Boomerang Men

Although, like all women, I've been given plenty of reasons not to over the years, the truth is that I love men.  And the vast majority of the time, I even like them.  What is strange is that, in some ways, I think I'm starting to understand them.  

The idea of wanting what they can't have is a defining feature.  First, there is a break-up pattern that they rarely seem to avoid.  Not matter how ugly the break-up, how traumatized one is by it, just wait five years and he'll be back.  Granted, there are the odd instances where this doesn't happen - he realizes he's gay, you make it clear you'll set his hair on fire should you ever see him again - but otherwise - he'll be back.

My high school sweetheart and I had a rather complicated break-up.  I thought we were taking a break, he thought he'd get another woman pregnant and then marry her.  So that one is long gone, right?  Except a few years later, there he was, calling me, unhappy in his marriage, blah blah blah.  A bit too late, but somewhat flattering I suppose.  (And 20 years later he showed up on my doorstep again.  No more mature than the last time and not nearly as flattering.)

My college boyfriend waited until I'd moved to NY and was ecstatic with my new life, to show up and ask me to marry him and return to small-town, rural LA with him.  (This one, I think, finally gave up on that particular dream about two years ago.). Frankly, if he'd been a year earlier, I might have been tempted but - hello!  NY!

The crazy NY boyfriend didn't actually wait years; he continued to pursue me until he ran out of ways to reach me.  (Had to delete a few e-mail addresses, and swear everyone I knew to secrecy, but those are small issues.). Mind you, this one became more and more delusional as time passed.  I became deadly serious about avoiding him when he wrote that the 'happiest day' of his life was the day he proposed to me and I accepted. Given that I had no recollection of such a day ever happening (one would remember that, right??), I decided he was a bit too out-there to deal with.

The saga has continued and since most of these are actually decent men, I've remained friends with them, even as I've let them know that we will not be getting back together.

So this is something I have figured out about the male gender - they're much like boomerangs.  Mind you, this hasn't been especially useful knowledge for me, but it could help other women.  Any woman who truly wants a man she's broken up with and is willing to wait for five years or so, can probably get her wish.  I have to assume this works for everyone because it's not like I'm some femme fatale; if I tried to walk sexily into a room, I would trip over my own feet and fall flat on my face.  I walk into doorways.  Dead sober.  But once they realize they've lost you, they're hooked.

The other pattern I've noticed is that those silly things that many of us consider important - shared interests, values, etc. - nonsense!  As soon as they sense that you truly aren't interested, their goal is to convince you that you are meant for each other.  I was fixed up with a lovely man a few years ago.  Quite a nice person but it was obvious from the first five minutes that this wasn't going to lead anywhere.  His life revolved around classical music (he was a musician) and baseball.  He loved life-risking adventures in the kinds of countries that the State Department warns you against visiting.  And he surrounded himself with children whenever possible because he enjoyed being a mentor.  When I pointed out that I pretty much only listen to Broadway and C&W and I fall asleep listening to any music that doesn't have lyrics, I loathe all sports, my risky travel adventures focus on learning new subway systems - and I avoid children like the plague - he saw all those as minor points to be laughed away.  This is certainly not the first time that a man had no understanding of the concept of deal-breakers (one literally laughed and told me I was being silly when I said I wouldn't date a man who ate meat - he still doesn't understand why I won't go out with him), so again, I don't think this is about me.

However, this understanding leads to a bit of a sticky wicket should I want to date again.  The problem is that I have to let men know that they can't have me so they'll want me.  Which isn't going to get rid of any of the ones I don't want.  But - my luck - it may actually serve to deter any I might desire.  I guess my pseudo-anthropological studies will have to continue!

Train Guy

It is no secret that I work with some very strange people - and that I wouldn't have it any other way.  Recently, there were four of us women at lunch and the conversation turned, as conversations will, to men.  The youngest in the group is recently married.  One is divorced and the other two of us have always been single.  Through a convoluted discussion thread, we ended up with a female lunch bunch challenge.  All of us were to find husbands within the next 60 days.  (The fact that we weren't sure we actually wanted husbands was set aside as irrelevant.). Upon reflection (yes, this was a work lunch; we were sober; there could be reflection), it occurred to me that there was an obvious  flaw with this plan.  We've all dated, had relationships, one of us had even been married and divorced ... there was no reason on earth to assume that any of us is any good at choosing someone for ourselves.  So I threw out the idea that we should each find someone for our friends.  And in the final few minutes of our lunch hour, it was decided that the lone married woman should find a husband for the three of us.  After all, she seems to have chosen a truly good guy - she clearly has better taste than we do.

