Waiting for the 'Ding'

The dating adventures of a true optimist. (Really, I am.)

[waitingfortheding]

On this day, I marry my best friend. The one I laugh with, live for, love.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine asked me what seemed to be an innocent question about this blog. But coming up with an answer sent my head spinning. “Is the ‘ding’ about finally finding THE guy and becoming officially boyfriend and girlfriend?” she asked. “Or is the ‘ding’ finding the guy and getting married?” The question made me realize this “ding” I’d been searching for high and low, for so long, was so abstract, so undefined, that maybe I never knew what it meant until it finally happened. For once, I didn’t have an answer to something. I was in a tizzy. The only thing I knew, at the time, was that I finally heard the “ding.” Since the time that the man I dubbed “Worth the Wait Guy” and I starting dating, there were many moments, many Dings, that affirmed I was with a keeper. Many times I knew I was in love. Many occasions upon which I would find myself bewildered that I was with someone so special, and even more amazing, he was with me. Just dating him was special enough; becoming official was icing on the cake. Months later when we decided to live together, it was as if I stopped living my life and stepped into the life of another woman much, much luckier than myself. Every day together brought more and more happiness. In the midst of all this joy, I have repeatedly thought back to that one question I couldn’t answer. “Waiting for the Ding.” This elusive Ding. I can tell you the first time I heard it. It was our first weekend away together, and we went out to a very fancy dinner to celebrate. Cocktails, wine, steaks, candlelight. The whole she-bang. He told me he had something important to ask me, and asked me to be his girlfriend. The Ding sounded so loudly I was practically knocked off my chair. I answered by telling him I loved him. I might have said yes – I can’t really remember. All I knew was that for the first time, I was embarking on a real, official relationship with someone I really, truly cared about. Ding. The first Ding was followed by months and months of pinching myself, as I grew impossibly more happy with each day. There were smaller Dings that popped up along the way. The night when we moved in together and ordered Chinese. The first time our girl cat climbed up in his lap and fell asleep. But the next Ding, oooooowie that was a big one. That one came when he proposed. I never saw it coming. We flew to Seattle for a long weekend. There had been a lot of engagement talk, but I really had no idea he was planning anything for our vacation. We had a fancy dinner (we like fancy dinners around here) and drinks the first night we got into town, and the next morning, an unexpected knock on the door was followed by a surprise room service breakfast, and then, out of nowhere, a ring. DING. I’ve spent the last eight months planning the wedding of my dreams, with the man of my dreams. And it’s lead me to the best possible definition of what “Waiting for the Ding” has really meant to me all along: I got my happily ever after. The Ding means I can breathe in and out, knowing what it feels like to be completely content. It is the realization that I’m not in this alone, that I have a partner in this life, someone who loves me unconditionally and someone who I can love with all my heart. Today is the day I get to marry this someone. I get to stand in front of my family and closest friends and promise to make this man as happy as he makes me. I will promise to love him and stand by his side, through thick and thin. And I expect at some point, I’m going to hear the loudest Ding yet. My wait for the Ding has ended, but I know there will be many Dings in our life together. Our first house, a baby, birthdays, holidays, and checking off our bucket list together, one by one. Even as I walk down the aisle today, I’ll still have a hard time believing that I’m this lucky. If you see me pinching myself, it’s just me making sure this hasn’t all been a dream. I can’t wait to wait for all those Dings with you, my love.

[waitingfortheding]

Waiting for the 'Ding' turned 3 today! Hard to believe it's only been three years. It's amazing how quickly life can turn around on you. 

[waitingfortheding]

On Pixie Dust and Sleeping Naked

When my boyfriend and I started dating, each morning I would find an email waiting for me with a small little drawing he did on his iPhone.It was either a flower, or a pictorial note about our weekend plans, or just a plain old “I love you” note. I loved getting them, and it was the only reason I actually looked forward to going to work.

I saved each and every one of them, knowing that one day, they would arrive in my inbox less and less often until they would trickle and stop altogether. Not necessarily for a bad reason; I wasn’t anticipating a breakup or anything. But because in every relationship, that magic that inspires you to do sappy romantic deeds starts to fade. The love continues to grow, but at the same time, it’s almost as if it’s taken for granted that nobody is going anywhere, and you both know how special you are to the other. So those grand gestures go by the wayside, and together, you get on with life and all its banal glory.

It’s nice, in a sense, to be comfortable enough with your special someone to be able to discuss things like, oh, you know … bathroom stuff. But think about the early days of the relationship, before it was a relationship. You’d be mortified if this person, the source of all the fireworks and butterflies, knew you were drinking a cup of Smooth Moves tea because you were feeling a tad backed up.

Not that I do that.

My point is that relationships evolve from a magical land of pixie dust and pitter-patters to the land of ordinary, everyday life. Again, it’s not a bad thing. It’s reality. Life is life. Your feet have to come back and touch the ground again at some point. If you’re lucky, you’re with someone who is able to still bring the pixie dust out from time to time. If you’re luckier, that someone will know you well enough to recognize when you really need it.

My pixie dust comes in the form of hiring someone to come in and clean our house when life is getting overwhelming. It’s silly Christmas socks and bobble-heads for my desk at work. It’s a random new bottle of nail polish that comes after a particularly rough day at work.

I have doubts that I’m able to return the magic. I used to slip notes in his lunchbox from time to time. I used to make nice dinners and open a bottle of wine to go with it. I’ve bought little nuggets like Star Wars shoes and certain undergarments I thought he might enjoy. But more and more, I’ve found that the pixie dust I sprinkle on our relationship is spread thin over laundry and dishes and running and … well … life. And any time spent cuddling on our luxurious sofa involves cuddling two very headstrong cats.

I warned him when we moved in together that my pajama collection was mainly T-shirts and boxer shorts. That was in the beginning of summer. The winter version of T-shirts and boxer shorts is over-sized flannel pajama pants and sweatshirts. I’ve caught glimpses of myself in the mirror before bed, and I look a good 50 pounds heavier. Not to mention the raccoon eyes from that day’s makeup.

“You should just sleep naked,” my hair stylist said to me when I had described how sorry I felt for my boyfriend. “That’s always the thing they say to do when you want to put spice back into your relationship.”

“But what if there’s an earthquake and I have to run out of the house?”

Yep. That’s my mindset.

The inevitable slipping away from magic and into real life has been weighing on me lately, and especially in the last few weeks. We’ve both had our own things going on: He joined a cross-fit gym, and I’m upping my mileage in marathon training. He went to a birthday party while I went to a funeral. The times we actually spend together feel like the huddle before each play in a football game. We hash out a plan, slap each other on the ass and yell “BREAK!” before getting to work. (The whole yelling “break” thing doesn’t really happen. The ass-slapping does.)

So we have big plans for next weekend, going to a paired dinner at a winery and spending the night down there. I have big aspirations to fit into a sexy new dress I bought just for the event. And yes, I intend to sleep naked. There will be a sappy Valentine’s Day card, and probably some kind of dumb little gift. So much pixie dust.

I have some friends who don’t have the luxury of getting away for a romantic weekend, or even sleeping naked, for that matter. Kids – as wonderful as they are – have a way of barging into your magical world and stealing all of your pixie dust. If you don’t have parents or siblings or very good friends willing to help babysit for an evening here and there, it’s pretty darn difficult to keep that magic alive. It takes a lot of creativity, understanding and a shitload of pixie dust. It’s easy to forget that under the pile of work and kids and pets and housework and bills and diets and bosses and cars and doctors and school and more bills and stress and everything else that makes up your life together, there lays a relationship. And without this relationship, none of the crap that’s getting in the way of your pixie dust would even exist.

I know I’m a total newb in this whole relationship thing, but from what I’ve learned so far, there are at minimum three actions required to maintain a good amount of pixie dust in real grown-up life. 

1)      Say “I love you” and say it often. And look each other in the eyes when you say it as much as possible. Make sure you're saying it because you mean it, not because it's habit. 2)      Gifts don’t have to be diamonds and big screen TVs (although those don’t hurt). Gifts can be given in the form of something fun in the dollar bin on your next trip to Target. They can be doing the dishes when it’s not your turn or ordering take-out when neither of you feels like cooking. Or something as simple as a text in the middle of the day just to say hi. 3)      Every now and then, sleep naked. But keep a bathrobe nearby in case there’s an earthquake.

[waitingfortheding]

For the Bride

“UGGGGH I can’t believe we’re getting married tomorrow.”

Relax, it wasn’t me who said this.

It was one of my best friends, Sona, who was freaking out slightly about her wedding, which is happening in roughly nine short hours.

That’s right. Today is the day, Sona. Rise and shine.

