Saturday, December 12, 2009
Frenchie fades
One week later and he hasn't called, or texted, or emailed. I suppose he's over it. Did he think one week was going to be enough to convince me to quit my job and move to Texas? I haven't called, texted, or emailed him either. My plan was to make him work for it if he was earnest in his attempt to woo me. Clearly that wasn't the case. Good for me as my Facebook horoscope for this week said, "Have some fun, but draw the line if someone tries to fast talk their way into your heart." The stars have spoken and so have Frenchie's actions- much louder than any of his smooth words.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Frenchie returns
I've given blogging a long pause as there's been very little going on in my life recently other than yoga. I spent a month preparing for the championship a couple of weeks ago, so I devoted my entire life to yoga and had little time for anything else.
I did go on one extremely brief, horrible date. I met the guy on the UK version of Craig's list- mistake number one (but it's the credit crunch! Who can afford eharmony?). I responded to his ad and he answered me within minutes, giving me not only his email address, but phone number as well- that should have been a warning sign. His initial email, before I replied was followed by four more emails telling me that I should call him so we can talk and make plans to go out. When I did respond-mistake number two, it provoked another flurry of emails about me calling and his level of availability. I called- mistake number three. Our chat revealed that he was unemployed and somewhat hyper. So like an idiot, I decided to see him. We met close to the home as he lived in my neighborhood. I was a few minutes late, as usual, and he texted me then called to see where I was. That would have been ok had it not been three minutes BEFORE I was supposed to be there. I texted that I was on my way because I had to take the long way around. I arrived about five minutes later. We exchanged pleasantries and started to walk towards the restaurant. We walked for exactly three blocks before he turned to me and asked to end the date because I wasn't his type. Despite my relief at not having to spend another minute with him, rejection still sucks. I digress because that was back in October. The title said I'd write about Frenchie, so I'll do that.
I mentioned in an earlier blog that I dated a French guy before I moved to the UK. Frenchie married another woman hastily in an effort to stay in the US, but recently called to tell me they'd gotten divorced. He has since moved to Texas to start his own marketing business and escape his wife. He called me at the beginning of the week and again for the past couple of nights. He says he misses me. He wants to see me again. He invited me to visit him in Texas and offered to visit me at my mom's. He suggested we go away for the weekend together. I was shocked, overwhelmed, and smitten all at the same time.
While I know it's not really an option given the distance, I'm still enticed by the possibility. I also have doubts about his ability to be honest and faithful seeing as how he'd been cheating on his wife/girlfriend with me. I know I should trust my gut, but I like him. I suck for liking him after what he did and how it ended between us. We have a really strong attraction to one another. I don't know if it's his accent, my language skills, our intense chemistry- even over the phone, or our shared sense of humor, but there's something between us. However, we only dated for a couple of months before I moved so, didn't have time to get to know each other very well. Why then am I even still talking to this guy? I have no clue. Where will this lead me? Probably down a road of hurt and heartbreak. Yet, as I so often do in my life, I'm entertaining this nonsense. I can't walk away from the train wreck. I stayed up talking to him until 2am yesterday, so I'm going to bed.
I did go on one extremely brief, horrible date. I met the guy on the UK version of Craig's list- mistake number one (but it's the credit crunch! Who can afford eharmony?). I responded to his ad and he answered me within minutes, giving me not only his email address, but phone number as well- that should have been a warning sign. His initial email, before I replied was followed by four more emails telling me that I should call him so we can talk and make plans to go out. When I did respond-mistake number two, it provoked another flurry of emails about me calling and his level of availability. I called- mistake number three. Our chat revealed that he was unemployed and somewhat hyper. So like an idiot, I decided to see him. We met close to the home as he lived in my neighborhood. I was a few minutes late, as usual, and he texted me then called to see where I was. That would have been ok had it not been three minutes BEFORE I was supposed to be there. I texted that I was on my way because I had to take the long way around. I arrived about five minutes later. We exchanged pleasantries and started to walk towards the restaurant. We walked for exactly three blocks before he turned to me and asked to end the date because I wasn't his type. Despite my relief at not having to spend another minute with him, rejection still sucks. I digress because that was back in October. The title said I'd write about Frenchie, so I'll do that.
I mentioned in an earlier blog that I dated a French guy before I moved to the UK. Frenchie married another woman hastily in an effort to stay in the US, but recently called to tell me they'd gotten divorced. He has since moved to Texas to start his own marketing business and escape his wife. He called me at the beginning of the week and again for the past couple of nights. He says he misses me. He wants to see me again. He invited me to visit him in Texas and offered to visit me at my mom's. He suggested we go away for the weekend together. I was shocked, overwhelmed, and smitten all at the same time.
While I know it's not really an option given the distance, I'm still enticed by the possibility. I also have doubts about his ability to be honest and faithful seeing as how he'd been cheating on his wife/girlfriend with me. I know I should trust my gut, but I like him. I suck for liking him after what he did and how it ended between us. We have a really strong attraction to one another. I don't know if it's his accent, my language skills, our intense chemistry- even over the phone, or our shared sense of humor, but there's something between us. However, we only dated for a couple of months before I moved so, didn't have time to get to know each other very well. Why then am I even still talking to this guy? I have no clue. Where will this lead me? Probably down a road of hurt and heartbreak. Yet, as I so often do in my life, I'm entertaining this nonsense. I can't walk away from the train wreck. I stayed up talking to him until 2am yesterday, so I'm going to bed.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Old Times Sake
Last night, I spent 3 hours on the phone talking to a guy that I knew from middle school. He (let's call him A) and I, both 31 and single, childless, well-educated, successful professionals, took a long stroll down memory lane after reconnecting on Facebook. In strolling, we briefly discussed marriage and kids and our mutual lack of either. A wants a wife and children. He's ready. As Carrie described it in SATC, his light is on, just like a taxi, telling women he's available for marriage. However, A is, like many single women I know, tired of dating.
He made some interesting comments that rang true to me in a sense, but still did not resolve my dating dilemmas. A said that he was "the perfect catch" in Baltimore for all of the aforementioned reasons. In addition, he had his own place, independent of his parents; had a car; and until recently, a job (damned recession!). In his mind, that made dating a breeze. So when A went out with women and told them of his "qualifications" he didn't understand what else there was to consider. He joked that it doesn't even matter if they like each other or not. They should simply get together to protect the structure of the black family and propagate the species of well-educated, successful, black people in Baltimore.
