The Dating Dad

Empty: February, 2009

This is the third time in a week I’ve started a February column. I hope this one takes.

I’ve struggled with what to write about—rules for dating and Facebook? Twitter dating tips and disasters?

One of the side effects of the new regime has been a total lack of motivation on my part to talk about/write about/ponder upon dating. The two columns I started were so lackluster that even I was bored within a couple of paragraphs, and that’s while I was still writing them. I have no funny dating stories. I have no romantic tales of epic coincidence that smack of destiny and true love. I don’t even have a good missed connection caper (I have a kind of funny one, but I’m only an ancillary player in that mini dustup).

Going this route has forced me into some tough decisions.

I’ve had a running “what if” virtual romance with Pet Shop Lady for a couple of years, now. She grew very close to Simone, but we never became involved with each other (every time we circled around exploring a relationship, she would take a giant step backward, and I finally gave up). Still, there was always possibility in the air between us. Even when I was fully committed to The Peach, I’d get inappropriate texts from Pet Shop Lady, and, though I didn’t encourage them, I didn’t actively discourage them, either. It was a point of contention for The Peach, and I can’t blame her for feeling threatened by our odd relationship.

So, in order to protect myself, I took a hard look at the challenges that would be inherent in a true relationship with the Pet Shop Lady, and built a snow fort of doubt and obstacles around my heart. For the most part, it kept me safe.

But when this very beautiful, sought-after, romantic and generous human being, heretofore emotionally unavailable, finally began making an honest effort toward connecting with me in the last couple of months, I couldn’t resist exploring the possibility that we could be wonderful together. So I packaged up my doubts, hoping they’d go away when we finally had a chance to dive in, and started spending time with her.

After a few real dates, though, the doubts resurfaced, as poignant and untenable as ever. I resisted them, not wanting to give up so quickly on something that had been brewing for so long. But when I remembered my promise to myself—that I wouldn’t string anyone along if I just wasn’t feeling it—I realized I had to end things. In her mind, I gave up too soon. But for me, I stopped before it was too late. I needed to know if my doubts could be supplanted by the reality of being with her. Now that I’ve finally spent some time with her, the spell has been broken.

And the purge continues. This week, the last of the unrequited, the backups, and the just-in-cases removed themselves (or were let go) from my roster of possibilities. The benches are completely empty.

It’s like that feeling right after your six month visit to the dentist—the residual pain of all that scraping and digging is offset by the sense that you’re shiny and fresh, unsullied, at least until your next meal.

I’m hollowed and hallowed, without that easy comfort of knowing that there’s someone I could woo if I really wanted company. My drunk text list is clear. I’m on my own.

It really is a hopeful place to be, because it means that my own doors and windows are open wide, that even the ghosts and wild spirits have left the edifice. The dust bunnies have been evicted and I’m in a place where I can welcome the right woman into my space, with no cobwebs or dirty underwear on the floor for her to come across. Spring cleaning has come early.

But it’s also daunting, and occasionally lonely to the point of near paralysis. I’ll find myself sprawled on the couch on a non-Simone weekend night, unable to rouse my sorry carcass even for a dirty martini across the street. Hell, some nights, I lack the motivation to order in Thai food; I console myself with spoon-sized shredded wheat for dinner, yogurt-covered pretzels for dessert, all washed down with whatever beer is left in the fridge.

This is very uncharacteristic of me; my tendency is to take good care of myself when I’m blue, cooking up robust concoctions of fresh fish and vegetables, with crazy sauces and a rich array of side dishes. I’ll do a full-on multi-course meal, for me alone, and live on the leftovers for a couple of days, transfiguring them into delicious brunches and late night snacks.

It’s okay. It is.

It’s good for me to feel this way. As divorce coach Jackie Walker wrote recently, in a beautiful reaction to my January column:

“The courage and self understanding which comes from knowing what makes you tick and not what makes you less lonely is the difference between choosing a relationship which will last and finding that you're back in the spin cycle again.”

I think I’m going to print that out and put it on my bathroom mirror. No more spin cycle for me. I’m holding out for that shiver and spark.

Shiver and Spark: January 2009

Being pragmatic is getting me nowhere.

Last week, I looked back at all of my thousands of Twitter updates (also known as “tweets”) from 2008 for another piece I was working on, and, though I was looking for more business-y types of highlights, I couldn’t help noticing a lot about my personal life in those 140-character missives.

Sure, I drank my share of dirty Ketel martinis and dirty chai (no, it’s not a theme), and I cooked/ate some amazing food. My Twitter stream also proved to me that Simone and I had incredible adventures together in 2008, and that I’m doing a pretty decent job, parenting-wise. I could pinpoint changes in my feelings for the Peach—especially when I felt decimated, which gave me pause.