Next, I was chosen as the likeliest first candidate, largely because I was about to leave on vacation and might meet men in the course of my travels or in the other city.  In particular, they had high hopes that I would meet someone on the 18 hour train ride - maybe in the dining car.  Having done several long train rides where I've met a variety of interesting people (but no one with relationship-potential),  I was skeptical but willing to keep an open mind.

Alas, when I got on the train I discovered that this was unlike any train I'd taken before.  One large difference is that there was NO dining car; you were expected to eat in your roomette.  I alerted my friends to this turn of events and proceeded with my vacation.

Had a great time in Chicago and met some lovely people - waiter, bartenders, ticket sellers, even a real estate agent (female) - but not an eligible man in the bunch.  So I boarded the train for home, aware that I had flunked Finding a Man on Vacation.

I entered my roomette and settled down with a magazine.  Protocol is that one leaves one's door open initially as the porter will come to introduce himself, answer any questions, and, on this train, take your dinner order.  Five minutes later, a very cute (in a young Davy Jones/Herman of Herman's Hermit's type of way) man stops at my door and announces, "I'm so glad I decided to do this!  I'm thrilled that I chose to take the train and have an adventure!"  I smiled, said I'd taken the train many times and was sure he'd enjoy it ... and he walked in, sat down opposite me, and began to chat.

And he chatted.  And chatted.  And chatted.  He chatted through dinner (he asked that his be brought to my room), he chatted up to the moment when I announced that I was going to bed, and he finally went and found his own room.  Ten minutes after I arose the next morning, he was back.

I'll admit that for the first few hours, this was rather fun.  He was, as I've said, attractive, and also bright and had had an interesting life.  I can certainly speak to the latter as I feel that I now know every minute detail of said life!  But going into the second day, the appeal of this encounter began to wane.  I listen to people for a living and he wasn't even paying me.  Plus I'd brought a huge stack of magazines I'd not had time to read and now I was seriously behind.

Thoughts began to swirl in my head.  If I told him (even nicely) to go away, was I letting down the team?  What if he turned out to be perfect for one of my lunch bunch fellow-challengees?  I wasn't *really* looking for a husband, but what if I'd sent this out into the universe and now I was obligated to take what it sent me?  Was I just being overly picky?  Anti-social?  Sane?  And if I didn't send him away, was I supposed to keep him?  Like a puppy one picks up on the side of the road who needs a home?  I didn't even know if he'd had his shots!

In the end, I realized that what I did know - that the train's very late arrival meant that he was going to to miss his connection and he might have to stick around the town where I live - possibly overnight - and that I wasn't ready to get even a cardboard carrier and a cheap leash and be his foster friend - meant that I had to save myself.  Twenty minutes before we were due to arrive (and two hours before we did), I made a flimsy excuse to get him to leave.  And that was that.  Since he lives hundreds of miles from me, I didn't hesitate when he asked for my phone number (don't I ever learn?).  I even made it clear that I don't like to talk on the phone, but he could text me.

Only he doesn't like to text.  He likes to talk.  (Like I haven't figured that one out!). So he calls every other day.  (I don't pick up, but, still!!!!)

So that's it, lunch bunch.  I'm bowing out of the challenge.  I'm admitting that I could probably actually find a husband (or at least a boyfriend), if I looked around for one, but that I actually DO learn from the past.  I've learned that when my instincts say "Too much work!!", or "Run for the hills!", I need to heed them.  I've leaned that a 50 year-old man who looks like a 25 year-old pop star just might have the face that matches his maturity level. And I've learned that, protocol be damned, next time I'm closing the train door and making the porter knock!  

Stress Test

My cardiologist recently decided that I should undergo a stress test.  I hadn't had one in over a decade, I've been experiencing some shortness of breath upon exertion, and I do have a cardiac problem, so it seemed like a reasonable thing to ask.  Until I got the details.