Having spent five years of my single life in the Baltimore/DC area, I feel his pain. Dating is tough. It actually sucks sometimes. Ok, it actually sucks a lot. The number of men like A that I meet in Baltimore are grossly outnumbered by the uneducated, gold tooth having, mama living, bus riding, baby daddies that abound. I could get numbers from those guys all day and am often tempted by some of the better groomed ones until I find out how many kids they have.
In a complaint to another single friend about dating men with children, she said to me, "We're getting to the age that most men will already have children." That was at least five years ago. I didn't believe it then and I don't believe that's true now either. I still keep hope alive that I am not a dying breed and neither are men of my kind. There must be tons of young, well-educated, single, childless, black professionals who want to get married.
The thing I fear most is the desperation. A is clearly desperate. I hate it for his future wife. To think that he might actually marry a woman that he doesn't really like is disturbing. The fact that he would verbalize it, even more so. I wonder when love (or even like) fell out of the equation for him. I wonder if that will ever happen to me.
The lack of love also got me thinking about the whole idea of marriage. Why is it that A and I both want to get married? Is it for love? Not in his case. Is it for comfort and convenience? Partially. We discussed the laborious nature of everything from cooking for one (he made me remember that I miss Steakums), to laundry, to coordinating your dust ruffle with your comforter. I told he the hallmark of love is when he finds a woman who is willing to wash his dirty draws- that's love. Is it for consistent access to sex? I guess not as I hear it decreases after marriage, but it might be nice. Is it for status? Definitely. Marriage makes all of us young, well-educated, single, childless, black professionals the total package. Like Michelle and Barak, the world's greatest power couple, black love can conquer all. Putting two of us together is an instant recipe for success. Essence and Ebony will do cover stories on us. We will be role models for other black marriages and the envy of all our single friends. Marriage is the jewel in the crown of black success, which is why so many of us find it so elusive.
For everything else there is a formula. Going to school + speaking proper English + dressing appropriately + getting a good job + house + car = success. Been there. Done that. When I was in Baltimore over the summer, I ran into many old friends who'd also followed that path. However, the majority of us are still single. There is no formula for love. A few of my male friends actually tried it on with me again. I believe out of this same desperation that fuels A's love life. I'm the perfect catch in Baltimore too! I'm young, smart, funny, pretty, well-educated, articulate, well-traveled, cultured, poised, financially independent (no house or car, but great credit!), single, and childless. I flirted a bit, drank the free drinks and basked in the attention, but it all still seemed wrong to me. Too good to be true somehow.
A mutual friend said that A had a crush on me. Of course he does, he has since we met in middle school and I fit his mold. I also fit the mold of those other guys who knew me back in the day. We all did what we were supposed to do and became successful. We're all searching for the jewel to make a crowns of success shine even brighter. We all think that maybe (s)he's THE ONE, but is (s)he? Or does (s)he simply seem comfortable and familiar while fitting the mold?
I often worry that my standards are too high and I'm missing out on THE ONE because of my no kids rule, or my education preference. At the same time, I recognize that those are important aspects of life to me, which is why I hold them in such high esteem. As I've gotten older, I've opened my mind to the options of men who are not college educated or have children- my summer crush fit into both categories. Still I haven't found THE ONE. I fear becoming the wife of A- a man who doesn't love me, but tolerates me because of his desperate need to seem successful by being married. Conversely, A has renewed my faith in the existence of black men who want to marry. I just want to be sure that THE ONE for me is doing it for all the right reasons- me.
He made some interesting comments that rang true to me in a sense, but still did not resolve my dating dilemmas. A said that he was "the perfect catch" in Baltimore for all of the aforementioned reasons. In addition, he had his own place, independent of his parents; had a car; and until recently, a job (damned recession!). In his mind, that made dating a breeze. So when A went out with women and told them of his "qualifications" he didn't understand what else there was to consider. He joked that it doesn't even matter if they like each other or not. They should simply get together to protect the structure of the black family and propagate the species of well-educated, successful, black people in Baltimore.
Having spent five years of my single life in the Baltimore/DC area, I feel his pain. Dating is tough. It actually sucks sometimes. Ok, it actually sucks a lot. The number of men like A that I meet in Baltimore are grossly outnumbered by the uneducated, gold tooth having, mama living, bus riding, baby daddies that abound. I could get numbers from those guys all day and am often tempted by some of the better groomed ones until I find out how many kids they have.
In a complaint to another single friend about dating men with children, she said to me, "We're getting to the age that most men will already have children." That was at least five years ago. I didn't believe it then and I don't believe that's true now either. I still keep hope alive that I am not a dying breed and neither are men of my kind. There must be tons of young, well-educated, single, childless, black professionals who want to get married.
The thing I fear most is the desperation. A is clearly desperate. I hate it for his future wife. To think that he might actually marry a woman that he doesn't really like is disturbing. The fact that he would verbalize it, even more so. I wonder when love (or even like) fell out of the equation for him. I wonder if that will ever happen to me.
The lack of love also got me thinking about the whole idea of marriage. Why is it that A and I both want to get married? Is it for love? Not in his case. Is it for comfort and convenience? Partially. We discussed the laborious nature of everything from cooking for one (he made me remember that I miss Steakums), to laundry, to coordinating your dust ruffle with your comforter. I told he the hallmark of love is when he finds a woman who is willing to wash his dirty draws- that's love. Is it for consistent access to sex? I guess not as I hear it decreases after marriage, but it might be nice. Is it for status? Definitely. Marriage makes all of us young, well-educated, single, childless, black professionals the total package. Like Michelle and Barak, the world's greatest power couple, black love can conquer all. Putting two of us together is an instant recipe for success. Essence and Ebony will do cover stories on us. We will be role models for other black marriages and the envy of all our single friends. Marriage is the jewel in the crown of black success, which is why so many of us find it so elusive.
For everything else there is a formula. Going to school + speaking proper English + dressing appropriately + getting a good job + house + car = success. Been there. Done that. When I was in Baltimore over the summer, I ran into many old friends who'd also followed that path. However, the majority of us are still single. There is no formula for love. A few of my male friends actually tried it on with me again. I believe out of this same desperation that fuels A's love life. I'm the perfect catch in Baltimore too! I'm young, smart, funny, pretty, well-educated, articulate, well-traveled, cultured, poised, financially independent (no house or car, but great credit!), single, and childless. I flirted a bit, drank the free drinks and basked in the attention, but it all still seemed wrong to me. Too good to be true somehow.
