Over the past week-ish, I had been communicating with a man via an online dating app (Bumble). Unlike the men who usually express interest, he was tall; he was also a bit older than I, in good health and active, a reader, and educated. In the texts, he seemed both interesting and interested, which was good.

There were some misspellings in his missives that evidenced the use of dictating rather than writing, which surprised me since he was, allegedly, a journalist/writer (you’d think he’d have edited better). But, generally, the “talk” was much better than usual.

Oh, sure, he did write long texts and, sometimes, there were many of them, but maybe he was just excited, I told myself. And, yes, there were a couple of times where he’d say he was going to do something (like let me know when he got back into town) without actually doing that thing, but again I made excuses for this. We’re only human and I didn’t want to judge too harshly.

I was, relatively speaking, excited to meet this person. Dare I say, hopeful, even. So, yesterday, I was more particular about dressing and makeup and even shaved my legs¹. I let my Fabulous Neighbor know where I was going and when, so she could look out for me, and in the late afternoon, headed out into the sunshine and breeze to walk to the restaurant. I was hopeful it would lead to my first “real” date².

Instead, it was awful.

I arrived a bit early, intentionally, to give myself a bit of time to breathe and cool down from the walk. He was early, too. Okay, that’s fine, except I made a little joke about how his being early didn’t permit me to freshen up and make myself look better before meeting him–you know, a perfect set up for a “you look fine” kind of response. I got nada except a kind of defensive remark about why he was early, too. He even added that he had considered walking too which would have been much farther than my walk. Hmm.

Also, when we very first met, he just sort of looked at me when I introduced myself with a smile and a little joke about how he actually was tall (explaining that guys lie about that often) as I reached out for handshake. No smile back. No laughter. Decent handshake, though.

Early in the conversation, as we were waiting on our glasses of wine, he launched into the first of what would be many (many) very (very) long, detailed stories about his life, especially about his life in the Navy. Unbidden. Without context. No warm up questions like “How are you today?” Anyway, this story was about how he used his typing skills to get out of mess duty which led to his career as a journalist/photo-journalist. Yes, he started with the story of his adult life from, essentially, day 1. He went on to describe an editor he later had who two-finger typed and sounded like he was going to break the keyboard when he typed. I said that I had been told I typed “angry” by someone but I didn’t think that was true and that if I am a bit more forceful, I know it’s not as bad as the character from Up in the Air. Another attempt a light humor. His reply? “Maybe it’s how you hold your face.” Um, what? Okay, it was early on so maybe he misspoke. I laughed it off with “Resting bitch face typing? I dunno…” He didn’t correct me to say I didn’t have bitch face or anything. Hmmmm.

Long story short(er), he dominated the conversation and it was all about him. No compliments, no flirting, just him and his life. What little I got out about myself was talked over and/or over-topped. And his stories were, as I said, long, detailed, and mostly irrelevant. While he was liberal, LGBTQ+ friendly, loved books and old films, he also was harsh about his exes and completely inappropriate with how he talked about his adopted daughter (“Black crack baby³,” yikes)⁴. His work struggles and life struggles were all caused by others–wives, bosses, etc. He talked about how he played lawyer in a discrimination claim, as if that was a good thing to tell a real lawyer. I kept making excuses for him–telling myself he was probably nervous or something. I wanted to leave early but thought that maybe I was being unfair so I stayed to give him chance after chance. The reality was, though, he was just being himself: a man full of red flags, especially on the control side.

Finally, when I called an end to the meeting by asking for the check, he immediately said he’d pay because that’s what guys do and that just put the nail in the coffin. Feminist, my ass. I paid the check, in part because he had been so dismissive to the servers that I didn’t want them to get stiffed on the tip but mostly because fuck you patriarchy. It’s only money and, frankly, I hope it made him uncomfortable.

As I was paying he said how great he thought the conversation had been and I could see him winding up for the “let’s do this again” pitch. Before he could get there, as soon as the server left, I cut him off with, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is a good fit for me.”
“Why?!” he asked incredulously and harshly.
“You seem lovely,” I lied, “But I just don’t feel what I need to” (truth). Then I added as a sort of genteel excuse, “Maybe it’s the photographer thing–I’ve generally made it a policy not to date potential clients…”
“I never asked you for any advice!” he practically spat. His face had become really dark and almost menacing.
“I’m sorry” I said, “I need to feel a certain something. I’m fine being alone and I’m not looking for someone just to have someone. If I don’t feel whatever that thing is, it’s not right for me.” I then reached out to shake his hand again, did so, and left without the slightest look back.

As I was walking home, I got more and more upset about the whole thing. Mostly, I was upset with myself for not ending it sooner. I saw the red flags, but made excuses. Why did I do that?! Why didn’t I tell him the truth about why I would never see him again? Why do I feel somehow wrong for standing up for myself?
Eventually, it hit me…

Hello trauma, my old friend⁵.

I was unconsciously afraid to tell him the truth. I was afraid to hurt his feelings. Afraid of getting in trouble somehow. That was (in hindsight) my past relational trauma showing up. Also, I was playing the patriarchy’s game and was all concerned about making him comfortable, unthreatened. Bad (but familiar) combo. I was trying to be a good girl, uncomplicated, un-needy, and at the same time protect myself from whatever danger he presented. Ooof.

On the good side, I saw all this about myself–I caught myself and did so early. I didn’t give him another date, or several. I saw the red flags! I didn’t ignore my intuition⁶! And I did what was right for me, if not right away, sooner than I would have in the past.

I recognized that didn’t owe him an explanation for my feelings and it wasn’t my job to fix the man, like by explaining all that he did wrong. I’m not his dating coach and I certainly didn’t owe him anything more than human respect.
Something, frankly, he didn’t quite show me.

So, yes, a bad date, for sure. But it turns out to have been beneficial for me: I learned I do spot the red flags and I can trust my intuition. I remember my last therapist said, “I don’t see you making the same choices now–I think you will see the flags and honor yourself.”
They⁷ were right.

___________________

1. Not in case of nookie–because I was considering wearing a skirt. ↩︎
2. This was a meet-date; I think of a real date as one after that, when there is some connection to explore. ↩︎
3. He actually said he thought he had an understanding of what it was like to be Black because she is Black. OMFG. ↩︎
4. He hardly mentioned his other daughter–not adopted, fwiw. ↩︎
5. See my last post, about Mara. ↩︎
6. Early on I recognized that I couldn’t imagine even kissing this guy–total ick feeling when I thought of it. ↩︎
7. My last therapist was wonderful, brilliant, and non-binary, hence they. ↩︎

In Buddhism, there is the story of how, when the man who we know as the Buddha was sitting under the Bodhi tree becoming enlightened, a demon¹ came to tempt him, to distract him, to get in the way of his enlightenment. That demon was called Mara². The Buddha-to-be touched the earth, grounding himself, and Mara (and his armies) disappeared. The Buddha then attained enlightenment.