But I also noticed that the Twitter stream didn’t express much about the magical moments in my love life from the past year. There are two reasons:
1.    There weren’t very many of them.
2.    I didn’t feel free to share them when they did happen.

That isn’t to say I didn’t have very enjoyable dates and rendezvous with amazing women. Because I did. I’m grateful for the very special moments I shared with some very special people this last year. Believe me, I’ll be replaying some of them in my mind in the lonely months to come (more on that in a sec).

Looking at my thousands of tweets, I could pinpoint exactly two (obscure) references to being overcome by that shiver and spark of chemistry and potential.

You know what I mean — the stomach-knotting craving for a particular person’s company; the shiny thrill when that one person’s name pops up on your phone or in your inbox; the painful, pleasant longing when you’re apart; the exhilaration spiced with doubt and fear that makes the best rollercoaster ride seem like a trip down the kiddie slide.

How many times in the last year did I make excuses for the woman across the table from me? “She’s really, really smart. And, um, she has pretty eyes — maybe I’ll come around,” or “She doesn’t have a lot of interesting things to say, but she’s gorgeous and close to my age,” or “Everyone says we’d be good together.” And then we’d go out on a second or third date, with me working hard to convince myself that it could work. And when, invariably, I needed to walk away, it left her upset and me unsatisfied and guilt-ridden. Truly, how can you explain the sentiment, “I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling it”?

Talking to my counselor, I’ve realized that, in the several months after ending things with the Peach, I’ve started to settle. Not in the usual, “Maybe this is the best I can do,” way (e.g. giving up), because, honestly, I’ve seen some truly wonderful women come and go.

No, I’ve started to settle for less than what I really, really want to feel. I’ve tried to ignore the lack of fire in my belly, thinking that maybe that joy and tension isn’t as important as the other stuff.

In other words, I led myself into the trap of the not-so-young single parent. I’ve listened to those twin imps of self-doubt and fear of loneliness. “I’m tired of being alone. I’m not getting any younger. And she’s really great. Maybe that’s enough.”

But it doesn’t turn out to be enough, does it?

So, though I’m not going to ignore reality completely, and though I’m not going to wait around for some unattainable ideal partner, I am going to hold out for that one girl who makes me crazy—the woman who makes me forget the doubt—the one I can really open up to, sharing my strengths and weaknesses, my loves and my pain. That one girl who can complete our family and share in the sweetness and difficulties attendant with being close to someone as screwy as I am. The one who makes me think dinner at home and a makeout session on the couch sounds infinitely better than a dirty martini in a crowded bar on a chilly winter night (but who will also make me get off the couch and go enjoy a guys’ night out).

Because the other thing I’ve realized through my hard work is that, as much as I love my single lifestyle, I really do want to be with someone. I’ve fought with myself over the last six years, and I’ve worried about my ability to maintain a true relationship, but I know I’m hard-wired to love and cherish the right woman. In the meantime, though, I’m better off spending my non-parenting nights focused on work and friends and myself than going on another date “just in case.”

When it comes down to a real relationship, finding the right person will be as crucial as my being emotionally available to her. In fact, I finally believe that one is dependent on the other.

As a friend said just a few days ago, “When you’re done being single, you won’t be!”

Amen.

You know what else I noticed about the last year? I didn’t write nearly enough funny dating stories. I’ll work on that, too

The Last Peach: December 2008

You asked for it, so I’m squeezing eight months of events into a single column.

Here’s what happened:
1.    The Peach read Peach, part 3 and decided to end things. My indecision and inner turmoil pushed her away. And, in the midst of all that was happening in my life, as sad as I was to see her go, I didn’t try to stop her. We both cried when she kissed me goodbye, and then she was gone.
2.    Except for the rare phone call, or the time she was apartment hunting in my area and came by my place to use the bathroom. She left so fast it gave me the kind of emotional whiplash that lasted for days.

That’s when I knew I needed help. So I started seeing a counselor. It was past time to sort out what was broken inside me, and get to work fixing it. I told the counselor to press her thumb hard where it hurt, to dig in and help me get fit to be in a relationship before I did more damage. From the beginning, I gave my full intention to our sessions.

3.    A couple months later, I was ironing my clothes and getting ready for a date when the phone buzzed, the Peach’s name on the screen.

“Hi,” I said.

“Eric? This is [Peach]’s friend.”

My heart started racing, my stomach started running for my bowels, and my vision dimmed.

“I want you to know that [Peach] is okay,” she said. “But she was in a really bad mountain biking accident. She broke her leg, and is in surgery right now.”

“Oh no,” I said, not sure what was expected of me, or why she would be calling.

