Forcing the Fairy Tale

I grew up loving fairy tales. They were magical; they encouraged imagination and dreams.

I have a dream.

Actually I have several.
I dream about career success. I dream about being respected in my field. I dream about saving the world and doing work that matters.

I describe these dreams because I blog about silly, rather inconsequential subjects, and they are not the entire substance of my being. Disney needs a movie about a career-woman-princess because I have career dreams and I also have girly princess-like dreams.

I dream about the perfect first kiss. I dream about buying the perfect fixer-upper home with my husband and painting it together while I wear old cut-off jean shorts and soccer jerseys and listen to dance mix 95′. There would be a 2-person living-room-dance-train to “1,2,3 train with me”. I dream about my dad walking me down the aisle wearing a big, white, princess-y wedding dress with a train and looking deeply into somebody’s eyes while I swear to take care of him in sickness and in health. I dream about him swearing that to me with tears in our eyes. I dream about the moment somebody hands me our first child and I can turn to my partner and say “we made this tiny alien” to a man I love. I dream about traveling and road trips; I dream about laughing until we cry when we get horribly lost in a tiny hick town. I dream about holding each other and the quiet comfort of having my very own person.

I also dream about how I will meet him. I bump into him and drop a stack of my books (note to self: need to find a stack of books to carry around and an excuse to do so), which he helps me to pick up and re-stack. Our eyes meet across a crowded room. We reach for the same hold at the climbing gym. I forget my glass slipper at a ball. You get the idea.

Everybody wants to have that story; the one you tell your children and grandchildren about the magical way in which you met and your love blossomed. My parents, for instance were lab partners in chemistry. Seriously, how great is that?? Chemistry!

Despite my generally realist view of the world, I still find myself getting caught in the trap of, “you’ll just know”. If one more person tells me, “when you meet the right man, you’ll just know”, I’m going to rip my face off. But I want to believe it so badly. I want that magical meeting; I want love at first sight.

After my first date with Blue Eyes, I called my best friend and told her I was going to marry him. I realize in retrospect that it was mostly because I loved the idea of my maid of honour being able to get up and tell the story of how “SSM/Batman JUST KNEW after the first date”. There’s something reassuring in the idea of just knowing. But the world is so uncertain. Relationships overflow with shades of grey. The idea of love being concrete and easily identifiable is comforting, but absurd.

I have found myself trying very hard to craft story-worthy starts with each new man I date. It’s sort of exhausting. What if we meet on Tinder, or online dating, or through a friend’s introduction? What if it takes time to realize we love each other? What if there aren’t instant sparks? Do these things make for a lesser love?

Am I being dishonest if I gloss over not-so-nice details in favour of more romantic or story-worthy ones when describing someone to my friends and family? I sort of feel like I’m forcing the fairy tale.

I’m just not sure that pure infatuation which morphs to long-lasting love actually exists. For me, at least, as a person who generally thinks critically (read: is neurotic) about life, I don’t know if that unicorn-frolicking-in-the-meadow-type of innocent love is a real possibility.

With Stable PP, I told everyone “running into him twice when I haven’t seen him in years can’t be a coincidence”. But I don’t believe there’s a man sitting on a cloud orchestrating my life. So, in fact, it had to be exactly that – a coincidence. Even after Blue Eyes’ adorable courting effort and perfect first date, it took some time to figure out he wasn’t husband material. But I wanted so badly for those enchanting beginnings to lead to glorious love stories. If the bad ones look good, could the good ones look bad? Am I over thinking this?

I’m starting to feel that a FROZEN-like ending might be more appropriate for me…some sort of a modified fairy tale.

Though if a man on a white horse happens by, I can’t say I’d turn him away.