Mind you, I'd had a colonoscopy a few months earlier, so I was less than enthusiastic about anything that required more than simply showing up.  But I'd agreed, so I wrote down what I was to do.  No food for two hours before the test (it was at 2:30, so I could eat lunch at 1200 if I finished in a half-hour), no caffeine for twelve hours before the test (WHAT??  This I did not sign up for.  I had to get through a morning of seeing patients without anything to keep me awake??  [This is not a judgment on my patients; I am hyper-somniac, so staying awake can be difficult no matter how interesting a case]), wear exercise clothes (what are they??  Somehow I didn't think my pole dancing clothes would be appropriate but I have nothing else ... a friend loaned me some in the end).  

By this time, I was ready to call the whole thing off, but I've learned that doing such things only prolongs the problem.  I'd have to do this at some point, so it might as well be this point.

Fast-forward:  Stress test over, results good.  Yes, it was miserable.  When I lived in NYC, I thought nothing of walking 3 miles at a brisk pace.  Then I moved to New Orleans where no one moves briskly; the humidity is like a permeable wall that one can only slog through.  And now I live in DC, where, in spite of the fact that a metro exists, I still have to own a car, which means I use it and don't get much exercise. 

But this got me thinking.  My goal is to buy property in Europe and live there about half the year.  I don't want a car there, and it's unlikely I'll be able to afford property in a city large enough to have a subway which means walking (or even biking - but that's a terror for another day), presumably pretty much everywhere, unless there is a bus that goes exactly where I want to go when I want to go.  There are reasons why this is enticing - when I lived in NY, I loved walking everywhere.  You see so much more and you're more likely to meet people when you're out and about on foot. It's exercise without exercising, and when I was walking everywhere, I rarely had to think about what or how much I was eating.

On reflection, however, there were reasons why this was not enticing.  First, walking during the day does expose one to sunlight, my sworn enemy, and, depending on the season and locale, it can be uncomfortable.  But the biggest problem is the problem described above.  For over a year, I've not been able to walk far at all (and forget steps or hills!) without feeling that my lungs are going to explode and I'm going to drop dead in the middle of the sidewalk.  Those idyllic jaunts I've been picturing could just as well be walks of torture and painful agony.

I do remember that when I first moved to NY, walking a half-mile was extremely unpleasant - I had to build up to striding all over the city, miles-be-damned.  But the 3/4 mile I'd been walking twice each day (to/from my car and office) had not been getting easier.  What to do??

Yes, I knew the answer. I looked everywhere for a different answer, but there seem to be no magic pills, no get-stronger-sitting-on-the-couch methods available.  I had to exercise.  Worse, this all became clear just as the pandemic (and lockdown) started, so I couldn't go back to pole dancing (which, to be fair, hadn't done a lot for endurance, although it benefited my body in numerous other ways).  I had to actually do something that FELT like exercise!

I whined.  I whinged.  I pouted.  (Luckily, no humans could see me and the cats ignore this behavior as long as it doesn't interfere with mealtime.). And I got off the couch.  YouTube is a wonderful thing.  People post all sorts of helpful (okay, not always) videos teaching you to do all sorts of things - things you might not have even known you wanted to do.  In spite of the fact that I have all the grace of a hungry hyena ripping apart a meal, I do love to dance, so I decided this was where I needed to start.  I found a group exercising to 'an 80's mix' - songs I'd never heard, of course, but that was hardly the point.  I started with an 8-minute workout and was so proud of myself when I got all the way through it - huffing and puffing and barely making it to the couch after.  Slowly, very slowly, I added on.  A disco video at 10 minutes, Zumba for Seniors (who cares if I was watching octogenarians - you start where you have to), and eventually walking videos.  They're my least favorite but seem to have the most benefits, so I've stuck with them.  The one-mile walk was a killer, but now I'm up to three.  And, though it adds nothing to my cardio endurance, as long as I survive at least 40 minutes of heartbeat-elevating movement, I allow myself to learn tap-dancing moves (something that I've wanted to do for years).