Today is the day you’ve been planning for more than a year. Today is the day you get to wear that fancy white dress you spent oh-so-much money on. Today is the day that all eyes are on you.

Most important, today is the day you get to marry your best friend.

Sona and I were the last girls standing for what seemed like the longest time. She and I lamented for years on the idiocy of guys we either dated or wanted to date. We would offer each other advice or a shoulder to cry on, depending on the situation. We were each other’s “Plus Ones” to events. We were often each other’s Friday night date, you know, back in the days when we had free nights to hang out.

And then, one day, she decided she liked this guy.

Let me back up.

The most significant difference between Sona and myself is that in my dating history, I went out with anyone and everyone who could potentially be Mr. Right. I made all the mistakes. I made a million gambles that didn’t pay off. I didn’t really know what it was I was looking for in a guy, other than the idea that I would know right away if he was the one. I thought I knew a dozen times, and I was wrong a dozen more.

But, not Sona.

Sona held out. She knew when a guy was a waste of time, and when a guy was worthy of her attention. She knew what she was looking for. Sure, she got her heart stepped on a few times, but she was smart about it. She didn’t put it all out on the line for just anyone. She was patient. She waited.

And then, one day, she met Brian.

I’m not sure if Sona (or Brian, for that matter) knew right away that Brian was her Mr. Right. But I could tell as soon as I saw them together for the first time. We went to a Dodger game together. I hardly watched the game. All I could do was watch the two of them together. I had never seen Sona happier. She was gleaming. It was as if, all of a sudden, Sona was complete. Only we never realized she was incomplete. Until Brian came along.

Brian is in every way Sona’s perfect match. He makes her fancy cocktails. He understands that she has anxiety about certain things, and doesn’t make her feel bad about it. He likes her Armenian cooking. He’s quiet and creative and makes her laugh like few people can. He has a sweet beard.

He’s everything she had been waiting for all those years.

I’ve watched most of my friends do that walk down the aisle now, and I’ve been happy for all of them. But for Sona, I am especially happy. Maybe happier than if it were me walking down the aisle. Maybe.

I get a front row seat today, as I’ll be standing at Sona’s side as they exchange their vows. It is my honor to be her maid of honor, and I can’t wait to see her dream come true. Today has been a long time coming for you, Sona. I know the planning process hasn’t been your favorite, but today is the day, your day, and I am going to make sure you enjoy it. I want you to remember the most important thing about today isn’t the food or the music. It’s not the chairs or the limo. It’s not the guests or the booze. Today is the day you get to wed the love of your life, and we will all be gathered to celebrate you and Brian. Many, many years from now, I will look back at today the only thing I will remember is how happy you were. Congratulations my love, on finding your perfect match.

Now, go get married, already. This engagement has taken, like, forever. 

[waitingfortheding]

Pathetic. Just Pathetic.

Well, it's finally happened. I've become that person. That person, for whom I've always held equal amounts contempt and resentment. That person, who I always swore I'd never become, no matter who I met or how much I loved him. 

I've become the co-dependent girlfriend.

My boyfriend is away on vacation, and I miss him horribly. So horribly, as a matter of fact, that I may or may not be listening to sappy love songs as I type, singing along to words that much more creative people than I have penned to describe how much they miss someone. My cell phone may or may not be within reach, just in case he gets to a place where he can call me and we can talk for a few minutes about our day before I go to bed and he goes back to being on vacation. 

For years I held tight to the idea that you can't be happy with someone until you've learned how to be happy alone. I still believe that's true, and I kinda think I'm living proof it's true. What I never realized is that, once you've learned to be happy alone, and then you are lucky enough to get to be over-the-moon happy with another person, it's harder than hell to go back to being happy alone again. 

I mean, thank God he's only gone for six days. I'd be out of my mind if it were a more permanent amount of time. 

I thought I'd handle his absence a lot better than I am. This trip he's on has been planned for months, so it's not like it was a surprise or something last-minute. Oh no. I've had time to plan. I set some pret-ty lofty goals for this week. I was going to clean the entire house, top to bottom. I was going to re-organize our desks (yes, plural) so that I might be able to find something (anything) the first time I go looking for it. I was going to create a home for our laptops to sit and charge, instead of taking up real estate on our kitchen table. I was going to do laundry. All the laundry. So much laundry. 

Beyond that, I wouldn't have anyone here tempting me with going out to dinner. I was going to eat perfectly. I was going to run or work out every single day he was gone. FIVE POUNDS. That's what I was going to lose in this short week he's away. 

Here's what's really happened since he left: I've eaten dinner at my parents' house two nights in a row. I've come home and changed into pajamas immediately, sat down, watched TV for about 30 minutes, and finally called it a night around 9:30 pm. I've let the cats sleep on our bed so I don't feel alone. (Sorry, love.) I paid two bills, and threw away a catalog I got in the mail three months ago. And no, I didn't even open it first. 

I've done a load of laundry -- singular. I woke up early to run. But I also had a glass of wine tonight, and finished a box of ice cream bars last night. We won't talk about how many bars were left in the box. Just know that it was ice cream bars -- plural. 

I have gotten teary-eyed three times just by hearing a sad song in my car or at work. Actually, work has been the one thing keeping me going. I've been so busy from 8 am to 5 pm, I barely have time for a personal thought, let alone a phone call. 

Have I mentioned yet that at the time I'm writing this, he has been gone roughly 37 hours? 

The weekend will be easier, I know. I have lots of plans with girlfriends, not to mention a 12-mile run that will take up a good chunk of my Saturday. But still, knowing that I won't see his smile or kiss him goodnight until next Tuesday is rough. I feel like such a weenie for saying it, and I'm sure I sound like it. But I really feel like I'm half of a person, walking around and going through the motions of a normal day. But I just feel incomplete and lonely.

I'll never forget an outlet shopping trip I made a few years back with three girlfriends of mine. They each had either a boyfriend or a husband (none had both, that I know of), and I was the only single girl in the car. Heading home, we ran into traffic and I suggested we stop for dinner somewhere. All three of them called their significant others to check in and make sure it was ok. I couldn't get over that. I thought it was so weird, having to check with someone before doing something. I treasured the fact that I didn't have to check in with someone first; that I could just decide to do something and go do it. Until I went home that night, alone, and realized that my dumbfoundedness was built on a pretty solid foundation of resentment that I didn't have someone to call and check in with.

I always made fun of Lily and Marshall on HIMYM, for being such a ridiculous co-dependent couple. They are practically one person, with how well they function as a whole. Apart, neither one is all that funny or even like-able. Together, they're great. I've considered myself more like Robin's character. Tough, independent, does as she pleases. Then, suddenly, I find myself eye-balling my boyfriend's pillow and considering stealing Lily's "Marshpillow" idea. If you've watched the show, you know what I'm talking about. 

The reality is that in the four short months since we moved in, we've become this cohesive unit that performs optimally together. When one isn't around, the other ... well, I don't want to say "falls to pieces," but the truth is, I know I'm a better person with him in my life. We bring out the best in each other. He challenges me, and I challenge him. He supports me, and I support him. He makes me laugh, and I make him wish he had a funnier girlfriend. 

I'm sure I'm making more of it than I need to. I know I have the ability to survive five more days (!!!) until he's home again. But this vacation of his has really taught me a lesson about myself. I like having someone to check in with. I like going out for a walk at night knowing that someone is at home to worry about me if I don't come back. I like having someone get annoyed with me when I'm acting hangry because I forgot to eat a snack. I like waking someone up in the middle of the night because he's snoring as loud as a monster truck. OK, that last one might not be true. But you get it.  

Hurry up and come home, love. I miss you. 

[waitingfortheding]

All My Mistakes

It was four years ago, but I remember it exactly.

Where I was sitting, how awful I felt, how I cried myself to sleep that night.

And I wasn’t even the one being dumped. I was the one doing the dumping.

Other details are fuzzy. I roughly remember the day we met, and how grumpy and annoyed I was by this guy who was trying so hard to get a smile out of me, even though he was really just being a wingman for his buddy.

I remember going out with him, and having fun together. The details of any dates the first time around, I couldn’t tell you. What I do remember is how much attention he showered on me, and how uncomfortable it made me. Prior to him, I was dumped one-after-another by men who basically ignored me. I had never dated someone who called me beautiful or wanted to see me more than once a week. Surely, this guy had to be up to something.

What I really don’t remember are the details of how I reached the decision to dump him. The other day, I did some digging through old Gmail chats and emails, and realized with a heavy hit of guilt and remorse, that the deal-breaker seemed to be an apparent drunk text. One that rhymed and was sent very late one night. My girlfriend, the one who’d been with me the day I met him, told me I was being too harsh. That I shouldn’t decide based on one text. But, no, I was strong-minded and remained convinced that this guy was too much of a party animal for me. We just weren’t a good match.

