Tag Archives: online dating

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Mr. Smith & the Little Notebook

In the heart of the Flat Iron District, right across from the building itself is a lovely place called Eataly.

It’s carved right out of the streets of Venice, with bright colors and even richer smells peppered about the establishment that entices passerbys, tourists and New Yorkers to take a stroll. There are cappuccinos and gelato, fresh cheeses and a wide selection of wine, along with truffle oil priced at $20 for an ounce or so. It’s fancy and expensive, filled with items I’d never buy for my kitchen, but treats I easily indulge in while I’m in the area.

But this night, my interest was piqued somewhere else. I didn’t give into the temptation of the double-chocolate cannolis and I kindly nodded against the samples of freshly baked bread with pesto dipping sauce. I looked away from the aisles filled with cooking knick-knacks that I could imagine myself using while wearing a silky black dress and expensive heels to match my expensive taste. But in that fantasy, I’m also dark-haired, exotic and tanned — not an Irish descendant with brown hair, blue eyes and cheeks that freckle in the sun.

In reality, I was waiting here to meet someone with similar hair and eyes but a foot taller. I nervously waited his arrival, still rather unsettled on my impression, and eager to see why he picked this location for our third date. I wondered if I haphazardly mentioned my obsession with all-things Italian or if it showed in my hips that devilishly trick me into picking pasta over salad nine times out of ten. When his name lit up in my phone, I figured out that, yet again, we were in different places at the same time. On our first date – a Sunday brunch that didn’t end until 10:30 in the evening – we went to separate locations of the same restaurant (I to the original, he to the one most convenient to me — woops). And here we were again, standing at different entrances, probably curious as to why the other is late. Perhaps we were both right on time, but with opposing opinions of where to stand. Isn’t that the case with most encounters that end up mattering?

I found him on the other side and we walked until he picked the beer garden on top of Eataly – something I meant to do this summer, but failed to accomplish. In the winter, it sparkles with white lights, and proved to be surprisingly toasty via heat lamps. As we bantered our way through the menu, ordered a bottle of red wine based merely because it was on special, I listened intently. His stories are feathered at the edges — full of variations in his tone, subtle grins here-and-there and blushing with character. But as much as he moved his hands at dinner or carelessly made light of himself, I could tell he had his ear on me.

Maybe I was biased after he promised his memory was better than mine while walking by the Plaza our first date. Or the fact he actually remembered my preference for orange juice on our second date when we stopped by McDonald’s after my first improv show in the city. Nevertheless, watching his lips as I tried to pay attention to his thoughts as much as I battled my desire to kiss him – I knew that he was taking me in. And more so, he was paying attention.

And this knowledge made me nervous.

I am always the one making observations, it is after all, part of the job of a writer to note other people. The only way I’m able to pen what I do is because I’m continuously anxious to discover the story behind strangers or the loves I know best. But to have my stomach know better than my heart that this new guy was absorbing everything I said (and did) – was rather fascinating. Maybe I’m a little jaded from the revolving door of dudes who don’t live up to expectations, yet thrive on being disappointments – but I was surprised to find a man who actually listened.

And more astonishing, asked more questions than I did. Now, that’s a definite first.

As the check came and went, along with my level-head due to the velvet red wine I happily consumed, I looked across our cozy rod-iron table and thought: what in the world can come out of that mouth next?

I have a present for you, he said, sipping the last bit left in his glass. From Staples. I quizzed him in silence, wrapping my finger around the side of my water, trying to break eye contact, but finding it impossible. Out of his jacket pocket he pulled a notebook no bigger than my hand. You said you like to people watch, right? But you never have a notebook on you. Let’s people watch. Write down anything that comes to mind.

Speechless, I looked down at the notebook – black, with a pink side. Here’s a pen, he continued. Unable to stop smiling – with teeth, not a calculated grin – I met his eyes, only to find him pulling out another notebook. And this is for me to do the same. Or when I notice things about you.

And there, in one of my favorite places in this big city, we started writing: what we saw at the tables near us, the views we witnessed outside the cascading wall of windows, the questions that sat  in the eyes of the soul sitting across from us. We wrote for five minutes (per his instructions), and then we bar hopped. Every once in a while, he’d bring out that notebook and he’d write something, and though he let me read a bit of it at the end of the night, I’m sorry to report my tipsy self was too buzzed to remember much.