 

A Kanye West inspired toast to running away as fast as you can

People keep telling me that when you meet the perfect person, “you’ll just know”. I’m not sure I believe that, but the more I date, the more I am coming to realize the “just knowing” may apply even better if the person is “wrong”. It should not take 8 years of dating to figure out if you like each other enough to commit. I don’t even think it should take 6 months. If I think back on the relationships I’ve had, the nails in the metaphorical relationship coffins were poised in place, awaiting their hammer blows. They were clearly visible and evident early. Some of the nails were bouncing off of my face while I ignored the bleeding, tetanus-infested wounds they left.

Let me elaborate upon these men’s fatal flaws, some of which seemed small, but were indicators of much larger issues:

1) The first boyfriend – Ernest. Ernest didn’t like to read. That should have been enough for my heart to reject all forms of attachment to him. My heart, after all, and its conception of love and romance is due in many parts to literature. This was an early indication of a man who simply didn’t value intellectualism and education, which are core values for me.

2) Van was self deprecating. Really though he had poor self esteem. He was incredibly self-conscious of his body. He had a need for constant validation, which was tiring.

3) Geek’s “first priority” was his career and he “wasn’t willing to compromise”. He liked to tell this to me often. It usually felt like an implication that I would never be a priority to him. And I wouldn’t. I guess at least he was honest? Fuck that shit.

4) Yogi had a broken heart at the same time that I did. He was my foil. However, two combined broken hearts do not magically repair one another – you’re just left with a messy pile of heart fragments.

5) Stable PP believed in dietary supplements. And I don’t just mean taking vitamins – I mean taking things that had no research or science to back them. When questioned about these practices, he became defensive. Stable PP had an inability to see grey. He was a “my way or the highway” sort of guy. He made up his mind and wasn’t good at adjusting his opinions to accommodate for new facts.

6) Blue Eyes was an unnecessary asshole. He liked to yell at strangers. You pulled over in a no-parking zone to drop off your grandmother and this guy would have yelled at you. On one of our first dates, I was driving with him in the passenger seat and a cab cut me off. I live in a big city. Cabs do that. Whatever. When we came to a red light, he got very agitated and INSTRUCTED me to pull up next to the cab so that he could yell at him. This is the sort of thing you do when you feel out of control and you have no power in your life. What a waste of time – going out of your way to make other people feel crappy.

And yet I dated him for another 6 weeks before HE broke it off. What’s wrong with me?? Why was I willing to forgive blatant assholery? I don’t like assholes. I feel pretty sure about that…

These guys were all projects to me. I believed that I could fix them, whether it was by encouraging Ernest to read Harry Potter, telling Van he was handsome, supporting Geek’s career, fixing Yogi’s broken heart, teaching Stable PP to think more critically about his ridiculous opinions, or helping Blue Eyes to be nicer.

The unifying theme which I have discovered in the process of my blogging pontification is that I tend to find flaws endearing and think that I can somehow be the solution to those flaws. My mother used to say that as soon as she felt sorry for an employee, it was time to get rid of them:

“I’m not a social worker”, she would state.

I thought it was sort of harsh, but I think the same logic can be applied to relationships. Nobody should be in a relationship with the intention of fixing the other person or trying to make them “whole”. The goal is to find somebody who is also whole and bring 2 parts together for a magical synergy of awesomeness that is greater than the sum of its parts.

So why have I spent so much of my life with men who have clear flaws? When you want so badly to have a person of your very own, it’s hard to walk away. “maybe he’s just nervous”, “but he has so many other great qualities”, blah blah blah.

I want a man who isn’t a fixer-upper. I want a partner who has got it together. I’m learning to say “I don’t think you’re necessarily a bad person, I just don’t think you’re the right person for me”. And I need to do this because I can’t waste my time on repairing the old Jalopy when the newest Aston Martin is rolling by on the next block. I just tried to use an automotive analogy and I can’t quite do it without giggling.

My goal now is to make a decision within 2 months at most. If I’m not sure at 2 months, they’re getting voted off the island. Maybe by the end, I’ll be left with my Ethan.