I remember calling him to tell him it wasn’t going to work out with us. I planned out in advance what I would say to him, and I was calm while I dialed the phone, although I felt a pit of dread in my stomach. Breaking up has never been one of my strong suits.

I sat on the edge of my bed, with my legs reaching over to a bookcase and my bare feet propped up on a shelf. I wore boxer shorts and a gray gym T-shirt. Most of all, I remember the sudden panic that gripped me when he answered the phone and I started to talk. I swear, it was as if there was a voice in my head telling me I was wrong and making a huge mistake. I wish I had listened.

I’d been through a lot that year, I told him. It was truly a case of “It’s not you, it’s me.” I was a mess. And I couldn’t in fairness continue dating him with how messed up I was.

All of it was true, and none of it was what I planned to say.

He was gracious and understanding, and oddly, concerned. He sounded like he wanted to give me a great big hug and tell me everything would be OK, and a part of me felt like I wanted that more than anything. But I broke up with him anyway.

We kept in touch. We were Facebook friends. We dated again, and went on some amazing dates. We went on a spontaneous date to a club with live music, without even knowing who was playing and whether they sucked. The night finally ended after lots of dancing, and I don’t dance. Another night he picked me up to go to the L.A. Farmer’s Market for dinner. It was the middle of summer and about a thousand degrees outside. He showed up minutes after I blew a fuse in my apartment, and I didn’t know where the box was to fix it. Without pause, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and climbed behind a huge patch of weeds out back and figured it out. Later that night, we stood in the middle of the street at the Grove and kissed in the middle of the crowds walking past.  

But things didn’t work out that time around either. I found another Gmail chat from that summer that reminded me that he went away on vacation, and didn’t call me once he came home. And my chat indicated I didn’t feel like talking about it.

I remember how my heart sank, when he did text me again. I asked him to go to a concert, and he let me know he’d started seeing someone and wanted to see where it went.

It was only fair. I couldn’t be mad or hold it against him. I wished him luck. And I went to the bathroom at work and cried.

I think I’ve replaced most of these memories by now, with happier moments from the last six months or so. Months in which I’ve had plenty of occasion to pause and shake my head at how blind I was four years ago. How dumb I was to pass up on this amazing man, who makes me so happy it should be illegal. I met my soul mate in a bar. And I didn’t even know it was him.

More vividly than any old memories, I remember the moment I knew I needed to be with him. It was one of those moments when the proverbial light switches on, and the answer is illuminated before your eyes. I was on a date with my last boyfriend (we were a poor match at best), when I spotted a 54-inch talking Darth Vader. It was awesome. But the guy I was with didn’t see it. He gave me a polite smile and the matching “yeah, cool.”

I knew who would love it. I sent him a picture, there on the spot. He immediately responded, as excited about it as I was. Right then and there, I knew.

I knew not only that I had found The One, but that he’d been there, right in front of my face, all this time. I also knew I had to win him back.

If I had a time machine, I would use it to go back to that day we met in a loud bar in Long Beach. I would walk up to me, pull me aside and tell me to quit being such an angry bitch all the time. To loosen up, relax, have another drink, and smile. And I’d tell me that the funny guy with the glasses and cheesy pick-up lines was the one I’d spend the next four years looking for, so I may as well have some fun with him and give him a shot.

I’d also tell me that in four years, four months and roughly six days, I’d be signing a lease with him as we move into our first apartment together. I’d tell me that this guy would make me laugh, and would never stop surprising me with breakfasts and Halloween socks and M&Ms with our picture on them. I’d tell me that this guy would make me feel more loved than I ever had dreamed. And I’d tell me not to be so uptight, and enjoy every last text message he sends. Especially if it rhymes. 

[waitingfortheding]

I will show you mine if you show me yours…

Six months isn’t that long of a time to get to know someone. Most would, at the very least, flinch at the idea of moving in after just six months.

I like to think that for my boyfriend and I, it’s a little different. Having a history and being friends for five years helps. Plus I’m fairly certain we’re soul mates. So there’s that.

My point is that in the time we've been together, we've gotten to know each other extremely well. We can predict each other’s thoughts and sentences. We know each other’s darkest secrets. We've seen each other naked, and at our worst: drunk, sick, angry, hungover, sad, crying and unshaven. Sometime, all of those at once.

Most couples eventually evolve to this point. When they’re heading in that direction, that is. Eventually, you know so much about your significant other and you feel so comfortable around them, that all the ugly bits you've hidden for so long bubble to the surface. Mornings with no makeup and sweatpants instead of cute pajamas become more common; burping and farting and scratching become acceptable behavior. Few things are left to the imagination.

Until, eventually, you have the talk.

That’s right, The Talk. There’s one thing that is so personal, so taboo to discuss that couples can go for months, even years successfully avoiding it. It’s awkward to talk about. No one wants to admit the truth. And you just know your significant other will judge you. Even if they say they’re not, they’re probably lying.

You know what I’m talking about.

It’s your number.

No, not the number of people you’ve slept with. No one should ever talk about that. You take that number with you to your grave.

I’m talking about several numbers, actually. Your credit score. Your bank account balance. Your credit card debt. Your salary. All of it. It’s horrifying to think about. And it’s something we never talk about, until it’s time to shack up.

It’s a weird concept, really. I mean, it’s right up there with politics, religion and women’s rights when it comes to things you shouldn’t bring up when getting to know a person. Think about what would happen if you went on a first date, or even a second, and asked “So, how much do you make?” as casually as you would ask about their favorite football team. What if you asked to run a credit check before he meets your family?

You’d be single for long time, that’s what.

I guess, you could say that some people (let me stress, I am NOT referring to myself, but rather those materialistic fake-boobed girls that live in Calabasas or the West Side) do a form of this when they accept or reject guys based on what car they drive and/or where they live.

Money has always been low on the list of things that are important to me when considering qualities of a person I’m dating. I’ve dated guys with a great job and tons of money. I’ve dated guys with crappy jobs and no money. My favorites have always been the ones who are hard workers, plain and simple.

I once dated a guy who told me on our second date that he had a policy about dating. You have to look out for The Three D’s: Dependents, Drugs and Debt.

As soon as he told me that my stomach turned into a heavy glob of stress, turning and rolling and both imploding and exploding all at the same time. I don’t have kids, and I don’t do drugs. But I do carry some credit card debt, left over from years of not understanding that one simply cannot spend more  than one makes and expect to break even.

It’s something I don’t like to share, not with anyone except maybe my BFF, who is more like a sister to me. Mostly because she’s been present during many of my poorer shopping decisions.

So you can imagine the scene, as my boyfriend and I sat on his couch last week, filling out apartment applications together. I always stress out about money matters, so you know I was acting like an idiot.

I offered to fill his application out for him, because I have better handwriting (sorry, love). Address, occupation, emergency contact, blah blah blah. All that is fine. But then I act all dumb and sheepish when we wrote out monthly income and all the other nonsense that grownups applying for a nice apartment have to make public.

After I finished his, I wrote my own, while he was watching “Blacklist.” I filled in all those ugly blanks, and handed it to him.

“Here,” I pushed. “Read it.”

He took it out of my hand, with his eyes still looking at James Spader. (But really, it’s hard to look away from James Spader.) He glanced at the front of it, briefly, and handed it back with his eyes back on Spader. “Looks good.”

“No, love… Read it!” I again pushed the paper into his hands.

“What am I reading?!?”

“I filled out your form, so I know all of your stuff. You need to know all of my stuff, too,” I told him. “It’s a two-way street here. No secrets.”

He took it back, and read it over. He took his time. I stared at him the whole time. I’m so weird.

“Alright. Looks good.” He handed it back to me. Eyes back to Spader once again.

Dammit, I love this man.

[waitingfortheding]

An Open Letter to My Sweetheart Before We Live Together:

My love,

We’ve been talking a lot lately about taking the next step and getting a place together. It’s the most excited, happy and terrified I’ve felt in my life. I can’t believe it’s going to happen. It’s like when you’ve booked a big vacation, or scored front row seats to an amazing concert. So much anticipation builds up that you have a hard time convincing yourself it is going to happen until you’re actually sitting on the beach or singing along at the top of your lungs.

This idea, of us being able to wake up to each other every morning and kiss each other goodnight every night, has me using every last drop of self-control I possess not to run through the streets and hallways at work, screaming “WE’RE MOVING IN TOGETHER! I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE MOVING IN TOGETHER!!!”

Even though we’re not sure when exactly it will happen, in terms of the time we’ve been together, it’s probably a little soon. But, in the grand scheme of things, I have been waiting all my life for this. I’ve finally found the one who I get to look forward to seeing at the end of the day, and he doesn’t have four paws and answer to the name Boots.