Friday is our 7th date (though he says our 8th because the first was blissfully long), and I’ve been trying to think of a name for him since the day he gave me the notebook. He suggested up more than a few ideas, none of which were suitable to him, though he’d probably beg to differ. I thought about Mr. Something – because something is different about him, Mr. Sincerity – since that’s the best word I can use to describe him thus far, Mr. Grin – because that’s what he does the most, but none of them worked in the way my super-critical writing mind thinks, until last night.

When, out of the blue, for no merited reason at all, he sent me a quote that happens to be one of my all-time favorite quotes from my favorite author. He knew of my preferred author, but not of those words. But really that’s one of the things I like the most about him – his words. They are crafted with care, said at the right moment and sometimes strikingly similar to things that have mattered to me that he doesn’t know the reason why, yet. Perhaps he tries or maybe it comes naturally – but like me, he’s a wordsmith. One that doesn’t depend on trickery but on strings tied directly to the heart.

Especially since he knew after two dates that more than I need bandaids and lipstick, receipts from weeks ago and pennies I found on the street, I need a notebook with me, wherever I go. You know, when I notice things about strangers. Or about Mr. Smith.

PS: I was amazed with how many Valentine’s were sent last year from all over the world. Your touching words, your kind sentiments and the way you expressed all the things you hope for, as well as all the things that make you so beautiful – were incredible. I hope you will take a moment to write a Valentine about all the things you love about yourself, all the things in the future you can’t wait to experience and what  self-love means to you. I’ll publish your words – along with a link to your blog, if you blog – on Valentine’s Day. Or if you’d rather be anonymous, that’s fine too.

Go here to submit your Valentine. You deserve it. Tell me how sweet it is to be loved by you.

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What’s Worth It

Oh he’s cute.

How was I here, sitting in this New York magazine-highly-rated restaurant, savoring things that would cost me groceries for two weeks? And with him?  Given, he’s not something that’s really that difficult to come by — going on a date with a banker is as common as seeing a cab, but finding one that’s emotionally is available is like trying to hail one when it’s raining, Halloween or New Year’s. Sources say dating in New York is nearly impossible, but I was still less than a year in and refused to believe them. I had yet to meet Mr. Possibility and the possibility sitting across from me seemed quite…possible.

As we nibbled on the appetizers he ordered so quickly I couldn’t understand him and cocktails he assured me were delicious (they actually weren’t), I listened intently to what he said, making mental notes of what I wanted to remember to tell my friends and mom later. Before the third week (or let’s be honest, the sixth), you really only highlight the positives of a man and carefully leave out the select details that could make him seem unsatisfactory, until you call frantically, in tears, spewing off why he’s really a big jerk. This guy was 28, right around 6’0, did something for a living that’s so terribly boring I don’t care to explain it, had a buzzed head with blue eyes and biceps, and though he wasn’t particularly funny, I found him charming. We easily bantered and balked at topics we both found appalling, shared childhood anecdotes and he asked to see some of my work. He talked about the family he wanted to have while I wondered why we were talking about babies on the first date, but went along with it anyway, softened by the soft heart I imagined he had. He commented on my hair as he reached to touch it and asked how I liked my eggs cooked. We said “jinx” when we both said Eggs Benedict at the same time.

Oh he was cute. And he never called me back. I imagine he’s somewhere out there, doing that tiresome banking job and frying up some other girl’s eggs. I hope he learned how to sip wine instead of gulping it.

Now, his silence would probably annoy me, but it wouldn’t bother me for too long. I would consider why he wasn’t interested, bitch a bit to my friends and then move onto to the next date. But nearly two years ago when that Mr. didn’t call me back – I was flabbergasted. Because even though he wasn’t exactly right and I wasn’t exactly that interested, the fact that he wasn’t intrigued by me, made me feel totally rejected. Without even knowing him, I made him up to be some sort of wonderful, picture-perfect, made-to-marry man who I couldn’t let get away.

I thought, what if there wasn’t another one? What if I don’t have another great first date like that again? What if there is no special chemistry or man who can afford fine dining when, at the time, I was barely getting along financially fine? What if I didn’t get asked out on a second date or a third one or any number, again? What if there was something wrong with me?

