[Dating Papers]

Note: I had no idea that this story would be so long. In fact, I had to leave out some details because it was getting unwieldy. Writing it was a bit more painful than I expected because I have a lot of regrets about my behavior. I hadn’t thought about the whole story for years…I usually just tell it in bits and pieces…so some of you may recognize parts. I may do some more editing, but I hope this is coherent. I’m not sure I’ll have the energy to come back to it.

I celebrated my 30th birthday at “Hell,” a stinky basement bar in Chapel Hill. Hell was frequented by a vaguely hipster crowd of grad students and townies. It was a Friday, our department’s normal happy hour night, and I invited anyone I bumped into to come. One of my housemates baked a cake and surprised me with it and people sang “Happy Birthday.” I blew out the candles and passed out pieces of cake to friends and strangers. Everyone wanted to buy me a beer, so I got pretty toasty. After the happy hour rush, JenA and I went to the movies (200 Cigarettes). Afterwards, we went back to the bar.

That’s when I met “Ed Stevens.” (He was often referred to by his full name since he shared it with a well-known person.)

Ed knew some of Jen’s friends and he used that as a pretext to come and say hello and wish me a happy birthday. I was not thrilled about turning 30. I was still in school, had been single for too long and hated living in CH. I had no work to do and my dissertation was stalled. I liked my living situation, I had plenty of friends and I was comfortable with the town, so I wasn’t a hopeless wreck, but I knew things had to change.

Ed was very funny and he kept me laughing the whole time we talked. He said he’d seen me before and wanted to talk to me then, but he’d been too shy. I asked him what he noticed about me (remember, I was quite drunk) and he said, “It was the way you walked…you were so sure.” I thought that was interesting. I believe he wanted to give me a ride home, but I’d ridden my bike and I didn’t want to leave it. He didn’t want me to bike while drunk, but I reassured him I was fine. Under other circumstances, I might have let him give me a ride, but I wasn’t sure if I was interested in Ed and letting him take me home would have been a signal of interest. I did give him my number, though.

The reason I wasn’t sure if I was interested had a lot to do with his size. Ed was cute and funny and had a good head of hair. He was also intelligent and clearly very attracted to me. All on the plus side. On the minus side, he was huge. Probably 300 pounds (my guess at the time was 280). By any standards, he was at an unhealthy weight.

But I wasn’t concerned with his health (of course, at some level I was, but it wasn’t going to determine whether or not I dated him). When I thought about dating him, I wasn’t sure how I would feel about it—could I find him attractive? How would I feel about seeing him naked? Being ashamed to be seen with him wasn’t an option. If I was concerned about how others would react to us as a couple, then I couldn’t even consider dating him. It wouldn’t be right. But I don’t recall that being an issue. Some of my friends already knew Ed and they liked him. He was a likeable guy and made a good impression on most people. I have dated guys I was actually embarrassed to introduce to my friends because of their unpredictable behavior. Ed was never going to embarrass me. He was a good guy and had lots of friends, all of whom would be delighted if he had a girlfriend. The social aspect wasn’t part of my thought process. No, I was more concerned with whether I could accept him as he was and not expect him to change.

Of course, I had to find out whether or not I liked him as a person. So, when he asked me out the first time, because I’d liked him to start with, I said yes. I was very excited that he was interested. I was nervous and even lost my appetite. I was quite taken with him. And I loved the attention.

The way he asked me out was hilarious. I had a message on the answering machine from someone with an Australian accent thanking me for participating in an animal rescue organization and asking me if it would be ok if they dropped of a herd of some kind of wild animal for me to take care of—and then a number to call. I didn’t recognize Ed’s voice at first, but after a second and third listen, I finally figured out that it was him.

I called him and left a jokey message on the same theme, though not half as clever as Ed’s. When he called me back, we talked on the phone for hours. He used to laugh a lot at my stories and tell me I should write them down and that I could do stand up. He even suggested that we work together on something, but that never happened. Also, around that time, I’d gotten a short story accepted for publication (in an obscure college literary journal) and he help me craft the bio they requested. He was good with words.

We went out to dinner for our first date and he took me to a very nice place. Chapel Hill has several high end, good quality restaurants— catering to the professorial crowd. We went to that Italian place with the Vespa parked out front, on the north side of Franklin Street. It was way out of my budget, and even though I offered to pay, Ed wouldn’t consider it. Not only because it was our first date, but because of my limited finances. It set the tone for the rest of our relationship because he always paid when we went out. He liked to eat at nice places. I do too, but I couldn’t afford it as often as he liked.

The first date went well, even though we were nervous. He picked me up and then, of course, got to give me a ride home. I invited him in and we sat, nervously, on the couch while he worked up the nerve to kiss me and I tried to decide if I wanted him to kiss me. There was some discussion about how I wasn’t sure how I felt and how I wanted to go slow. But he already really liked me and I already liked him. Inertia was already moving us forward. I think we were both very lonely.

We did kiss and it was good, which made me happy. He was so sweet and considerate—and cute, cute didn’t hurt—that I started to think it would be possible to make it work. Sure, he wasn’t my ideal type physically, but he didn’t disgust me—far from it. As I got to know him and like him better, he became more attractive to me.

And so it went. We had some great phone conversations; we shared a lot and laughed a lot. Being together was easy and comfortable and I enjoyed hanging out with him and his friends. His friends were great and very welcoming towards me…so it seemed like we had it all covered. Alone time was good, social time was good, the kissing was good. He was a good boyfriend candidate.

It was not long after I met Ed, that I came up to DC for an informal interview. I had applied to where I work now and one other agency. The other agency paid for me to come up to DC and give a talk—and attached to that talk was a day spent interviewing with lots of different division directors. As part of that trip, I also stopped by to say hello to my now-boss and tell him I was still interested in the job here.

