Broken

Greenpoint is not his scene. He would never pick such a restaurant- shabby, stylish, the size of a postage stamp- and yet there he was, sitting across from a pretty girl in her late 20s. I broke up with Tony after spending 4 years trying to build a life together, trying to will him into being someone he won't be, and trying to convince myself that this particular brand of love would be enough. The day before my 33rd birthday I told him we needed to move on, start fresh, find what we both need out of life. This would never be enough for me, even if I could never quite articulate why. My friends and family were very pleased with this decision; although I understand a person has to make her own choices, I am fascinated by outsiders' cool perspectives. They can see with clear eyes what I myself never acknowledge, the worst of which was that it was very apparent that Tony didn't love me enough. When my father told me this I wept, probably more because of my wounded ego, and not nearly enough because my love for him was unmatched. I told friends that I would take 6 months to be alone, ostensibly to "work on me" and "figure out what I want". The truth was that I couldn't imagine looking a man in the eye, couldn't fathom how a man could find me attractive. I cast myself back out to sea without floaties, fatter than I had ever been, less confident, wobbling in each step. I started a new job, which was a life raft and gave me a focus. I ran constantly; I didn't know if I was running away or running towards but I ran because I needed to go somewhere, and give all the voices in my head the air they required. I relished sleeping alone and setting my own schedule. I lived how I wanted to live, booked as many plays, saw as many friends, woke up hungover with half eaten BLTS. Life became my own again. So we return to the scene as it were....a romantically lit hipster restaurant in Greenpoint, with two of my best friends, impatiently waiting for a table and knocking back white wine with vigor. I see the bartender decant a red wine and can't help but ask what the wine is; I'm a bartender at heart. He says its not a great wine, but a young wine and they had nothing better to do than decant. We are finally seated, the three of us laughing loudly, talking shit as we are wont to do, shaking out our hair and coats and hats. I look around at our neighbors and quickly recognize the awful sweater, the humped back posture, then finally the man. Tony is sitting 4 feet away from me on a date. He is the orderer of said decanted wine, he is having a romantic dinner with a woman who is younger than me, he seems to be doing A-OK three months to the day after being dumped. None of us acknowledge each others' presence, as it would seem the window for such an introduction had passed. While my table nervously titters, imbibes heavily and does their best to avoid eye contact, he continues with his date, the girl blissfully unaware that strange shit is in fact occurring. Finally he pays, they leave and we breathe. I felt wrecked. I didn't miss him, I didn't want to wake up with him, I truly wanted nothing to do with him. But I failed to understand how he felt good enough to date, to boldly put himself out on the market as a complete package. I tried to explain to my friends that it had nothing to do with him, not even jealousy. The only way I could describe myself was "broken"; something had happened to me and I felt worthless for a man. I couldn't understand what a man would be attracted to, couldn't figure out what he might love and want. I never thought of myself as a sad case, but something had changed and corroded my value. The wrong love, the kind of love that is lesser, is like pouring acid down a pipe. You don't necessarily know what the damage is, but you know it did something terrible on the way down. I settled for an imitation of love and affection for so long that my heart was broken and it took my self worth down with the ship.

The end of the road

The proverbial straw broke the camel's back this morning. After 2 months of accomodating my boyfriend's hectic study schedule, and a total of 9 months of patiently interpreting the emotional hieroglyphics of a detached man, today was the first day he had a free moment. He woke up in my bed at 11:30, and left. I was stunned and hurt; I have never dated a man who seemed so averse to spending time with me. This has steadily chipped away at me, and today I felt like I had literally been smacked across the face. You stupid girl! Why would you think you ranked higher? He's busy, he has commitments, he has priorities. I alternated from being furious, to being hurt and gutted.
We had a heated discussion over the phone shortly after he left. It began with him explaining that things will change, that I am a priority, that it would be cheap to tell me he loves me over the phone, but in fact he does. In my mind, I knew that there is nothing cheaper than a man telling you he loves you only because he knows he is about to get dumped. I grew progressively more and more frustrated; for a man of so few words, he operated like a litigator. Before I knew it, the conversation had turned, and the man I was so devastated to see leave my arms went on the offensive, essentially painting me to be a needy girlfriend who demanded too much.
Do I demand too much? I have asked myself this question since this relationship, if it can be called that, really took off: am I too needy? These puppy dog boyfriends that I so enjoy, men who are delighted to be with me, say "Sure, love, wherever you want to go", who seem proud to hold my hand....did they spoil me? I told my father one night that I want a man who adores me; he said, "Buy a dog". So I am looking for a balance, someone with his own life and ambition and dreams, who thinks that I am worth having and sharing with.
As I walked home tonight my stomach kept lurching, and I resisted crying every few blocks. How little do I value myself? I express my unhappiness to my boyfriend, and he can't be bothered to call or write on the same evening to try and hold on to me. How little does he care? I think I will be much cooler with the next man I date; I have trained myself to be satisfied with so little affection and communication that I will be grateful when the next boyfriend says, "Shall we get breakfast?"
This frustration isn't the result of one morning; it is 9 months of slights and coldness. You can't make someone love you more, or see why you are valuable. It is beating your head against a brick wall, and the wall wins.
I can't do this again, can't knowingly settle into a relationship that will never work. I don't know how people survive divorce; silly break ups never get easier, no matter how many I go through.