Alone in that tiny studio that now I don’t miss one bit, I went through the words I said, the flirty glances I gave and the exchanges we had. I couldn’t pinpoint what had gone South or why he wouldn’t contact me again. I drafted emails I never sent, sent SOS text messages to friends who, bless ’em, always respond, and updated my Facebook status with a cryptic quote from a poet I had never heard of until I Googled “disappointed quotes.” A few weeks of silence later, I gave up on the blue-eyed banker and agreed to another date that ultimately didn’t turn out well (I didn’t like him, this time), and I put it behind me.

But now, as I venture back into the often terrifying world of New York City dating, I feel different. I used to put men up on a pedestal, believing their presence was more important than my happiness, and that if only I could find a good one, I’d have the good life. That’s why one sour date or one un-returned BBM could send me into an obsessive, analytical frenzy that often convinced me I wasn’t pretty enough, endearing enough or good enough to be with a guy I thought was great.

What I’ve discovered is that the great ones are few and far between, so there’s no use in worrying about the ones who are unavailable, captains of disappearing, only interested until they get laid or masters of careful word play because that also means they’re cleverly playing my emotions, too. And so, instead of putting all of my expectations into one man or into one date, I try to follow my heart but lead with my head.

And this is the advice I give to my friends when they’re having the same frustrations that we all face while trying to find love. It’s not the same wisdom I gave a few years ago or in college — perhaps I’ve become hardened or cynical, but I don’t think that’s the case. I only really noticed a change in my perspective after one of my dearest friends (one of those who answers my dating cries for help) when she started a text message with “Can I ask you something and you not get offended?” After assuring her I wouldn’t, she replied, “When did you stop diving into love? Was it Mr. Possibility or before? When did you become rational?”

I don’t think I’m rational, really – I’m think I’m quite  an emotional, optimistic irrational person the majority of the time. It’s not that I stopped taking chances on men or that I don’t think falling carelessly in love is a foolish or impossible thing, it’s just that now, I know that I’m valuable and deserve to be appreciated. Perhaps Mr. Possibility showed me that by pushing me so far that I had to finally stand up for myself and for what I wanted.  Or really, what I deserved.

So now, my heart doesn’t create dreamy notions of what a guy could be after one date. He doesn’t get the privilege to be embedded into visions of my future through those rose-colored glasses I tend to wear just because he opened doors, listened to what I said, bought my dinner or kissed me sweetly on the street. Those are things, in my humble Southern opinion, that guys should do. They don’t get brownie points for being decent human beings, but they might get a spot in my life if they prove to me they’re worth it.

Because I already know that I am. Dating may be difficult in this city but it also supplies a never-ending supply of bachelors, most of which, aren’t deserving of my time anyway. But one day, maybe, there will be one who was worth all this trouble to find. And who, always calls me back.

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You Have a Beautiful Energy

Burning up because I foolishly wore a sweater dress without checking the weather, I attempted clever conversation with a boy. It wasn’t my first date since Mr. Possibility and I split ways, but I still felt like I was getting into the swing of things. First dates (and even second dates, for the matter) tend to feel like interviews to me: get as much information as you can without coming across as pushy.

Until now, that is.

Piggy-backing off some bits of advice from my friends who have mastered the infamous New York dating scene, I’ve taken a new approach. I still ask questions, but they aren’t big ones. I let the guys do the conversation, allow them to lead the chat and I just sit back to enjoy my glass of Merlot, while hopefully looking at something chiseled and pretty. I’ve stopped counting on them to cover my bill, so I order what I want, fully prepared to cash out at the end of the night. Of course, most men are still gentlemen and make sure to pay, but I somehow switched my attitude of seeing dates as free meal tickets to perceiving them as the art of getting to know someone.

And this someone sure did know how to talk. He even leaned over to touch my knee from time-to-time. He smiled a lot and he drank his beer quickly. I could tell he was somewhat nervous and that he had allergies, and I saw the red flags popping up all over the place. He still lived at home with the folks, most relationships have ended because women haven’t understood him and his last one ended almost as soon as it started. I take this all in quietly and engage him with follow-up sentences, witty remarks and encouraging glances. I’m not really interested in him as a mate, but as a person or a friend, he seems alright.

Then, at the tail end of a discussion he says: “You have a really beautiful energy about you.”