I'm finally at the point where I think I can go to Europe and wander about without humiliating myself.  And maybe - just maybe - enjoy walking around a village or to and from the local market.  As long as there's a couch at the end of the day.

Baby, baby

When I was about ten, I announced that I intended to have eight children.  I assume that my intent was to shock or impress someone but, having said this, I stuck with this idea for the next several years.  Until I neared adulthood and a time when I could have actually had children.  Then I realized I wanted no children.  None.

This shouldn't have surprised anyone.  When my sister wanted to play with baby-dolls, I had her line them up on the bed and we played 'adoption'; I had her fill out paperwork and take 'home' a 'baby'.  I never touched the dolls.  I'm pretty sure I never had a doll that cried or 'wet' or took a bottle.  I'd have certainly been given one if I'd asked, but I don't think they ever appealed to me.  The dolls I enjoyed were 'adult' dolls - Barbie and her ilk - and I had them go to college and embark on careers and take fabulous vacations.

When my mother's friends would come to visit and bring their children, I resented being sent out to play with those kids.  I wanted to stay indoors and listen to the adults talk.  They had interesting conversations, didn't find it necessary to run around outside, and they rarely got dirty.  So somewhere along the way, I realized that not only did I not want children, I didn't like children.  I still don't.  I don't like anything about them, the cries/smells and needs of an infant, the way toddlers always seem to have sticky hands and make annoying sounds, the interrupting adult conversations ... until a child is at least able to participate intelligently in conversation and wait to take a turn to speak, I don't want to meet it.

From about the age of 20, on, I made it very clear to anyone and everyone that I Would Never Have Children.  The way this blog would be expected to go is that I'd, somehow, wind up having a child and realize that being a mother is The Greatest Thing in the World.  That's not what happened.

I never did have a child.  I consider deciding not to have children the best decision I ever made.  There is nothing about it I regret.

Society disapproves less now than it did when I was 20, but the expectation is still that women want to be mothers.  People still shake their heads sadly, assume that you must be infertile, or fret about the fact that you will "come to regret" this decision.  I've even had a boyfriend's parents (whom I'd not yet met) point out to my boyfriend that I'd probably want to get married soon because I wouldn't want to wait (at my age) to have children.

This paternalistic belief that a woman who chooses to be childless can't possibly really know what she wants is more than annoying; it's dangerous.  Every ob/gyn I had refused to tie my tubes because I "might change my mind" down the road.  No matter that if I had, I'd have been the one to have to live with that choice, no matter that I'd shown no signs of ever changing my mind, no matter that it is MY body, they were convinced they knew best.  And female ob/gyns were often the most self-assured on this point!  So I took birth control pills for decades and, had I ever gotten pregnant, I'd have had to undergo an abortion, because the medical profession felt that I wasn't capable of knowing what I wanted.

It was with real relief that I passed my child-bearing years.  No more birth control pills and no more disappointment from self-righteous physicians.  I can say "I can't have children" and no one dares judge me for that.

This choice has had effects on my life.  More than once, I dated lovely, desirable men and knew the relationship was doomed because they wanted children.  More than once I've walked away from friendships with women I've loved because they had children and I couldn't pretend to want to be around their offspring.  But overall, it remains the best decision I ever made.

Yes, I have some friends who've reared truly lovely children, people whom I now enjoy.  But to get them to that point, they had to endure things that strike terror into my heart:  teething, two a.m. feedings, teen-age years.  And I have other friends who, knowing what they now know, would have likely decided to remain childless.  In fact, I don't think I have a single friend who, whether they remained child-free by choice or not, now wishes for motherhood.

I am truly thrilled for all those who want to do - and do - become mothers.  The world has to keep procreating if it is to survive and I appreciate the willingness of many to do this job.  I am grateful.

But society owes to those of us who've chosen not to have children, gratitude, also.  It's unlikely anyone who really doesn't want/like children would be a good parent, so isn't it wonderful that some of us realized that and have volunteered not to add another dysfunctional family to the world?

