Playing With Matches

What started as a means of chronicling the online dating experiences of two picky yet adventurous almost thirty somethings has turned into a chronicle of all that is, was and has made up their collective dating histories. Our two original daters are now joined by several other fun, breezy, sassy gals, and Playing With Matches is now a missive on dating misadventures, a cacophony of ups and downs, turmoil and bliss. With a bit of snark mixed in here and there.

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Let me tell you 'bout the birds and the bees.

Seventeen years too late, I finally had "the talk" with my mom.

So we're spending Sunday afternoon together when all of a sudden (okay, not so suddenly) the topic turns to s-e-x. Let me tell you: the topic has never ever ever turned to this before. I was the girl, in fifth grade, whose parents wouldn't sign the permission slip for Human Growth and Development (ie sex ed) because I was too young (but, oddly enough, signed that of my brother when he was in fifth grade, even though he was a year young for his grade...but that's neither here or there).

Apparently, my mother thinks her little Reluctant Dater is not as...shall we say reluctant as she actually is. While she definitely never thought I was a promiscuous girl, she surely had me pegged as someone with more experience than I actually have. Amusing yet equally disturbing.

My mother was not raised in this country and married at a very young age. Thus, I always assumed that her views on sex related topics would be pretty conservative and old school (lbh, I was probably just always too embarrassed to just ask her), that her "cool" nature was just a show, that when it came down to it, "morality" and "the right thing" would always rule over hormones and desires. I could not have been more mistaken.

It is very unnerving to discuss things of this nature, so frankly, with your mother when it's never been a topic of conversation before. I learned a lot about her views on all things premarital sex, her opinion on the choices available if an "accident" occurs, how she feels about cohabitation before marriage and her overall take on my love/like life.

If you know me, you know I am hard pressed to discuss things of this nature, even with the closest of my friends; if I do, it is often prodded out of me (you lucky few who get to hear about it without forcing it should feel honored). So, you can imagine what the vibe in the car was on Sunday afternoon. Ultimately, it was interesting to go through my dating history and hear what she had to say about my various past suitors, as well as her opinion on my current beau (which, btw, is going very well. Like with a capital V).

What was most interesting, though, was how really easy it was to talk to her about all of this. I think I may have found myself a new non-professional therapist (to add to my growing legion, not to replace any or all). Non-judgmental and quite progressive, I know she will tell it like it is.

And, as usual, she will probably be right.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Third time's a charm? Or three strikes, you're out?

The sucky thing about writing blogs about your dating life is that, unless you suspiciously delete them, your dilemmas and triumphs remain for the world to see for all of posterity.

Had I not written volumes about my relationship with RCB (from its re-inception to its demise), what I’m about to tell you would seem great. But, I did. I opened my mouth (or, alternatively, let my fingers dance across my keyboard for extended periods of time) and you know the good, the bad and the ugly of our coupling.

What you do not know, and what I have been—in an uncharacteristic manner—keeping from you is that we never stopped talking after I sent the “let’s trade belongings” email. At first, it started out slow; we were both hurt and confused and afraid of what we might say or do. Soon, the conversations began coming every day and lasting longer and longer; as one who frequently complained, previously, of the lack of communication, this was obviously unprecedented.

Last week, we saw each other. It was after that when I realized that “this,” whatever it was, was not going to work. We could not be friends. Our chemistry, palpable since the second we met, was still there. How could we possibly be expected to sit next to each other and just watch a movie? Or sit across from each other at dinner and not be thinking about dessert? We couldn’t. Realizing this, I set out to tell RCB that we had to end whatever it was we had. I was going to dump him this time.

Like most things in my life (and, a good thing for you), the conversation did not end up as I expected; what I expected was a five minute conversation that would not end with either party being happy but, rather, one that would leave us feeling a little more sad and lost and confused than we had been. What I got was a three hour conversation where every issue of distrust, insecurity, anxiety, desire, and expectation was discussed.

No, I can’t forget the things he said to me. He knows this. I can forgive him, based on recent conversations and explanations, but I will never forget. I will not forget what got us to that point in December, when he felt it was appropriate to end what he is now calling the greatest relationship of his life. But I will also not forget, as we forge ahead with this reborn relationship, the feeling of putting it all out there and of being honest and mutually optimistic.

Oh yeah, you read that right. We are trying this again. The difference, this time, is we both actually and really know the other’s intentions. He knows that our common fear of failure and getting hurt is no reason not to try this, for real. If it doesn’t work out, it’s okay. As long as we tried our hardest and gave it our all, neither one of us could ask for more.

I do not need to be reminded of the events of the last time we were together; the blogosphere does a good enough job doing that for me. The “I told you sos” need not be ready at the helm, for I have a better feeling about this now than I ever did before. I have to trust in myself and in RCB and in what we can make of this. And so, too, friends, do you. I realize this might be the biggest mistake of my life; but it could also be the greatest decision I ever made. That, of course, is left to be determined.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Lesson Learned From an Unexpected Source -- Reality T.V.

