A Shattering Realization

Romance is not a commodity that is guaranteed.  Nor can it be coaxed, coached, courted, or commanded  It alights, unbidden, on the breasts of the unsuspecting.  And I suspect that I shall never experience it again.

I’ve been a busy girl recently.  And all of my dating busyness has left me longing to hang with my girlfriends, gay friends, guy friends, my cats- anyone and anything that is not connected to the picked-over assortment of humanity that has presented itself as a potential romantic source.

A love coach has been courting my services.  She told me that healers don’t charge enough for their services.  Her fees range from 5k to 25k.  I think that establishes her firmly in the realm of someone who has a healthy respect for their services. She was offering a pittance for the sales person who was taxed with the responsibility of separating women from their money – all for a good cause – the fulfillment of a soul mate that we hear so much about.  I’ve dwelled many years amongst the imperfections of this creation and have spoken to a lot of people.  I haven’t met many who were living with, met, or who had otherwise engaged with the elusive soul mate creature – which I fear – is as mystical and unrealistic as the infamous unicorn.

One’s libido does calm down as one ages.  And even as I admire my fabulous, toned self, brimming with charisma and charm, I have to admit that I have always possessed a highly cultivated sexual selection process which has devolved into one that barely registers the opposite sex.  There was a foreign man, years ago, that awakened my desires and longing for a partner.  We met amidst the beauty of a soft autumnal Amagansett night and I was foolish enough to feel – soul mate?  I even dated a narcissistic  prof recently who briefly inflamed my staggering sex drive.  And there’s the 32 year-old that calls, voice brimming with testosterone and desire to recount his attraction to me and plan a visit to New York so that we can explore our mutual admiration.

I had rather hoped that I’d be looking into the eyes of my beloved at this point in my life.  I’d take in the craggy lines around his brows and labial folds.  Each crevice and indentation would be a memory that we’d shared, despaired over or had rejoiced in.  I’d imagined that his eyes would simply say, “home”.  Instead, I look into stranger’s eyes, framed by faces that are much older than the ones “advertised” in their dating profiles.  Seriously, men wouldn’t let women get away with such outrageous lying.  One man posted a pic of a muscular, tanned hunk, with blonde hair.  I didn’t recognize the middle aged, dark-haired, man spreading at the bar as the same creature.

The man that I dated last night hadn’t even bothered to dye his hair.  His pic must have been circa the 1990’s when he’d possessed some vigor and vitality.  So different from the tired, gray haired, overweight man who sat in my lobby, where I almost turned about face and retreated to my apartment upon visual contact. However, I pride myself on treating all with dignity, even those who in fact, do not posses dignity.  He was an affable fellow who shared a lengthy story of a libido that had destroyed his life, later in the evening.  It seemed that is career as an international consultant had taken him to Asia where he met and subsequently disassembled his life for a 28 year-old fashion designer.  He unapologetically walked out on his family, including two children, career, and moved to Shanghai, or such, I can’t remember, I was thinking about getting into bed with my cats at that point.  The much younger woman, as in criminally, what were you thinking your lecherous fool, took all of his money and invested it in her failing business, ignored him and five years later he returned to America, depleted, financially dissolved and heart-broken.  He loves her still.  I ask you, why is this man dating?  Oh, and he lives in a small one-bedroom apartment somewhere near the Whitestone bridge, don’t ask me for directions, with his son, a jazz guitarist.  He explained that he’s helping his son.  I wonder if the son is not helping the prodigal dad.

Then there was the Israeli physicist who lives in my building and whose acquaintance I mad in the midst of the Hurricane Sandy madness.  He took my number and called in multiples of five, leaving but one message in ten.  We managed to have a salad together one evening.  Then it occurred to me that the physicist was calling and rambling about physics and Israel, way to seduce a lady, with the hopes that he’d bore me into submission and I’d just invite him up to my apartment to end his monologues on quantum mechanics.

Of course there was another lost puppy whose wife died and who’d made a career of playing the sympathy card. I met him for the first time, after several long conversations, at the Metro North station on 125th street.  He’d trained into Manhattan with a twenty dollar bill and parked himself on my couch.  After hours of talking and boredom that bordered on paralysis, we went to the cheapest Chinese restaurant that I knew of and ate dinner.  He submitted his plea then that he couldn’t face the commute back to his friend’s apartment where he’d been living for one year and asked if he could crash on my couch. Horrors, one and all.  I’ll spare you the tale of the Harvard graduated engineer with fewer social skills than my cats, who was adamant that I view his before and after pictures on Facebook.  For some reason it was critical that I see  the proof of his body with an additional 60 pounds.  What did he want, some Facebook commendation?