Though I was taken aback, I thanked him and grinned, quickly changing the subject to something that didn’t rely on my aura, and the date ended with a walk to the train. I didn’t think much of it or him, we didn’t speak again and I forgot that we hadn’t. Then, last night I went on a date with a new guy at my favorite little cafe around the corner from my apartment. He met my not-required-but-really-highly-suggested height requirement and lived close by, so we met spontaneously for a drink and some mac n’ cheese that wasn’t nearly as great as my family’s recipe. The conversation was decent but I found his voice a tad too loud for my liking and his beliefs far too conservative to mesh with my ideas, yet he did the same thing the other dude did, and caught me off guard. As we’re sitting at the corner table, he reached across the table, touched my hand and said, “You have such a great outlook on a life. It’s a really beautiful energy.”

Now, either there is a new dating book for men that I’ve yet to be sent a press release about or a line from a movie that I’m not familiar with or apparently, I have a really pretty energy? What does that even mean?

Being a writer who spews her personal life across the web, my first instinct was to ask my friends, readers and Facebook pals what they thought hearing the same comment on two consecutive dates with different guys, meant. No answer was the same — some said they thought it meant I made them feel comfortable, others said it wasn’t something that could be put in words, a few said it had to do with my bubbly personality and my niceness. Some of my friends agreed with them, sweetly letting me know how beautiful I am. I appreciated their comments and even pinged my good friend K as I wrote this blog, still trying to determine what “beautiful energy” means to a straight, single New York man.

I still haven’t put my finger on it and my thoughts are still a bit conflicted but I think it has almost everything to do with where I am right now in my life. I’ve finally mastered what I wanted to be a pro at, over a year ago when I started this blog: I’m not looking for love.

And so, when I’m out on dates I don’t feel any pressure. I don’t prep or primp for hours or arrive early so I can sit in an area that shows off my best angles. I don’t consider anyone boyfriend material really, because the idea of being in a relationship makes me feel incredibly suffocated. I don’t say what I think men want to hear and I don’t try to get them to ask me on a second date.  I dress in what makes me feel attractive, without worrying if it’s too tight or not snug enough. I don’t fidget or stumble over my words, I just let them come as they are, uninterested if they come across the wrong or the ideal way. I don’t try to make a guy seem better than what he is by turning what he says into something I want to hear, I just listen and heed the warning signs as they come. I don’t interrogate or pry, I let him state his peace and I move on, glad to share my own viewpoint. I don’t have any rules for my adventures, if I want to kiss on the first meeting I do, if I don’t, I don’t. If I want to see him again, I will, if he’s easily forgotten, I won’t.

I’m just myself, without any excuses or intentions. And you know, if that means I have a beautiful energy, then I’ve wasted a lot of time and energy trying to be anyone or anything other than me.

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I Wanna Be Made

In my sorority, I was known as the girl who was going to New York, who interned at Cosmo and was forced to stand in the back of the rows at recruitment because I couldn’t (and can’t) clap on the off beat. At the college newspaper, I was the bubbly intern turned reporter turned lifestyles editor turned associate editor for content that was never taken as seriously as I wanted to be – mainly because I never projected myself seriously – a lesson I’ve come to cherish in my professional career. In my family, I was the oddball cousin who went against the norms of the rest, who went to college, achieved a degree and headed to chase a dream instead of racing down the aisle and into labor.

And in my circle of friends, from the start of college until right up until…um, now – I was the ambitious, fearless, friendly, and confident gal who could do anything. Anything that is except keep a man. Or as my best friend A’s said after a particularly rough breakup: “Why can’t you ever just make it work with someone? Where do you find these guys?”

I tried, I really did. With each of them – Mr. Fire, Mr. Rebound, Mr. Idea, Mr. Fling, Mr. Smother and the rest – to make it work. I logged overtime in baking, cleaning, sporting sexy lingerie and being readily available to pet or to sex-away worries and stress. And then I was too available. I’d attempt at playing the game I was so good at, the book that I could write now on how to attract a man (and perhaps I will write it) and how to get him to approach you. I’d lure one in, hold him captive in my mystery until the subtlety gave away to reality, and there I was exposed, naked in all forms reasonable (and unreasonable), waiting for him to accept or reject my affections. But I was always something – too good for them, not good enough. Too much to handle or far too needy. Swimingly sweet or a wannabe-New York-bitch with an agenda. I told them what they wanted to hear and then all of the things they didn’t. I was this and that, that and this, over and over again, up until I graduated from college, fled the mountaintops to rooftops, ended things with Mr. Idea, and decided New York would be different.