“I think it would be good if you were there when she wakes up.”

I didn’t say anything. I wanted to ask her if the Peach had asked for me, or if this was her friend’s misguided idea.

“She told me she wanted you there.”

And that’s all I needed to hear. I cancelled the date, packed a few overnight items, and flew out the door for Boulder. I stopped at Target and made a little gift bag of DVDs, ready-made foods, a magazine, and some Vitamin Water.

I was at the hospital before her friends arrived, not sure how they would greet me. The friend who had called gave me a hug; another friend wouldn’t make eye contact. We sat on couches waiting for the Peach to emerge from the elevator. I was quiet, humbled and out-of-place. An interloper.

Thirty long minutes later, we followed the Peach, who was on a gurney, to her room, and stood around her after she was settled in her bed. I leaned against the wall, not sure of my place. The Peach was still groggy and drugged up, but I could feel her eyes on me. She’d broken her leg in two places. It was the beginning of summer.

Eventually, she told everyone she was fine, and that we could leave. I went to the sink and wet a washcloth, to wipe the grit and crusty post-op adhesive from her face. Everyone else drifted away.

She held my hand. I helped her with the intake nurse’s questions. She talked to her dad on the phone, and told me he was happy I was there. We didn’t say much, but I curled around her on the tiny bed and kissed her forehead. The nurse offered to bring me a cot for the night, and when I said yes, the Peach shook her head and told me to stay at her place. I crawled into her bed that night, alone, wondering what it all meant. (I don’t have any answers for you to this day.)

I was there at her bedside early the next morning. She had that morning-after edge in her voice; she was embarrassed to have asked for me. She asked for a hug, then sent me away. She told me I could check in on her via text if I was thinking about her.

Over the next few weeks, I had the difficult challenge of being there for her when she needed me while keeping my own heartache in check. I didn’t want her to think I was only there because I wanted her back. Given the chance, I would have spent every hour with her, caring for her and being around her. But I didn’t want to press. We were talking again, and that was promising. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but I didn’t want her out of my life.

4.    When her Boulder lease ended, she went home to Chicago for a couple of weeks. The new place she’d found, less than a mile from my apartment, wasn’t ready, and her parents would be able to take good care of her while she healed.

When the Peach did move, right down the street, we started to spend time together again. It was too hard not to. I’d drive her around, help her pick out rugs and furniture for her new place. And, sometimes, she’d have a meal with Simone and me, or we’d hang out at her place, the two of them chatting on the couch about school while I installed the blinds on the giant windows. We told Simone we were just friends now, nothing more.

We left things undefined, and she could never resist changing the tone of a warm, loving moment by reminding me that we’d never be together again. I knew I was being tested. I would pass the test this time, I told myself.

5.    But then I didn’t. I didn’t invite her to an event I was co-producing. I had my reasons—I couldn’t define our relationship, I wasn’t ready to share her—but to her, it felt like a breach of trust, and she told me we needed to stop talking for real. That lasted a little more than 24 hours. We couldn’t disengage. There was just too much love, too much passion for us to make a real break.

Meanwhile, I continued my work, looking back at previous relationships, their dynamics, and my tendency to sublimate what I wanted and needed for the sake of harmony. How it was always easier to acquiesce than to argue. Really, from the time I was a little kid.

So I started to tell people what I wanted. I tested it out on my friends first. And, miraculously, they didn’t stop loving me when I started saying “no.” In fact, my friendships grew stronger as I expressed my own needs, and even asked for help when I needed it.

All the Peach ever wanted, she’d say, was for me to tell her what I wanted. To trust her enough to be honest. So I practiced on her, too. But that didn’t go as well.

Because our relationship was still undefined, my assertions of needing space and nights to myself sounded, to her, more like excuses to go on dates with other women. And the more she pushed back about my need for “me” time, the more resistant I became. It was a messy spiral, where our needs diverged even as we pushed to get them met. Her concerns that I was being selfish sparked selfish reactions from me, until neither of us could compromise.

And that’s what really killed it. I’m grateful for those extra months with her, because, as much as I love her, the experience finally proved that we were not meant to be together. We have very different needs from a relationship, and though we always knew that at some level, we thought we could work through it.

Of course I miss the Peach sometimes. But this breakup feels fundamentally different from the previous ones. This time, we rode things out to the end. The relationship just finally ran out of gas. After a road trip that lasted a year and a half (off and on), we sputtered to a halt and walked away. There’s no residual sense of possibility anymore. I miss her as a person, as someone I care about, as someone I trust with Simone, but the longing has faded (mostly), with a sense of relief taking its place. I learned so much from her.

The months have passed. My work continues.