When I came to DC that weekend, things with Ed were very fresh—he wasn’t officially my boyfriend yet—but I found that I missed him. I thought I wouldn’t want to call him, but I did and it was great to hear his voice. Being away from him actually made me more sure that I wanted to date him. When I got home, we settled into a normal couple routine pretty quickly.

The first time he made dinner for me it was a sign of things to come and I should have heeded it. Ed invited me to dinner at his house one night at 6pm. It was a Thursday night and I knew I wanted to watch Friends at 8pm. I might have even mentioned it to him…but if dinner was at 6 or 6:30, I figured we could watch the show together. When I arrived, not only was the food not cooked, he hadn’t even begun the prep. We were having steak with a special sauce, the recipe from one of those fancy restaurants he liked, and a vegetable and a salad. The ingredients for the sauce were not chopped, the veggies weren’t rinsed, the salad dressing wasn’t made. I was concerned because I’d arrived hungry and it was clear that we would not be eating for hours. I was gave him tons of points for cooking me dinner, but the poor planning almost negated his good intentions.

I sat at the kitchen table and watched him as he very slowly and deliberately (and inefficiently) started the prep. It was painful. Even though I don’t love it, I’m a good cook. When I thought I had a sense of what he was doing, I hopped up and started to help. My chopping technique was promptly corrected. I asked what I could do. “Nothing,” he said and I sat myself back down. I watched, in horror, the ultra slow prep process. As we neared 8pm and the steaks weren’t even ready for the broiler I said, “Look, I really want to watch Friends.” He said, “Ok, we can watch it together.”

“Um, yeah, but don’t you have to finish cooking?”

“Oh, is it on now?”

“Well, not this second, but it’s on in a few minutes.”

“You mean, you want to watch it now? You don’t want to keep me company?”

“I do want to keep you company, but I want to see the show. It’s ok, right?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I went to the living room and turned on the tv.

I’d been keeping him company for TWO HOURS already, with no food. I was hungry. When hungry, I get grumpy. (Tip for future boyfriends: keep Jamy fed.) I couldn’t stand watching his slow-motion prep for one minute longer without him letting me help. When the show was over, the food was almost done, but I we didn’t sit down until 9pm. I was starving and we didn’t say much while we ate, even though everything had turned out well and was quite tasty.

And, not long after that, we slept together for the first time. There was some awkwardness due to his size (most of his weight was in his belly), but nothing that couldn’t be resolved. If you want to be with someone, you manage. There was no sacrifice involved for me with that part of the relationship. My memories of that stuff are hazy…but I’d say that sleeping with Ed was mostly a positive experience. Because our relationship had a miserable ending, everything was tinged with regret, but it had nothing to do with the physical aspects of things.

But I should have paid attention to the night he cooked me dinner. It was an indication of how things were to go. He would be slightly needy and I would try to help and he wouldn’t let me. Or he would take what I meant as helpful suggestions as criticism. In a crazy gender reversal (but one that I’ve experienced before and since) I would offer help when what he wanted was a sympathetic ear. By the time I figured it out, it was too late. It got worse and worse. He would be needy or complaining and I would make suggestions and, instead of ignoring me, he would get furious because he thought I was saying he wasn’t as good as me. He would yell and scream. He would tell me how horrible I made him feel about himself. He would say I was destroying his self esteem. I had to watch every word that come out of my mouth for fear of offending him.

For example, I remember listening to him discuss the pros and cons of the Atkins diet with a friend and working hard to hold my tongue. I couldn’t express my opinion that it was a crock. That eating fewer calories was the way to lose weight and that’s why Atkins works. I didn’t get to have an opinion because that implied that I thought I knew everything and was better than him. I still caught hell after that discussion because, it being me, after all, I was making faces and rolling my eyes and generally expressing my disagreement nonverbally. He noticed and called me on it and accused me of being something or other bad: unsupportive, unkind, mean. Etc.

I realized later that he hated himself.

I wasn’t a saint. All was not perfect on the physical side. Once we were engaged in some bedroom-type activities and having some logistical difficulties, and I said, “It’s not quite working right…I think your belly is in the way.” Somehow that turned into a conversation about my body (I’m sure I started it) and if he was happy with how I looked, which he was, except, “Well, there’s just that one part I would change.” And of course, it’s the one part of my figure I’d always considered a flaw (though I don’t anymore) and I was FURIOUS because who was he to say anything even slightly negative about how I looked when I was doing him the favor of overlooking (though obviously not entirely) the fact that he was ENORMOUS? I said none of this outloud, but it’s how I felt.

Ah, yes, so ungenerous, so unreasonable. So imperfect.

That’s the only time I felt physically unappreciated by Ed. I have a bad habit of blurting out unnecessary truths at intimate moments and I can’t fault Ed for getting back at me. But he never mentioned it again and I have every reason to think he found me attractive.

In the end, our problems had nothing to do with Ed’s size. His size was an indication of his self-hatred. Our problems had a lot to do with his self-loathing. I noticed that he ate A LOT. After a big dinner, he thought half a pint of ice cream was a reasonable serving of dessert. And he might go back for seconds. He did no exercise. In high school, he’d been an athlete, but somewhere along the way, he lost the motivation to do anything. Ed couldn’t see how large he was; he didn’t want to see it. But he knew there was an issue and we discussed it a few times—only when he brought it up. He assured me that he was healthy, he’d been to the doctor, his heart was fine, and he didn’t have any weight-related illnesses. He drove everywhere, even when I would have preferred to walk, which I found annoying. He said he wanted to start being more active and I suggested that we take walks together—which we did exactly once. It was less than 30 minutes and he was exhausted afterwards. That’s when I started to understand how bad it was.