But the more I think about it, the more it’s starting to sink in what this means for me. For all the anticipation of lazy Sundays on our sofa, there are myriad panic attacks bubbling to the surface. Things that I haven’t had to worry about in seven years, the last time I had a roommate. Living alone for that long, you tend to stop thinking about how your lifestyle affects those around you.

There are little things you already know, such as my aversion to doing dishes. The things I’m worried about are the big secrets, the things you don’t share in the first few months of a relationship when you’re trying to convince the love of your life that you’re practically perfect in every way.

So, in the interest of total disclosure, I feel there are a few things I need to warn you about before you agree to take the plunge.

1. I have cats. You know this, already. But I don’t think you know this know this. Furniture will be scratched beyond repair. The things you value most will be vomited on. You will never leave the house again without minimum four cat hairs somewhere on your being. You will be woken up in the middle of the night to incessant meowing, or worse, the warning wretches that are immediate precursors to hairballs. And oh, the hairballs. You will step in them. It is unavoidable.

2. On a related note, I am not great about cleaning the litter box. I say with shame that it should happen every day, but it doesn’t. Frankly, Boots and Jane are lucky if I clean it every other day. Really it just boils down to whether guests are coming, or if/when Jane leaves one of the gifts that earned her the nickname, “Jane Poo.” But once we’re in the same house, all four of us, I’ll do my best to be a better shit-shoveler.

3. I own more shoes than I could wear if I wore a different pair every day for six weeks. I promise to get rid of some before we have to share closet space. That being said, I own more purses and handbags than I could carry every day for a month. I can’t promise that I will get rid of any of them.

4. I am a nail polish fiend. That is all.

5. I eat ice cream out of the container. I feel this cuts out the middle man. This also means that ice cream doesn’t last long under my roof. Act accordingly.

6. There are times when I emit rather un-ladylike noises. You call it tooting, I call it farting. But it happens. Sometimes loudly. Please laugh at me or else I’ll be embarrassed. And I beg you also to fart, in front of me, or else I’ll think you are some supreme being too perfect to pass gas and I’ll just feel worse about myself.

7. I burp a lot, too.

8. I don’t eat leftovers. Most of the time, they will live their final days (or weeks) forgotten in the back of my fridge. Unless they’re from Don Cuco’s, in which case, hands off.

9. I talk out loud to myself all the freaking time. I want to say this is healthy, but who knows. I’ve used the excuse of talking to my cats, but I don’t really think that’s any healthier. Blame it on my mom’s side of the family. It’s a genetic trait that doesn’t skip generations.

10. I love doing laundry, and I love folding laundry. But I hate putting my clean, folded laundry away. Especially hanging things up in my closet, because fuck hangers.

11. I can’t watch television shows that feature pregnant 16-year-olds, anyone with the last name “Kardashian,” real housewives, duck hunters, bachelors (or bachelorettes), B-list celebs who try to dance or average people who think they can sing. It’s not that I don’t like to, or don’t want to. I literally can’t. I will have a mental breakdown.

12. I know you love you some “Walking Dead,” and that is just fine with me. I say this because I can’t live without “The Good Wife” and I enjoy “Big Bang Theory,” including all the re-runs on TBS. Oh, and P.S., “Grey’s Anatomy” is possibly the worst scripted drama on TV, but I still watch the hell out of it when it’s on.

13. I have whittled my magazine subscriptions down to just “Runner’s World.” I still have about 38 magazines in my living room at any given time.

14. I talk on the phone with my mom pretty much every day. I know, I know. She lives three blocks away. But sometimes major life events happen that I need to talk to her about. You know, like when I go to the store to buy bananas, paper towels and milk, but they moved everything around so now the milk is next to the orange juice instead of near the yogurt section, and it takes so much longer to just run in and grab something when you need it.

There are more things to list, I’m sure. I know I’m not the easiest person to live with. And I can promise to try to be better about any and all of these things (and those that come up in about 6 months). But here’s what I can absolutely guarantee: I will give you space when you need it, attention when you want it, and keep cold beer in the fridge at all times.

I love you with all my heart. Please don’t break up with me.

[waitingfortheding]

Bummer Dude Guy

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I’d like to share the story of my worst date ever. It actually might be the worst date anyone's had, ever.

It was the summer of 2011. Bummer Dude Guy was a waiter at a restaurant I’d gone to with my parents one night. I slipped my card on the table after dinner, just as we were leaving. (Sorry, Mom.) Two days later, he called me and we went out for drinks.

That night wasn’t horrible. But it wasn’t great, either. He was very young, incredibly immature and clearly looking for only one thing. We had nothing in common. In fact, he annoyed me – and not in the cute “opposites attract” kind of way. More like, “I’m annoying enough that I use the phrase ‘Bummer, dude’ as part of my everyday language.”

So of course, when he asked me out again, I … yeah, I went. I was pretty desperate that summer.

My first notion that it wasn’t going to go well should have come when he told me he’d be out of work at 9, and that I should come pick him up around 9:30 and I could sit and hang out if he wasn’t ready yet.

The second sign that it wasn’t going to go well should have come when I got to his apartment at 9:30, and not only wasn’t he ready, but he wasn’t answering the apartment building buzzer or his cell phone. I stood outside a dumpy complex in Van Nuys waiting for this moron to answer the door for about five minutes. As I was about to give up, an incredibly tall black guy talking on his cell phone came out of the front door and looked at me. He asked if I was there to see Bummer Dude Guy (whose real name, I honestly can’t remember for the life of me). I said yes, and he told me to follow him.

In hindsight, it might not have been the wisest, most careful decision of my life. (Sorry again, Mom.) I left a mental trail of breadcrumbs as this complete stranger – who continued to talk on his phone the entire time – lead me through the hallways of the apartment complex, until finally we got to Bummer Dude Guy’s place.

It turns out that my greeter was one of three roommates who lived with him in this surprisingly large and very surprisingly nicely decorated bachelor pad. Bummer Dude Guy came out of a bathroom to say hi to me – wearing nothing but a towel and a smile – and tossed me the remote control, telling me to make myself comfortable.

I sat down on a plush sofa and starting flipping channels. If nothing else, it made me feel like I was back in my freshman dorm at college. Another roommate came out and introduced himself to me. This guy was hot and funny and polite … and I started to wonder why I wasn’t going out with him instead.

Bummer Dude Guy FINALLY finished putting product in his hair and came out to socialize about 30 minutes later. He asked where we should go. I realized he meant “we” as in the three of us. Then, the roommate that greeted me at the front door announced he and his brother (the fourth roommate) wanted to go too.

I’ve lost track of the signs that the night wasn’t going to go well, at this point. But here are a few more.

Bummer Dude Guy told me that I would have to drive everyone, because two didn’t have cars and one had a DUI. I’m still not sure why he couldn’t have driven himself, but that’s beside the point.

They piled in my car, and we drove to the worst bar on Ventura Boulevard, about four blocks away. It was one of those too-loud, sports-themed meat markets (meet market?) with drunk guys wearing too much Axe and drunk girls wearing not much at all. I was 33 at the time, and I’m pretty sure I was the oldest one there.

The only saving grace of the evening was that Bummer Dude Guy paid for all of the drinks that night.

Oh wait, that’s right. He didn’t. It was the hot roommate who paid for all of my drinks AND all of Bummer Dude Guy’s drinks.

They pounded beers. I sipped. They bought shots. I passed. They started picking out girls who “looked easy enough for us to take home.”

When they found one, she was already so drunk she could barely stand up straight. She was sad because she’d been stood up, and her other friends left the bar already. They bought her drinks, and she took them while they laughed and talked about her, right in front of her face. But she was oblivious. It was painful to watch.

 I asked her to go to the bathroom with me, and once we got in there, I told her what was going on, and I asked her if she needed me to call her a cab. She was so upset, and said she lived around the corner and would walk home.

When we got out of the bathroom and back to the bar, she kept walking. The guys were not happy. But suddenly, Bummer Dude Guy’s focus shifted back on me.

He somehow got it into his head that I’d be going home with him that night. I told him he was sorely mistaken. He asked why not. I told him I wasn’t keen on staying over at random guy’s houses, especially when they shared a room.

“But I don’t share a room,” he said.

“You don’t? Where was your room?” I asked.

“You were in it,” he said.

“I was?”

“Yeah. You sat on my bed and watched TV while I was getting ready.”

“YOUR SOFA IS YOUR BED?”

“Yeah.”

“YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE A BEDROOM?”

“Just the living room.”

“AND YOU THINK I’M GOING TO GO HOME WITH YOU??!?”

I wish I could say the night ended then.