I could make it work in New York. I would make it work in New York. This was where I was supposed to be – the rest of those dudes, stuck in North Carolina, stuck in finance jobs they consider big money and big deals in Charlotte – they just weren’t for me. They may had walked all over me resentlessly and maybe I had let them on numerous occasions – but not anymore. I was in New York and if I could make it here, I could make it anywhere.

And so dating turned into a challenge. It became a sport I played throughout the week, developing new tricks and tactics along the way. I had a strategy, I figured out my best angle, my best feature. I found ways to cover up flaws and discovered sentences that all men like to hear, regardless if they’re Jewish, Italian, single, married, straight, flamboyant, consistently hard or hard-of-hearing. I mastered The Look, I signed up for free online dates for the weeks when I ran low on a free dinner evenings, and when it all became too much, I’d take a night off with Chinese and Merlot, watching Hulu in my panties.

But then I would start to like one of the many bachelors. I’d grow a little attached, I’d find some element of them attractive and irresistible, and then atlas, I’d have hope that I could make it work with one of them. I could be the woman they wanted me to be, I could be all of those perfect, dreamy qualities they always imagined a woman would be. If they’d let me, I’d take my sweet Southern grandmother’s advice to be a lady in the living room, a chef in the kitchen, and a well, you fill in the blank, in the bedroom. I’d find a way to keep them close to me, to make them fall in love with me and then I’d actually make it. I’d have one of those relationships that works and I wouldn’t be that girl anymore. I wouldn’t be the one of my friends who was scarily always single, yet never lacking a date.

That was all fine and dandy until the men would resist. Until they’d have excuses or let me know they only wanted to sleep with me and if I wasn’t looking for something casual, I should look elsewhere. And so I would, but I always found myself in the same situation again and again, until I had a moment of realization. I tend to have the best of these when I’m walking the streets sans iPod or when I’m in the shower, left to only the device of my rambling thoughts. And that’s where I was, curled up in an old Victorian tub that needed to be scrubbed, my arms wrapped around my legs, crying and wishing I could just make it work. Just once, I begged to some unnamed wise character of the universe. If I could just make it one time, I wouldn’t need a second chance. I’d get it right and that’d be that. I wouldn’t have to feel so disposable, so unwanted and undesirable if I could just make it work. Just once!

Looking up at the running water turning cold, it occurred to me that I wasn’t working. I was functioning, sure. I had a small pool of friends, a job in the industry I adored, a pseudo-studio in the pseudo-Upper West Side.  On paper, my jagged pieces didn’t seem so rough around the edges. I seemed like any semi-adjusted girl who was somewhat new to the city, discovering what she liked and didn’t like, and making the rest up as she goes.

But did I want to make it up? Did I want to have to make something work with someone? Did I want to wear makeup to cover up the dark circles left from late night fights, not late night romps? Did I want to have to work so diligently, so intensely, so patiently to make a relationship last through the beginning stages? Is this what love is made of? If it is – why do I want it so badly?

Or could it be that what I wanted -what I still want – is to make myself? Not go looking for myself in the beds, the eyes and the empty promises of men who are saved and then deleted from my phone? Could I not make anything work with a man because I wasn’t working? Because I wasn’t a whole person, I wasn’t made up into the woman I wanted to be, into the me I knew I was meant to become? Had I allowed love to race to the forefront of my priorities and lost myself somewhere in the laps in between?

I had. And so, without knowing what else to do, I did the one thing that brought me comfort: I wrote. I wrote and wrote, I thought and thought, I chatted with my best friends and I picked the brains of the mentors I trusted the most. And I came up with this blog, a program of freeing myself from love addiction. A gradual way to detox myself…from myself. So that I could start anew, clean and unbothered by my tireless pursuit to make something out of nothing with men who should have never meant anything.

Nine months, nine steps, a new boyfriend (yes, I said it. Let’s move on, now), a well-read blog, a new apartment, a new sense of self, a new group of friends, a few freelancing gigs, one failed attempt at learning Italian, one deceased Beta fish (RIP in Giorgio), and a few lovely trips later – here I am. Not trying to make anything work. Not praying for things to work out perfectly and ideally. Not imagining my life or my love life as detrimental or possible to be classified into classified sections of “dateable” and “non-dateable.” Not hearing A’s words ringing continuously in my head when Mr. Possibility and I have a disagreement.

Nope. I’m just making myself into me. Into the me I want to be at any point, on any given day, without any notice or prerequistices. Because the thing I’d most like to be made into is the best version of me that I can be.