A Few Good Men

I once went out for pasta with a guy I will call Mr. Boy.

He, like most of the men I’ve dated, was tall, dark-haired, and had one of those smiles that’ll make you look twice. To be completely honest…that’s about all I remember about him. I can’t recall how we met or how long we hung out. I have no idea what he’s up to now, what he did after we split, or where he’s living. This isn’t because he didn’t make an impression on me, but rather because of the poor taste he left in my mouth.

As we were chatting, sharing stories, and getting to know each other on our second date, Mr. Boy brought up a topic that was sensitive to him. It wasn’t anything too personal or too traumatic (as far as I could tell from knowing him a few weeks), but right there, in the middle of our dinner, he started crying. And he didn’t just get a little misty-eyed, but actually, literally, sobbed and shook. Stunned, I didn’t know how to respond other than turning on my mothering methods by patting his back and shielding him from the stares of other patrons. I may have even “Shh”ed him and encouraged him to finish his ravioli because it’d make him feel better. He eventually calmed down, yet continued to pout as he soaked up the leftover sauce with pieces of bread he tore up into tiny pieces.

When the check came, he did not offer to pay for it or reach for it, even though he had invited me to be his company for the evening. In between sniffles, he asked, “So, just split it down the middle then, yeah?” I gave him a little grin and complied, though he must have been oblivious to not notice my disdain. As we were both signing on the dotted line, he suggested under his breath, “The service wasn’t great, so don’t feel like you need to give 20 percent or anything.” At the time, I bit my tongue to protect my class, but today, I would have replied with, “Well, the company wasn’t all that great, so I don’t feel like I need to stay any longer.” Eh, coulda, shoulda, woulda.

After he walked me home and I gave him the cheek treatment instead of a good-night kiss (or a night-cap, as he was hoping for), I closed the door, leaned up against it, and slid down to hug my knees. I didn’t, in fact cry, but I heaved a sigh he could probably feel as he headed back to his place. Probably to wrap himself up in a big blanket and fall completely to pieces while eating ice cream and listening to a Celine Dion on repeat, I thought at the time. Out of nothing but utter frustration, I glared up at the universe and directly asked a question, fully expecting to receive an answer:

Where are the men? I’m so sick of dating boys.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I’m not one of those women who thinks her man must be a cowboy, a jock, or lead the free world to victory. I believe a man should display his emotions, isn’t always responsible for picking up the tab, and shouldn’t always be tough, rough, and direct as dudes are often portrayed or raised to be. However, no matter how many street smarts New York gives me, I will always be Southern sweet and hold myself (and others) to the goodness of manners. And frankly, crying on a date and being rude is unacceptable. Though I sympathized for him and the subject that broke him down, I also thought it was something he shouldn’t have brought up if he felt so strongly about it, and maybe more so – he shouldn’t expect me to console him. Or fix him or act like his mother.

I’m not sure what I would call this preferred method of conduct, but David Good (who you might know from The Bachelorette & The Bachelor Pad) – would call this The Man Code. Recently, Good and I shared a glass of Merlot and Maker’s Mark so he could explain to me the rules, according to dudes.

Good’s a Midwest guy who was raised to be a man. If he was outside sporting only a t-shirt in the weather New York’s been entertaining lately, he would have never shivered. If a lady needed an arm to steady her step, he’d graciously offer it. And when it comes to insecurities, though he has them – he’d never ask a woman to cure them or boost his confidence. While he believes vulnerability is an important element to developing feelings (he goes as far to say brutal honesty is the key to healthy love) – it is also something that’s reserved for a relationship.

When tears and the introduction of personal fears becomes intertwined in dating, and even at the pick-up stages at a bar, Good thinks men are playing on the fact women are caregivers to attract them. Because they know a girl will automatically say, “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong? Are you okay? What can I get for you?” they use it to their advantage to make a gal feel comfortable. And to think, well, he’s actually in sync with his emotions – when in reality, Good thinks the guy just knows what card to play.

I”ve met a lot of boys who wanted me to tidy up their messes and let them lay in my lap of comfort. And when it comes to playing Ms. Fix-It with practically each man I’ve been serious with, I’m guilty as charged. I once witnessed Mr. Idea cry for 45 minutes over a cat that hadn’t even passed away, but was just more lethargic than lately. Regardless, for me, as independent and self-sufficient as I am, when Mr. Boy acted nothing like the man I picture myself being with, I couldn’t have escaped from his faster. So if he was using that little trick on me, he should have not played with a grown-up lady who wants to meet a partner, not take care of a child. For the record, I never called him back or responded to emails or text messages. He sent me flowers to let me know how “understanding” he was to my busy schedule, and I gave them away to my friends. It wasn’t really the crying that did me in – we all have moments of weakness – but the pity he sought from me, when we weren’t in a place where that was appropriate. I do, however, hope he found a chick who will dab the olive oil and tears as they drip down his face. It seems to be his preferred choice of luring a gal, anyways.

Good says guys should have “testicular fortitude” which is interesting way of putting: men should have balls. Or as I’d like to say it, men should come to the table as I do. We’re all human, we’re all full of flaws, we all have things we hate about ourselves, and personal qualities we adore. We all have a past, we’ve all felt the burn of loves that were, and we’ve all had the often wayward hope of all that’s to come. But, if we’re constantly looking for someone to complete us, someone to take all of negativity we project or have off of our shoulders, and bear it themselves – then we’ll never learn how to stand on our own. Or how to be a dynamic duo, instead of an overly dependent couple.