This weekend I hapened upon a marathon of an old reality show -- My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancee. For those of you who somehow missed this show the first time around, allow me to provide a bit of an overview. The concept is relatively simple. Pretty girl (hereinafter "Bride") and Obnoxious Guy (hereinafter "Groom") attempt to convince their respective families that they (1) met on a reality dating show (2) fell in love (3) got engaged and (4) are getting married three days after announcing their engagement. The couple is horribly mismatched, thus adding to the humor of the show. If the couple successfully convinces their families that they are getting married, they each win $500,000. But, there's also a delicious bit of dramatic irony. You see, what Bride doesn't know is that Groom is actually an actor (as are his insane family members).

Bride's family is comprised of dad, mom, two brothers, and a sister. They are an extremely close and supportive family. All family members are disturbed by Bride's choice of husband. And, they voice these concerns. But, in the end, they attend the "wedding" and support her because they love her unconditionally. The show, which initially seems to focus on Groom's poor manners and inability to control his bodily functions, actually ends on a touching note.

The first time this show was televised a few years ago, I was still married to Dr. Evil. We watched it together. And, I recall being quite shocked to discover that my parents were also watching the show. Emily Post and my dad are not big reality t.v. fans, but they enjoyed this particular feature.

As I watched the series again this weekend, I suddenly was struck by the irony of my parents watching the show. You see, dear readers, my parents were not huge fans of Dr. Evil, even before the extent of his evil nature became apparent to all. Call it a sixth sense, say "father knows best" -- but they truly didn't like him. Their dislike, BTW, wasn't without reason. And, they expressed their concerns prior to the big day. But, in the end, they were there. Emily Post planned a truly beautiful wedding and dad gave his little girl away to a less than worthy recipient. They stood by me, even though they knew I was likely to get hurt. A few years later, when I called them up and told them I needed to come home, they allowed me to do so with open arms. And, when I finally decided that it was over, they supported me, and gave me hugs...they cried with me and for me. They helped me put the pieces back together. That my friends, is love.

I've spent my adult life looking for that magical love -- that storybook fantasy. I've searched for that person who completes me. Through all the ups and downs of my search, sometimes I forget that I already am tremendously blessed to have friends and family around me who love me so completely. And so, to build on one of RD's recent posts, I would like to say thank you -- to Emily Post and dad, to all the friends who listen to the tears and give advice and who are always there for me. At the end of the day, no matter what the future may hold, I am an extremely lucky girl.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Not sure what to think about this...

Remember Jen Schefft? The girl who won the heart of Andrew Firestone on The Bachelor four years ago and who, nine months later, called off the engagement to the gazillionaire tire heir and winemaker? The one who declined the proposal of hottie (yet undeniably vapid) Jerry on her own show (the first season of The Bachelorette)? Yeah, I thought so.

Per my reliable sources at Us Weekly (and verified by quick research jaunts to amazon.com and her publisher's website), Jen has written a book about dating and being single (and okay with it). She's stretched her fifteen minutes of fame a few seconds longer and, next week, Better Single Than Sorry: A No Regrets Guide to Loving Yourself and Never Settling will be published by Harper Collins.

As a [former] self-help afficionado, this book is right up my alley, especially considering recent developments (or the lack thereof) in my own life. If Jen can pass up a millionaire and a hot actor, if she can live through another former flame falling in love with and ultimately proposing to Guiliana DePandi (ew), then I can totally move on and live my own life to the fullest.

To order or not to order? That is the question. Maybe, in the meantime, I'll just dredge up my copy of He's Just Not That Into You. It's been a while, and its lessons obviously are in need of being refreshed.

Friday, January 19, 2007

I am an attention whore.

I never really knew this about myself. In fact, if you were to ask me, I’d say I hated attention; the thought of people looking at me, perceiving me, judging me…my fear of such unadulterated focus on me was probably even the catalyst of my mid-20s career change.

But, in the world of relationships, in the arena we call “dating,” I like attention. I like talking and staring into someone’s eyes. I like holding hands and forehead kisses. I like talking about my day and telling secrets. I like the feeling of clicking and palpable chemistry. But is attention and the need for it reason enough to remain in a toxic relationship?

Granted, much of the attention I enjoy is based purely on physicalities. I’ve come to find, however, that it is this physical attention (and the prospect of it) that makes me do and say stupid things in order to attain it. I have been in situations where I can now recognize that the attention paid to what I was saying was simply a means to an end—feigned interest in the subject matter so that the end result would be amenable to both parties. I am astute enough to realize that these situations are not relationships in the least. They’re simply a conduit to physical affection. I am not always wise enough, though, to stop myself from getting into—or, sadly, returning to—situations where this is the case.

I’ve continued—and gone back to—many a relationship because I knew that, once I returned, I’d get that attention (lbh, when you’re lonely and becoming cynical, any attention is good). Most of the time, this was not a good idea, and the fleeting moments of fun, excitement and bliss would soon (ie once I was alone again) be overpowered by the anxiousness, neuroticism and renewed (albeit wrongly) hope that has come to define my relationship history.