He was also in therapy, which seemed like a good thing, but he had an unhealthy relationship with his therapist. He told me, “First I need to work out the stuff with my mother, then I can work on the weight.” The therapist, a clinical social worker, gave him a pass on that. Could she not see how much it was holding him back? How much he was hiding from life? He was burying his feelings in food? How it was symbolic of his self-hatred? Yikes. I met his mom once and she was fine. Not the easiest woman in the world, but loving towards Ed and friendly towards me. As far as I could tell, the mother issues were under control. I wondered what it was going to take for him to face his self-hatred issue.

Early on, he repeated his therapist’s words to me because I was worried that he was dropping his friends to spend time with me. His friends usually wanted to go to bars and I wasn’t always in the mood for that. He’d cancel with them and come to my place and I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. He said, “It’s ok, we’re in our symbiotic phase.” That didn’t sit well with me at all. “What are you talking about? That doesn’t sound healthy.”

“No, it’s ok. That’s what my therapist called it.” He said.

“Really, not the ‘honeymoon phase’? ‘Cause I really don’t ever want to be in a symbiotic relationship with anyone.”

And the humor changed. That was weird. He was professional-grade funny. Great timing, great jokes, a funny guy. But after we were a couple, I didn’t find him funny anymore. All his jokes made me wince. In particular, he made this video for work and we watched it at his place with a couple of his friends. They laughed like crazy. I laughed too…because it was funny. But it also made me sad. So many fat jokes. All I could see was the self-hatred fueling the humor. It was so painful it almost made me want to cry.

Later, of course, came the recriminations for my insufficiently enthusiastic response. I didn’t know what to say to him—you hate yourself and it’s so clear to me that I can’t laugh anymore? I was at a loss for words. And he felt unsupported and unappreciated by his girlfriend. What a mess.

In what turned out to be the last month of a three-month long relationship, things were quite tense. It came to a head during the weekend we spent in Miami. When we decided to go to Miami, things were ok. Not perfect, but we were happy enough to think it would be a fun trip. He had to be there for a week for a conference and he invited me to come for the weekend after it ended. The plan was for me to arrive Thursday, spend the night with him at his work-sponsored hotel and then move to a different hotel for Friday and Saturday nights.

There were a couple of complications. First, Ed was a loud snorer. I’d gotten into the habit of sleeping in his guest room when I spent the night at his house. I would lie down with him in his bed, we’d watch the Daily Show and we would drift off to sleep. Usually, he fell asleep first and his loud snoring kept me awake, so I would move myself into the guest room. I fussed a lot the first time I stayed there because his snoring kept me up. He suggested this solution and it became our habit. He also had a little kitten who liked to come into the guest room and jump all over me and wake me up, so I would keep the door closed. He rarely spent the night at my house because of the kitten, who needed attention, and the snoring, which could not be avoided in my tiny place. When contemplating the trip, I said we needed a room with two beds so I could sleep. He had no problem with that.

The other issue was that I was at the height of my fear of flying. So the prospect of a plane trip was a little scary. But I decided I could handle it.

We agreed that I would pay for my plane ticket and he would cover the hotel room. I wasn’t completely comfortable with this. I said, “If we can find something modest in Miami Beach, that would be fine with me. There is no beach front in South Beach anyway, and a block or two away is much cheaper.” I’d actually stayed in South Beach and I knew the less glamorous places are just fine and much, much cheaper. But he was set on having an “upscale” experience so he said he’d pay for the hotel and I didn’t have to worry about the cost. We were checking things out on the internet, sending ideas back and forth and finally he picked something. It seemed fine to me, though the website was a bit of an oversell and I had some reservations.

When the weekend came around, we were not getting along well . We’d come very close to breaking up and had had lots of fights, most of which revolved around what a terrible, judgmental person I was. Too exaggerate, he would say, “You don’t think I do anything right!” I would say, “That’s not true.” He would say, “You’re doing it again!” Yikes.

I’d paid for the ticket, the room was reserved and canceling didn’t seem like an option. We decided to make the best of it, enjoy it as a vacation and try to be nice to each other.

When I arrived, I wasn’t a total wreck, despite my fear, and I was happy to see Ed. He hugged me and listened sympathetically about the trip. His hotel room was nice and big—with two beds!—and I took a short nap. We met up with some of his friends for dinner and before that, we walked down to the beach. It was friendly.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last. The next day, we moved to the South Beach hotel. When we got to the room we were shocked. It was so tiny, I almost thought it was a joke. The room was full of one smallish bed and there wasn’t space for anything else, not even a desk. There was a tiny dresser and no tv. In the bathroom, the shower (no tub) didn’t have a rim, so the water got everywhere when you turned it on and only one person could be in there at a time. Poor Ed was crestfallen when he saw the room and he looked at me, waiting to hear, “I told you so.” I did feel irritated that he hadn’t listened to me during the planning process but I held my tongue and finally he said something and I laughed nervously and we agreed it was a disaster but that we’d have to make the best of it—finding a new place was too much work for such a short stay.

When I saw the size of the room and that there was only one bed, I knew I wouldn’t get any sleeping and I was almost pre-grumpy because of that. (Tip for future boyfriends: keep Jamy well-rested AND well-fed.)

The first day, we took a very long walk, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but that left Ed tired and chaffy. We had a good dinner and some drinks and some arguing and I might actually have slept. Because Ed had no interest at all in going to the beach (so why did we have to stay near the beach?), I got up early Saturday morning and jumped in the ocean for ten or fifteen minutes. He was a little cross when I got back, but it wasn’t too bad. I don’t remember what we did that day, but it was a long one.

The hotel promised a “continental breakfast” which turned out to be two croissants and two apples left outside our door in a brown paper bag. The last day of our stay, one of the croissants had a bite out of it. A BITE. Complete with tooth marks. Ed was in the bathroom and I called the front desk and told them we needed a new croissant. They didn’t believe me, but I insisted. Ed got out of the shower and I showed him the croissant and he was stunned, but I said I’d already handled it. He was furious (with the hotel, not me) and I did everything I could to keep from laughing, but I failed. When things get beyond aburd, I can’t contain myself.