A mutual friend said that A had a crush on me. Of course he does, he has since we met in middle school and I fit his mold. I also fit the mold of those other guys who knew me back in the day. We all did what we were supposed to do and became successful. We're all searching for the jewel to make a crowns of success shine even brighter. We all think that maybe (s)he's THE ONE, but is (s)he? Or does (s)he simply seem comfortable and familiar while fitting the mold?
I often worry that my standards are too high and I'm missing out on THE ONE because of my no kids rule, or my education preference. At the same time, I recognize that those are important aspects of life to me, which is why I hold them in such high esteem. As I've gotten older, I've opened my mind to the options of men who are not college educated or have children- my summer crush fit into both categories. Still I haven't found THE ONE. I fear becoming the wife of A- a man who doesn't love me, but tolerates me because of his desperate need to seem successful by being married. Conversely, A has renewed my faith in the existence of black men who want to marry. I just want to be sure that THE ONE for me is doing it for all the right reasons- me.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Unflung fling
For me, blogging about a relationship is akin to confirming it's end, but I'm ok with that as this relationship has been more than frustrating. It's my would-be summer fling that has never managed to fly.
Last summer I returned to the US fat and determined to lose weight. I began working with a trainer three days a week and by the time I returned to London had lost 20lbs. When he weighed me the final time and I saw how much weight I'd lost, my trainer allowed me to give him a sweaty, celebratory hug. It was our first, non-exercise based contact. From that point onwards are greetings were filled with hugs. All the while, I secretly wished for more.
My trainer is hot. He's my age, in great shape, hot, smart, funny. Did I say hot? He's also in the midst of a divorce and has three kids. The latter makes him very bad long term relationship material. The former makes him perfect summer fling material. In the summer of 2008, there was no fling to be had. Despite spending most of my free time with him late into the evening and even falling asleep at his house, nothing happened between us. He called me everyday. He took me out to lunch, cooked me dinner. Still nothing.
Fall and winter 2008/2009 saw my return to the US several times. Each time I'd call and let him know I was in town. We'd hang out, work out, eat, talk on the phone. Then I'd go back to the UK blissful from the time I spent with him. We talked about getting him a passport so that he could come visit and he became my Facebook friend so that we could keep in touch easily.
When I returned to the US in summer 2009, I reached out to him. We planned to get together for dinner the day before I went to LA, but by dinner time neither of us were hungry. He suggested drinks at his place instead. I agreed, but was surprised by the offer as I' d not known him to drink. We chatted and vegged on the couch watching Michael Jackson coverage for a while. Then he cracked open the bottle of wine and we went out to his balcony, which overlooked the pool, to drink. We listened to classic MJ tunes on his ipod. These turned into MJ's ballads and love songs, these turned into neo-soul ballads and love songs. In my mind, moonlight, love songs, and wine equal sexy time. No? Since I'd not known him to be interested in sexy time with me, I attempted to make my escape.
It was after midnight and I had a 6am flight to LA. I thanked him for the wine and started to go. He protested under the premise that I'd had half a bottle of wine and was unfit to drive. I told him I had to go because I hadn't packed. He said, "I can't let you drive." Then he offered to set an alarm and let me stay at his place for a few hours. I refused. He offered his bed, but I refused adding that it was unfair of me to kick him out of his bed when I'd only be there for a short time. I said I'd take the couch if I stayed. He insisted I stay. I relented, not wanting to be the crazed drunk driver that kills someone after refusing to give up her keys. However, I refused to take his bed. He suggested we share the bed. I agreed with him (secret fantasy come true?). He set an alarm for me. I got in bed and started to doze. He put his PJs on, brushed his teeth, had a poo and I don't know what else. It seemed like ages that I was in bed alone before he finally emerged from the bathroom. Then he got into bed with me. We went to sleep. Nothing happened. The alarm went off at 3am and I lingered in bed hoping he'd make his move. There was no move. I got up at 3:15am. He let me out and waved goodbye.
I dashed home and packed, then headed for the airport. I sent him a text to let him know I made it to LA and thanked him again for letting me crash. He responded in kind a few minutes later.
He called on 4th of July to invite me to a BBQ, but I was still in LA. I told him my flight didn't get in until late and he offered to come pick me up from the airport. I refused citing the raucous nature of the holiday and told him to relax, have a few drinks and enjoy. I added that my mom would come get me, or I'd take a cab. He offered to pay for the Super Shuttle, but I refused telling him that I could afford my own cab. I assured him that we'd see each other the next day. I texted late that night when I landed to see if he was up for a night cap. No response.
We had no communication the next day. I texted on Monday and invited him to a movie. No response. We played phone tag on Tuesday and finally spoke late that evening. We played phone tag on Wednesday and made tentative plans to see a concert together on Sunday. We have no tickets, nor have we spoken since.
I'm exhausted by this back and forth with him! Does he like me? Does he not like me? I can't tell. We've had conversations about his relationships with other women and he's expressed that he's still wounded from his failed marriage thus not trustworthy enough to enter into a new relationship. He also claims to be so selfish at this point that he cannot attempt to please anyone else. (He's got that one right! I am not pleased!) So why, you ask, do I want anything to happen between me and this obviously flawed man?
Because I'm flawed too. We all are. He's not my prince charming, white knight in shining armour. And we won't fall madly in love, get married and live happily ever after with out 2.5 children, house with white picket fence and dog. But we can go for a walk in the park and hold hands; chat over lunch; cook one another dinner; do yoga; go to concerts; sing along with the radio in the car; play Uno; shop for vegan food; sweat up the sheets; and drink wine by the pool while listening to neo-soul love songs. And that would make a great summer fling!
Last summer I returned to the US fat and determined to lose weight. I began working with a trainer three days a week and by the time I returned to London had lost 20lbs. When he weighed me the final time and I saw how much weight I'd lost, my trainer allowed me to give him a sweaty, celebratory hug. It was our first, non-exercise based contact. From that point onwards are greetings were filled with hugs. All the while, I secretly wished for more.
My trainer is hot. He's my age, in great shape, hot, smart, funny. Did I say hot? He's also in the midst of a divorce and has three kids. The latter makes him very bad long term relationship material. The former makes him perfect summer fling material. In the summer of 2008, there was no fling to be had. Despite spending most of my free time with him late into the evening and even falling asleep at his house, nothing happened between us. He called me everyday. He took me out to lunch, cooked me dinner. Still nothing.
Fall and winter 2008/2009 saw my return to the US several times. Each time I'd call and let him know I was in town. We'd hang out, work out, eat, talk on the phone. Then I'd go back to the UK blissful from the time I spent with him. We talked about getting him a passport so that he could come visit and he became my Facebook friend so that we could keep in touch easily.