Later, Mara would still occasionally appear to the Buddha. Like he couldn’t give up trying. Whenever this happened, though, the Buddha simply noted Mara’s presence with “I see you” and, poof, Mara would disappear.

Today, many of us use Mara as a shorthand for things that arise and get in our way.

Why am I writing about this? Well, because last night Mara apparently decided to have a slumber party at my house.

It’s coming up on a year since the ending of my last relationship. I haven’t seen my ex in over 9 months and we have virtually no communications. This is by his choice³ and, no matter how much I would have preferred a friendlier post-coupled relationship, I accept this is the way things are. Rationally, that is. I accept it rationally. Unfortunately, emotionally, well, it seems part of my brain is not always playing on the same team. To wit: last night I had nightmare after nightmare, clearly about the former us and/or the way things are now. It was a rough night.

I woke up in the morning, in tears from the last one. It was one of those dreams where nothing makes sense or works the way it would in the real world. Trapped, struggling, people saying completely illogical things and not being able to communicate with them…a full monty of FML. My heart ached. I was exhausted from the shit sleep, with a ton of tossing and turning and irrational fear.

The trigger for all this is almost surely that, yesterday, I received kind and positive attention from a potential date. Not over the top bullshit–no “Hello Gorgeous” or whatever. Rather, I simply got a sense of presence and actual interest in learning about who I am. He asked questions and was specific (like that he wanted to hear the story of the Triumph). That is so rare that it (obviously) flipped me out a bit. And, to be sure, we’re talking about just a few texts back-and-forth–nothing serious or heavy. Mostly the potential for maybe something, but that was enough to invite Mara for a visit, and one like a mezcal-infused mean drunk arguing about last call in my brain.

First thing I thought as I swung my feet off the bed to the ground? Hi Mara, I see you.

Mara is a representation of our own demons, of course, and that’s what I experienced last night: my own demons. The voices in my head telling me that I don’t deserve happiness or I would somehow be harming my ex if I moved on–those are all my own voices, not anything anyone is doing to me. A lifetime of struggles with the patriarchy and traumas, it’s no wonder they are there.

But, thanks to a lot of therapy and my dharma studies, I recognize these voices for what they are. Mara. Distractions. The arising of old shit.

Hilariously, when I finally checked my devices today, I had a message from yesterday’s person… and a new match as well.

Hey, Mara, I see you.
Please to fuck off now, okay?

____________________________

1. Demons are metaphors in Buddhism. So are gods. ↩︎
2. See https://e-buddhism.com/mara-buddhism/ ↩︎
3. I assume he has his reasons for this distancing; I only know that the current post-breakup situation is not what I would choose. ↩︎

The other day, someone on Mastodon posted a link to an article discussing how women are sidelined in their careers and thus devalued, economically. Of course, I can’t find the damn thing now but, essentially, the article started by sharing how a hypothetical hetero couple jointly decides that the woman has more job flexibility and therefore will stay at home and work part time when they have a child. As a freelance writer, she can do this more easily than he can. It is a mutual decision and the couple feels like they have found a fair and equitable solution.

On the surface, it does look like that. But when you dig down, since Betty (a name I just picked) is at home more, more and more of the household work becomes her burden. Not only child care, to which she originally agreed, but all the household stuff. So now, instead of spending her time taking care of the child and writing, with the rest of the house stuff waiting until the hubs comes home to share in it, she is taking care of the child and trying to sneak in writing, in-between doing everything to keep the household running (laundry, cleaning, shopping, cooking…). If she’s lucky, Bob (hubs/male partner) takes the kid after his work, “freeing” her to try, after her 8+ hours taking care of the kid, to write. However, he doesn’t do anything else but take the kid. She still has house stuff to do, etc. So, if she manages to write at all professionally, she takes on fewer and fewer freelance projects because she has too much to do otherwise.

The article then goes on to discuss the economics of it, which are appalling. Her labor is not included in GDP, for example. That labor is literally devalued. It’s infuriating on a macro scale. But it is in the singular, that is the effects in a home, which really interested me, as it has been my own lived reality.

The labor load (mental and physical) imbalance is obvious and ubiquitous, at least to the hetero women reading this. I suspect we’ve all had at least one partner who swears he’ll share the load but who ends up dropping that ball like it was hot lead. I know I certainly have. Somehow our male partners make time to ride their motorcycles or play golf with the bros, etc., and, while maybe they might mow the lawn, mostly the care of the home, inside and out, falls on the woman.

Worse yet, if the man does so much as a load of laundry (and virtually always only after being asked¹), they act like they’ve just cured cancer and should at least get effusive thanks, if not a blow job, for their efforts. In case you, male reader, don’t understand, that’s like rubbing salt into our wounds: what we do is expected and only gets feedback if we fail to accomplish it or fail to accomplish it to your standards; but you perform a “honey do” chore and expect to be praised, no matter how tiny the chore or half-assed your efforts.

I can’t tell you how many times I have lived that experience. From about the time I turned 10 until, well, the end of my last relationship, over and over and over.

Now, if the man is working outside of the home, this is still wrong, but at least it is more understandable. If he’s not there all the time he isn’t as physically available to do the work. However, this dynamic happens even when the man is available–that is, working from home. In fact, it even happens when he works from home and she works somewhere outside of the home. Basically, the home stuff still falls on her to do (or at least arrange–i.e., mental load) or it doesn’t get done.

I was thinking about this before I read the article, particularly when I took care of the neighbors’ cat, recently. My neighbors are a hetero couple with twin boys (9yo) in a small house, with a (lovely) cat. She is a private school administrator who works at the school every day; he works for a public charter school, doing social media from (mostly) home, and plays in a band occasionally. They are lovely people, liberals, very educated, seem to be quite happy, and are doing a good job with the kiddos. However, the house is a mess². The yard is a mess. They have a house cleaner who comes in once a week and even right after she³ does her (very good) job, it’s still a mess (albeit a cleaner one).