The bartender rang the bell for last call, and my classy date ordered two more beers, which he proceeded to pound, in succession, in about 30 seconds.

His roommates said they wanted In-N-Out, so they left and started walking to the one a few blocks away. We said we’d meet them there.

On the way out to my car in the parking lot, I pulled a typical move and tripped on the uneven concrete. I wasn’t drunk; I was stone-cold sober. But I was wearing high heels, and well, I’m a klutz. Bummer Dude Guy turned around to see me on the ground, and instead of coming over to help, he started laughing. Hysterically. And didn’t stop.

I got up, and got in my car. He was still laughing.

“You know what? You’re a great girl,” he said. “My mom would love you.”

Nothing could prepare me for what happened next.

“In fact, I’m calling her right now. I want you to talk to my mom,” he said, and literally took his phone out of his pocket and started dialing.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked him, while driving as fast as I could to drop his ass off at the stupid In-N-Out.

“I’m calling my mom! I want her to meet you.”

Did I mention it was a little before 2 a.m.? Did I mention that Bummer Dude Guy was from Michigan?

“It’s after 4 a.m. there. Don’t call your mom,” I said.

“Too late it’s ringing…”

We pulled into the In-N-Out parking lot and he saw his friends. He hung up his phone. Thank God for ADD.

He got out of the car, and I stayed in my seat, engine running. He walked around to my side and asked why I wasn’t getting out. I explained to him that I was dropping him off, and going home for the night.

He started arguing with me, and trying to convince me that I was going home with him that night.

I calmly told him that I was not, and that I had things to do in the morning and I needed to go home.

At the time, I was a personal trainer and held a bootcamp on the weekends. He knew this, and knew that was why I wanted to leave.

“You don’t HAVE to do your bootcamp tomorrow,” he said.

“Yeah, I kinda do,” I said.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do. It’s my job.”

“Nah,” he said. “It’s really more like a hobby.”

Line. Crossed.

I put the car into reverse, and he quickly leaned into the window.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“This has been fun. I’m going home. Get home safe,” I said.

“No, you can’t leave.”

“Yes, I can, as a matter of fact.”

At this point, Bummer Dude Guy pushed himself away from my car, as if he were in a shoving match. He stood there are crossed his arms, pouted and said, “Well, I am NOT kissing you goodnight!”

I wish I could say that was the last of Bummer Dude Guy. He tried calling me again and again for a few weeks after that night. I never answered.

  I hope my story puts a smile on someone’s face this Valentine’s Day. Whether single or coupled up, just remember, it could always be worse.

[waitingfortheding]

Love on the Run

“Love is not a sprint, it’s a marathon.” - Howard Wollowitz

A couple weeks ago, during lunch with an old running buddy, I likened dating to training for a race. As soon as I left the restaurant, I thought to myself, “Did I really just say that? OK, I am officially running too much.”

Coincidentally, that night I saw an episode of “Big Bang Theory” and Howard Wollowitz made a similar comparison. Maybe I wasn’t too far off after all.

After giving it some thought – hey, your mind wanders to some real strange places after three straight hours of running – I decided to compile a list of basic rules that apply both to running and dating.

● Don’t make your first run a marathon.

The advice I gave my friend was to try online dating merely as a means of practice for real dating. You wouldn’t decide to run a marathon without training for it; you have to start with a mile or two at a time, and build from there. Online dating is really like a crash course in Dating 101: What to do, what to say, what to wear, what to text… and most crucial, how to flirt! I’ve already established that it’s not probable you’ll meet your soul mate online (not impossible, just nearly), but I stand by my argument that if you’ve been out of the dating pool for a while, it’s the best way to dive back in and get your feet wet.

Once you’ve gotten the hang of running the first few miles, you’re ready to tackle some middle-distance races. And once you’ve lived to tell about your three-month trial on Match.com, you’re ready to take the training wheels off and give “real” dating a try. Go out to bars, flirt with that cute guy you see at the market, put yourself out there and take a few risks.

● You have to warm up.

Just as you have to do some stretching and moving around before a good run, you can’t just jump into a relationship with someone. No matter how awesome they are, how awesome you are together, or how awesome things seem to be going. You need time to get to know one another. You need to learn about their routines, basic likes/dislikes, their moods and triggers. The relationship warm-up is where you work out all the awkward kinks. The things you’re still afraid of him finding out about you, and the things you learn about him – they all come out and surprise you. If you leap straight into a relationship without knowing these things, they’re going to sneak up on you like a bad cramp in the second mile.

● The faster you start, the faster you’ll burn out.

One of the most important – and hardest – lessons to learn in running is how to pace yourself. If you’re running 13.1 miles, you can’t run the same speed as you would for 3 miles. You just won’t be able to maintain it. You go into a 5K race with the plan to run as fast as you can for those 3 short miles. If you take off with that same mentality for a half-marathon, you’re going to burn out early and hit your wall.

It’s important to recognize which race you’re running when it comes to dating. Most of the time, we date someone with the intention of it lasting a while, if not forever. Once and a while though, you might meet someone and know right away that it’s not going to last. But you can still enjoy the heck out of it while it does. You can rush into everything with those fun little sprints. But you’ve got to remember that that’s all it is – a sprint.

Suppose you meet someone and you’re lucky enough to be able to tell that this one is special; this one is an ultra-marathoner. You’re totally going the distance with this one. Two words to live by: Start slow. You know the cliché about not rushing into things? This is where it’s most important.

This rule is personally the most difficult one for me to follow. Being in love and being impatient is a bad combo. I don’t like waiting. When I want something, I want it now. And if I can’t have it now? I pout. This comes with all things in my life, from eating to training to relationships to shopping. I’ve gotten better, but I’m still far from perfect. Last October, I ran a half-marathon. My goal pace to finish in 2 hours and 30 minutes was an 11:20 minute mile. I started out strong – too strong. For the first four miles I was running a 10:30 pace, when I’d trained between 11:30 and 12:00. I flew over hills and bridges. I passed hydration stations without stopping for water. You can guess what happened. As I approached Mile 12, I hit my wall so hard I nearly stopped altogether and realized I might not finish. I was too eager and burned through all my strength and energy early on.

WTW Guy has had to enforce the “Let’s not rush into things” rule with me a couple of times now, and honestly, I’m glad he has the good sense to keep us on pace. We dated for months before becoming “official.” We took the time to warm up and get to really know each other, and I think we’re a stronger couple for it. It’s important to ease into things. I never feel like I’m really hitting my stride until I’ve run three or four miles. We’re nearly three “official” months into our relationship, and I feel like he’s my best friend and I can talk to him about anything, no matter how dumb I sound.

● There will be bad runs, and there will be good runs.

You can’t step up and hit a home run every time you’re at bat. Wait – I’m mixing up my sports metaphors now. Not every run is going to go perfectly. You might be injured, sluggish or just not feeling it. And you can never tell until you’ve left the gate how it will go. The best thing to do when you’ve had a really crappy run is to get through as much of it as you can, tell yourself you did your best, and get ready for the next one.

Not every day you spend with your beloved is going to be perfect. Couples fight. People have bad days. Small things that on any other day would seem insignificant can be blown up and out of proportion. You can’t quit just because you’ve had a bad day or a disagreement. You keep going. Tough it out and work through the pain. Collect yourself, work it out, and know that the next run is going to be easier. You wouldn’t quit running forever because of one leg cramp; you can’t quit a relationship because of one fight.  

● Keep hydrated and re-fuel yourself along the way.

When out for a long run, you’ve got to take care of yourself along the way. You need to keep drinking water and choke down those awful energy chews. They are essential to any long-distance run, and without them, you’re probably not going to make it very far. The equivalent of these in any long-term relationship is all the fun little things you do to keep the romance alive. Little love notes, fun dates, cute surprises, racy texts: They might not seem like much, but they do wonders to help maintain that initial spark that brought you two together. The smallest gestures let your S.O. know you love and appreciate them, and it helps carry you both over the miles.

● Take it easy on the hills.

Every relationship has its ups and downs. When you’ve hit a rough patch – take your time to work through it. Don’t think you can breeze past it and everything will be ok. Slow down, keep your head up, remember to breathe, and take that hill one step at a time. And keep in mind how good it will feel once you’ve reached the top and you’re able to fly back down. 

● Maintain your focus and remember to prioritize.

It’s easy to get distracted from training for a big race, especially after months and months of it. I’m in my fourth month of training for my first marathon, and I’ll admit it’s getting harder to stick to my routine. I miss going out on Saturday nights, and sleeping in on Sundays. Instead, I make Fridays my big night out and I’m in bed hours before SNL so I can be up at 5:30 am for my long runs. I get real sick of drinking 100-plus ounces of water a day. I don’t foam roll as much as I should. I hate interval and speed training more than words can say, and usually when I’m doing them, all I can think about it everything else I’d rather be doing. But I know that if I didn’t make time to run three or four days a week, if I didn’t drink all that water and get as much sleep as I can, it would derail months of hard work and make finishing all 26.2 miles nearly impossible.