When I returned to the US in summer 2009, I reached out to him. We planned to get together for dinner the day before I went to LA, but by dinner time neither of us were hungry. He suggested drinks at his place instead. I agreed, but was surprised by the offer as I' d not known him to drink. We chatted and vegged on the couch watching Michael Jackson coverage for a while. Then he cracked open the bottle of wine and we went out to his balcony, which overlooked the pool, to drink. We listened to classic MJ tunes on his ipod. These turned into MJ's ballads and love songs, these turned into neo-soul ballads and love songs. In my mind, moonlight, love songs, and wine equal sexy time. No? Since I'd not known him to be interested in sexy time with me, I attempted to make my escape.
It was after midnight and I had a 6am flight to LA. I thanked him for the wine and started to go. He protested under the premise that I'd had half a bottle of wine and was unfit to drive. I told him I had to go because I hadn't packed. He said, "I can't let you drive." Then he offered to set an alarm and let me stay at his place for a few hours. I refused. He offered his bed, but I refused adding that it was unfair of me to kick him out of his bed when I'd only be there for a short time. I said I'd take the couch if I stayed. He insisted I stay. I relented, not wanting to be the crazed drunk driver that kills someone after refusing to give up her keys. However, I refused to take his bed. He suggested we share the bed. I agreed with him (secret fantasy come true?). He set an alarm for me. I got in bed and started to doze. He put his PJs on, brushed his teeth, had a poo and I don't know what else. It seemed like ages that I was in bed alone before he finally emerged from the bathroom. Then he got into bed with me. We went to sleep. Nothing happened. The alarm went off at 3am and I lingered in bed hoping he'd make his move. There was no move. I got up at 3:15am. He let me out and waved goodbye.
I dashed home and packed, then headed for the airport. I sent him a text to let him know I made it to LA and thanked him again for letting me crash. He responded in kind a few minutes later.
He called on 4th of July to invite me to a BBQ, but I was still in LA. I told him my flight didn't get in until late and he offered to come pick me up from the airport. I refused citing the raucous nature of the holiday and told him to relax, have a few drinks and enjoy. I added that my mom would come get me, or I'd take a cab. He offered to pay for the Super Shuttle, but I refused telling him that I could afford my own cab. I assured him that we'd see each other the next day. I texted late that night when I landed to see if he was up for a night cap. No response.
We had no communication the next day. I texted on Monday and invited him to a movie. No response. We played phone tag on Tuesday and finally spoke late that evening. We played phone tag on Wednesday and made tentative plans to see a concert together on Sunday. We have no tickets, nor have we spoken since.
I'm exhausted by this back and forth with him! Does he like me? Does he not like me? I can't tell. We've had conversations about his relationships with other women and he's expressed that he's still wounded from his failed marriage thus not trustworthy enough to enter into a new relationship. He also claims to be so selfish at this point that he cannot attempt to please anyone else. (He's got that one right! I am not pleased!) So why, you ask, do I want anything to happen between me and this obviously flawed man?
Because I'm flawed too. We all are. He's not my prince charming, white knight in shining armour. And we won't fall madly in love, get married and live happily ever after with out 2.5 children, house with white picket fence and dog. But we can go for a walk in the park and hold hands; chat over lunch; cook one another dinner; do yoga; go to concerts; sing along with the radio in the car; play Uno; shop for vegan food; sweat up the sheets; and drink wine by the pool while listening to neo-soul love songs. And that would make a great summer fling!
Monday, May 25, 2009
Tribute
I have a friend named Stuart. He just turned 32. About four months ago Stuart was diagnosed with cancer. He's been fighting it with really aggressive chemo. Stuart maintains incredible optimism and a faith in God that I cannot fathom.
I admire Stuart for being so determined to fight and live.
I admire Stuart for being so determined to fight and live.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Dating update
Sadly, I've seen neither yoga boy, nor the poet again. Double bummer. I go to yoga diligently, but the only guy I recognize is Steve. The staff now know me by name and I can see my toes over my head in floor bow, but that's about it for a silver lining. Yoga boy's probably down for the count now that the weather has broken. He indicated in one of our conversations that he was more into outdoor pursuits when the weather permitted than sweating up a steamy, hot room. Maybe he'll come back in fall...
I emailed the letter of recommendation that I promised to write weeks ago to the poet yesterday and got not even so much as a thank you. The poet indicated that he had a son in one of our conversations. Perhaps that son comes with a mother who is the poet's wife or girlfriend. If not, he's not interested and that's done and dusted. Scenario B is my strong feeling about the matter.
All hope is not lost, however! I did go to the world's most homosexual party a couple of weekends ago. I was the only female and one of three straight people there . I managed to end my eight month dry spell by leaving with my ex lust monkey, the would-be-Lance-Armstrong-biker-dude. That was a lovely blast from the past that I was glad to revisit, but surely don't want to do over again.
Nothing else even remotely new happening for me on the relationship front. Ho hum...
I emailed the letter of recommendation that I promised to write weeks ago to the poet yesterday and got not even so much as a thank you. The poet indicated that he had a son in one of our conversations. Perhaps that son comes with a mother who is the poet's wife or girlfriend. If not, he's not interested and that's done and dusted. Scenario B is my strong feeling about the matter.
All hope is not lost, however! I did go to the world's most homosexual party a couple of weekends ago. I was the only female and one of three straight people there . I managed to end my eight month dry spell by leaving with my ex lust monkey, the would-be-Lance-Armstrong-biker-dude. That was a lovely blast from the past that I was glad to revisit, but surely don't want to do over again.
Nothing else even remotely new happening for me on the relationship front. Ho hum...
Monday, April 13, 2009
Poet (Maya already heard this story)
Maya asked me to post about this, but I wanted to wait and see how it went. However, Dapo's question about yoga boy affirmed that the five of you who actually read this blog wanna hear about it anyway. Here goes!
I'm teaching a unit on poetry. As a part of that, we had two poets from a local slam troupe come in to teach workshops for our students a couple of weeks ago. I'd never met either man and didn't arrange the workshops. I sat in on three of them to help with student behavior. Two from one guy in the morning and one with the other guy in the afternoon.
AM poet was ok. He was a late 20s/early 30s, black British guy who did a motivational speech on how students should listen to their teachers because we were there to help them. He recited one of his poems and gave me a copy of his self-published book. The kids like him because he mentioned peeing in the poem.