Letter to my Katy

My dearest Katy,
I was thinking today about the cliches we have always been told, the many explanations of why we "blossomed" so much later than so many other girls. I guess the boys didn't come beating down our doors in high school, and it was very easy to chalk it up to being taller, louder, smarter. We never laughed quietly, and suffered no fools. As I wrap up another failed foray into the dating world, I naturally find myself wondering why this is so damned hard. Why did dating come so easily to some girls, and not to others? Its like a language we can't master; the same crippling anxieties come back over and over.
My father likes to comfort both of us, and though we dismiss him quickly because we love him and believe him to be biased, I think he is on to something. See, did you ever think what the most popular flavor of ice cream is? Vanilla. The most popular scented candle? Vanilla again! Most people don't want exotic flavors; they like safe, basic elements that mix and blend easily. Eggshell walls and white cotton sheets. Beloved Katy, we have never been vanilla girls. I don't know why people want vanilla when they could taste every color of the rainbow, but I guess its just easier and simpler. I don't understand it...but that's what it is. This is the same conversation we had when we were 16, and I didn't believe it then, that people are intimidated by big personalities. Experience, however, has changed my mind.
I looked at that brunch table and thought about the different paths we all took. We have each ended up where we wanted to be; some married, some with families of their own, and you and I, far from where we began our journey, and still anticipating big turns in the road. Big leaps don't have safety nets, and being alone can be terrifying. I have had more weeping breakdowns in the last 6 months than any other period in my life. But I believe, Katy, I really do, that he is out there for us. I am certain in my bones that our partners are out there, doing their own thing and going down their roads. I have tried both types of men, the ones (few and far between) who really embraced me with all my quirks and didn't mind the wackiness, and the ones who just didn't know what to do with it. I would prefer to be in my twin bed picking at my toenails than suffer the latter again. Its demoralizing to feel that someone doesn't accept you.
I don't think there is an easy to-do list for us, other than continuing to become the women we want to be and doing our best to stay in the game. We can't get bitter, Katy, and we can't lose hope. We'll keep facing our fears and knocking down roadblocks, and hopefully finding time to see each other more. Katy, I won't pretend that I am happy today, and I know you aren't either. Some days are worse than others. But I know for sure that we ain't stuck with the wrong man, and it can only get better from here. I love you desperately.
Love Always,
Corrie Megan

Roman Holiday

We hadn't been dating for more than three months when we went to Istanbul together; waiters asked us how long we had been married, and we said, "We finally left the kids at home with their grandparents". They smiled and nodded; other than wedding rings, we looked from the outside world as a happy unit, such was our affection and ease with each other. In Istanbul we were equals, both lost in the language and trying to navigate maps and heat. To work as a team was one of the most exhilarating experiences, and we both enjoyed the challenge of traveling in an unknown culture. After Istanbul, we went to Rome for a few days, a last hurrah before we would be separated for 6 months, by visa regulations too strict to breech.
I went to Rome as a 17 year old girl, fresh from high school and inexperienced in nearly every way of the world. I threw my coins in the Fontana di Trevi, and returned 8 years later, this time with my Italian love. He was always at a disadvantage in the United States; he barely spoke the language, and the customs were not his own, made worse by his shyness. He preferred for me to negotiate taxis and order food. But Rome was his oyster, his language, his history, his people. He pranced around in his tight jeans and designer sunglasses and looked as Italian as Michelangelo's Davide; in my eyes, he was even more beautiful. It was my first experience traveling with a boyfriend; although the girlfriends I had traveled with in the past were troopers, this was entirely different. This was a strong hand catching me before I stumbled over cobblestones, a tourist who charmed his countrymen into taking pictures of him with his American girl, a lover telling me we could be happy living in a little sun-filled apartment in Trastevere. We walked across the Tiber at midnight, holding hands and breathing in the heat. For the first time in my life, I understood why poets write sonnets and musicians write love songs; this was such bliss, and I had never loved a man who embraced me so fully and loved me so purely, for every oddity and quirk. The night before he left, he made me promise to wake him up if he fell asleep; we didn't want to miss a moment together. I walked him to the train station at dawn, boarded the train with him, and kissed with force until we felt the engines rumbling as it prepared for departure. This man who always seemed so cold before our romance, stood between train cars as it pulled away, blowing me kisses with tears in his eyes. As the train pulled away, I put on the beautiful sunglasses he had bought me to match his own, and I wept. When finally the train was out of view, I walked back to a cafe and bought a cappucino to take to my hotel, but couldn't drink it. I couldn't watch RAI on tv, and I had no desire to try and speak Italian. I finally summoned my strength and wandered about the city, but saw nothing. For me, Italy was over. When would I see him again? What is the purpose of finding a love so exhilarating, but so impossible? For the first time I realized I didn't want to be alone; I knew how to take care of myself, but unexpectedly, truly when I was looking the other direction, I found a man who wanted to take care of me.
We stayed together for two years, and shortly before we broke up he had to go back to Italy again for his visa. I was tormented, nearly destroyed by being separated once more. The night before he left, like that night 2 years before, he asked me to wake him up if he fell asleep. He held me tightly and said,"I'll be back soon, and then we will be happy, won't we? Then we will be happy." The desperation in his voice haunted me, because I knew what he wanted, and worse, I knew what he deserved. He should have had a girl who squeezed him back and said, "Don't worry! Nothing will hurt us! We can make it!" His terrible girlfriend could do nothing but weep; I knew our end was near, and couldn't bear the grief.