I suspect that he doesn’t do much more than the minimum and she just doesn’t fix it. She doesn’t do the mental labor or the physical. Now, I may be wrong, they may both have come from families where cleanliness stuff didn’t matter (they have lots of family visitors from both sides and it doesn’t change so, maybe?). Whatever, somehow, it works for them and they aren’t bothered by their overgrown yard⁴ or driveway full of legos or window boxes falling off the house, much less the state of their kitchen, stained sofa, or back door completely blocked with empty bags and stuff.

As for me, I have no idea how they live like that. I’m not a clean freak but, honestly, it makes me a bit twitchy with a need to make it better⁵. But, as I said, they seem a very happy lot so… I’m glad for them in that. It is their business, not mine.

As a feminist, though, I am deeply bothered that he isn’t doing more. She’s clearly the primary breadwinner and he’s at home so why is he, for example, working on his skateboarding skills rather than cleaning the kitchen sink or repairing the window boxes? They have lots of friends and must see that others do not live as they do, so why doesn’t he step up and take care of more? Is he waiting to be told, by her, to do X or Y?

Of course, if the tables were turned, if he worked out of the home and she in it, the woman would be shunned for not taking better care of the household. In fact, even in the scenario above, I think the woman still gets more blame: why doesn’t she do something/make him do something? But that it is the man…somehow he seems to get a pass.

One of the things my ex used to complain about was that I didn’t thank him enough. I don’t think he was wrong, generally⁶. But with time and space, I have come to see that sometimes I didn’t thank him because it was for stuff for which I never got thanked, throughout my life. I had been conditioned to think that doing X or Y was literally thankless work. And that was, definitely, patriarchy in the home.

In the future I hope to be mindful enough to thank people when they do the things for which I did not get thanked for doing, and assertive enough to ask for the same in return.

_________________

1. Seriously, men will often even ignore stuff right in front of them! I have had partners step over items that were meant for the laundry or to be moved into a garage and not even pick them up unless told “hey, would you carry those on your way out?” ↩︎
2. At least the open-plan living room, dining room, and kitchen are; I would never go prying into their private spaces like bedrooms and bathrooms. ↩︎
3. Note: she, the cleaner is a woman. ↩︎
4. About once a year his sister (again, a woman) comes for a visit and works on the yard the entire time she’s here. ↩︎
5. In fact, I noticed their front door rubs on the threshold and I just shimmed it for them today. ↩︎
6. That is, sometimes there were times where it was like the “you did what I asked and you expect praise” situation described above, but not always. ↩︎

A couple of weeks ago, a younger woman wearing a baby (I’m not a baby person, but that was a gorgeous kid) on her front and walking a large, gentle, shepherd-ish dog appeared at my door. She was distributing notes to the neighbors–she and her fiancé were getting married and the reception, at least, was to be at their home down the street. They are actually the newest neighbors, having bought the house maybe two months ago, so this gave me the chance to meet at least her and their child, and dog. The wedding was in a couple of weeks and they wanted the neighbors to know and to know that they would try to keep it down and close up at a reasonable hour. It was kind of them.

Today is the happy day.

This morning, I moved my motorcycle from its usual place in front of the house, to free up parking for the guests. I even swept the sidewalks and the gutter, just to make things look a bit nicer. I included them in my meditation intentions this morning, too. This is a big day for the couple and even if they have no idea about my efforts, the intention is there and hopefully they will get some good juju from it.

To be honest, I have struggled a bit about this event. I’ve wept more than a few times. Oh, it’s never been that I’m worried about the noise or parking or frankly anything about their wedding. I mean, I am super noise sensitive and expect my earplugs will get used later tonight, but if you can’t give a wedding special dispensation, you’re a dick. No, my issues are rather that her announcement put me in mind of my wedding that never was.

I was engaged to my ex. I planned on spending the rest of my life with him and, despite myself (I’m not someone who needs to get married), I was actively looking forward to being his wife. As for the wedding itself, I had spent a lot of time imagining us exchanging vows under our bougainvillea-covered, wonky arbor. I thought we would be the neighbors who threw a wedding.
But we’re not. Life happens.

Instead, here I sit near that arbor, watching their guest arrive while the steak I just cooked cools inside (to be chucked on a salad) and indulging in a rosé vesper martini.
And I am surprisingly not sad.

There is something about watching these people arrive, to celebrate their friends’/family’s love, that is greater than my feelings of loss. I am moved, in a good way.

Except for the clothes. Those mostly move me to cringe. What is it with dressing for a wedding these days?!? The guests today are in various manner of dress–from light sport coats with trousers or summery dresses to men in short-sleeved shirts and khakis or, worse, jeans. Far too many are just…ugh. The worst attired award (so far) goes to the couple in jeans and Hawaiian shirts. At first, I thought maybe that was the suggested attire (they were some of the earliest to arrive); but no, most of the other guests have managed to wear something better than flip-flops, denim and loud short-sleeved shirts.

Yes, I’m being judgy. This is a thing for me. “Casual” for a wedding should still be something better than what you’d wear to a Jimmy Buffet concert.

I had a minor heart attack when a single woman pulled up in front of my house and touched up her makeup before getting out of her car. It looked like she was wearing a white dress! Luckily, when she got out it was a very light lemony yellow or, honestly, I probably would have said something.

A few minutes later, I went to check on the neighbor cat (whom I am watching while the family is out of town) and, on my way back, a single male guest who parked in front of my house (and who was carrying garbage cans because the couple realized at the last minute that was what they forgot) smiled at me and said, “Come on down and join us!” I’m wearing a baseball-type t-shirt (no bra), ripped jeans, no makeup, and flip-flops. There is no way in hell I would show up like that. Besides, I wasn’t invited by the couple and would never crash their wedding.

So, it’s not my wedding, but it is a wedding, and I am joyful for the young family. Also, and not for nothing, I am half-wondering why the tall, salt-and-pepper-haired man asked me to join in the celebration…and did so more than once.

Every Sunday, I go to a non-denominational Buddhist temple where we recite the Heart Sutra and discuss its complex meaning. It, the sutra I mean, is a doozy: it both reinforces and completely dismantles some of the basics of Buddhist practice.

No matter what the word of the week is (we go through it word-by-word), the discussion is always interesting and thought-provoking. At sangha¹ yesterday, the word was (translated) perfect wisdom². As we shared what we thought that meant, one of us mentioned how a translation he liked used the word understanding instead of wisdom. And people then talked about how that changed what they thought about the meaning.

There was much discomfort. Some people seemed actively upset that there wasn’t a precise translation or meaning. I kind of laughed to myself because, as a student of languages, I learned long ago that language is anything but precise. It’s what we have, though, until we learn to do the Vulcan mind meld.