PM poet was great! His workshop had the kids writing and performing their work. It turns out that PM poet had been a teacher for ten years before becoming a poet full time. (Life after teaching, who knew?!?!) PM poet was also black American. (That's rare! Besides Roger, he's the only other black American man I've met in the UK. Women abound.) I picked up on the accent and asked where he was from- NYC. He guessed DC from my accent. We chatted about home and living in the UK at the end of the workshop as I collected unused materials.
I told him that I liked his work and wanted him to come back to perform in two weeks when we had our middle school wide poetry performance. He said that he had something tentatively scheduled, but would try to rearrange for me. He asked for my email address and said he'd let me know for sure on Monday.
At that moment, the school porter walked into the room. The porter and I are very friendly. He's always there to lift heavy boxes and carry stuff around for me. He and I laugh, joke, and gossip about the latest on campus. He gives me travel tips because his wife works for BA and they go everywhere. He's just a good old boy with an easy way and a friendly disposition. He'll be one of the people I miss most if I leave this school. Anyway, the poter walks in and catches the tail end of our conversation. He says, "What? Exchanging email addresses? What's going on here? A love connection?" I wanted to melt into the floor.
I told him that it was strictly professional and that I wanted him to come back for poetry performance, blah, blah, blah, but the damage had been done. I finished writing down my email address, collected mt things, and scurried from the room in shame. The porter took PM poet back to the tube station. I fumed in my classroom and vented to a colleague on the way home about how embarassed I was that the porter said that when I was merely extending a professional invitation.
Oddly enough, prior to the porter's comment, it hadn't actually occured to me at the time to establish a romantic link with PM poet. He was handsome, intelligent, creative, articulate, good with children, and an American living abroad. All reasons that I should try to date him, but he was black. That was reason number one why I never considered him. My thinking on the subject is that there are plenty of black men in America for me to date and in America I date them almost exclusively. There's no need for me to waste time abroad dating black men when there are a host of exotic others to entertain me. Thus black men are not even a consideration. They are also, as previously stated, such a rarity that it's not even a viable option.
On Monday, I had a reply from PM poet that he'd cleared his schedule to come work with us again. He advised me to contact his agent to set it all up. I was excited to get that sorted and contacted his agent right away.
I also saw the porter Monday morning. I was still salty about what he'd said, but tried to play it off as a joke. I told him he was fired as my wingman because he'd blown it for me if I was trying to get a date with PM poet by saying so out loud. We laughed about it and he vowed to keep his mouth shut the next time. He told me that PM poet mentioned it in the car, so I had a chance if I wanted it. I joked that I'd try again since he was coming back in two weeks anyway. He said he had to go pick PM poet up from the station anyway, so I could ride along if I wished. The visit became the running joke between us for the next two weeks and my anger at the porter over the awkwarness of the inital situation disapated. (It's so hard to laugh at yourself sometimes!)
The big day came. I got all dolled up as part of the joke and because I was to be on stage, in front of the whole school, introducing both PM poet and my students. I even wore heels and for a teacher that's no small feat (sorry, couldn't resist the pun)! I also woke up with a crick in my neck that got progressively worse and spread into my upper back as the day wore on. I had my flatmate massage it for me, but she stopped when I started crying from the pain. A colleague gave me some balm to put on it. I went to the nurse and took some ibuprofen. She also gave me a heat pack shaped like a teddy bear. By 11am I had to go lie down because I was in so much pain. More ibuprofen and I stayed in bed until noon. The poet was due to arrive at 1pm. I got up and did attendance and homeroom. All my students asked about the bear and tried to calm my anxiety. Shortly after they left, I got a call that the porter had gone to get my poet. By the time I'd hung up the phone and gone back to my desk the two were standing in the front of my classroom. I thanked the porter and we exchanged knowing smiles, laughing to ourselves at our inside joke. The poet had a seat and we chatted about what I wanted him to do and when. I had to explain about the bear. (So shameful!) We talked about inauguration andhis son's January 20th birthday and America and teaching and traveling and how he ended up in the UK. The porter was right, our vibe was so good. We could have talked for ages, but time was against me. I had to get him some coffee and set up the room for the performance. I left the bear in my chair and set about my mission with the poet in tow.
We headed to the auditorium first so that he could check out the space and I could drop off my laptop to set up sound for the performance. There was a PE class going on and I panicked slightly, but told the teacher we needed to setup for the performance. I headed to the office to verify that the PE class would be gone in time and to get the poet his coffee. On the way to the office I humiliated myself once again by asking the correct pronuncation of his last name and making a comment which he quickly told me was trite. In the office fretted over programs, the PE class, the video camera, and chairs. After my mini-meltdown, I went back to the auditorium to get ready for the performance. The adrenaline and four ibuprofen finally kicked in and the performance was great. The poet and I sat next to one another and chatted between acts.
I thanked the poet several times and we walked back to the office to call the porter and arrange a ride for him back to the tube station. We had no time to chat on a personal level as a colleague accompanied us the entire way. His departure became even more abrupt as the porter was sitting in the office having a cup of coffee with the secretary when we walked in, so we didn't even get to chat while waiting. All we got in was a final word of thanks from me and a lovely to see you again from him with a long, lingering handshake, and at least ten full seconds of unbroken eye contact. I can never seal the deal!
Slightly deflated, I went back to my classroom and sent him an email thanks with an offer to write him a letter of commendation for the work he did. As I was on Spring Break and trying not to be a nerd, I didn't check my work email until Thursday. On Monday afternoon, he replied that he'd like for me to do that. I told him I was away, but offered to meet him to discuss the letter over coffee when I return to the UK.
We'll see where it goes and I'll keep you all posted.
I'm teaching a unit on poetry. As a part of that, we had two poets from a local slam troupe come in to teach workshops for our students a couple of weeks ago. I'd never met either man and didn't arrange the workshops. I sat in on three of them to help with student behavior. Two from one guy in the morning and one with the other guy in the afternoon.
AM poet was ok. He was a late 20s/early 30s, black British guy who did a motivational speech on how students should listen to their teachers because we were there to help them. He recited one of his poems and gave me a copy of his self-published book. The kids like him because he mentioned peeing in the poem.
PM poet was great! His workshop had the kids writing and performing their work. It turns out that PM poet had been a teacher for ten years before becoming a poet full time. (Life after teaching, who knew?!?!) PM poet was also black American. (That's rare! Besides Roger, he's the only other black American man I've met in the UK. Women abound.) I picked up on the accent and asked where he was from- NYC. He guessed DC from my accent. We chatted about home and living in the UK at the end of the workshop as I collected unused materials.