My dating life has been what it is because I have made it so. The decisions I have made and, alternatively, not made, have put me where I am today. Whether this is where I need to be or not is left to be determined. I take responsibility for the choices in my past and those that I continue to make. But I recognize, at the same time, that these choices—whether good, bad or impartial—have made me who I am. They have made me the person with whom the next lucky man will fall in love. My quirks and faults, my assets and my appeal are all results of the attention I received (forced?) from others before him.

A friend of mine recently told me that in order to be happy, you need to be one with the universe. Now, if you know me you will know that I am the farthest thing from a new age, psychobabble follower there is. But what she said kind of stuck with me. She continued by saying that you can tell the universe that you want to be in a happy and committed relationship but, if you’re putting your energy elsewhere (ie sticking around in bad relationships or not being true to yourself) you’re going to give the universe conflicting messages and, thus, you are not going to ultimately get what you want.

Broken down into our language: if you want to meet the love of your life and continually keep going back to the guy(s) who broke your heart, you’re going to pass up something good. Because no matter how hard you try to convince yourself that you can hang out (or “hang out”) with these other men and still be open to the possibility of a new relationship, you’re fooling yourself.

I will not be a fool.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Bringing Blogging Back

I join the chorus of appreciation that RD is feeling better and profusely apologize for temporarily abandoning "Playing with Matches" in her absence. So, I am bringing blogging back, Justin Timberlake style.

Because this is my first post, allow me to introduce myself. I am a twenty something (ok, fine almost thirty) who has been married for four years, but with the same S.O. for almost ten years. Because I met my husband when I was 19 and have been off the dating scene for so long, I learn so much from my single friends about dating in the new millenium.

For example, many of my single friends have told me about the new phenomenon of men "trimming" their body hair - from their chest hair to their (uh, hem) pubic hair. This was fascinating to me - I am shocked that so many men take the time to coif their unmentionable body parts. Do they think it will be more attractive? Appear bigger? Is there any ettiquette out there on this? We women have the "bikini wax" option at the spa and SI swimsuit edition to let us know what is and isn't acceptable, but where did this male trend originate? Do they have "special clippers" for their nether-region? I have so many questions and a very clueless hubby on this topic.

Also, since 1997 (!!), online dating has become the norm and a whole lexicon and set of manners has developed around this trend. My 58 year old mother (who is single, but "going steady"with her "beau") explained "winking" to me. "You really should only wink at someone that you will accept a date with, because it's very poor form to wink at someone and then turn down a date." Ummm, really? Also, I hear that people can magically detect when you have been looking at their webpage even if you don't "wink" at them, so anonymous stalking on dating websites is impossible, as well as completely taboo.

Wow, I am so out of it.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Retail therapy?

Can't buy me love? Let's see...

My good friend NotCarrie and the other NotGirls at No Sex & the City are hosting a date auction. All proceeds go to a great cause, and some of this blog's favorite readers, commenters and friends are up for grabs. So gals, if you're looking for a date with a great guy with whom you can talk all things blog (and support a good cause along the way), this is the place for you to go! You can, obviously, talk about (and do!) other things, too. Ha.

Saturday, January 06, 2007

I've got a vision of love.

I see how it is. RD disappears for a while and Playing With Matches goes to crap. Girls, come on. Where are you? Where have you gone? Where is your commitment?

Seriously, though, I shouldn’t complain. You all are committed. You all are wonderful, caring individuals. And you all (and others like you) showed me, during my hiatus, just what love and friendship really are and mean.

This is not an open letter of friendship to my fellow bloggers but, rather, an exposition on a realization that I came to this week. My so called hiatus was not one that was anticipated or even planned. I found myself celebrating New Year’s Eve not with a beau or even with friends. No, friends, I spent my time welcoming in the new year in the operating room having emergency surgery. All is well, do not fret. Things were rough going for a while. But it was during that time, no matter how cheesy it sounds, that I realized what love and what commitment really are.

Love is a call to check in, to see how you are feeling. Love is a frantic phone call, worrying about your well-being. Love is dropping all plans and sitting in the waiting room, hoping and praying that you will get through this. Love is telling someone how much you scared them and asking them to never do that again. Love is text messages sent at all hours of the day, whether the last one went answered or not, just to tell you someone is thinking about you and sending good wishes your way. Love is bouquets of flowers and bouquets of cookies and bouquets of balloons. Love is sitting with you while you recover, even though you’re not saying anything and hospitals are gross places. Love is asking, over and over, what you can do for someone, even though you know the answer will be “nothing.” Love is DVDs and Sudoku books and stuffed animals (even though you are—ahem—almost 30). Love is taking care of business for you when such business is in need of being taken care of. Love is the sound of your voice on the phone when you find out bad news, and the subsequent relief that is audible when you realize everything is going to be okay. Love is giving up your own comforts so that those of others can be met. Love is undying commitment to the happiness and well being of someone other than yourself.

For a blog whose focus is, essentially, a chronicle of love and the search for it, I know this is not really a post you’d expect to see. This is not about romantic love. This is not about lust and infatuation. This is about the love that we should realize we already have in our lives, the love we don’t always appreciate and recognize even less. Perhaps it will make the search for “true love” less daunting and dubious. But maybe it will also help us all figure out that it is something that often evolves without us even realizing it, without being forced or prodded, without being overanalyzed.