The last morning of our stay, I suggested,”…let’s get breakfast before we go to the airport.” He agreed. The plan was for me to run down to the beach for a few minute and while I was gone, he could take a shower and pack. He took the longest showers of anyone I’ve ever met (30 minutes, minimum), so I figured I could get everything done that needed doing while he was showering.

I got back to the hotel room in a big rush because I’d lost track of time. Ed hadn’t showered OR packed . My keen powers of observation (open suitcase, dry bathroom floor) clued me in. I said, “So, I guess we’re not going to breakfast.”

And he exploded. He yelled, he screamed, he told me how unreasonable I was, how nothing he ever did was good enough. At first, I defended myself. I said I was annoyed but it was no big deal. I asked him, “Didn’t we have a plan?”

But he wouldn’t stop. He was furious. It was the worst screaming he’d ever done. I sat, quietly, and waited for him to finish. Finally he asked, “Don’t you have anything to say?”

I answered, “No. I’m done. But you will NEVER speak to me that way again. Never. It is completely unacceptable.”

Silence.

Then I said, “Take your shower, because I need to get in there when you’re done.” And he did.

We didn’t speak in the taxi or at the airport. When we got on the plane, I started to get nervous. The flight was bumpy and I was white-knuckling it. Ed didn’t ask if I were scared, he just started talking to me. He asked questions and told me jokes. It was one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me—after all that shit we put each other through, when I really needed him, he took care of me. We were a terrible couple, and boy did he have issues, but fundamentally, he was a good person and he didn’t want to see me suffer.

After we landed, he drove me home. I thanked him and we didn’t speak for about three days. An infinity in relationship time. He called me first, “So, uh, what’s going on? Should we talk?”

“We can talk if you want, but I think we should let this go. It’s not happy for either one of us.”

“You’re right. It’s not fun anymore. I guess we should stop.”

“Yes, I agree.”

And we were broken up.

We met for dinner once before I moved. He even paid (I was still a poor grad student). He gave me some pictures from Miami. I wondered why I’d dated him in the first place. But at least I thought he was funny again. Strange how that works.

Grateful for: the end.

Drop me a line.

Yesterday’s comment-fest confirmed something I’ve thought for a long time: I have the best readers in the world!!

Thank you so much for your kind and thoughtful comments. You impressed me with your insight, perspective and interesting stories. It really helped. David’s words were not easy to hear, no matter how confident I am or how balanced my perspective is. Even though I didn’t explode at him, it was a distressing conversation. If my emotions were more involved, I might have yelled and screamed and it would be a lot harder to laugh or let go. That’s the upside.

The downside is that it hurt me at all, which I always knew was a risk. This particular way of hurting me, though, was completely unexpected. It was almost a worst case scenario come to life, and, in that light, it wasn’t bad at all. He was in the wrong, on so many levels, and the comments made that very clear. Still, I didn’t expect to hear from so many of you…and at such length! And all equally supportive! Wow. It’s been a long time since I had so many comments, so, beyond it being a fascinating and well-crafted story (’natch), it must have struck a chord with many of you. Perhaps it reminded you of similar experiences? Or it was so out of line and outrageous that you had to say something? As resilient as I am, the consistency of your words was meaningful to me. I usually get at least one naysayer, telling me I’m wrong, but not this time. That alone is remarkable.

I try to give a balanced view of things, but it’s still my view. It’s my blog and I’m the star of the show. But I didn’t put any words into David’s mouth. I wrote what he said (it was slightly edited, but just to avoid certain topics, not to make him sound offensive) and what he said was absurd. Thank you for giving me confirmation of that. Your support and encouragement is very, very, very appreciated.

Moving along….

Two stories are floating around in my head that are apropos of the David situation. One is about a guy back in Seattle with whom I had a “fling” (we made out at my house after a party). Before he turned into a lunatic, David kind of reminded me of that guy (note: Amanda, you know him, but you may not know the story). The other story is about the guy I dated in Chapel Hill right before I moved to DC. He was seriously overweight and how I dealt with that (he was large enough that “dealing with it” was necessary) is a good contrast to the way David “dealt” with me. Any preferences?

Grateful for: kind readers.

Drop me a line.

Perhaps I should subtitle this blog, “where the drama never ends” because I do have a way of seeking it out. I’m like a dog with a damn bone. Maybe someday I’ll learn my lesson.

I called David on Sunday evening needing to know for certain if we were done. It had been over a week since I’d seen him, but he’d been sick. Sick or not, it was a long time to go with no contact. I needed to know what the story was.

The reason…the reason really surprised me. After we got through all the bullshit about how he’s been sick and busy (moving, starting new job, ETC.) it came down to how I looked without my clothing.

I’d reluctantly gotten on board with the fling, but once there, I was ready to go where it took me. I thought it might be fun. I thought, why not try something new? I thought, why not release myself from the grip of the crazy judgmental stance that I don’t impose on anyone but myself?

Before I talked to David, I was disappointed, a little sad and very curious. We were on the phone for probably 40 minutes. A legendarily long call. After the heys and hellos and are you feeling better, I said, “So, I haven’t heard from you…what’s going on?”

“Are you upset? Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Well…yes. I guess you did. I do feel bad that I haven’t heard from you. It’s not what I had in mind.”

“I’m sorry. I guess…I just…my feelings changed. I don’t know what I want. I get distant sometimes.”*

“I’ll say. I mean, that’s, whatever. But I’m not happy about it. I wanted a little more.”

“Well, I’m the fickle one this time.”

“This time? What does that mean? I’m not fickle.”