Any moment now he’s going to glide in here on his Nimbus 2000 and sweep me off my feet.

 

Any moment now…

 

The First Kiss

I’ve had a number of first kisses in my life.

It began in the 7^th grade in Mike Reynold’s basement. Spin the bottle. Classic.

I had braces at the time, and consequently some serious anxiety about kissing anyone. I figured the metal would bite into flesh, leaving my victim’s face disfigured. But that didn’t stop me from disappearing into Mike’s parents’ storage room with Darren Whittle for 45 exhilarating seconds of messy salivary exchange.

I was willing to overlook the complete lack of romance to satisfy my 13-year-old curiosity, but mostly because kissing always looked great in the movies. The music would swell, the participants’ faces softly lit, and there would be a romantic one liner before a passionate embrace. A dramatic first kiss always precedes happily ever after. Jeez Hollywood – how many unrealistic expectations can you set for my life? Now I’m not so sure about happily ever after, but if I could choose between a great first kiss and a crappy one, I’ll go with great.

As with most things, a story about something that doesn’t go well is generally much better than when things go off without a hitch. So let’s start with a bad first kiss story:

I had gone on a couple of dates with this guy. He was sweet and we had a good time together. The day before we went on a third date, I had sushi with a friend. I was feeling a little ambivalent about him because the chemistry wasn’t really there, but told her I thought it was worth giving him a chance. My friend then taught me one of the “rules of dating after age 25”, that I will elaborate upon in a later post. She told me that if I didn’t kiss him by the third date, he was going to get confused and think I wasn’t really interested. The problem was, at this point, I didn’t realize that I wasn’t really interested.

So around came the third date. We went to a museum, had a romantic dinner (at a restaurant that, in retrospect, was far too fancy), went for an evening walk downtown amongst the twinkling lights of the surrounding buildings and ended up near his apartment.

“Let’s get my car and I’ll drive you home”, he said. As we pulled up in front of my place, I got nervous. “Ok – you can do this”, I thought. So when he stopped the car and took off his seatbelt I was a little relieved because I thought he was going to do the initiating. He leaned in towards me, and when he was 6 inches away, I closed my eyes and parted my lips for a magical first kiss.

I was shocked a moment later when his cheek collided with my open mouth. He had gone for the hug, you see. And in a moment reminiscent of my 13-year-old kiss with Darren Whittle, there was saliva where it shouldn’t be – notably on his face. I tried to play it off like I meant to kiss him on the cheek, rather ineffectually I think. We quickly and awkwardly said goodbye and I barely made it out of the car before collapsing in a heap of laughter. I called my friend, tears of laughter rolling down my cheeks, before I even made it into my apartment.

I think men also realize the criticality of that first kiss because he texted me not long afterwards to make plans. The tables had turned and he now seemed to be worrying that he had given the impression he wasn’t interested. This time he invited me to come over and watch a TV show we had spoken about both wanting to watch.

I immediately agreed, relieved that he still seemed to like me. First kiss: take 2.

So I arrived at his apartment. He made us tea, which got him some serious points, and we settled in on the couch. To this day I have no idea what happened during the two episodes we watched. I was too focused on putting out my best “kiss me on the couch” signals. At one point he tried to put his arm around the couch behind me, but ended up in an awkward contorted position. Our bodies just didn’t seem to fit together. I tried to make it simpler, by swinging my legs up onto the couch so we were essentially lying next to each other, but then he was wedged behind me and couldn’t see the TV show,.All this time, I was focusing on the “kiss me” eyes. He was not picking up what I was putting down.

After 2 full episodes of awkward, uncomfortable body contortions, I got frustrated and told him I needed to go home. I had to work in the morning and had already stayed up much later than I intended. I had my shoes and jacket on , had said goodbye and had my hand on the door before we both exasperatedly leaned in and kissed each other.