Because we’re not looking for a mate who will tuck us in at night, comb our hair, and tell us right from wrong. We aren’t looking for parents, we’re looking for our match. Someone who will step up to the plate with us, someone who will challenge us to turn our mind to face new lights, someone who will encourage us to let it all out, no matter what it is, but then move on and learn from it. I don’t want to be taken care of or depend on a man for my sanity, my finances, or my future – I can handle that just fine on my own. I would rather be with a guy who’s as in-tuned with himself as I am, and thus, instead of being half-people searching for each other to piece one single person together, we have two people to bring to a relationship. And as any sale at Barney’s will tell you – half-off is not nearly as incredible as two for one.

So while I’ve put up with a long list of boys in my dating history -I’m not giving up on the belief there are a few good men out there. In fact, I’ll demand nothing less than one. After all, I’d rather treat myself to dinner for one, the rest of my life, then to suffer through pasta with a pansy, even once more.

P.S. Confessions of a Love Addict is celebrating Valentine’s Day a little differently this year. We’ll make it more about the single ladies and less about flowers that’ll die in a day. To get involved, click here.

Pasta for One

They say you’re given signs in strange ways to let you know you’re on the right path.

For me, apparently, all it took was a box of $1.50 pasta.

Going into this journey, I wasn’t sure if the process would work. I knew I could write about it. I knew I could talk about it. I knew I could actually do it (or I at least hoped) – but for the whole idea to produce results…I had no clue.

Slowly and gradually, I’ve noticed subtle changes in the way I think and the way I talk to myself. I’ve noticed a little bit more confidence and a little less negativity. I’ve noticed different feelings and different approaches and a kinda-different me.

But yesterday, I noticed a sincere transformation…without even trying.

After a very wonderful 40-minute run at the gym (beat my time!) and a lovely nighttime talk with my parents, I headed towards my neighborhood grocery store to buy what I had been thinking about all day: spinach and garlic pasta. Smothered in butter, garlic, and olive oil. Yummm.

I admired the sight and the smell of the barrels of apples on the way in (amazed they put them outside), took a sample of a cheesecake as I passed (hurried actually) by the bakery, and then headed down the escalator for some pasta and spinach.

I wasn’t really paying attention to what I was doing, stopping to smell the flowers on the stand, taking a double look at the produce, and as I approached the spinach – I about ran right into a handsome stranger reaching for the leafy-greens too.

We both said “Excuse me!” and smiled, and then continued studying what we would like. I figured out which one fit my fancy before he did and I politely scooped past him to head to the aisle over. I didn’t really think too much of the encounter (I did turn around to check out his backside…just because I could) and quickly got distracted by the cookies calling my name.

As I was deciding if I wanted cinnamon, chocolate chip, or sugar, I noticed the same guy walk by out of the corner of my eye as he passed the aisle. Again, I didn’t pay extreme attention to his presence, but then, he stopped and came by the aisle just as I was reaching for my cookies (I went with cinnamon, if you’re wondering). We both laughed and shared a smile as he went by me. He turned red, grabbed a box of something, grinned again, and walked away.

At this point, I’m flattered and intrigued, but not too worried about it. I continued my shopping and then headed upstairs to checkout. I crossed by the sushi bar and again, barely out of my sight I saw the same dark haired, dark-eyed, and handsome stranger in the green jacket buying some meat in the deli.

I got in line and then looked back at him again. My mind started to read into things a little bit, “He is very cute. He is in my sight. I mean, basically he is right in front of me. We ran into each other twice. Not just once, but two times. That means something…maybe? That’s a romantic way to meet The One, right?”

I looked around at the line, which was quickly wrapping itself around the middle of the floor. “If I get out now, how long will I have to wait? I still have Dancing with the Stars and Desperate Housewives to catch up on. And my spinach pasta! I mean…I’m in workout clothes. But hey, it’s spandex. And he is cute…”

I tried to think about if I had business cards or what I would say. I didn’t really need any meat, but should I pass up on this opportunity? What if I never see him again?

And then, I snapped out of it. He’s just a guy. He’s a guy I’ve never heard his voice before. He’s just some guy getting some groceries. He isn’t worth losing my spot in line, delaying my pasta, or making me nervous.

So I didn’t do anything. I turned right back around, waited in line, and bought my groceries. I hit the streets and didn’t look back once.

As I walked home, I realized that I had taken the pressure off myself in an instant. I talked myself back down to reality, out of the love-addict mentality, and moved on. I wasn’t upset or disappointed (as I shouldn’t have been) that he didn’t come chasing after me – I just accepted the random multi-meeting as just that.

When I returned to my apartment, I was so at peace, so excited, and just content with where I was in my life. Of course, my apartment is smaller than most Manhattan cubicles and I’m not living in luxury – but I do have myself. And this gal is making some progress in her love-seeking madness. And this gal is fine – regardless of any handsome stranger or chance encounter happens or not.

After all, sometimes, pasta for one just simply hits the spot.