“No, you’re not…but usually, women are fickle…”

“Really? That’s ridiculous…I don’t truck in those gender role stereotypes. I’m probably the least fickle person you’ll ever meet.”

“Ok, fine. I’m fickle then.”

And then I heard mumbling about how he didn’t find me attractive. That stung. I held the phone away from my ear. I wanted to hang up. He kept talking.

“Hello? Are you there?” David asked.

“Yes. I’m here.” But I didn’t want to be.

He kept on, “The attraction just wasn’t there.”

And then I did hang up. He called back. “Did you hang up on me?”

I considered lying, this being the days of dropped cell phone calls, but instead I said, “Yes.”

David kept talking, “I think it’s important that we be open and talk about our feelings. I don’t want you to be angry.”

“Too bad. I’m angry. I get to be angry. That’s how I feel.”

“I hate that I made you feel bad.”

“You have to take your lumps. I’m taking mine by listening to you. You have to take yours by letting me be angry. I’ll get over it. It won’t last. But right now, I’m angry. Take your lumps.”

“Ok, I guess you’re right. But I don’t want to make you feel bad.”

I couldn’t believe he didn’t find me attractive. It seemed so odd, given the ardor with which he pursued me. How could he not find me attractive anymore? Either you find someone attractive or you don’t. You can’t force it. Sometimes, people can grow on you, but I’ve never found someone attractive after a date and then changed my mind. I railed a bit, “I thought, for once, I was in a situation where no one was lying.”

“I wasn’t lying…that’s what I believed at the time. I meant everything I said.”

“Ok, deluding then. Oh, I’m so tired of this! I can’t even do a fling right. I give up. I give up….”

He said, “Look, do you…do you want me to give you some advice?”

“What? Advice? You know what my problem is?”

Then it came out. I was too overweight and it was a problem. It was a turn off. (Note: I am aware that I’m overweight. And if you meet me, in person, then you are too. So what’s going on here? Are my clothes performing some kind of miraculous camouflage? If so, I have to give myself big props for dressing so incredibly well.)

I said, “But…you found me attractive…before?”

“Yes.”

So, clothes on, good. Clothes off, not so good. Oy.

I pointed out that I’m very active. In fact, I don’t have time to be more active. I row three or four times a week. When I don’t row, I go to the gym. While I row because I love it, losing weight and getting in better condition is part of my motivation. On the weekends, I do yoga, go for a long walk or play softball (last game of the season was yesterday)—or all three. While I haven’t miraculously shed pounds since I started rowing, I am in much better shape than I was when I started. I’m working on it. I want to lose weight, but I’m actually pretty happy with how I look.

David, however, was not impressed with my efforts. “You’ve got to make losing weight the center of your life. It is the most important thing you can do!”**

Huh? I said, “No. Not gonna happen. I can’t do it that way.” And if I did, what kind of life would that be?

He said, “I just lost a lot of weight. I was 20 pounds heavier in January.” (In my opinion, he is too thin.) “Since I lost the weight and started taking care of myself…going to the gym…tanning…people treat me completely differently.” Ahem, tanning? TANNING?

I said, “I promise you, the reasons for my relationship problems have nothing to do with my weight. No one has ever complained.”

He suggested that a lot more men would approach me if I were thinner. I told him that plenty of men approach me. He said, “I get much more high quality women coming up to me now.”

“So they’re prettier, but are they better people?”

“Well, no, no, not necessarily…but they care about themselves…”

While he had already lost me, I started laughing when he suggested that, “If you don’t take care of yourself, it means you don’t respect yourself and that’s not attractive.”

That statement has nothing to do with me. Even before I started rowing again, I was going to the gym about three times a week. My diet is decent, though I have a weakness for candy. Just because someone is overweight doesn’t mean they don’t take care of themselves. And respect myself? Please.

He said, “That feeling you have, after you come home from rowing and you eat a healthy, moderate meal…and you are still hungry? You have to learn to love that feeling. Because when you wake up in the morning and you look in the mirror, you will LOVE what you see.”

Are you shitting me? I’m sorry, I’m never going to embrace hunger. I’m not saying that a little hunger can’t accompany losing weight. Of course it can–it probably will. But to love being hungry? That has eating disorder written all over it.

I said, “You have to at least give me the pretty face.”

“Oh, yes. You are very pretty, you have great bones. Great hair. You are really smart, good to talk to and you make great drinks.”

Beyond getting him to say I was pretty, I didn’t argue with him about my appearance. I did try and convince him that I am quite healthy, since being overweight ALONE is not enough to put you at risk for long term problems. He didn’t want to hear that and kept telling me how dangerous it was and how important it was that I lose weight. Because he’d lost weight and it changed his life! I gave up on making my case, but I told him that I actually am losing weight (albeit slowly) because of all the exercising I do. He said, “That’s good, but you have to do more.”

Fine, he doesn’t find me attractive. Could he not have figured it out earlier and spared me this ridiculous conversation? personally, I don’t cross the line with someone whom I don’t find attractive. It’s not that hard to tell. Then again, I find a lot of different body types attractive and I know I’m interacting with the whole person, mind AND body. I liked talking to David. I had fun with him. AND I found him attractive. My willingness to engage with him wasn’t based solely on his looks.

I wish I could simply brush this off and not care one bit. Sunday evening, I was laughing. On Sunday, I called Pele and she reassured me. I laughed many times when I told her what David had said. She pointed out that most of David’s rant had to do with his issues, not mine. Next she said, “But, Jamy, you look great! I was just noticing the other day.” Thanks for that, because I feel good about how I look and it’s nice to have some confirmation.

I said, “He lost a lot of weight recently. Does he think it’s catching?”

Pele said, “Maybe.”

