Planet, May 2007

This might sound a little dramatic but when did our generation become so unavailable? Yes, yes, I realize that this is a gross generalization but since I began writing this column three years ago it has become clear that the notion of availability has been my underlying theme. And maybe that is simply a comment about me; yet, it seems ironic too. We have every possible means of communication available to us and with one five word sentence in a text message, we can throw off our entire day analyzing every possible meaning it could hold (or is that just me?!).

Since January, I have been seeing one guy who at times has provided me with the greatest of satisfactions and other times has left me bewildered. We have had a lot of fun together—I guess you could say we clicked. But what has baffled me about the entire relationship has been the number of times I assumed the fling was up (my evidence being the fact that he has a terrible habit of disappearing) and then out of no where he would suddenly appear again—sweet, endearing, affectionate, and seemingly sincere.

But maybe I’ve read too much into it. What if all I have been in his eyes is the 23-year old woman who is just out for a good time and didn’t need any follow-up. In a lot of ways I have played that role beautifully: I never asked anything from him; I wasn’t dramatic, incessant, or demanding. I did everything I could to just play it cool. And I would have been more than willing to walk away at anytime. Maybe that’s where I haven’t been smart and why he felt as if he could wander away whenever he felt like it. I was seemingly indifferent to the relationship, and he, happily uncommitted.

To my own defense this is the only way I know how to act when I really start to like someone. My fear of vulnerability and getting hurt overwhelms my ability to act myself completely. This inevitably leads to game-playing—calculated game playing even. In the beginning the games were fun to play because they made everything exciting. If he wouldn’t call me for a week then I would wait a few days before calling him back; if I hadn’t seen him for a while I would work extra hard to make sure I looked stunning. He was never slow to compliment me and I got to act like I had barely thought about what I was wearing.

My own attempts at intimacy usually left me a little scared and running for the door. For instance, there was one morning when I could have spent the entire day in bed with him—I had no place to go all day. Instead, I woke up, a little overwhelmed at the idea that I could stay there all day and after two unsuccessful attempts at falling back asleep, I quietly got out of bed, got dressed, and whispered good bye. I spent the rest of the afternoon alone in my apartment wondering what was wrong me. However, I don’t think I have been the only one afraid of where we were headed. He always seemed to partake in his disappearing act after we would spend a really great night together. It is hard not to trivialize those moments because of that very fact. But how do you deal with the intensity of a moment you are not sure even happened or had as much significance as you felt it had?

The worst moment was, however, the night he added the final touches to the canvas he had created of me—that I had let him create. We were discussing “us”, which I should add he brought up, when he told me that he loved telling his friends about me because I wasn’t dramatic. I seemed to get him and the fact that he needed his space and I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I was frozen by that comment. In some ways it was flattering. I had succeeded at being completely unavailable. I appeared not to be looking for anything in particular, and as he said, I might just be doing the college thing. I am still not sure what that even meant but I guess he assumed I was just having fun. That left me very little room for expressing what it was I really wanted. And instead of breaking the mold, I kept all my thoughts to myself, too afraid to hear the truth because if he told me what I wanted to hear then I finally got what I wanted and if he didn’t, well, then I would have to walk away from the situation altogether.

Since not seeing him for a few weeks—this perhaps being the longest we haven’t seen one another but one of the times we have been in the most contact with one another (that being relative), I am starting to feel hurt by the situation. There are so many questions I want to ask him and so many things I need to say for myself. But I am afraid to make those demands because I might have to experience heartache for the very first time.

So maybe not much has changed in three years but I think I am finally ready to start exploring what it is I really want.