I told him that I liked his work and wanted him to come back to perform in two weeks when we had our middle school wide poetry performance. He said that he had something tentatively scheduled, but would try to rearrange for me. He asked for my email address and said he'd let me know for sure on Monday.
At that moment, the school porter walked into the room. The porter and I are very friendly. He's always there to lift heavy boxes and carry stuff around for me. He and I laugh, joke, and gossip about the latest on campus. He gives me travel tips because his wife works for BA and they go everywhere. He's just a good old boy with an easy way and a friendly disposition. He'll be one of the people I miss most if I leave this school. Anyway, the poter walks in and catches the tail end of our conversation. He says, "What? Exchanging email addresses? What's going on here? A love connection?" I wanted to melt into the floor.
I told him that it was strictly professional and that I wanted him to come back for poetry performance, blah, blah, blah, but the damage had been done. I finished writing down my email address, collected mt things, and scurried from the room in shame. The porter took PM poet back to the tube station. I fumed in my classroom and vented to a colleague on the way home about how embarassed I was that the porter said that when I was merely extending a professional invitation.
Oddly enough, prior to the porter's comment, it hadn't actually occured to me at the time to establish a romantic link with PM poet. He was handsome, intelligent, creative, articulate, good with children, and an American living abroad. All reasons that I should try to date him, but he was black. That was reason number one why I never considered him. My thinking on the subject is that there are plenty of black men in America for me to date and in America I date them almost exclusively. There's no need for me to waste time abroad dating black men when there are a host of exotic others to entertain me. Thus black men are not even a consideration. They are also, as previously stated, such a rarity that it's not even a viable option.
On Monday, I had a reply from PM poet that he'd cleared his schedule to come work with us again. He advised me to contact his agent to set it all up. I was excited to get that sorted and contacted his agent right away.
I also saw the porter Monday morning. I was still salty about what he'd said, but tried to play it off as a joke. I told him he was fired as my wingman because he'd blown it for me if I was trying to get a date with PM poet by saying so out loud. We laughed about it and he vowed to keep his mouth shut the next time. He told me that PM poet mentioned it in the car, so I had a chance if I wanted it. I joked that I'd try again since he was coming back in two weeks anyway. He said he had to go pick PM poet up from the station anyway, so I could ride along if I wished. The visit became the running joke between us for the next two weeks and my anger at the porter over the awkwarness of the inital situation disapated. (It's so hard to laugh at yourself sometimes!)
The big day came. I got all dolled up as part of the joke and because I was to be on stage, in front of the whole school, introducing both PM poet and my students. I even wore heels and for a teacher that's no small feat (sorry, couldn't resist the pun)! I also woke up with a crick in my neck that got progressively worse and spread into my upper back as the day wore on. I had my flatmate massage it for me, but she stopped when I started crying from the pain. A colleague gave me some balm to put on it. I went to the nurse and took some ibuprofen. She also gave me a heat pack shaped like a teddy bear. By 11am I had to go lie down because I was in so much pain. More ibuprofen and I stayed in bed until noon. The poet was due to arrive at 1pm. I got up and did attendance and homeroom. All my students asked about the bear and tried to calm my anxiety. Shortly after they left, I got a call that the porter had gone to get my poet. By the time I'd hung up the phone and gone back to my desk the two were standing in the front of my classroom. I thanked the porter and we exchanged knowing smiles, laughing to ourselves at our inside joke. The poet had a seat and we chatted about what I wanted him to do and when. I had to explain about the bear. (So shameful!) We talked about inauguration andhis son's January 20th birthday and America and teaching and traveling and how he ended up in the UK. The porter was right, our vibe was so good. We could have talked for ages, but time was against me. I had to get him some coffee and set up the room for the performance. I left the bear in my chair and set about my mission with the poet in tow.
We headed to the auditorium first so that he could check out the space and I could drop off my laptop to set up sound for the performance. There was a PE class going on and I panicked slightly, but told the teacher we needed to setup for the performance. I headed to the office to verify that the PE class would be gone in time and to get the poet his coffee. On the way to the office I humiliated myself once again by asking the correct pronuncation of his last name and making a comment which he quickly told me was trite. In the office fretted over programs, the PE class, the video camera, and chairs. After my mini-meltdown, I went back to the auditorium to get ready for the performance. The adrenaline and four ibuprofen finally kicked in and the performance was great. The poet and I sat next to one another and chatted between acts.
I thanked the poet several times and we walked back to the office to call the porter and arrange a ride for him back to the tube station. We had no time to chat on a personal level as a colleague accompanied us the entire way. His departure became even more abrupt as the porter was sitting in the office having a cup of coffee with the secretary when we walked in, so we didn't even get to chat while waiting. All we got in was a final word of thanks from me and a lovely to see you again from him with a long, lingering handshake, and at least ten full seconds of unbroken eye contact. I can never seal the deal!
Slightly deflated, I went back to my classroom and sent him an email thanks with an offer to write him a letter of commendation for the work he did. As I was on Spring Break and trying not to be a nerd, I didn't check my work email until Thursday. On Monday afternoon, he replied that he'd like for me to do that. I told him I was away, but offered to meet him to discuss the letter over coffee when I return to the UK.
We'll see where it goes and I'll keep you all posted.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Yoga Boy
Even when I'm tired and feeling lazy I try to drag my lard ass to yoga. Two weeks ago, I went to my regular Thursday night class. The night before, I went to a poetry performance with my boss and a member of my department. The poetry troupe we saw is coming to school next week to do a day long workshop for our students, so we wanted to preview their talents. They were fun, energetic, and hip. I think the kids will love them. We saw this chick named MC Angel perform. She was funny. It was a great way to spend a Wednesday night! Check out this site for a giggle:
After working hard and sweating it up in yoga class Thursday night, I changed and went downstairs to get my shoes. Down there I met a lovely South African man who said, "Did you go to Apples and Snakes (the poetry troupe) last night?" With furrowed brow and scrunched nose I said, "Yes." All the while I'm thinking how the hell does he know where I was last night if I've never ever seen him before in my life? I don't really have a lot of yoga friends. It's kind of a solitary activity and class is silent- only the teacher talks. I talk to my regular teacher because she's American and her husband because he's her husband, but that's about it. Beyond half smiles and hello grunts, I tend not to say much.