Earlier in the meeting, in summing up the sutra, the leader of our group mentioned how the sutra says there is nothing to attain and asked us to imagine not trying to attain anything. We constantly are trying to attain! When some of the other practitioners talked about how they were struggling to even accept that the meaning of prajnaparamita wasn’t concrete, that there wasn’t an answer, it dawned on me that they³ were trying to attain a meaning. They wanted to get it right. See, attainment sneaks in.

But, the sutra says, prajnaparamita is the way to end suffering and that there is no attainment–nothing to attain–so if we try to attain are we not causing our own suffering?
Yup.

The leader later spoke about our obsessive need for attainment. I think he was giving a not entirely subtle dig to the meditation apps as he pointed out that trying to get meditation right is exactly not what meditation, or the dharma, is about. He said that whether you sit for 5 minutes or an hour, it doesn’t matter. You just need to be present and come back to the breath. You don’t need to be better today than yesterday. You don’t need to track–to keep a streak–to try to be perfect.

I looked down at my watch.
And smiled.

I wasn’t checking the time. Rather, I started wearing my old Timex about a week ago, having given up wearing an Apple Watch except for my actual morning workout⁴. I smiled at the Timex’ inability to track a damn thing. It just shows the time. I am seriously considering stopping using the Apple Watch entirely. I suspect I will.

Even now, though, with not wearing the watch all day, this morning, the Apple Heath app gave me a warning about my drastic decrease in total activity. I really felt the pull to fix the problem, to be better, to track…it was visceral, almost. I thought about how we have become beholden to devices like these and their prodding us to attainment. Do more, hit your goals, keep your streak.

I chose to turn off the notifications.

Not wearing the Apple Watch is a huge step for me. I have been known for tracking, measuring, trying to achieve some sort of perfection. I absolutely think that striving is part of how I have dealt with the traumas life has given me. If I am perfect, life will be easier. I will be loved or respected… at least I won’t be looked down on or accused of not trying hard enough. I will have attained and I will have proof.

I am renouncing that, in part by the simple act of taking off the tracking device. Of not logging time, effort, mileage, etc. I won’t check the trends and see if I’m achieving, attaining. Of course, I won’t give up entirely–for example, I know I will very likely overeat if I don’t measure so I will use the scale and maybe write down what I’m eating if I’m not feeling my best. But no longer will I let some device tell me I’m not being a good enough human.

The mantra of prajnamaramita is gate gate pāragate pārasaṃgate bodhi svāhā, or gone, gone, gone beyond, gone utterly beyond, awakening/enlightenment, rejoice.

So, rather than continue trying to attain (as much), I am gone, baby, gone.

__________________________

1. For the non-Buddhists, a community of practitioners is called “the sangha” and it is often used as shorthand for the group practice. Where a Jew may say they went to temple, a Muslim to mosque (or prayers), or a Christian to church, we often say we go to sangha (more rarely, temple). This isn’t significant–just a little language lesson. ↩︎
2. Prajnamaramita, so it’s one word in Sanskrit. ↩︎
3. I’m not being all judgy here; I was just aware that, as for me (and some others), I wasn’t trying to find the answer. I happen to think that, whatever the translation we will never know exactly the meaning and, rather, the general idea is simply that letting go is key. ↩︎
4. I stopped wearing it for sleep tracking some months ago. It just stressed me out as I have a low resting heart rate and sometimes sleep in positions that make the watch inform me that I am mostly dead. ↩︎

I’ve been watching The Four Seasons (series) on Netflix, season 2. Last evening, in one episode, one of the characters said, commiserating with another character who feels like she’s getting everything wrong, “Every decision feels like I’m trying to stick the landing on my entire fucking life.” They obviously recognize it was not a healthy way to live. He was articulating that sense that good enough wasn’t good enough if it was his effort. No matter how difficult the thing or how well he accomplished whatever, if he didn’t nail it all the way (sticking the landing), the whole thing was shit. His whole life was shit.

I felt like someone had put my wet finger in an electrical socket.

It resonated with me in a very big way. It’s not perfectionism. Perfectionism, at least in my way of thinking, goes beyond the self. That is, one is perfect and one demands perfection in others and everything. For example, a perfectionist would not buy something that had even a tiny flaw or they would hold others to be perfect, or else. This is different. It’s a sort of insecurity. It’s an external applied to our internal self: one will be rejected if one is not perfect to/for others. I don’t think everyone feels this, but for those of us who do…ooof, boy howdy.

I (and that character) are not perfectionists and do not demand others be anything other than the flawed humans they are. If anything, I accept far more imperfection in others than the average person. I suspect that is probably precisely because of that sense of unfairness towards myself, the experience of being judged and rejected and the fear of it happening again. Whatever, I don’t judge people that way–I see “flaws” as charming imperfections that make a person the individual they are. But when it comes to me and my sense of security in this world… super judgy. Impossible standards.

I know where I got my “crazy” (thanks, Mom¹). I’ve been aware of it for a long time. And, with a lot of work, I had mine pretty well under control–that is, I was aware of it and counter-programmed (for lack of a better term) so that it didn’t show up in my life much at all. I could let myself be imperfect and not be terrified. I could even laugh at my mistakes. I was okay, just as I was. People would like me as imperfect, just human. It was a much better way to live, and I lived it.

Until after the break-up. Something changed then.

Hearing that character say that line somehow made the pieces fall into place and I could see that I was sometimes doing that thing where I got bound up and afraid to do anything lest I screw it up. Including things that no one could possibly control. For example, at times I was terrified my car would break down or something house-related would fail. Well, of course those things aren’t just possible–they are likely! Everyone has these sorts of things happen. But it felt like I would be judged, and harshly, if they did. In other words, I had to stick the landing on just about everything in my life. The crazy was trying to return.

Why? Why was I holding my breath again? I know when we were still together I felt constrained, but that was about not upsetting my partner while he was dealing with his own stuff. Once I was freed from that, I felt lighter, briefly, but then this started. What the hell?

As I thought about it I realized that the break-up felt, to me, very similar to what I experienced with Mom. I had been taking long-term care of my partner, who was suffering some serious issues and, when I was exhausted and not perfect when I asked to be heard about something, he accused me of all sorts of untrue and horrible things and ended it². After ending it, he has been virtually silent, only communicating when necessary and then as little as possible. Neighbors ask me where he’s ended up or how he’s doing and are shocked when I say, “I have no idea–he doesn’t talk to me.”
So very similar.

The harsh words plus the silent treatment were touching back to my core wound.
And… boom. Bob’s your uncle.