In the same vein, you have to maintain focus on a relationship. Distractions can and will creep up – don’t let them throw you off track. Work gets crazy and you become busy; friends and family want to make plans with you; kids demand attention 24/7 – despite all of these things, you have to create time for each other. Think life is tough now? Imagine doing it alone. Don’t lose focus on the one you love. There could be some nasty ex- who comes crawling back, or even a fun flirtation out at a bar one night – ignore them. If you’re going to keep that relationship going, respect and care for each other above all else. If you’re intent on making your relationship work, you’ve got to make it a priority.

The irony behind this – for me, anyway – has been trying to prioritize both my boyfriend and a training schedule. Lucky for me, I have the world’s most understanding and supportive guy who knows how important this race is to me.

● Don’t listen to that voice of doubt in your head.

It happens to every runner. Somewhere toward the middle to the end of the race, your brain lets go and starts to drift toward some pretty dark places. You get emotional. It becomes more than a run; it’s an extension of your psyche. Your confidence is questioned and doubt takes over. “What made me think I was capable of doing this? I suck. I’m not good at this. I’m not good at anything!” Fear takes over your thoughts and your run.

It’s similar to those with a fear of commitment. Or those who just get scared at the first sign of trouble in a relationship. It’s easier to just take off than it is to confront the fear head on and get through it. When this happens, remember why you signed up for this race in the first place. Whether it’s a shiny medal or the love of your life, keep your eye on the prize. It will help keep you on pace, focused and fueled. That finish line is closer than you think. 

[waitingfortheding]

The DTR Theorem

There is a toothbrush in my bathroom that doesn’t belong to me, and it’s kind of blowing my mind.

I’ll get back to that. 

When you start dating someone, and the weeks turn into months, friends and family inevitably will ask you a question that instantly turns your stomach: So, are you two official? 

I hate getting asked if you are “officially” boyfriend and girlfriend. Because really, what defines “official”? Actions? Feelings? Exclusivity? Or is it necessary to have the Define The Relationship talk before you can confidently answer with a resounding “Yes!” 

The problem is that 99 percent of the time you’re asked, it’s before the DTR has taken place, saddling you with the responsibility of having to analyze where you are in the relationship and whether it’s where you want to be, without the comfort of having your significant other affirm or disaffirm your assessment. 

There is a parallel between the frequency of being asked your status, and how imminent the DTR is. If you’re not asked whether you’re boyfriend/girlfriend, it’s likely because either everyone is aware of how glued at the hip you’ve become, or because it’s obviously not going to work out. 

When one of my buddies asked me a couple weeks ago whether WTW Guy and I were official, I decided to come back at him by asking him to help me define “official.” Here’s what we came up with. 

If you can check all but one or two of these items, it’s pretty safe to assume you’re boyfriend/girlfriend:

Neither of you are seeing anyone else. 

You spend two or more nights a week sleeping at each other’s house. 

You keep a set of toiletries — or minimum, a toothbrush — at each other’s house. 

You have a general idea of where the other is and what they’re doing at any given moment of the day. 

You might not have plans cemented for the weekend, but it is a given that you will see each other at some point. 

You go away for a long weekend together, just the two of you.

You begin to friend each other’s best friends on Facebook. 

You make plans for events more than a month away.

You’ve spent a night together without having sex — you just sleep together, in the most literal sense. 

There is talk about meeting the family. 

At the point my buddy asked me whether WTW Guy and I were official, I could safely answer yes to 8 of the above criteria. However, we hadn’t yet had the DTR. 

After that conversation, I started to think I’d had a revelation about mature relationships between people dating in their mid-30s. Maybe there is a point at which the DTR becomes unnecessary? What if you go through all of the above, and then go on to meet the family members and say the I Love You’s and make all kinds of extensive travel plans months in advance, and you’ve still never worked up the huevos to ask, “So, hey, I was wondering, am I your girlfriend now? Like, can I call you my boyfriend? We’re cool with this?” 

I started testing out using the term “my boyfriend” to a few people. You know, random insignificant people with whom I was making small talk, and I could be sure that it would never get back around to WTW Guy that I’d started calling him “my boyfriend” prior to actually having the talk. Because really, that’s the catch. You want to be comfortable assuming he’s your boyfriend (or she’s your girlfriend), but you don’t actually want to get busted doing it by the presumptive boyfriend or girlfriend. Because God forbid they find out, and react badly. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back the truck up, lady. Boyfriend? When did this happen?!? This is getting too serious for me. I’m out of here." 

Worst case scenario. 

Lucky for me, I pretty much had the best case scenario. 

We went out of town, for our first weekend away together. And on the first night, during dinner (and following an afternoon of beer tasting), WTW Guy tells me he has a question he wants to ask me, but he’s going to wait until the next day to ask me. 

No fucking way, I told him. I made him ask me right there and then. 

"Would you be my girlfriend?" he asked sweetly. 

Like I said, there were some adult beverages consumed prior to this question being hung out there. So the details are fuzzy. But I’m pretty sure I answered something like this: “Ummm, you have a toothbrush in my bathroom. I kinda figured we were there already. Right?” 

And then I remembered to shove aside my inner Vulcan Robot Tin-man Ice Princess, and I said, “Of course I want to be your girlfriend!!!” And then, I said something that had been on the tip of my tongue for weeks. “I love you.” 

For the record, it was the first time in my life that I’ve been the first one to say it. I have a policy about holding out for the guy to say it (granted, this has happened twice, maybe three times since, like, high school). But I couldn’t control myself. Which tells you that I’ve really got it bad for this guy. 

I am pretty sure I proceeded to have a severe case of diarrhea of the mouth about how much in love with him I actually am, before he said it back to me. The beer tastings and bottle of wine with dinner make it all very, very fuzzy. I wish I remembered more. But I think somewhere in there was a comment about waiting six years for this, and my apologizing for not letting this happen six years ago. 

In any event. We said it. We’re official. If I had a dollar for the number of times we said “I love you” for the rest of the weekend, I would have come home a millionaire. It was all very mushy and sickening. And I loved every minute of it. 

Here’s the funny thing about becoming official. That parallel between the number of times you’re asked and how close to becoming official? It disappears once you actually have the DTR. It’s like magic. When you finally get to a place where you’re confident and excited to tell people, no one asks anymore. They’re all busy plotting how to make you anxious and uneasy for the next phase of your relationship. 

[waitingfortheding]

Keep Cool, Baby. Keep Cool.

My dad has a phrase he likes to say to me before I’m heading out on a long road trip or before I head into an important meeting or interview: “Cool head, maintain.”

With that simple three-word reminder, he unwittingly implies that I – a Mecca of calm, rational thought – might somehow, under minimal stress, lose my cool.

Unheard of.

So maybe sometimes I allow myself to sweat over a small issue. Maybe occasionally a problem arises that weighs a little heavy on my shoulders. It’s not like I spend hours dwelling on minutia, or that I lose sleep considering all possible outcomes of a situation in which it is entirely impossible to predict what will happen. I certainly never, ever, bother my friends by consulting them and asking their advice over insignificant concerns.

Alright. Fine. Busted.

The word “neurotic” describes me as aptly as the word “refreshing” describes a frosty, cold beer opened during the third inning of a day game in July at Dodger Stadium. I have a knack for turning mole-hills into soaring peaks that dwarf mere mountains. I can’t help it; I freak out over the smallest of happenings, and get lost inside my head, running circles around and around until I’m so tired and dizzy I’ve lost all sense of reality.

I figure my friends must find this quality endearing, because it happens pretty often and yet, they’re still around to listen to me and my panic attacks. Over and over again.

Everyone who has participated in the dating game has learned the importance of playing it cool. You never want that special someone in your life to know that you’re freaking out, especially when you’re freaking out over them.

I talked to a friend of mine the other day who finally hooked up with a guy she’s been pursuing for almost a year. Post hook-up, she naturally wants it to go somewhere. He told her that he wants the same, but he’s in the middle of an important work project and will be busy for a while. They hang out in the same crowd, and bump into each other pretty often. So, of course, in the midst of the awkward situation, she’s forced to play it cool.

Here’s the scenario if she doesn’t play it cool:

“What? You’re too busy to date me?? But you weren’t too busy to hook up with me!!! So, you’re saying this was just a one-night stand and now you expect me just to be fine with it?!?!? WTF?!? No way, buddy. You’re going to date me, and call me your girlfriend, and you are going to like it!!!”