A couple of months ago, some British guy started chatting to me about how the room was hot, but being by the window made it nicer. I grunted yeah and left. Undeterred, he tried again, telling me how he rode his bike through Maryland, Delaware and either Virginia or Pennsylvania (see how well I listen) because I was American. That did loosen me up a bit and I told him what a small world it was because I was from Maryland. Further conversation revealed that he lives in my neighborhood and regularly bikes to class. End communication.
Given the narrow scope of my yoga communication up until that point, you can see how the South African's question boggled my mind. As it turns out, he too had been at the poetry performance on Wednesday night. He remembered seeing me there and wanted to confirm my identity as one in the same in this city of 8 million. We both put on our shoes and walked out of the yoga studio together. We walked to the bus stop together. We rode the bus together. We conversed... until he remembered his need to buy groceries and abruptly hopped off the bus with a, "See you later!" I was like what just happened?
I hadn't seen the South African since, but tonight he was there. As was British bike dude oddly enough. I was so ashamed that he saw me tonight because we actually met on the bus while I was napping. He remembered my name. He asked if the poetry troupe had come to work yet. He asked about my day. If I didn't know better, I'd think he liked me. He stood one person away from me in class today. He rode the bus home with me after class. He's sweet...and cute- red hair (I have a secret fetish for gingers) and blue eyes. His South African accent also helps! Not much there yet, but we'll see where it goes.
Hooray for my new crush on cute, Soth African yoga boy!
After working hard and sweating it up in yoga class Thursday night, I changed and went downstairs to get my shoes. Down there I met a lovely South African man who said, "Did you go to Apples and Snakes (the poetry troupe) last night?" With furrowed brow and scrunched nose I said, "Yes." All the while I'm thinking how the hell does he know where I was last night if I've never ever seen him before in my life? I don't really have a lot of yoga friends. It's kind of a solitary activity and class is silent- only the teacher talks. I talk to my regular teacher because she's American and her husband because he's her husband, but that's about it. Beyond half smiles and hello grunts, I tend not to say much.
A couple of months ago, some British guy started chatting to me about how the room was hot, but being by the window made it nicer. I grunted yeah and left. Undeterred, he tried again, telling me how he rode his bike through Maryland, Delaware and either Virginia or Pennsylvania (see how well I listen) because I was American. That did loosen me up a bit and I told him what a small world it was because I was from Maryland. Further conversation revealed that he lives in my neighborhood and regularly bikes to class. End communication.
Given the narrow scope of my yoga communication up until that point, you can see how the South African's question boggled my mind. As it turns out, he too had been at the poetry performance on Wednesday night. He remembered seeing me there and wanted to confirm my identity as one in the same in this city of 8 million. We both put on our shoes and walked out of the yoga studio together. We walked to the bus stop together. We rode the bus together. We conversed... until he remembered his need to buy groceries and abruptly hopped off the bus with a, "See you later!" I was like what just happened?
I hadn't seen the South African since, but tonight he was there. As was British bike dude oddly enough. I was so ashamed that he saw me tonight because we actually met on the bus while I was napping. He remembered my name. He asked if the poetry troupe had come to work yet. He asked about my day. If I didn't know better, I'd think he liked me. He stood one person away from me in class today. He rode the bus home with me after class. He's sweet...and cute- red hair (I have a secret fetish for gingers) and blue eyes. His South African accent also helps! Not much there yet, but we'll see where it goes.
Hooray for my new crush on cute, Soth African yoga boy!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Age of Enlightenment
A couple of weeks ago I had dinner with a male friend who invariably tries to sleep with me each and every time he sees me. At a certain point in our lives, we saw each other several times a week, making his mission both frustrating and ludicrous, but this guy was relentless. The more I said no, the harder he tried. He was always a gentleman- holding open the door, helping me on with my coat, pulling out my chair, but he was a gentleman who did all of that so that later he could hold open his bedroom door, help me off with my coat and the rest of my clothes, while putting them on a chair next to his bed. They say the fun is in the chase, but after a while that just gets old. Maybe it's just me...
At dinner, for the first time since I've known him, he did NOT try to sleep with me. I was shocked! His whole demeanor had changed. He seemed more grounded, less slimy (I know I'm painting a horrible picture of this poor man, but he's my friend because he does have other redeeming qualities, I assure you.), and not lecherous in the least. It was such a change for me that I directly asked him what prompted the change. "Age," he told me. He's about eight years my senior, so in my view age would certainly have made it's impact on my life by the time I'm 38 because it has already impacted me and I'm only 30. However, after 30 years of life, he was Michelle at 23 (Which is when and how we became friends in the first place.) and I wrote him off as the eternal playboy. I saw him through a string of beautiful, but poorly treated women with whom he refused to establish anything other than a regular booty call. I always wondered why he never chose any of them to be "the one" and why he constantly sought to include me one in their ranks.
I realized that I was physically his "type"- black, petite, attractive, well traveled, and intelligent (Although, after meeting some of them, I found that intelligence was optional.). Since I was his type and he fashioned himself mine, I'm sure he was perplexed as to why I wouldn't give in to his attempts at seduction. The answer is that I thought he was a sleaze ball. I saw the way he treated other women and knew that I would never tolerate that behavior from him. I also valued my position as his conscience and truth sayer in his affairs with his array of lovers. I heard all the juicy details of each woman and the man-logic that excluded her from being "the one." This access allowed me to view my relationships with other men from the male perspective and make sense of behavior that might otherwise baffle me.
Our last encounter however, changed all that. He recounted the end of a failed relationship with a beautiful Italian woman whom he seemed to genuinely adore. By his account, the feelings were mutual and she happily served any purpose he required. She even ticked all the boxes when it came to his (long and bizarre) list of prerequisites (like living, or having lived, in Greece) for a woman who was "wife material." Given that such circumstances were a rarity for him, I could not understand why it ended. I couldn't see the chink in this wonder woman's armor, so I asked him what happened.
He said she might have been "the one" due to all of the aforementioned positive attributes however, despite her having lived in Greece, she never learned to speak Greek. That was important because he wanted his children to learn to speak it as well, so he dumped her. I suggested that since fluency in that language was not necessarily a useful skill these days that she might be justified in not having learned it. I offered that I probably wouldn't have bothered to learn it myself had I been her. I also suggested that he advise her to learn, teach her himself, or teach these imaginary children himself. I urged him to go to her, declare his love, and win her back. Alas, he said it was no use as the break up had already crushed both of them emotionally. He continued that it would be cruel to string her along by breaking up and making up again, so he'd resigned himself to letting her go.