Once I got that into my head, I could feel the crazy slinking back into its hidey-hole and I could be like the Buddha and simply say, “I see you Mara,” and get on with things. Turns out, not only do I not need to stick the landing, when I do land on my ass, I can laugh at myself and, if needed, ask a friend to help me up³.

______________________

1. Very long story short: as she was dying of lung cancer, I was her primary (virtually sole) caregiver; near the end, I made one personal mistake (got drunk at a party while my brother watched her) and for that she called me every disgusting name imaginable and then died a week later, not talking to me except if absolutely necessary for her care.
   I was 18. ↩︎
2. I would guess he would not see any of this the same way, of course. I can only and am only talking about my experience and feelings. ↩︎
3. Thanks to all the work I’ve done and the amazing help of some fabulous therapists, I could see this much more easily, now. We all ebb and flow; part of what one learns in therapy is how to identify and deal with the things that arise, like this. ↩︎

Today is the 15th anniversary of my admission to the California Bar. On that day, 15 years ago, I stood and took a separate oath before a Navy JAG officer who was an alum of my law school (my law school did this) and then, with everyone else, before at least one California Supreme Court justice and other notables from the judiciary, took the Bar oath.

I listened to the speeches and was moved by them as well as by the achievement we all had accomplished. I saw partners and families rejoicing around their newly-minted lawyers. It was joyful. I was so glad I attended.

I almost didn’t. That is, I could have taken my oath separately and not at this big event. Privately. And in Los Angeles where I was living at the time. I chose to come back and do it with my fellow Cal Western grads and other locals. I wanted to be a part of the group, even if only on the edges.

See, I had moved to LA right after taking the bar exam. In a grand gesture I moved up there to make my life with a man who lived there (he worked in the movie industry). I was madly in love… heavy on the madly. It was passionate and surreal and more than a little crazy, but I believed in love (still do!) so, why not? Sadly, shortly after settling into our downtown LA loft, I discovered he had a gambling problem and its co-morbid lying and financial problems¹. I was wise enough to end it, lick my wounds, take the financial hit (I was quite broke) and return to San Diego, a city I very much prefer over Los Angeles. Heartbroken, but I knew it was the right thing to do.

Now, none of my family ever offered to help me after a breakup. None of them ever came to me to hold me, let me cry on their shoulders, much less carry a piece of furniture. I had been through several hard (and some actually traumatic) experiences, including two divorces (with abuse and stalking) without anyone coming to me to help. I wonder often if this is because I am the only woman–that is, I have two brothers and my father was alive then still. Did my gender make a difference? Could they not empathize?

Whatever, I am not unaccustomed to being alone in the hard times. I’m really quite adept at navigating shit alone, even though I never like it, of course. Chop wood, carry water… I was that way even before I started reading Buddhism. Luckily, I’d had enough study by the time of the Los Angeles breakup to be able to roll with the knowledge of impermanence. I’d be okay.

But at that moment of celebration, as I took my oaths, not having anyone be there for me, well, I felt it. I felt more alone than in the hard times. I had a stranger take the photo above. I got no hugs, just handshakes from professors and the JAG officer. No flowers other than the simple rose pinned to my lapel, given by my alma mater². No one took me to lunch. There was no champagne. I simply took my oaths, listened to the speeches, then got back in my Miata and drove back to Los Angeles, to continue packing for my move.

And even now, remembering it, I get misty. It fucking hurt.

Today, again, I celebrate alone. I’m proud of what I did and what I have made of that work. I love my clients and would do it all again, for sure. But, again, I feel more of the aloneness than I have during recent hurtful, difficult times.

As I think about it, I wonder if we’re conditioned to think about having the people who love us support us in the hard times but don’t pay attention to having people support us (or supporting them) in the good times. Maybe, it is at least as important. For example, my neighbor who met her now-boyfriend about the time of my break-up seemed extra thrilled that I made a very big deal about wanting to see her happiness and hear all of the excitement and joy. And I did! Being there with her in her joy was wonderful. For us both.

Maybe we connect even more by being there in the moments of others’ joy?

My neighbors’ twins are celebrating a birthday this week: they’re turning 9. Instead of wallowing in my loneliness today, I think I’ll go buy them some gift cards to the local book store and the ice cream store next door to it. To celebrate my bar-iversary, I can be in their joy.

_____________________

1. We actually officially broke up on the day I learned I’d passed the bar, May 13th (Friday the 13th….ha!). ↩︎
2. I still have it, btw. It dried out of course and now rests in my office. ↩︎

(I wrote a similar list when I turned 50 and when I was nearly 40. I just re-read those and it inspired me)