To which the guy responds: "Meep meep!" Peeeeeeeewwwmmmm…! (That is the sound of the Road Runner speeding away from Wile E. Coyote in the Looney Tunes cartoons. Just in case you missed that.)

Here’s the scenario if she DOES play it cool:

“Oh yeah, it’s cool. I hate it when work gets like that. Let me know when you get freed up again. See ya around.”

The dude is (hopefully) going to think, “Huh. She’s pretty laid back. I like that. Alright. Maybe I’ll see her again.”

And realistically, ladies, as a side note, if the dude in this situation was at all relieved that he was off the hook? He’s not into you, and he’s not worth pining after any longer. Quit wasting your time on someone not into you.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Playing it cool.

Last weekend, I was faced with the monumental challenge of playing it cool while Worth the Wait Guy went out of town for the weekend to be a groomsman in a wedding. A wedding in which his ex-girlfriend was one of the bridesmaids. And they were all staying in one big house. Together.

I knew how important it was for me to not let on how out-of-my-mind worried** I was over this wedding situation. Maybe it was because I had a half-marathon to focus on that weekend, but somehow I was able to not over-think it. I reached a stunning conclusion: I had zero control over what might happen in that house with the entire wedding party drinking and celebrating all weekend. Freaking out and harassing WTW Guy about being good and not sleeping with his ex- would only annoy him, and likely, lead to him wanting to sleep with his ex-.

Somehow, I found a sense of calm in reminding myself that we’ve only been dating a couple of months. It’s still relatively early, but so far things have been going really well. I feel good about us and where we are, and he’s never given me any reason to think he’s not feeling the same way. It’s been a long time since I’d even considered the concept, but the only thing I could control was my ability to trust him. I would deal with whatever happened AFTER it happened (or after I found out about it), and not waste time and energy worrying about things that hadn’t yet happened.  

On the Friday night of wedding weekend, I received an absolutely heart-warming drunk call from him. He warned there would be many drunk texts to follow. But then, nothing. No drunk texts. No texts. No nothing. Silence.

Saturday morning, not a word. I coached myself into believing everything was fine. Nothing happened. A few casual texts were exchanged before the wedding festivities began, and then after, during the reception and after-party, my phone was silent again. However, he did find time to post some photos on his Facebook page of the bridesmaids, looking very pretty. BUT – I didn’t let myself freak out.

I not only played it cool, I kept it cool. I ran my 13.1 miles on Sunday morning and focusing on nothing but my feet hitting the pavement, my knees and hips maintaining their strength, my breathing and hydration. Any time I thought of him messing around with her, I brushed it aside and replaced it with another push toward the finish line.

The following Monday, I talked to a co-worker about the weekend and the whole situation. Here’s what he said: “All I know is, if it were me? Back when I was dating? If I’d only been dating you a couple of months and I was in a house all weekend with my ex-, I’m nailing her. That totally would have happened.”

Remind me not to talk to that guy, like ever again.

WTW Guy came over that night to go out to dinner. It was the first time I’d seen him after the wedding weekend. A part of me thought I would be able to detect it somehow if something had happened. He’d kiss differently. He’d avoid eye contact. Something would be off. But I made a promise to myself before he came over that I would not under any circumstances ask him if something happened with his ex- (no matter how much I had to drink).

When I opened the door, he was holding flowers behind his back. “Oh God,” my inner-neuroses screamed. “He totally nailed her!”  But outwardly, I kept my cool. He brought me flowers for finishing my race. It was sweet and thoughtful, not incriminating.

We went to dinner, and then got drinks, and – as usual – had an amazing and fun night. I was reassured that nothing had happened. Everything felt just as it had before the weekend. And the best part? I didn’t ask. I didn’t accuse. I kept cool. 

So you can imagine the surprise and satisfaction I felt when, early the next day, I got a text from him out of the blue, saying that he didn't know if I was too nice to ask, or too scared to ask, but that he wanted me to know that nothing happened with anyone that weekend. It was the ultimate reward for all my efforts to play cool the whole time.

Of course, I do think it's easier to play it cool with someone when you really trust them. And WTW Guy is the first in a while that I feel that sense of trust with. Don't get me wrong. I still have a Bullshit Detector that works second-to-none. But lately I find I have less and less need for it. Knock on wood. 

**Sweetie, if you're reading this, don't worry. I really wasn't out-of-my-mind worried about anything that weekend. I knew nothing would happen. This whole post is just a little elaboration, you know, for entertainment value. I was totally fine the whole time. I swear. 

[waitingfortheding]

Worth the Wait Guy bought me a pair of Halloween socks yesterday. 

Yeah. He's a keeper. 

[waitingfortheding]

THIS is more like it.

Butterflies. Fireworks. Unicorns barfing up rainbows. 

It’s all happening. Big time. 

And, boy. What a difference the right guy makes. 

The best part? He’s been right there in front of my face.

Five years ago (give or take), I met this guy in a bar in Long Beach. It was at the end of an arduous day of shopping with my BFF. She insisted on getting drinks at this very loud, crowded bar, even though I was carrying like six GAP bags. 

Of course, she got hit on right away, by a guy we grew to refer to as The Mouth Kisser. Long story. Not important. Meanwhile, The Mouth Kisser’s friend started chatting with me, and made a bet with me over our age and who was older. To this day, we’ve been unable to go back and retrace the rules of this bet, but I lost and he won my phone number. 

It should be noted that he lied in order to win said number. 

Anyway. We dated. And he was very charming, but I was fresh out of the dreaded 7-year-relationship, and I was overwhelmed by this guy’s charm and charisma. Seriously. He’s got that much. 

So we stopped dating. But somehow we stayed friends, and stayed in touch, and then Facebook came along, and a couple years later, we dated again. But this time, he dropped out. He met someone and wanted to see where it went. Fair enough. I backed off. 

They got serious. I got seriously bummed. I wrote a blog once about my ability to chose Mr. Wrong over Mr. Right, and how I had let a Mr. Right get away once. And I told Mr. Right, assuming he knew whom he was, that he better call me if things didn’t work out with his current lady. 

I’m not going to say I was happy when he asked to meet for drinks late last year. But I was pretty freaking excited. The only hangup? I had just met Gatsby Guy. Womp womp. 

Needless to say, we’ve had some bad timing. But now, we’re dating again. And it’s awesome. He’s awesome. He calls me out on my bullshit, he makes me laugh (even when I’m having a miserable day), and he tells me I’m pretty when I think I look like poop. We have a lot of fun together, which, in my book, is the most important thing. I miss him when I don’t get to see him and I always look forward to the next time we’re getting together. And like I said, there are fireworks and sparks flying all over the place. 

So here’s the fun part. I probably should rein in my excitement a little so as not to scare him off. Because, um, see, he, ummmm… Yeah. He totally knows about my blog. And he reads it. Or, at least, he has read it in the past. Writing about someone who knows I’m writing about them is super weird and awkward for me. I’m not really sure how to handle it. But, he said he’s cool with it. So …. muahahahahaaa….

My dad’s favorite joke is to ask him what the most important part of humor is. Before you finish asking him the question, he yells “TIMING!” Timing is the most important trick to anything. Landing a new job. Meeting the right guy. It’s all about being in the right place at the right time. And I don’t even mean the right place in a geographic sense. I mean being in the right place in your life. I was lucky enough to be in the right bar at the right time to meet this amazing guy. But it took us both waiting a few years until our timing was just right. 

All I can say is, I hope this works out. Because this guy is truly worth the wait. 

[waitingfortheding]

I went to Trader Joes at lunch with a co-worker today. I was walking around the store, looking for him, when a crew member asked me if I needed help finding something. I said, "No, thanks. Just looking for someone."

"Aren't we all?" he said.

I immediately wanted to give him a great, big hug. But that would be weird, so I went and paid for my turkey jerky instead. 

[waitingfortheding]

Playing by the Rules

I have a girl friend who perplexes me.

It’s not her, per se, but rather her dating status.

She is gorgeous, fun, super smart, easy-going, funny, successful, fashionable, active, independent, warm, friendly, and one heck of a cook. She is practically a walking Yelp guide of her city. She has more than 500 Facebook friends. She can rock a beer coozie or pick the nicest Pinot off the menu. She is the kind of girl every boy’s mother wishes he would bring home.

And she is single.

Not for lack of trying. She, like me, has had tons of first dates, many second dates, a few relationships, but no keepers. She’s tried it all: blind dates, online dating, set-ups, speed dating, and the good, old-fashioned getting out in public and trying to bump into Mr. Right over coffee/picking up dry cleaning/at the gym/you name it.

I just don’t get it.