Automotive Darwinism

Every day or so, there is an article in the paper about a pedestrian killed while crossing the street.  Sometimes, the article is just tragic - a pedestrian following all the rules killed by a driver who didn't even stop afterward.  But, sadly, most of these articles are about what I've come to think of as automotive Darwinism.  Whether the pedestrians who dart out in front of a driver in the middle of the street - no crosswalk - or wait until the Don't Walk sign turns solid to start across - are daring, suicidal, or just plain stupid isn't a question I can answer, but I do feel that if Survival of the Fittest is the rule, these people are playing right along.

This used to be an occasional occurrence but lately not a day has gone by that some pedestrian hasn't, in effect, dared me to hit them.  And sometimes they've made it awfully hard not to do so.  Mind you, I won't pretend I always follow the letter of the law myself, but I spent ten years as a pedestrian in NYC where you either break the laws intelligently, not at all, or you die.  I cross against the light or in the middle of the street - if no car is coming!  I just have never been under the illusion that drivers would slow or stop for me if I was in the wrong.

This is not to say that pedestrians (and I am often one) are the only offenders.  Not much point in even talking about cyclists.  No one who has driven on a city street in the past decade has missed the joy of finally being able to safely pass one only to watch him sail through a red light that you have dutifully stopped for so that you are again behind him.  I don't know if they are practicing Cycling Darwinism but I fully expect to start reading articles about cyclists being driven off the roads by the drivers they have intentionally pissed off.

In the past, I have gone sky-diving, lived in crime-ridden cities, and taken a fall (or two) from a pole that could have ended poorly.  But, by far, the most dangerous thing I do is drive.  In DC.  Now I firmly believe that most cities are filled with bad drivers.  I'm not sure you could pay me to get in a car in Rome or Athens again and I haven't been many places where drivers tended to be polite and law-abiding.  But this is a city of powerful, arrogant "important" people (at least when they look in the mirror), and those are not qualities likely to make one a more thoughtful driver.  It occurred to me some time ago that the problem isn't that people don't know how to drive.  It's that they truly believe that the laws should apply to everyone else - but not them.  That their time is so much more valuable than anyone else's that they DESERVE to run that red light/stop sign/ignore that pedestrian lawfully walking in the crosswalk.

Frankly, I don't think it's possible to invent laws that will impact stupidity, arrogance and selfishness.  Our only hope is the driverless car.  Yes, I love the idea of knowing that no cars will be driven by people who are drunk or falling asleep or paying more attention to their phones than the road, and I am delighted at the idea that the elderly will be able to get around on their "own".  But I think the biggest impact is going to be that the cars, not the drivers, will be making the "decisions", and no matter how little one cares about laws or others on the road, the car will overrule their impatience.

So.  Now all we have to do is figure out how to save pedestrians and cyclists from their stupidity - and the rest of us from pedestrians and cyclists!

My Life

Do you ever stop and think, yep, that's my life?  Usually when you figure no one else's life looks like yours?  This happens to me with some frequency, both in good times and in bad.  When I showed up for the first day of Senior Year in High School, eager to show off my new promise ring - and every single person to whom I extended my left hand said, "Wow!!  Black nail polish!!"  When I met an actual Russian count - a lovely man - and had to keep finding gentle ways to remind him to wipe his dripping nose. When I attempted skiing for the first (and only) time, and wound up doing a Lucy Ricardo routine on the rope pull.  When I finally talked myself into going on a singing audition in NYC, got a call-back (!), and had to slink out of the studio because they expected me to be able to dance the Charleston.  (Trust me.  This was worth seeing but not for any good reason.). When an attorney in New Orleans told me that I really should become his mistress because I'd "never find a husband" (I'm pretty sure I never told him I wanted one) and because, in spite of the fact that he had a wife AND a mistress already, he "was plenty man enough to satisfy all of us".  When I fell in love with a man who was, and had always been gay, and he fell in love with me. When I had a friend call me to tell me that my best friend's love life "was the talk of the East Side" ... and mine "was the talk of the West Side".  When a rug salesman I've met once shows up at my door 3000 miles away to tell me that he's decided that I will move in with him (3000 miles away!) and he's hired a truck to transfer all my belongings day after tomorrow.

Well, you get the picture.  Of course, it's perfectly possible that everyone's life is just like mine - but my friends tell me it isn't.  And certainly, I know that many people have more interesting, exciting, adventure-filled lives than I.  It's just that mine seems to be ... a bit ... quirky.  Eccentric?