1. Sometimes the people who are supposed to love and/or take care of you are so twisted up in their own struggles that they end up doing some of the worst stuff to you. Almost always, this is not intentional or about you; it still sucks to live through.
2. Trauma isn’t what happened to you, it’s what happened after; it’s still after so you can (still) heal.
   1. You have to do the work, though, and it is your responsibility to take care of yourself.
3. Mental health treatments are changing rapidly and some seem like voodoo, but actually work (and are science backed). Be open to trying new things, especially if the old ones haven’t really worked for you.
   1. For example, I did EMDR, thinking it was probably BS, and it profoundly changed me for the better.
4. A simple compliment to a stranger can be life changing, for both of you.
5. Everyone should take an improv class; learning to say “yes, and” instead of “no” alone will save you thousands in therapy.
6. So often it, whatever it is that someone is upset about, is not about you.
   1. If you did fuck up, though, apologize and without excuses.
7. There is a difference between being compassionate and being a doormat; and learning that difference is worth everything.
8. Humans are amazingly resilient so don’t judge a person by what has happened in their life; it’s more important how that person has grown (or not) from it.
9. If you don’t have the right training, not only can you not save a drowning person, they are likely to take you down too (literally and metaphorically).
10. You may not like the answer you will receive for any question you may ask but that is no reason to get pissed at the person answering your question.
11. You can’t go much wrong if you follow the philosophy of Dory (“Just keep swimming!”) or Scarlet O’Hara (“I can’t think about that today; if I do I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow).
    1. Relatedly, responding is much better than reacting.
12. Watching a couple, who have loved each other for some time, move together cooking/prepping in the kitchen, is better and more emotionally poignant than any ballet. You will see tiny intimacies of gob-smacking beauty, like a gentle hand on a back in passing or a soft smile.
13. We, as a society, have lost much of the concept of intimacy: we post every moment of every encounter, usually in photos or video, as if not having it witnessed by others voids a moment’s existence. Keeping the important stuff between the participants is so very much better: you’ll always have something no one else does.
14. No one outside knows what really happens between two people in a relationship so when someone gives you relationship advice, remember they are working from an incomplete data set; large grains of salt required.
    1. At the same time, outside perspective can be helpful.
15. Don’t ever do X or Y only because someone else wants you to, even if that someone is a parent or lover; you have to want to do whatever it is for your own reasons or it’s going to go to shit.
16. Never buy jeans in a smaller size in the hopes you’ll get there; they’re just a depressing reminder in your closet and, if you do get to that size, by that time the style will have changed.
17. Get off your ass, as often as possible, preferably to the point of heavy sweating. You’ll never regret moving your body.
    1. Prioritize flexibility and strength, especially as you get older; I’m over 60 and can still put my feet behind my head (my body just makes more noise when I do).
18. Learn the difference between muscle soreness and pain; you can work through the first but the second is a sign to rest/heal and not knowing the difference will send you to the doc/hospital.
    1. Always keep a bag of frozen peas in your freezer; they are the best for icing any part of you that hurts.
19. Regardless of the person’s professional reputation, if you don’t like the new hairstylist’s/barber’s personal style, do not let them touch your hair. Ever.
20. If you wear makeup, less is always more.
21. I cannot overstate the value of a great massage or regular facials.
22. There are very few truly mean people out there but those who are should be avoided at all costs, even if they’re related to you (maybe especially so, actually).
23. If your girl/boyfriend/partner says you have to pick your friends or them, pick your friends; that lover is an insecure control freak who will make your life miserable but your friends are just weirdos who know you and love you anyway.
24. Backhanded compliments are insults; don’t kid yourself.
25. What you feel is real but is not reality; your feelings are caused by your perception of reality. Others perceive differently. The objective truth is impossible to know but it’s probably somewhere between your perception and theirs.
26. Being right is usually not the win you think it is.
27. The thing you think is your biggest flaw may be exactly the thing that makes you the most attractive.
28. Yes, who you are really is all about what you do, not what you say. Put up or shut up.
    1. Even when it’s hard or scary.
    2. Especially if you are privileged and can help others who are less so.
29. Do whatever it is you need to now (therapy, meditation, etc.) so that when you look back 20 years from now you won’t think, “Why didn’t I know I was beautiful?” You are. Now. Let yourself believe it.
30. It’s okay if others (including partners) don’t share your opinions on some topics; you can have respectful disagreement.
31. That thing you’ve always wanted to do? Do it. I don’t care if it’s getting a PhD or fucking a porn star; figure out a way and make it happen. I went to law school over 40 and it cost me 3 years of my life and all my savings (and then some)–totally worth everything.
    1. See also getting my motorcycling license (and moto!) in my late 50s.
32. Send handwritten thank you notes. And letters. They become keepsakes.
33. Let go of watching/reading the news so much. Less of that dark shit is a very effective and much cheaper form of therapy.
34. Hold your rules loosely but your morals/ethics tightly.
35. Take the time to say Thank you, often, to people you love and strangers.
    1. And if you can afford it, tip heavily.
36. Fail. As my father used to say, if you don’t fall down (a skiing reference) then you aren’t trying hard enough.
    1. There is nothing shameful about trying your best and failing.
37. That thing/music/food/whatever you hated when you were 20, you may love when you’re 40 or 60 or whatever; so try it again every so often.
    1. Unless it gives you a rash and makes you puke, then you’re allergic (trust me on that… oysters, damn).
38. That person you think is so cool and perfect? They have what is (for them) a terrible secret they don’t want anyone to know. We’re all human and all flawed and all insecure to some extent.
39. Eat good food and spend the extra money for it; better to ditch some subscription/app and eat well than to have, say, Netflix but eat crap.
40. There is little better than sharing a meal with people you love; without devices.
41. Turn off your phone/computer/tablet much more often; the world won’t end.
42. If you try to change your romantic partner (“quit smoking” or “get a better job” etc.), you don’t love that person, only the idea of that person as this potential other person. Either accept the person as-is or find someone who is that other person. Otherwise lies madness.
    1. And if your partner tries to change you, in the words of Monty Python, run away.
43. Karen (Isak) Dinesen was right: salt water (tears, sweat, the sea) cures everything. In my opinion, especially the sea.
44. There are two kinds of people in this world: those who find something to complain about in everything and those who find something good in everything. Strive to be the latter; the former are exhausting to be around or to be.
45. Sometimes it’s okay to be just like everyone else, normal, average; as long as it is really you, it is per se exceptional.
46. Try new things as often as possible, whether that’s food, restaurants, music, exercise, books… doesn’t matter; and, it’s okay if you don’t like it, but you’ll never know unless you try.
47. Keep a journal, by hand; print your favorite photographs, even if you only chuck those prints in a box. You’ll appreciate finding them later.
48. Get out into nature whenever possible, even if it’s just a walk around the block.
49. Meditation is never wasted time. Even the worst sit is better than not sitting.
50. Jealousy is a useless emotion; if someone is going to betray your trust, there is nothing you can do to prevent it and the betrayer is the asshat, not you. I’d rather be a sucker who trusted than be not trusting, but I totally admit that isn’t always easy.
51. It’s (probably) not love at first sight, it’s love bombing; secure love/attachment is a much slower process than the media makes us think it is.
    1. Especially if you have past trauma—it may feel boring, but really it’s safe and you just might not recognize that.
52. Forgive people who hurt you. However, don’t always let them back into your life. Forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting the lesson.
53. Hurt people hurt people is true; but you have a responsibility to yourself not to be anyone’s punching bag (emotionally or physically).
    1. It’s their job to heal, not yours to fix them; if they won’t do the work, move on.
54. If you can’t win an argument without making your partner lose, you have work to do.
55. Trying to fix someone’s problem is often the wrong thing to do; letting someone live with the consequences of their behavior is hard. This is true for parents as much as it is for partners. We learn from our mistakes, but it’s hard to watch someone you love struggle to get there.
56. Stuff is just stuff. You can live with a lot less of it than you think and not only be happy, you may very well be happier.
57. Being alone is often wonderful and not lonely. Solitude is not loneliness.
58. Read more books. Actual books, in print. It’s not wasted time.
59. Indulge in some decent pens. You don’t have to spend hundreds: a $25 fountain pen will feel amazing when you’ve used disposables most of your life.
60. Give your love freely; don’t ask for anything in return, including being loved back. You’ll always get more by giving it away.

Not long after the Ex and I moved into the house, almost 6 years ago, we bought a ridiculously expensive mattress. It wasn’t exactly the one I wanted, but compromise is required in life and he liked a softer mattress than I do. I think he wanted an even softer one and likely compromised as well. I don’t know for sure. Whatever, my body was never really thrilled with it. Lately, it seemed to be getting worse and worse.

Now, I’m 60 pushing 61, so some of this may just be my old body. I mean, as you get older, things generally hurt more. But I’m very active and flexible and the discomfort seems excessive, even with the age. And I can take discomfort; the lack of sleep, though, not so much.

I knew years ago that my body didn’t like the mattress, but mostly I thought that was about my body, not the mattress. For example, I could not sleep on it leading up to and just after I had my gnarly butt surgery¹². I had to sleep on the sofa–the bed hurt way too much. But after I healed up I was able to move back onto the bed.

The mattress seemed to have it out for me; there was something about trying to get the fitted sheet on it that was always extra. The mattress was heavy and deep–trying to pick up the corner was way more difficult than it should have been. I could never change the sheets, even with the Ex helping, without frustration and usually swearing. Sometimes broken nails, even. It was like the damn thing hated me.

When the Ex’ trauma made his sleep/bedroom needs more complicated³, I moved into the other bedroom in an attempt to help things–first on a sofa in there and then we bought a daybed to replace the sofa. I slept much better on those than I had on our bed. I thought much of that was the emotional stuff⁴ but, in hindsight, maybe not as much as I thought.

When he moved out and left the bed and its mattress, ironically complaining about the mattress near the end, too, I moved back into the bedroom. I cleaned everything and saged the room, the latter just to be on the safe side. I bought new sheets. I moved things on the shelves and made it more like me. And I tried to sleep on the now-my-side of the bed.

It was definitely wonky. What had been his side⁵ had become more compressed and definitely sloped⁶. I tried spinning the mattress 180º which was better, but still not great. Then I did a temporary fix with a plywood board from the garage/studio that fit perfectly. That did help for a while, but it wasn’t long before I recognized that I was doing that thing where I have to essentially lift my body up entirely with my arms, as if I am trying to levitate, just in order to roll over. No bueno.

So, eight months later, I finally bit the bullet last weekend and purchased a new mattress. A cheap(ish) Ikea one…and firm. In fact, I read several posts from people who said it was too hard, which encouraged the purchase. As I can sleep on a hardwood floor (and like it), it seemed like a good option. To be safe, I went to the store and tried it out, and others…it felt great. I placed the order and awaited the delivery.

It arrived yesterday, late afternoon, “vacuum” packed into a plastic wrap tube. The delivery guy kindly brought it into the living room for me and it stayed there overnight. It was too late to do the hard work of moving the old mattress off the platform bed and into the other bedroom⁷; plus the new mattress needed time to expand once on the bed. So there it sat.

Ikea brilliantly put two thick velcro straps on the tube, with handles, so I could pick up the 58+ pound thing pretty easily and move it from there into the dining room temporarily (it was blocking my morning yoga spot where it was). And later move it onto the bed.

After my morning exercise and first espresso today, it was time to do the swap. First, I had to move the old mattress. The bedroom is small so there isn’t a ton of room to maneuver but I got the thing up and on its side, at the foot of the bed. Then I had to push/drag it down the very short hall and into the other bedroom. A bit of a trick without knocking all the art off the walls.

It weighs a lot more than the new one (it’s over 80 pounds) but, as long as I was on the hardwood floors, I could slide it easily. Whenever I hit a rug, though, some lifting was required. Still, I managed to get it all the way and lean it against the daybed in the other room, without a serious problem. I’m very glad I’ve been doing strength work in my workouts. I suspect I’ll feel it tomorrow, still.

After, I went back into the bedroom and looked at the bed, sans mattress. It is a platform with slats only in the center (you can kind of see that from the discoloration on the underside of the old mattress in the photo above) and drawers covered by solid wood on both sides. In the open space under the slats was a ton of dog fur. And between the head of the bed and the wall? Even more. I was shocked because I had cleaned after Ex left and found a ton of hair then! These spaces, though, they were unreachable with a mattress on the bed. So, I got the vacuum out, and a microfiber cloth, and a long-handled duster, and started cleaning.

Then, I carried in the new mattress, put it on the now very clean bed, and gingerly sliced open the plastic to release the roll. It flopped open and looked tiny. Thin, I mean. Of course, this was partially because it was so flat from its packing, but even when expanded it will be much thinner than the old one. At first, though, it looked really sad.

Anyway, since I had to lower them to match the new bed height, I gave the wall-mounted “tables” on either side of the bed and the basket/drawers under them a good cleaning, too. They weren’t so bad (they do get cleaned regularly). I lowered them, a lot, put the lamps and everything back on them, and then I left the bed unmade to off-gas and get flatter… and fatter.

This afternoon, it looked much better–still thinner than the old one of course, but not teeny like it had been. So, I made the bed. It was… easy! I whipped on that fitted sheet like it was nothing. Wow. And, when the bed was made I stepped back and looked. With everything lower, the room looks much larger. Much. It feels airier. Lighter. Less burdened somehow. I’d post a photo but it just doesn’t show in 2D.

I’m hopeful. I’ve lain on the bed a couple of times and it feels better. I’m looking forward to sleeping on it tonight. Honestly, that’s a big change: I’ve been kind of dreading going to bed the past couple of weeks. We’ll see what Ruthie thinks, too, especially as the lower height should make her 4:30a pawing at the window blind more difficult. Hopefully.

I had considered swapping bedrooms entirely with this change, a clean break if you will, but I don’t think I will. The rooms are the same size but the orientation is 90º different and, with an additional door, fitting things in the other bedroom would probably look and feel more closed in. Perhaps the change of the mattress will do the trick of not only of reducing my physical discomfort, please oh please, but of making the room more me.

________________________________

1. I had a nasty fistula with complications and had to have pretty extensive butt surgery. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone but a nazi. Luckily, my doc was great and I’m fine now. ↩︎
2. That is, I couldn’t sleep on it before the surgery or after the operative pain meds (i.e., fentanyl) wore off. When I got home post-op, I crashed hard on the bed and could not feel anything for a while. I was not so much sleeping as unconscious. I have no idea why anyone would ever want to use fentanyl recreationally; it was scary. Anyway, once I woke up and the effects faded, I had to decamp to the sofa. ↩︎
3. Our needs didn’t match up well then, e.g., I go to bed early and need quiet and darkness, he needed to stay up late, have the curtains open, and use his devices. ↩︎
4. Without going into detail, watching someone you love suffer the effects of profound trauma is horrible; trying to sleep next to someone with those issues is difficult. ↩︎
5. He slept on the same side of the bed as I did, pre-relationship, so I let him keep it when we got together–once he was gone, I moved back over. ↩︎
6. I think the Ex spent a lot of time sitting on the side of the bed, legs over the side I mean, which wore it down. I would see him in that position often, as I passed the room. ↩︎
7. Just in case the new mattress sucks and needs to be returned, I’m keeping the old one for a bit. ↩︎

Being single again means, if I choose, dating again. I’m about a 9.5 out of 10 on the hetero scale¹ so that means dating men. At first I was loathe to get back out there because I was just too wounded by the breakup of my last relationship. But, as I’m healing, I’ve started dipping my toe into the online/app dating world. Unfortunately, I have come to recognize that my chances of finding an equal partner, at least on those tools, are virtually nil. The patriarchy is strong out there.

Dating has always been difficult for me…well, when I am fully me that is. It’s not that I’m repulsive or anything. I’m actually relatively attractive physically, even as I age. No, the “problem” is that I’m really smart, very (very) educated, and self-sufficient. That is an unwanted combo. Men feel threatened; I have been told that I am “intimidating.” My most recent ex, who was arguably the least misogynistic of all the men I have ever been in a relationship with, said more than once things like that he resented me fixing stuff myself (note: I really enjoy fixing things), like somehow that hurt him. Me being me just seems to be a problem for, well, them.

I have, thus, far too often softened myself and made other trade-offs. These start innocently enough, trying to be nice or less threatening at least. But really I was just playing the patriarchy’s game: don’t make the man feel anything that might be threatening to his manhood. I bought into the idea that it was me–I was the problem.

In the words of Monty Python: I got better.

And now, hope springs eternal, as they say, and so I have put myself out there on a couple of the apps. But I have done so with intention and clearly stating that I am a feminist. If I get into anything again it will be as me, not the patriarchy-friendly version.

Many men on these apps check the box for a “deep, meaningful, longterm relationship” but the way they present themselves, well, it doesn’t match up. They seem mostly to be interested in finding a world travel companion and/or someone who does the same physical activity things they do like ski, golf, or (gods forbid) play pickleball. The profiles are shockingly full of [fill in the sport] photos, or, worse their cars or (yikes) grandkids². The words are often sparse, vague, and shockingly often misspelled.

Some at least have the honesty to say they want someone to take care of them. These are men over 60 and they are still looking for a mommy. They need therapy, not a partner, and at least it’s damn easy to hit block on those. A few others say they want to take care of their partner which sounds okay, until you get to the possessive pronoun in their statement (i.e., “I take care of my woman”)³. Sigh…no thanks. And there are always just one or two who, frankly, I respect the most because they say that are not looking for anything serious and just want to hookup. Thanks for the honesty, my dudes.

What I don’t see in virtually everyone is evidence of much inner work. These guys aren’t talking about what touches them, what they really yearn for, what they are afraid of, what they offer emotionally. At best, some men use probably AI-generated text and throw out generically attractive terms like “values vulnerability” or “is emotionally intelligent.” Sadly, almost always, there will then be something that completely belies even that, like a picture of the man looking lecherous with bodacious (younger!) women or flashing bogus gang signs next to his Corvette. Again, they are over 60 and doing that shit. Peter Pan is on Viagra.

I will say that, so far, I have never seen a man display any form of the word patriarchy in his profile, like “I believe in dismantling the patriarchy,” but I’m sure it’s coming and it will almost as surely be disingenuous. Like the men who write that they “have learned from experience” don’t seem to mean “about myself and what I needed to work on” so much as “what I want in you and if you don’t match my imaginary list perfectly I’m out.” Or the politically conservative Buddhists (I’ve seen at least 2 of those and all I can think is how the fuck is that even possible?).

The hypocrisy on these apps is often off the scales: men demand a woman be in great shape while they can’t see their penis except in a mirror; they plea for “no baggage!” as if they haven’t ever had shit in their own lives; or they insist you bring “no drama” because, you know, it’s only okay for them to ever show anger.

Sigh.

Obviously, it’s been a struggle for me to even match up with anyone. While I’m not looking for perfect, of course, I know myself well enough to know that I have to be careful not to over compromise. When there aren’t a lot of fish in the sea, that’s an extra danger. Still, I have matched with a few and even had a couple of meet-dates. But that’s it. Nothing worth putting on makeup a second time.

It’s not that I didn’t get the feeling of fireworks or butterflies so I said “no” to a real date. Nope. What happened was that I felt like these men had no actual interest in who I was or what I thought. At these meetings they would talk, often quite a lot, but about themselves. It was quite rare for me to get a question about me⁴. I can’t tell you how many times, with all of these men, I offered a question that could easily have turned into an exchange of info (“What’s your favorite….?”) yet the follow-up (“And what’s yours?”) never came. I even had one man respond to almost all my direct questions with some form of “Guess!” like I’d ask “Where did you go to college?” and he’d say “You tell me…” with a smile as if he thought it fun or, worse, charming. Ugh. Awful.

I would love to find someone who wants to just be with me. Someone who will be himself and accept me for me; that is, someone who will love me for who I am, not what I do and, especially, not what I do for him. Someone who can be still with me; and breathe.

But I’m in no rush. I am most definitely not desperate, even with few fish in the sea.

Somehow, not being desperate seems to be another negative. Men, it seems, want women to be needy (but not too needy). They don’t recognize that is just another way of making the woman less than. If you think your partner must need you, then it’s not a partnership, it’s a control thing.

As a feminist in the hetero dating world, that is the biggest red flag of all.

______________________________

1. Sadly true, and I do mean sadly. I would love to be sexually attracted to humans other than men, but it just isn’t there. I personally see this as anecdotal evidence that sexuality is not a choice. ↩︎
2. Why anyone would put their grandchildren’s photos in a dating app, I have no idea. Of course I know many/most will be parents and probably grandparents, but why expose your progeny like that? I’m certainly never going to choose to reach out to a man because he has a photo of him hugging a kid–if anything, it gives me the ick. ↩︎
3. These same men also usually have the word “chivalrous” somewhere in their profile and are openly Christian. Yikes. ↩︎
4. Usually, when I did get some comment about me it wasn’t a question but was something like “I see you painted your toenails.” I have shown grace in not responding “Yeah, I paint my toenails for me; don’t get excited there, Sparky.” ↩︎