International Man of Mystery

A friend and I were discussing the importance of mystery in dating. When I reflect on my dating history, the men I have really slayed were always the ones I couldn't have cared less about. I didn't check my cell phone endlessly praying for a text, a little crumb of affection to peck and restore my self worth. I didn't care what they were doing or where they were going; consequently, they beat down my door. So the problem is of course, when you actually like a man and are attracted to him, how do you affect this sort of distance? A couple weeks ago I went out with a man I have been casually dating, and he said I was "glowing" because of my affection for him. This same man previously made comments that he was absolutely certain before we began dating that he "had" me; he could tell that I was attracted to him. This clearly rankled me, but the irony is that I felt the same way about him! I was certain he would be an effortless conquest, a ready made, endlessly devoted boyfriend. I couldn't have been more wrong! He has confounded me at every turn!
I ask myself how differently this might have progressed had I seemed unavailable and uninterested, but the truth is that at the end of the day, I AM hard to get! Just ask those withered corpses in my closet! Its much more fun to be the object of desire on the pedestal; I find the view from below to be far less appealing.

Bed bugs

He has officially moved on. Well, not exactly officially, and I'm not sure one could really call it "moving on", but my beloved ex-boyfriend who I dumped, then mourned, is sleeping with a woman who is not me. I have business to do with both of these people, my ex-boyfriend and the new woman, and see them both on a regular basis. She is the type of woman who befriends and seduces everyone: men, women, goats, whomever. She is not particularly discriminate. Over the last several months we became closer acquaintances, and I made the grievous error of sharing too much personal information with her. She is the type of woman who will empathize with a man out of the kindness of her heart, then hops into his bed. Now I am fairly certain that she has hopped into my former beloved's bed; my woman's intuition screams it loud.
I suppose I knew this was inevitable, that eventually he would move on (in my own snail-paced way, I have), but witnessing it is one of the unusually cruel experiences of life. Hypocritically, I want to rip her head off, then tear off all of his limbs for good measure. The irony of this is that I have been dating...real old-fashioned dating, and not just screwing around for lonely, alcohol-induced sport. I know I am being unreasonable, but the night all these revelations really came to a head for me, I laid in bed and wept. The mental images, thinking of them being intimate, laughing, waking up in the same room made me want to light someone's, ANYONE'S, roof on fire. I sobbed and I heaved until I had nothing left, then nodded off to sleep. I woke up the next day, still disgusted by what I was sure was happening, but peaceful. My burning desire for arson having subsided, I felt foolish and tired of missing someone I rejected.

Sailing to Byzantium

Chanel recently showed pre-fall Métiers d’Arts collection, with the theme "Paris-Byzance". Did you ever see such a fantasy of messy bouffants, flat jeweled sandals, and easy shapes? The models look like child empresses who escaped from either harems or ivory towers. Love the slouchy trousers and long dresses with sandals; that louche sensibility epitomizes today's luxury. I went to Istanbul a few years ago with a boyfriend, and in my rose-tinted memories, this was how I looked at dinner every night; in reality, it was 115 degrees outside and I dripped make up while picking fishbones out of my teeth beside the Bosphorus. This collection does what I so desperately want fashion to do: make me dream!