And periodically this is reinforced.  A few months ago, I decided I needed significant electrical work done in my house so I found an electrical company that seemed highly rated and asked someone to come out and give me an estimate. An experienced, charming man showed up.  And I have no clue how the conversation about electrical panels and burned-out outlets and GFCI's took this turn, but he told me he's an exotic dancer.  Basically, a male stripper.  My first thought wasn't, how did we get on this, or why is he telling me this, or even, let's get back to talking non-human electricity.  It was, yep, this is my life.

Fast-forward a few months, I'm ready to get the work done, and I call to schedule an appointment.  He calls and tells me he can't come out that day because he has to go to court (witnessed a crime), so we can either reschedule, or someone else can come out.  I'm only off the one day so I say someone else will need to come out.  And they do.  But sure enough, half-way through the morning, he's done with court and here he is.  Now I can assure you he has no interest in me.  He's half my age and hates cats (I have two).  But in addition to pointing out the work that is being done, making sure I have no questions, and all is done to my satisfaction, he's giving me grief for not inviting him to my holiday party last December, telling me he's going to drop off (topless) pictures of himself when he comes back to finish up some outdoor work, and reminding me that he "has [my] number".  This means nothing.  It's harmless, totally enjoyable flirtation.  Just like every customer has with her exotic-dancer electrician.  This is so my life,

Baby, baby

It's no secret that I am not a "kid person".  I don't enjoy their company, I don't find them amusing or adorable ... and I really, really don't like babies. They cry and they smell bad. These seem to be their only defining characteristics. So I'm not someone who would have been up nights trying to decide what to do had I ever gotten pregnant.  And there is no way on this planet or another that I'd have gone through nine months of carrying a baby - and labor! - just to give the child to someone else. I'm selfish that way and I don't apologize for it.

So I find it incredibly generous and heroically unselfish when a woman is willing to do that. I applaud these women. (And, for the record, my mother's birth mother did that and my mother was adopted by a couple who truly loved her.). I think we should, if not necessarily encourage this, as I don't think anyone but the woman herself gets to express an opinion, we should certainly not discourage it. And yet that has to be an effect of the movement to allow adopted children unfettered access to their birth information.

I'm certainly not the only woman alive who has always known that motherhood was wrong for her. I'm lucky to live in a country and an age with reliable birth control and, had I ever needed it, legal abortion. But let's just say the former had failed and, for whatever reasons, I had reservations about the latter. I might have thought seriously about having the child and giving it up for adoption. Unless I knew that such a child could, without my consent, eventually look me up and approach me. That would have ended my internal debate right there!

It's an amusing plot point on soap operas when a woman is approached by a grown child she did not realize she'd given birth to (those soap opera writers can make anything seem possible!), and it's long been fodder for new storyline when a child one had given up at birth appears at one's doorstep, but, contrary to popular opinion, I don't want my life to resemble a soap opera!  Okay, I'd love to be on one, but that's just not the same thing.

Yes, I absolutely agree that adopted children should have access to any known medical information about their birth parents. And, yes, I can understand why they might want to know more about those who biologically created them, but come on!  Someone went through nine months of hormonal changes, weight gain, stretch marks, and probably a lot of rude questioning, not to mention the "joy" of giving birth, just so this child could have a life - and, presumably, one better than the birth mother could provide (whether the lack be financial, emotional, etc.).  And now the child thinks it has a right to interrupt this woman's life's?  That she owes the child more?  Can we say selfish?!

True, I'm not adopted so I can't presume to completely understand the thoughts and feelings of someone who is, but I remember my mother's take on it ... that her mother undoubtedly did her a favor by giving her up and that her adopted parents were the parents the universe had chosen to give her ... and that she didn't feel it would be kind to enter the lives of her birth parents unbidden. I just wish more adopted children could see it in this light. They would be happier, less discontent, adoptive parents wouldn't worry that the child's loyalties were divided, and birth parents could rest secure in the knowledge that their lives wouldn't be interrupted by someone they had chosen not to know.

If this movement continues and such complete access to information  becomes the law of various lands, though, the whole point could become moot. Woman who would choose closed adoptions will choose abortions instead and there will be no such children to seek them.