And it didn’t provide me with the most restful sleep Sunday night. It niggled at me and I had an odd dream:

A deaf man asked me if I knew sign language. I made the sign for “thank you” but said “no” and he seemed to understand me. I was stopped at a drive-in restaurant (the kind where you eat outside and they bring the food to your car) in Arlington, apparently on my bike. I was studying a large map and needed a place to spread it out. A waitress came by and asked for my order. I got something so small (fries with sour cream—the other choice was with gravy) that she told me she would just add it on someone else’s tab and we could work it out. A couple of women also standing at the drive-in said, “It’s with us. Just tell us what you got.” I worried about the tax…how would we figure out the tax on my fries in Virginia? How much is tax in Virginia? It’s not the easy ten percent like in DC… ***

What a boring dream!

I’ll give David this, he never once used the word, “fat.” And the fact that he actually told me the truth, while it was a truth I would rather not have known, was refreshing. However, it was still cruel. The non-cruel motivation was that he didn’t want to leave me hanging, wondering, puzzling about what went wrong. He said, “If you want to call me, to talk , we can. I’ll answer any questions you have. If you want any dieting tips, I can help you with that too.”

Um, yeah, thanks for the offer, but you won’t be hearing from me again. No matter how thin I get.

*I’ve softened the language–our talk was more detailed and graphic.

**I couldn’t fit in the part where he told me he was obsessed with food, “…from the farm to my asshole. I go to farmers’ markets and ask them all kinds of questions about the cows what the cows eat…everything.” I said, “I thought you didn’t eat cow.” He said, “No. I don’t. I mean the dairy.” He said he’s obsessed with cooking, but he doesn’t eat too much. And that I should not eliminate fat from my diet. Yes, apparently, he knows everything.

***Most of this dream has something to do with my trip to Montreal. In Montreal, there is a dish called “poutine,” which is fries with gravy and cheese (I tried it once). And I shared a hotel room with Karen and Pam (two women). Also, I just sent a check to Pam for my share of the room. Maybe the deaf man was David, busy not hearing a thing I had to say?

Grateful for: a sense of humor.

Drop me a line.

1. I sent an email to Evan, the English Instructor from the story below, on Friday. I told him I was in his class, recalled the story and mentioned that I’d written something and posted it on my blog. I did not tell him the name or URL of the blog. I also let him know where I work and what I majored in and that I have a Ph.D. I cut and pasted the content of the post into the email(though I edited out the line where I say I “saved his ass”).

   I also got to wondering what the papers I wrote for him were like. I have a file box with most of my old college papers and I found a manila folder labeled “English 200, Fall 1984.” Inside was one exam and two papers (nothing else—no syllabus, no notes). I got a 3.8 on the exam and a 3.6 and a 3.5 on the papers—both of which I rewrote. It’s not that much fun to read your old papers, but I have to say, these weren’t bad. I at least deserved the grades I received, but maybe even higher ones. I think he expected more of me based on my in-class performance. I also found a folder marked “grades.” My actual grade for the class was 3.9. When I saw it, I remembered exactly how I felt at the time, he couldn’t just give up that final tenth of a point for the 4.0? But, it was an A+, so why am I complaining? I also remembered some of the other things we read, Dubliners by James Joyce, The Tempest by Shakespeare, and The Blithedale Romance by Nathaniel Hawthorne. I loved the Joyce and the Shakespeare. The Hawthorne was the only thing by him I ever liked (I’d already read The House of the Seven Gables and The Scarlet Letter and found both impossibly dull) and it inspired me to buy a copy of The Marble Faun, a novel of which, to this day, I have never read one word. It was a good class, I liked the reading and I learned a lot. I wonder if “Evan” will write back. I’ll let you know if he does.

2. I fixed the brakes on my bike. Ideally, I should install new pads, but I can make do with what I have for now. I had a hard time getting the adjustment right and they were still squealing to high heaven on Saturday. I did a little more tweaking and on Sunday and today, they were quiet and serene. Go me.
3. There is an update on David: it’s over. More later. The story is a slightly painful one and I’m figuring out how to tell it without seeming like I’m asking for sympathy or coming off as pathetic. I’m almost there. It is a case where I want to get lots of comments telling me how great I am and what a fool he is. Yet, I don’t care that much about him and since I already know how great I am, I feel silly asking for it. I’m trying to write it in a way that you give me the positive comments because that’s how you really feel, not because you think I need bucking up. However, if anyone says anything mean, I will have a problem with that.

   How’s that for some suspense?

Grateful for: competence.

Drop me a line.

I was at a meeting the other day that reminded me of something I haven’t thought about for years.

It was my first full-time year of college. I was 15. As I’ve mentioned before, I started college via a special program when I was 14. My first year, I took three classes at the “Transition School” (History, English, and Math) and one regular college class each quarter. My first year classes were Psychology 101, Spanish 101 and Music 105 (essentially music appreciation—a great class that still benefits me to this day). I was very excited about starting college full-time in the fall. I knew I had to take Math 105 (pre-calculus; calculus would have done the trick, but I would have failed) and Spanish 102 to fulfill my “high school deficiencies.” Since three classes were a standard load on the quarter system, I could take one more class of my choosing. My choice was an English class—a literature class. Anything but composition (I have never taken a college-level composition class, unless you count creative writing).

I picked a class, got the syllabus, and read the books all summer long. Then, I didn’t get into the class. Freshmen had low priority for enrollment and I didn’t make the cut. I found another literature class with an ok reading list, and I signed up for it.

Our class was small for the UW, with only 30 students. The instructor was a young-ish grad student, teaching for the first time. “Evan”* wanted to have a discussion-style class with no lectures. I remember taking a few pop quizzes and writing a couple of essays. I made friends with a couple of girls and the three of us usually sat together. One of them was dismayed at an early quiz because she couldn’t remember the names of the characters in the book. I smiled and nodded because I couldn’t imagine NOT remembering the names of the characters. I also went to at least one required meeting with the instructor to discuss an essay topic. He thought that I was younger and asked me something that led me to explain that I was in the Early Entrance Program. He seemed pleased (or relieved) that he’d been right about my age.