Until this point, my friend would never have done anything remotely like this. My friend had been known to string girls along for months (and in one case years) on end merely for his own sexual satisfaction, feelings be damned. My friend lauded women who were too young and dumb to know better. My friend was exhausted at the mere thought of caring about a woman's feelings, let alone actually doing so. My friend was not to be trusted alone in a room with your girlfriend, sister, daughter, cousin, aunt... You get the idea. Consequently, hearing this story of heartbreak from him took me by surprise.
I wondered, what did this woman have that all of the others lacked. It could not be that she simply ticked all the boxes. There had to be more. I wondered what changed about my friend that caused him to suddenly feel. I wondered if the change was permanent. I wondered if he'd ever feel it again. I wondered if he'd scarred himself, and this woman, for life. So many questions raced through my head in an effort to comprehend this man that for so many years I've known, but never really understood.
Then I thought back to his word- age. He always dated younger women because he said the ones his age were too needy. They heard their biological clocks ticking loudly in their ears which drove them to say and do crazy things. Younger women did not have that pressure to reproduce and were thus easier for him to be noncommittal with his affection and time. Suddenly for him, at 38, the tables have turned. His biological clock has begun to beat like the tell tale heart. He yearns for a constant companion who will help him produce an heir to take care of him in his old age. My friend finally reached the male age of enlightenment. Unlike the 18th century philosophic movement marked by a rejection of traditional social, religious, and political ideas and an emphasis on rationalism, the male age of enlightenment marks a time when men realize that life isn't necessarily going according to plan. The time when men suddenly become open to marriage as a need in life and actively try to make it happen. Or, as it was metaphorically put in Sex and the City, their light goes on and they become available, like a taxi. The age of enlightenment is different for every man, but is a marked shift in mental schema. They go from being players to being fierce competitors. In my friend the transition was scary. I'm not sure that I even know him anymore.
We'll see how it goes the next time we see one another. If he hits on me, I'll know it was just a phase. If he doesn't, I'll keep him away from all of my under 25 friends.
At dinner, for the first time since I've known him, he did NOT try to sleep with me. I was shocked! His whole demeanor had changed. He seemed more grounded, less slimy (I know I'm painting a horrible picture of this poor man, but he's my friend because he does have other redeeming qualities, I assure you.), and not lecherous in the least. It was such a change for me that I directly asked him what prompted the change. "Age," he told me. He's about eight years my senior, so in my view age would certainly have made it's impact on my life by the time I'm 38 because it has already impacted me and I'm only 30. However, after 30 years of life, he was Michelle at 23 (Which is when and how we became friends in the first place.) and I wrote him off as the eternal playboy. I saw him through a string of beautiful, but poorly treated women with whom he refused to establish anything other than a regular booty call. I always wondered why he never chose any of them to be "the one" and why he constantly sought to include me one in their ranks.
I realized that I was physically his "type"- black, petite, attractive, well traveled, and intelligent (Although, after meeting some of them, I found that intelligence was optional.). Since I was his type and he fashioned himself mine, I'm sure he was perplexed as to why I wouldn't give in to his attempts at seduction. The answer is that I thought he was a sleaze ball. I saw the way he treated other women and knew that I would never tolerate that behavior from him. I also valued my position as his conscience and truth sayer in his affairs with his array of lovers. I heard all the juicy details of each woman and the man-logic that excluded her from being "the one." This access allowed me to view my relationships with other men from the male perspective and make sense of behavior that might otherwise baffle me.
Our last encounter however, changed all that. He recounted the end of a failed relationship with a beautiful Italian woman whom he seemed to genuinely adore. By his account, the feelings were mutual and she happily served any purpose he required. She even ticked all the boxes when it came to his (long and bizarre) list of prerequisites (like living, or having lived, in Greece) for a woman who was "wife material." Given that such circumstances were a rarity for him, I could not understand why it ended. I couldn't see the chink in this wonder woman's armor, so I asked him what happened.
He said she might have been "the one" due to all of the aforementioned positive attributes however, despite her having lived in Greece, she never learned to speak Greek. That was important because he wanted his children to learn to speak it as well, so he dumped her. I suggested that since fluency in that language was not necessarily a useful skill these days that she might be justified in not having learned it. I offered that I probably wouldn't have bothered to learn it myself had I been her. I also suggested that he advise her to learn, teach her himself, or teach these imaginary children himself. I urged him to go to her, declare his love, and win her back. Alas, he said it was no use as the break up had already crushed both of them emotionally. He continued that it would be cruel to string her along by breaking up and making up again, so he'd resigned himself to letting her go.
Until this point, my friend would never have done anything remotely like this. My friend had been known to string girls along for months (and in one case years) on end merely for his own sexual satisfaction, feelings be damned. My friend lauded women who were too young and dumb to know better. My friend was exhausted at the mere thought of caring about a woman's feelings, let alone actually doing so. My friend was not to be trusted alone in a room with your girlfriend, sister, daughter, cousin, aunt... You get the idea. Consequently, hearing this story of heartbreak from him took me by surprise.
I wondered, what did this woman have that all of the others lacked. It could not be that she simply ticked all the boxes. There had to be more. I wondered what changed about my friend that caused him to suddenly feel. I wondered if the change was permanent. I wondered if he'd ever feel it again. I wondered if he'd scarred himself, and this woman, for life. So many questions raced through my head in an effort to comprehend this man that for so many years I've known, but never really understood.
Then I thought back to his word- age. He always dated younger women because he said the ones his age were too needy. They heard their biological clocks ticking loudly in their ears which drove them to say and do crazy things. Younger women did not have that pressure to reproduce and were thus easier for him to be noncommittal with his affection and time. Suddenly for him, at 38, the tables have turned. His biological clock has begun to beat like the tell tale heart. He yearns for a constant companion who will help him produce an heir to take care of him in his old age. My friend finally reached the male age of enlightenment. Unlike the 18th century philosophic movement marked by a rejection of traditional social, religious, and political ideas and an emphasis on rationalism, the male age of enlightenment marks a time when men realize that life isn't necessarily going according to plan. The time when men suddenly become open to marriage as a need in life and actively try to make it happen. Or, as it was metaphorically put in Sex and the City, their light goes on and they become available, like a taxi. The age of enlightenment is different for every man, but is a marked shift in mental schema. They go from being players to being fierce competitors. In my friend the transition was scary. I'm not sure that I even know him anymore.
We'll see how it goes the next time we see one another. If he hits on me, I'll know it was just a phase. If he doesn't, I'll keep him away from all of my under 25 friends.
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