I realize it’s maybe a double standard, but I don’t like to do the kiss initiation. I’ll get to 90%, but I like the man to do the last 10%. Perhaps I’m more traditional than I thought, or really maybe I just want a man who wants me enough to put himself on the line a bit. I appreciate the gutsiness of it.

The sheer effort involved in obtaining this first kiss sapped it of all romance.

That relationship didn’t work out. I don’t think it was really the first kiss that did it, but it certainly didn’t help.

Luckily there was a better first kiss to come…but we’ll get there.

 

The Rebound

The rebound is a thing for a reason. After a serious relationship, no matter what you think, the next person you have a relationship with is going to be a rebound. You’re simply not capable of being a reasonable person after a huge breakup. I wasn’t at least.

The rebound is a distraction. It is something to think about other than being alone. And it works. I would highly recommend it to anyone. Find that guy who is the opposite of your Ex and spend all of your time with him. Be unreasonable. Invite him on vacation. Introduce him to your friends and family. Go nuts. Because being with someone who is wrong is a good reminder that being alone isn’t necessarily bad. It also helps you to refocus on what you actually want and need.

I’m not saying this maliciously. It was never my intention to hurt Stable PP’s feelings. In fact, I genuinely believed it wasn’t a rebound and that maybe it could work. But the first one is always a rebound. And a rebound is a good thing. It’s part of the healing process. Inevitably the pendulum swings back and you realize that really what you probably need is something in the middle of the Ex and the rebound. That’s what happened for me at least.

I felt mildly sociopathic when I broke things off with Stable PP because I was fine. I cried for a day, but then just went on with life as usual. I think this is how normal adult breakups are (maybe excluding those that involve marriage and kids). After it all went down, I felt as though a huge anvil had been lifted from my shoulders and the emotional back ache I had been feeling but dismissing for 3 months just vanished. I didn’t know how good it would feel until it was done.

And then, like a good WASP, I felt overpowered by guilt. Stable PP was a good guy. He was sweet and kind and genuinely liked me…though I have to say he left me with a bitter taste in my mouth when he compared me to a financial investment/asset acquisition. This was his rationale for saying he would wait around for me while I “figured things out”. He assigned a probability to the likelihood that I would “come around” and decide I wanted to stay with him. Romance at its best.

Breaking up with someone after 8 years, someone you have been with your entire adult life, someone you have been planning your future with, is not the same as breaking up with someone you’ve casually dated for 3 months. It’s not that I wasn’t sad about Stable PP being gone. I liked him. We had a lot of fun together. It’s just that this breakup was nothing compared to the crippling, wrenching pain of the breakup with Geek. Everything is relative.

I think it’s normal after a breakup to look for someone who is the polar opposite of the person you’ve been with. That’s sort of the point.

The best (that’s sarcastic) rebound after a breakup, however, isn’t your own; it’s that of your ex. It’s that moment when you find out he’s dating a girl (yes girl, not woman), who is 5 years younger, many shades blonder, and is a musician. I think I would have been hurt if it wasn’t so hilariously predictable. I was dedicated to my emotional health, so decided to be mature and stay away from her Facebook page and googling her. My friends, however, were not so mature. They really enjoyed the witch hunt, and I love them for it. Sometimes a little Mean Girls is exactly what you need.

But seeing pictures of them posted together (because, like an idiot, I didn’t delete him from my Facebook) began to gnaw at my heart. It started to raise all of these questions. He had been staying out late often before the breakup, coming home at 3am with no explanation of what he’d been doing. She had been posting on his Facebook wall since the breakup. Did he cheat on me? Is that where this all came from? A tsunami of betrayal with no necessary basis in fact is hard to contend with.

And just like that I was sad and alone, lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling with tears dripping sideways into my ears. It’s funny how it feels like a linear progression towards “better” until one day it’s just not. Luckily those days are the outliers, and this time I was not content to be discontent. And so like a good single, upper-middle class, urban woman whose life has been charmed, I got a therapist. Next chapter.