I knew he liked me as a student because I talked a lot. His whole discussion thing was slow to get going since most of the folks in the class had no desire to talk. One group of guys always sat in the back row and never said anything. My two friends would say something every once in a while. And there was a slightly older student, maybe in her early 20s, who talked a lot and said nothing. Everyone hated her. Even the instructor.

Class was only 50 minutes long, but her rambles could last for ten or fifteen minutes. Evan was not good at cutting her off, but sometimes she would take a breath and he would turn to me and say, “So, Jamy, what’s your take on that?”

Many classes began with him asking me what I thought about a particular book or theme that he wanted to discuss. After I would get the ball rolling, a few other people would join in, he would say a few things and then the crazy woman would talk. Still, it was usually not a complete loss.

I remember one day in particular, we were reading The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. The crazy woman got the floor and started in on a long rant about literary theory’s interpretation of the story. It was all a bunch of gobbledygook. She might have been right in her application of feminist theory and deconstructionism, but the rest of us had no idea what she was talking about. Evan tried to stop her but she rolled right over him and we got about fifteen minutes of blah, blah, blah about Foucault, Derida, and Lacan. After which, Evan turned to me and said, “So, Jamy, what did you think of the story?”

After an initial loss for words, I said something (exactly what, I can’t remember), and soon after that, class was over.

As I walked out of the building, one of the back-row boys caught up with me. I recognized him, but we’d never talked. He said, “Can you believe her? She’s too much. Today was the worst she’s ever been.”

“I know! She’s terrible. But…I worry…I wonder if you think I’m just as bad.”

“You? Oh no. We don’t mind when you talk. At least we can understand what you’re saying.”

We both laughed and I was relieved. I knew I was talking a lot and I didn’t want to bore my classmates. But I felt some responsibility to help Evan out if I could.

You’d think I’d remember my grade in the class, but I don’t. Maybe a 3.8? That’s basically an A-. You’d think for all the work I did saving my instructor’s ass, he’d have given me the 4.0, but my paper writing skills were not the best. I recall him being consistently disappointed in my essays. Oh well. I certainly aced all the little pop quizzes—but those were just to make sure we did the reading. I enjoyed the reading so that was a non-issue.

After that class, I never hesitated to talk if I had something to say. A lot of my teachers counted class participation as part of the grade (which I never did when I taught, since it’s impossible to quantify), so I talked. I wasn’t the best essay writer, so I wanted to make sure I got full credit for participation.

I guess I don’t care if you think I talk to much as long as you don’t think I’m boring and you can understand what I’m saying.

*I do remember his name, though I changed it for the story. I did a google search and found that he’s the chair of the English Department at a small state school. I almost emailed him to see if or how he remembered that class, but I didn’t. Should I?

Grateful for: talking.

Drop me a line.

• The other day, on the way to get my bike from the cage where we keep them locked up outside our office, I encountered a fellow doing a rather elaborate stretching routine before mounting up. I said hi, fetched my bike and rode to the boathouse thinking, “he does all that stretching before his ride? My ride is my warm up.” I ride nice and easy to the boathouse—there is a gentle hill, but nothing too taxing—and stretch when I get there.
• That night, after getting off the water, I went to fetch my bike. I turned on all the lights, three total: a red blinkie in the back, a white incandescent and a white blinkie in the front. I also put on my reflective sash. By the time I leave the boathouse, 8:10 or 8:15, it’s getting dark. I rode slowly to the street because a few of my teammates were standing at the end of the path, on the sidewalk. They turned around and saw me. I heard, “Here she comes!” and “You look like a beacon!” I laughed. Someone else said, “No one’s going to miss you!” I said, “That’s the idea.” They laughed and the general chatter included, “I guess that’s right.” Right indeed.
• Recently, my father and stepmother were in Europe for a vacation. They spent time in Sweden, Berlin and Copenhagen. My stepmother wrote a couple of long emails describing their trip in detail. My dad wrote one long-ish message the day before they returned to the States. A major topic of his missive? Bikes! And my dad doesn’t even ride a bike anymore (even though I encourage him to get back into it). He used to ride a couple of miles to work but his bike was stolen and he never replaced it. A few years later, he had some back problems, which further cemented his “no biking” attitude. I still try and convince him to use a bike for his day-to-day activities. Most of his errands don’t take him more than a couple of miles from home. And while Berkeley is hilly, he lives in the flats. Anyway, it was great to read about how many bikes he saw in Berlin and how many more he saw in Copenhagen. He did note that both places are very flat. I recently saw a story in the WashCycle about how “bike use has taken over car use” in Copenhagen. To quote Dad,
  

  Bicycles are a major mode of transportation – there are hundreds parked outside every major building and 10’ specially curbed and surfaced bike lanes along the major streets. Bikes are also heavily used and well provided for in Berlin, but not to the extent here – both cities are very flat, of course.

• For the last few weeks, something has been up with my bike. It makes a terrible, loud clacking noise, especially when I pedal with pressure. I finally managed to take it into the bike shop on Monday. The repair folks were very nice and one guy took apart the rear wheel but did not solve the problem.

  Wednesday, when I was riding to work, the problem got really bad. I stepped on the pedal and it spun, but the rear wheel did not turn. Occasionally, it would make connection and I made to the office, but it was a little scary. Not knowing if the bike would move forward from a dead stop when I pedaled was unnerving. I found that rolling starts were the safest (kind of like a push start for a car!). When I got to work, I talked to my bike-expert boss and he said, “It’s the freewheel—or the free hub. The freewheel is easy to replace. If it’s a free hub, you need a new rear wheel.”