How is a girl like that still single? What is wrong with you men? If I was a dude, I would call dibs in a heartbeat.

Anyway. I bring her up because last week, she emailed me with a question: “Why does the three-day rule still apply when everything else in our worlds is so instant??”

She explained to me that she was set up with a new guy through a mutual friend. They all went to dinner together, and from the sound of things, it went well. He asked the mutual friend for her phone number, and then the waiting game began.

“So here's the thing,” she wrote, “to save my sanity and wondering if he will, I've decided not to expect to hear from him before Sunday. If I don't hear from him by Monday, I'll be disappointed, but not before. So why do we still play that silly game? Is it a remnant of power? Does the anticipation make things sweeter?”

The Three-Day Rule is a double-edged sword. If he calls right away, he seems desperate (at least that's his fear) and if he waits, he's disappointed you. Of all the dating games, it’s the one that truly holds up. Guys nearly religiously follow the Three-Day Rule. The only real exception I’ve seen are the ones who get your number, then get drunk, and text you the same night. It’s Dating Darwinism at its finest.

But, the Three-Day Rule serves a purpose, as frustrating as it is. Think of it this way. You meet a guy on a Thursday night. Let's say he calls or texts Friday morning and says, “Hey I know it's late notice, but how about we get together this weekend?” And you're like, “Great. When are you free?” And he says, “All weekend. I have no plans...”  When's the last time you had ZERO plans for the weekend? Like, does he have no friends? No social life? Best case scenario, he says, “Anytime you have free. My plans are flexible.” And then you meet for coffee, lunch or something else casual.

On the other hand, let's say he doesn't call until Sunday or Monday, because he had a busy weekend. Isn't that kind of better? Don't you want a guy who is self-sufficient to make plans and has things to do and lots of friends and family in his life? You don’t want to be the type to date some schlub who sits around doing nothing. You're better than that. 

The even better best case scenario here would have been the intro text during the weekend, before the Three-Day Rule expires, to say hi and suggest getting together the following week. Nothing solid, of course. Just the idea shows interest.

So yeah, that truly is best case scenario, and 90 percent of guys are complete idiots. The chance that the guy who just got your phone number fits into that 10 percent is slim. It's always best to gamble with the odds, and not get discouraged when the guy you just met doesn’t call or text you on the same timeline in your mind.

I told my friend to find the silver lining in the notion that maybe he won’t call for three days. That silly rule doesn’t mean she shouldn’t give him a chance. He’s only playing by the rules, and besides, all of dating is a game. It’s one big, “someone’s gotta win and if we’re lucky we both will” kind of game.

The games suck big time, but they are more or less essential. They stop you from blurting out how you really feel about a person too early on in the relationship (which could either scare them off early, or lead them on if you haven’t given it enough thought). They stop you from appearing desperate or clingy, or on the other hand, disinterested or bored. They inspire you to dress up and look your best, and do things outside of your comfort zone you might not ordinarily do. Like go see a horror movie for the first time since 1998, just so you have the chance to sit close and squeeze his arm tight during all the scary parts.

No one knows all the rules to all the games that people play when they’re dating. That right there is the problem. There is no right, no wrong, no go-directly-to-Go-and-collect-$200. There is plenty of gambling and rolling the dice. The lucky ones win probably without even realizing they were near the finish line. The rest of us just have to keep playing. 

[waitingfortheding]

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

First off, I have to apologize for using such a cliche for a title. But it's totally true.

I would so rather be the person being dumped than that person doing the dumping. The Dumpee can sit and cry and call friends and go get drunk, and then have a free pass to be in a shitty mood for two weeks before realizing they're better off and moving on to the next one.

The Dumper just has to feel like an asshole. You might, like me, have an awesome group of friends who support you whether they think you're right or wrong, and tell you you're doing the right thing, and go out drinking with you to make you feel better and to try to convince you that you're not an asshole.

But deep down, you feel like an asshole.

It would be so much easier if the Dumpee were the asshole. As in, "I deserve to be treated better than this, so screw you, I'm outta here." But when the Dumpee is a good person who has never been anything but kind and loving toward you, ... well. You can't escape the assholian feeling taking over.

No amount of wine or gin or words of support can make you feel better when you've just hurt someone who's done nothing to deserve it.

The last time I was dumped -- like, really, officially, brutally, heart-breakingingly dumped -- was The Ex, who is now a good friend of mine. It was two days before Christmas, and he couldn't give me a good reason. He just said that I wasn't "it." I wasn't the one he wanted to marry. I was great, but I wasn't "it." 

And I got it. Kinda. I mean, I was really devastated by that one. I called my mom, ordered and ate an entire Domino's pizza while drinking Maker's Mark practically straight and watching "P.S. I Love You" on repeat. But I got it. Not being someone's "It" is worse than when you break up for a good reason, like adultry or a discovered criminal record. 

Not being someone's "It" means that you found someone that you possibly connected with at times, but probably spent the bulk of the time wishing the connection was better. It means everything was really, really good -- maybe even great. But it wasn't perfect. 

It means you found someone you contemplated spending the rest of your life with, and gave it a significant amount of thought and visualization, until you realized that a piece of the puzzle was missing. And most likely, you can't put your finger on that piece of the puzzle. But it's not there, and you're not complete without it. And you know, even if you tried to fool yourself into thinking it was acceptable to live without this last piece, you'd spend the rest of your life being nothing but incomplete. And that is a pretty shitty way to live. 

For a while, I told myself it was OK that all of the other puzzle pieces fit with this one. So there was something missing. Big deal. As long as the rest of the puzzle fits, right? 

Nope. 

I started this blog with the optimism and faith that my special someone is out there somewhere, and I'm determined to meet him. I didn't start this blog with the determination that I would settle for a really nice, wonderful guy who treats me well. I wanted fireworks. I wanted to hear the ding. And the idea that, for a little while, I gave up on that one thing that has meant so much to me my entire life in order to end up with what might have been a comfortable, albeit incomplete life, scares the crap out of me. 

It's hard for me to think that I was "settling" for Gatsby Guy. Because in all honesty, he is such a good person. He has a big heart. He is generous, and kind, and thoughtful, and all that most any girl would want in a guy. Falling for that kind of guy is not settling. But at the end of the day, I was still waiting for the ding. 

OK, I'm going to reference "How I Met Your Mother" again. 

The first episode of Season 8 is when Ted runs away with Victoria, the one he feels he let get away. She is a runaway bride, showing up to their date in her wedding gown, with the groom and guests wating for her at the alter. 

Or so we think. 

Turns out, her groom feels the same way about her. Ted finds out that he also is running away from the wedding. Victoria is not "it" for him. She's almost "it," but not quite. He expresses it much better than I am, so I'm going to borrow from the show's writers here to convey his feelings.

Klaus (yes, Victoria was going to marry a German dude named Klaus) says that everyone has a soul mate, or a Lebenslangerschicksalsschatz, which loosely translates into "lifelong treasure of destiny." (I prefer "soul mate.") 

Ted asks him, if Victoria is such a great girl, why wouldn't Klaus want to marry her? 

Klaus says that Victoria is wonderful, but she's not his Lebenslangerschicksalsschatz. She's his Beinaheleidenschaftsgegenstand -- which means the thing that is almost what you want, but not quite.

Ted asks Klaus how he knows that, over time, he might not change his mind about Victoria -- that she won't become more Lebenslangerschicksalsschatz-ier. 

This is where I got choked up. 

Klaus said that Lebenslangerschicksalsshatz is not something that develops over time. "It is something that happens instantaneously. It courses through you, like the water on the river after a storm, fililng you and emptying you all at once. You feel it throughout your body: In your hands, in your heart, in your stomach; in your skin..."

Klaus asks Ted whether he's ever felt this way about anyone before, and Ted says he thinks so. Klaus tells him, if you have to think about it, you haven't felt it. "And you're absolutely sure you'll find that someday?" Ted asks. 

"Everyone does eventually," Klaus says.

I know it's fiction. And I have totally admitted that the notion of soul mates and destiny are ancient romantic ideas that have been written about and blown out of proportion by poorly paid Hollywood writers looking to make a buck by writing a hit rom-com. 

But part of it has to be true, right? The idea of Lebenslangerschica- screw it. The idea of finding your soul mate, the person who completes your puzzle -- that has to exist still, right? I know too many people who have met their "it" to give up on that notion. I can't believe I almost let myself give up. One of my bestest best friends told me that breaking up with Gatsby Guy was proof that I still believe in fireworks. 

Gatsby Guy was my Beinaheleidenschaftsgegenstand. 

The optimist that I am, it's taken a weekend of feeling like an asshole to realize that I believe my fireworks, and my ding, are still out there.

I can't wait.