Oh but I must add the 65 year old- way too old, yuck, psychologist, who grabbed my hand at the entrance to my building and placed it over his erection.  What buddy, you didn’t want to waste a Viagra?  I mean is this really what is circulating masked as available men?

As I back away from the financial abyss with God’s help, more rants on that later, I actually thought that it was time that I consider spending what remains of my years on earth with a witty, intelligent, soulful, and sexy-to-me, mate.  I get why men date younger women.  Who wouldn’t choose the passion and enthusiasm that youth offers rather than the gray haired disillusion that has presented itself at my doorstep?  Seriously, if you’re putting yourself out there, put yourself together first.  Don’t be crashing with your son, brother, Zen monk or other.  Have the decency to have put the past in the past and don’t expect sympathy votes for the last lady love that sucked you dry and spit you out.  I have my own horror stories to tell.

I had rather hoped that life would offer more than this monotony of loneliness where the deepest empathy and touch that I experience is with my cats.  I’m more involved in my hobbies and interests.  I no longer have to call my gal pal and ask her to coax me from my apartment as I had just a few months ago.  So overcome with depression and fear, I couldn’t find a reason to exit my apartment, or to live for that matter.  I’m much better now, but is this seriously all that there is?  Something, a la the brilliant Jack Nicholson movie, has to give.  So I thought that I’d never receive another job offer.  I just have to have another shot at love, don’t I?

Even Nosferatu has stopped calling or has been trapped in the depths of the Disney bubble, as he called it.  I’m not lighting any candles over here in his absence.  It’s just, you know, with another holiday approaching, without my mom, without a partner, I feel somehow cheated.  I believe that life is about love and connections.  I believe that we are here to learn to love, giving and receiving, at least that, I feel, is my lesson.  Boy, have I failed or what?  Does this place me at the back of the karmic line?  Will I reincarnate as a bat or something?

And finally, is romance just an urban myth?   Perhaps it’s all some hoax to keep the world populated.  What do you think?

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Beading my destiny – one colorful strand at a time

Reinventing myself, I find, is not as complicated as it seems.  It’s worse.  I’m at a skull and crossbones crossroad in my life, deciding whether I should follow the path of the skull or the other sign indicating poison.  Not pleased with either choice, I will allow myself to play.  I may be fiddling while my world is self-immolating, but at least I can listen to some wonderful music as I take the fall or jump to new heights.  Think of Pink’s superfab F’n Perfect.  Go to this link, dance and love yourself, because you are, I am perfect. http://tinyurl.com/cfu27pb

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So with more time on my hands than is emotionally healthy, I am avoiding rummaging through the trunks filled with memories, the shadows of regret, and clearing a space for self-expression.  I’ve been an opera singer, but stopped singing in an amazing display of self-sabotage, after my divorce.  I’ve written a paranormal romance series which I hope my brilliant agents will sell.  Recently, I added jewelry design to my toy chest.  I am passionate about personal adornment.  My accessories, the colors, shapes, textures, that I place against my skin please me far more than the men that I’ve been meeting, and the jewelry elements have more character and interest as well.

So while I am exploring supplemental employment opportunities, and thinking about opening myself to an integral relationship that has yes, integrity, passion, a kinetic intellectual attraction, spiritual resonance and the ability to communicate honestly and openly (anyone see the unicorn running down fifth avenue with the golden horn?); I am also trolling through jewelry supply stores.  I am choosing beads that please me.  I imagine the story that each bead conveys.  I feel their texture, individual energy and shape.  I mentally place them in a pattern that tells a story that I want to tell.  I am in love with violet hues, red-violet, blue violet.  I want to create designs that have an impact.  I am often complimented on my accessories and feel that they express my inner warrior priestess.  I am attracted to pieces that have an impact.  They make a statement, as do I.  My personal statement has not attracted the situations or men that interest me, so I will create another world.  I can create a destiny with each piece.  Each element, color, texture, will co-exist with another until a personal parable is realized and executed through jewelry.

Validation is perhaps the most basic, primordial drive.  We receive this through community, family, relationships, work associations.  I’ve annexed myself from the family portion of the primal program.  I work from home as an independent contractor. And community is fleeting in New York, a city so vast, and with such a rapacious appetite that one feels as though they are eternally running with the bulls

A brief foray into online dating has elucidated another passion – boxing.  Yep, my experiences have been as disheartening and disgusting as swimming in a polluted pond.  But, I am admittedly picky.  Of the hundreds of men that I’ve dated, I only hold one or two in my heart and memory.  My ex-boyfriend repeatedly chastises me for being so picky.  I don’t think that I am overly selective, just discriminating.  I know what pleases me and thankfully, no longer have to apologize for my preferences.

I will construct my beaded bracelets like strands of destiny whose colors and stories will delight.  In this, at least, I have control.  To view my new store: http://www.etsy.com/shop/beadeddestiny/

Inner Bitch Alert

Royalty-free Image: Sexy woman in blue

This year I’ve been broken open – by life – by circumstances – by the economy.  I went through the phase where my heart was an open pulsing wound that felt and empathized with everyone’s painful process.  Shelter animals positively reduced me to rubble.  A stumbling osteo-arthritic elderly person evoked loud sobs.  I’ve missed my mother, who died recently.  Still.  Always.

I’m the woman who paid the  fares for drunken persons who staggered onto the bus exuding alcoholic fumes and confusion. I’m the woman who always held the doors for strangers and who stopped to speak to the elderly in my apartment building. Who gives money all the time to the man outside the bodega dressed better than I?  That’s right, you’re getting the hang of it.  I’m the friend who helped friends find work and paid the check when my friends faltered.  I’m not mean spirited a la Real Housewives of New York Aviva and Ramona feud.

Of course, I’m an anonymous blogger and you have your opinions. I can only blog my truth.  There are exceptions, for instance,  I wasn’t all fuzzy toward my ex-husband when he deserted me and stole my money. I did not however, call the police after he’d thrown me around the apartment one evening like a dog toy.  I didn’t hire a forensic accountant to find out how eleven years of  his income had mysteriously disappeared accompanied by the $150,000 bonus that he received prior to our separation. Stupid, I guess, but not mean spirited.  I sued the employer who fired me upon being owed $25,000 in commissions.  I’m empathetic, not a complete chew toy.  But the universe has had other ideas.  And she has helped to unleash a honking, smack talking, impatient, better-not-give-me-that-look bitch, bitch. My inner bitch is clawing furiously with manicured nails, and she is demanding attention now.  I’ve never been a mean girl but watch out!

My tender tendencies somehow morphed into a general impatience and yes, rage.  Now I honk and flash drivers who are too slow to react or if they have the temerity to rubber neck – a disgusting habit.  I resist the urge to run down the jay walking, texting pedestrian oblivious to my green light.  I’ve no patience for the online date who calls 7 times a day when I’ve told him that I’m interested in friendship only.  Then I berate myself.  Why am I angered when someone is offering friendship and solicitation?  Is that such a terrible thing?  Maybe it’s because I know that there is a distinctive ulterior motive.  I’ve listened politely as he expanded on how our relationship will blossom.  Nice words.  Wrong guy.  I think of the online misfits who said they’d call, then disappeared.  The man who emailed me three times after our first date to tell me what a wonderful date we’d had and how we would do it again soon.  Now I was attracted to him.  Did he call, email, text, or send a carrier pigeon with missile in beak to my apartment, five blocks away?  No.

I called an old friend who I bailed out, took out, celebrated and generally propped up more times than the USA has supported puppet regimes.  I told her I was down.  I listened to a 45 minute tirade on how she’s all about “manifesting”, and how she just manifested a neck lift. Clearly, my “manifester”  was off and I was, in her opinion, subsequently failing at life.  I listened to her ranting, after all, she knew how to get her neck lifted.  Forget that she has a younger, high earning new husband paying the bills.  Anyone can sock away $8000 when they’re living rent-free.  Was she really telling me that I should learn from her about life manifestation when I needed support and friendship?  Tell me that you’ve cured MS or was blind and can now see.  Don’t be talking elective surgery smack to me when my heart is on the thrashing floor – blood run out.

So I bite my tongue when I hold the elevator door for you, your toddler and cute old dog.  I know that you’re juggling a lot. But so am I.  I’m still overly impatient on cues and don’t abide the 8 foot tall person who sits in front of me in an empty movie theatre. I have to physically restrain myself from catapulting my body at them in a full frontal attack.  Please don’t talk on your cell during the movie.  Don’t cut in front of me on the street then crawl as you start a protracted conversation with your gynecologist, BFF, or other.  Don’t complain about your mom, you’ve still got one.  I beg of you not to walk in front of my car when the light is green. Avoid from clearing my plate while  I still have a piece of linguine stuck in my tooth and when I’ve been waiting for a water refill for the entire meal. Don’t tell me that movie prices have risen, once again.   Don’t complain about your job, your raise, or about how the economy forced you to forego one of your six vacations this year.  Don’t steal my mail, unless it’s a bill.  And please don’t talk about how one million dollars won’t cut it for your retirement fund. My retirement plan is a quick heart attack.

So shoot me.  My bitch has finally been outed.  Some may say that it’s about time.