  I went to the bike shop after work, explained the problem and they agreed. They had to replace the wheel, but they could do it right then. I said throw on a new chain while you’re at it. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea and we discussed the pros and cons of a new chain on the old cogs. Finally, he said he’d put on a new chain because the cogs weren’t too worn. If it didn’t work, then he could replace the cog set too.

  He replaced the wheel and the chain in less than 30 minutes and it cost less than $100. The guy said, “Ride it around the block a few times to make sure the chain isn’t skipping.” I followed his instructions, and the ride was fine. Problem solved! However, when I applied the brakes, they squealed to high heaven. Heads turned. Babies cried. Dogs howled.

  I went back to the shop and said, “It’s great, but the brakes are screaming. Is that just the new rim or do they need more toe-in?” (Brakes squeal if the pads are mounted parallel to the wheel rim. They need to be mounted at a slight angle—that’s “toe-in.”) I figured the brake pads might have gotten messed up while he was replacing the wheel. Another guy took the bike back to the shop area and worked on it. For a LONG TIME. Toe-in is something I can fix myself and I even have the tools for it (all you need is an allen wrench). It should only take a couple of minutes. I waited for 5, 10, 15 minutes—and I could see the guy fiddling with the bike the whole time. It was 6:25 and I needed to beat it out of there so I wouldn’t be late to practice. Finally, I said, “Hey, what’s going on?”

  The new guy said, “Oh, I’m sanding down the pads. They’re still noisy.” This is hilarious—those break pads are at least five years old. Either replace them or adjust them, don’t modify them! I said, “Look, I’m in a hurry. I can’t leave the bike. I’m going to be late if I don’t leave right now. Can I just have it?” He said ok, made sure the wheel was seated properly (good thing too; it wasn’t) and I hurried away. And, guess what? The brakes still squealed as loudly as ever.

  When I got to the boathouse, I took a look at the pads. One of the them was installed BACKWARDS. Thus, guaranteeing toe-in. How the heck did he manage to do that?

  I haven’t fixed it yet, but I won’t be riding my bike until I do.

Grateful for: mechanical ability and friendly mechanics.

Drop me a line.

Someone, please, tell me how am I to resist a man who sends me the following email?

Hello,

HOW ARE YOU DOING HOPE ALL IS WELL WITH YOU, AND HOW WAS YOUR DAY WENT TODAY MY NAME IS ERNIE AND AM NEW IN THIS dating SITE, AM LOOKING FOR A WOMAN THAT I WILL love AND CARE FOR AND THAT WE LOVE ME ALSO AND WHEN I WAS SEARCHING THROUGH THIS DATING SITE I FOUND YOUR PROFILE AND I READ THROUGH IT AND I WAS SO INTRESTING OVER YOUR PROFILE AND ALL THAT AM LOOKING FOR FROM A WOMAN IS WHAT I FOUND IN YOUR PROFILE AND I WAS SO INTERESTED IN YOU OK , AM SINGLE AND LOOKING, I BELIVE THAT YOU AND I ARE THE SAME MATCH AND I WILL LOVE TO HAVE YOU ONE ON ONE CONVERSATION WITH YOU OK IF YOU DONT MIND OK, MY EMAIL ADDRESS IS ernie@*****.com AND MY YAHOO MESSENGER ID IS ernie**** YOU CAN IM ME ANYTIME YOU HAVE A CHANCE TO CHAT WITH ME I WILL BE LOOKING FORWARD TO HEAR MORE FROM YOU, OK I WILL LOVE TO READ YOUR REPLY SOON.
ERNIE……….

He likes cats too! I think I’m in love. (His name is not “Ernie.”)

Grateful for: men.

Drop me a line.

What am I doing? Avoiding the subject. Why? Because it’s awkward for me to talk about.

I had lunch today with work-friend Nancy for the first time in ages and she needed a pair of pliers to extract the David story from me.

It’s just, I’m a little at sea here. I’m pretty sure I know what I want, but I’m not sure what the rules are. I haven’t done this before.

Today, I thought, “Maybe I don’t want to do this. Maybe I should just stop now.” And maybe if I never call him and he never calls me, that will be it. And it’s what Nancy told me, “You never listen to me, but you have to wait for him to call to know how he feels.”

I said, “I don’t care how he feels.”

She laughed, “You’re having that fling everyone dreams about!”

“I am? But I haven’t seen him since Thursday. I need a little more fling and a little less waiting.”

Because if this is going to turn into another “I hope he calls. Why isn’t he calling? Is it ok for me to call?” situation, I don’t see the point. The beauty part is that he is NOT a boyfriend candidate, so I don’t need to be on my best behavior. However, since I’m interested in continuing things a little longer, I don’t want to scare him off. He’s just too much fun.

As I told Nancy, “You know, it turns out it’s not about the physical part. Funny how it never is. If I didn’t like him as much as I do, there’s no way I’d be interested in more.”

Contact update: I called him Sunday afternoon and the conversation lasted about a 1 minute 39 seconds (a whole minute longer than the Friday call!). No plans were made but he said, “We’ll get together this week sometime.” It left me scratching my head, but Diego told me that calling on a Sunday afternoon was a chump move (not his exact words). He said, “You only call him when you want to see him. You don’t call him just to say hi.” Oh, Ok. What was I thinking? “It’s fine, but you have to wait until late this week to call him again if you don’t hear from him first.”

Fine then. I’m waiting. But I don’t like it one bit.

Grateful for: patience (I could use some).

Drop me a line.

Relaxing on the tarmac at Pierre Trudeau International Airport: (If you can”t see the guy sleeping in the luggage cart, click through for a larger image.)

While I was in Montreal, I took the metro a couple of times. I couldn”t resist taking a shot of this sign inside the car: Please note the second type of emergency. Who knew Montreal was such a violent place? This type of push-door was common at the metro stations: