I came across this article the other day. David Zinczenko, Editor of Men’s Health magazine and published author in the ever confusing realm of the male psyche, wrote an article on the secret language of men. Oh, I couldn’t wait to read this piece thinking that Zinczenko was finally the one to break the code and provide me with a clear road map to the short circuit wiring in the male mind. Would he be the one to unearth the secrets women have tried to excavate for years?
Citing a study which confirmed what we already know: Women speak an average of 20,000 words a day and men speak an average of 7,000; women are obviously the more loquacious sex. But Zinczenko believes within those few words that men use is the key to understanding them fully. It’s about what they say and don’t say, a code more confusing than DaVinci’s.
But in my humble opinion –it’s either total fucking bullshit or blatantly obvious.
Guy Speak: So a guy says to another guy: “Check out the rack on that waitress. Her headlights are on full beam. Damn, I want a piece of that fine ass.”
According to Zinczenko’s translational guide, this comment isn’t as obnoxious or sexist as it seems. It boils down neatly to that while men love sex, they don’t enjoy talking about sex that they are having with their wife or significant other. They are respectful of the women who they cherish in their lives and do not want to disrespect her or blow her trust which was difficult to earn. So while men still need to go out and pound on their hairy chests Tarzan-style, letting off some testosterone filled steam – they respectfully leave their own love lives out of their barroom banter.
Excuse me? That ain’t going to fly here. So if in fact, I over hear my adoring fiancé (which he would never say) say to one of his work buddies, “That little Southern Dixie chick with the great ass who works in Accounts Payable is one sexy little slice of homegrown American apple pie,” I am suppose to laugh it off and see the comment as merely him exercising his male bravado? Not the case. I would be removing all testosterone producing materials. With a butter knife.
Guy Speak: Stats, Stats and more Stats
Ever been out with a bunch of guys and listen to them prattle on about some inane sports statistic. You know, when you are sitting at a big dinner table at some sleek sophisticated uptown café with crisp linen napkins and the men at the table try to dazzle and one-up each other with their knowledge of RBIs or what QB threw the most interceptions during games that were on Thursdays, in the rain, in cities whose geographical coordinates are all even numbers? All the women at the table try to talk over the high fives flying overhead. We look at our other female dining companions, shaking our heads in unified disgust. Zinczenko sees sports as a unifying factor, bridging the gap of differences economically, socially and culturally for all men.
Ok, fair enough…..and pretty obvious. Women do that too. We unite over our shared love of shoes and handbags which is pretty much an estrogen-based obsession. While we don’t drone on about which designer made the largest tote of the season, it’s a shared area of interest. Like sports for men. Shopping and fashion are our common thread. No mystery solved here.
As a woman, I am disappointed in the article – it’s pure frivolous fluff. I was hoping for some hallelujah moment where I raise my arms towards the heavens and a ray of white light envelops me. Far from it, more like acid rain.
“He’s Just Not that Into You,” was much more of an eye-opener than stating the fact that men like to use movie lines to convey emotions they might not be able to find their own words for. We still need someone to explain the real issues: Why do they say one thing and do another; Why do mature at a rate of coal turning into diamonds and Why do they refuse to communicate directly?
Women may speak more words than men, but all we really want is for them to do is listen. Women don’t need a long winded tirade of explanations or chit chat. We want you to hear us. So boys, be stingy with your words – that’s fine. Just be open with your ears ‘cause you really didn’t have us at hello.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Single Handed
I started pressing “delete delete” on the mass amount of junk emails that pile in my inbox daily like shovel-loads of snow on the side of the street. Purveyors of sites who would like to sell me penis enlargement pills or offer me memberships to ‘Young Teen Porn’ must have mistaken my email address for that of a fifteen year old boy or a depraved old man. Among the credit card offers, porn websites and sites that tout making as much as $10,000 a month from home in some Ponzi scheme, I stopped to open my horoscope. I had signed up for iVillage’s daily horoscope years ago. It’s not that I actually believe that cosmic forces are at play and life can be simply boiled down to the month and sign under which I was born, but I had nothing to lose by simply reading it each day. It was something I read when I was single. Hoping that perhaps because Jupiter was aligned with Mars, maybe, just maybe, that meant Mr. Right was one subway car away. Now, Mr. Right is one pillow away and my need for reading that daily drivel has been diminished. I unsubscribed to the service.
That got me thinking. What else have I stopped doing or started doing now that I am no longer single?
Being single meant going out late, and sleeping in. Something which has become a distant memory. In my post-single life, I cannot recall a morning where we have slept past 9am. It seems, having someone else in my bed (and a dog that needs to be walked) –my sleep patterns have changed. I go to sleep at an hour where normal programming rules the TV airwaves and not infomercials by some has-been TV soap star peddling make-up or spray on hair. I wake up during breakfast time and not lunch.
Gone are the days of ordering mountains of Chinese food. Sulking in my single skin on a lone Friday night, a heaping order of China Fun’s broccoli and chicken, vegetable lo-mein and a spring roll would ease the pain of surfing on Jdate to pass the time. But M hates the smell of Chinese food. “It stinks up the whole apartment,” he moaned the last time I treated myself to a plastic container filled with greasy chicken and emptied soy sauce packets. While Chinese food used to be my mainstay of eating, it has now given way to the healthier alternatives of delivery such as sushi or Energy Kitchen. I am banished to the terrace with my containers of chicken fried rice and Kung Pao beef – thus, much like white wine it has become a summer treat.
Surprisingly, living with M has made me neater. Living alone, I would toss days of worn clothing into a pile. Days would pass, then months, before I began digging through the pile to send out to the dry cleaner or to do the laundry. Chairs became extensions of my closet. Clean clothing hung from chair arms, dry cleaning remained in the plastic wrap on the back of my front door. Not the case anymore. Clothing is put away and the bed is made daily, something my mother wishes I learned as a kid.
I polled my other cohabitating friends. “We have a stocked fridge,” Shelby said. “Something that when I was single happened only when I ran out of Poland Spring water and I would order from Fresh Direct, but now, I keep a ton of food at home.” That one seemed to be prevalent among all that I asked. “I go to a lot less social functions….I’m not looking to meet anyone,” Lindsey said. “I shave everyday – even in the winter,” admitted another friend. “I put my makeup away instead of leaving it all over the bathroom counter. All the pencils rolling off into the sink - it drove him crazy.”
“You know, I spend a lot less time on the phone,” said one girl. “Really?” I said finding that answer a bit unusual. “Yea, I used to sit on the phone for hours with my girlfriends trying to figure guys out. Like, whoever I was dating at the time – I would try to understand why he did or didn’t do something. And of course, I needed a second opinion…and a third….and a fourth. So I basically called every single female confidant I had, told her the story and asked her opinion,” she added. “You know what. I need to go to Sprint and change my plan. I guess I really need less phone minutes now.”
That got me thinking. What else have I stopped doing or started doing now that I am no longer single?
Being single meant going out late, and sleeping in. Something which has become a distant memory. In my post-single life, I cannot recall a morning where we have slept past 9am. It seems, having someone else in my bed (and a dog that needs to be walked) –my sleep patterns have changed. I go to sleep at an hour where normal programming rules the TV airwaves and not infomercials by some has-been TV soap star peddling make-up or spray on hair. I wake up during breakfast time and not lunch.
Gone are the days of ordering mountains of Chinese food. Sulking in my single skin on a lone Friday night, a heaping order of China Fun’s broccoli and chicken, vegetable lo-mein and a spring roll would ease the pain of surfing on Jdate to pass the time. But M hates the smell of Chinese food. “It stinks up the whole apartment,” he moaned the last time I treated myself to a plastic container filled with greasy chicken and emptied soy sauce packets. While Chinese food used to be my mainstay of eating, it has now given way to the healthier alternatives of delivery such as sushi or Energy Kitchen. I am banished to the terrace with my containers of chicken fried rice and Kung Pao beef – thus, much like white wine it has become a summer treat.
Surprisingly, living with M has made me neater. Living alone, I would toss days of worn clothing into a pile. Days would pass, then months, before I began digging through the pile to send out to the dry cleaner or to do the laundry. Chairs became extensions of my closet. Clean clothing hung from chair arms, dry cleaning remained in the plastic wrap on the back of my front door. Not the case anymore. Clothing is put away and the bed is made daily, something my mother wishes I learned as a kid.
I polled my other cohabitating friends. “We have a stocked fridge,” Shelby said. “Something that when I was single happened only when I ran out of Poland Spring water and I would order from Fresh Direct, but now, I keep a ton of food at home.” That one seemed to be prevalent among all that I asked. “I go to a lot less social functions….I’m not looking to meet anyone,” Lindsey said. “I shave everyday – even in the winter,” admitted another friend. “I put my makeup away instead of leaving it all over the bathroom counter. All the pencils rolling off into the sink - it drove him crazy.”
“You know, I spend a lot less time on the phone,” said one girl. “Really?” I said finding that answer a bit unusual. “Yea, I used to sit on the phone for hours with my girlfriends trying to figure guys out. Like, whoever I was dating at the time – I would try to understand why he did or didn’t do something. And of course, I needed a second opinion…and a third….and a fourth. So I basically called every single female confidant I had, told her the story and asked her opinion,” she added. “You know what. I need to go to Sprint and change my plan. I guess I really need less phone minutes now.”
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
For Love Of/Or Money
It was a frigid night last Wednesday, but hot girls packed Bruno Jamais as the indoor temperature soared. The sexy Upper East Side restaurant/hideaway was overflowing with the rich and the beautiful – one independent of the other. Pocket Change, along with matchmaker Janis Spindel hosted “Natural Selection Speed Dating”. The event paired wealthy men with hot girls, making no excuses or apologies for the frank superficiality.
Beneath the oversized art work of lips on the wall, lips were flapping as the participants interviewed and got to know one another. Certain obvious jokes came to mind: It looked like Father’s Day dinner with older men and their daughters; the scene resembled an episode of Beauty and the Geek; this is the downfall of Western civilization. A large group on onlookers and media, who were not participating, stood by the bar unable to pull their eyes away from the scene. It was intoxicating, captivating – somewhat like a train wreck or Paris Hilton’s life, but undeniably mesmerizing. I tried not to let my preconceived opinions which I expressed earlier on this blog, come to mind. Is it possible to find true love amidst an honest yet completely superficial pretense? It’s a good question to try and answer this Valentine’s Day.
Gazing out from my perch, the room resembled an intimate restaurant. Tables of two nestled tightly together as champagne flowed like water and servers passed plates of Bruno Jamais’s exquisite Hors D’Oeuvres. Forty men and forty women spent two minutes talking one-on-one, before rotating to the next table. With pens in hand, participants scribbled notes on paper about the person sitting in front of them. It could have been a job interview except for the outfits of some of the female participants. Of course some women showed up in their strip club finest - a long slinky Lycra dress which could be removed simply by sliding it down one’s body. There were the low cut blouses with breasts heaving over the top. There were skirts so short that even Britney Spears would wear underwear.
On average most of the women appeared to be in their twenties or early thirties, but the men’s average age appeared to be closer to AARP age than ROTC recruiting age. There were the few lone men who appeared suave and sophisticated, handsome in a mature way with faces that showed years of success and confidence. There were a handful of trendy hipsters who were young and rich. These were the ones to which the women flocked, smiled at honestly, with a flip of their hair that was bathed with sexual innuendo. Then there were the others; that for no amount of money in the world could get date with one of these women. Glasses as thick as Coke bottles, teeth discolored and crooked with stomachs that hung extended over their Armani pants; these were the men who appeared to still live in their mother’s basements despite their $20 million in the bank.
A Paris Hilton look-alike (the one who appeared on the Simple Life) brushed passed me on her way to the next table stop. A few girls lingered at tables even after the buzzer sounded signaling a rotation immersed in what appeared to be a real conversation. I tried to spot sincerity – it is a look which is hard to identify if not nearly impossible. Back when I was dating, I searched for it in words, in glances, in underlying unspoken emotions that sometimes bubble to the surface after a glass or two of wine. Dating is 50% acting, 30% truth and 20% alcohol. Airs of pretense are exhausting and at an event like this, it is the pretense which people must live up to…it is the reason they are here.
“Over 1000 women sent in applications and over 400 men applied,” said Janis Spindel, the legendary matchmaker and one of the organizers for the event. Quite a large pool of interested participants had to be narrowed down. “We got all types who applied. We received a lot of tasteless pictures from some women. They were immediately weeded out. But for the others, we wanted to have a variety of looks. We chose some model types, girl next door, buxom beauties, natural beauties, skinny girls – we covered all areas of beauty.” Spindel prides herself as a matchmaker and not a dating service. “My clients are looking for their soul mates,” she added. For men it was more straight forward – just documented proof of their annual income, assets and their net worth could land them a spot at the event.
But is it truly possible to find your soul mate when one of your requirements is completely superficial? I asked the brainchild behind the event, Pocket Change’s creator “Richard Nouveau” (otherwise known as Jeremy Abelson). “It is a fact that wealthy men want a good looking woman and vice versa,” he said. “We are an equal opportunity website. We are also planning to host an event called Sugar Mammas and Boy Toys - where the women will have the money and the men will have the looks.” Fair enough. The river can run in both directions. Ivana Trump, Liz Taylor, Zsa Zsa – they all seemed to try this method of marriage.
Sure we all want nice things. We live in New York, we enjoy dining at the nicest restaurants; we enjoy the extravagance of pampering at the most luxurious spas; we love to look at beautiful works of art. Why should this not apply to dating? “It boils down to the basics,” said one participant who asked to remain anonymous. “Although people don’t openly admit it, women want a wealthy man and men like pretty arm candy.” And frankly, although I do find it distasteful, I do find it honest. But maybe I am greedy, because I wanted more. I guess that makes me more superficial that I throw looks into the pot at the end of the rainbow. While I wanted my mate to be successful, I was not willing to forgo looks – nor personality, nor sincerity, nor humor, nor attentiveness, nor the long list of other characteristics that I deemed mandatory. I wanted it all (and luckily I found the perfect package).
Despite feminist organizations sending hate mail to “Richard Nouveau” and the threats, taunts and ridicule from the public, the event seemed to be a success. “It’s like watching everyday life played out in front of the public,” said Bruno Jamais, the owner of the event venue and spectacular Upper East Side eatery as he watched the evening unfold. “This is what goes on at every upscale restaurant in the world. Beautiful women and successful men.” And when Bruno said it like that, it crystallized for me. You cannot discredit attraction. It’s just like Valentine’s Day – while you want something spectacular inside that box (diamonds?), you cannot help but love the shiny glitz wrapping paper on the outside. Just like the Tiffany’s blue box, it makes your heart beat a little bit faster.
Beneath the oversized art work of lips on the wall, lips were flapping as the participants interviewed and got to know one another. Certain obvious jokes came to mind: It looked like Father’s Day dinner with older men and their daughters; the scene resembled an episode of Beauty and the Geek; this is the downfall of Western civilization. A large group on onlookers and media, who were not participating, stood by the bar unable to pull their eyes away from the scene. It was intoxicating, captivating – somewhat like a train wreck or Paris Hilton’s life, but undeniably mesmerizing. I tried not to let my preconceived opinions which I expressed earlier on this blog, come to mind. Is it possible to find true love amidst an honest yet completely superficial pretense? It’s a good question to try and answer this Valentine’s Day.
Gazing out from my perch, the room resembled an intimate restaurant. Tables of two nestled tightly together as champagne flowed like water and servers passed plates of Bruno Jamais’s exquisite Hors D’Oeuvres. Forty men and forty women spent two minutes talking one-on-one, before rotating to the next table. With pens in hand, participants scribbled notes on paper about the person sitting in front of them. It could have been a job interview except for the outfits of some of the female participants. Of course some women showed up in their strip club finest - a long slinky Lycra dress which could be removed simply by sliding it down one’s body. There were the low cut blouses with breasts heaving over the top. There were skirts so short that even Britney Spears would wear underwear.
On average most of the women appeared to be in their twenties or early thirties, but the men’s average age appeared to be closer to AARP age than ROTC recruiting age. There were the few lone men who appeared suave and sophisticated, handsome in a mature way with faces that showed years of success and confidence. There were a handful of trendy hipsters who were young and rich. These were the ones to which the women flocked, smiled at honestly, with a flip of their hair that was bathed with sexual innuendo. Then there were the others; that for no amount of money in the world could get date with one of these women. Glasses as thick as Coke bottles, teeth discolored and crooked with stomachs that hung extended over their Armani pants; these were the men who appeared to still live in their mother’s basements despite their $20 million in the bank.
A Paris Hilton look-alike (the one who appeared on the Simple Life) brushed passed me on her way to the next table stop. A few girls lingered at tables even after the buzzer sounded signaling a rotation immersed in what appeared to be a real conversation. I tried to spot sincerity – it is a look which is hard to identify if not nearly impossible. Back when I was dating, I searched for it in words, in glances, in underlying unspoken emotions that sometimes bubble to the surface after a glass or two of wine. Dating is 50% acting, 30% truth and 20% alcohol. Airs of pretense are exhausting and at an event like this, it is the pretense which people must live up to…it is the reason they are here.
“Over 1000 women sent in applications and over 400 men applied,” said Janis Spindel, the legendary matchmaker and one of the organizers for the event. Quite a large pool of interested participants had to be narrowed down. “We got all types who applied. We received a lot of tasteless pictures from some women. They were immediately weeded out. But for the others, we wanted to have a variety of looks. We chose some model types, girl next door, buxom beauties, natural beauties, skinny girls – we covered all areas of beauty.” Spindel prides herself as a matchmaker and not a dating service. “My clients are looking for their soul mates,” she added. For men it was more straight forward – just documented proof of their annual income, assets and their net worth could land them a spot at the event.
But is it truly possible to find your soul mate when one of your requirements is completely superficial? I asked the brainchild behind the event, Pocket Change’s creator “Richard Nouveau” (otherwise known as Jeremy Abelson). “It is a fact that wealthy men want a good looking woman and vice versa,” he said. “We are an equal opportunity website. We are also planning to host an event called Sugar Mammas and Boy Toys - where the women will have the money and the men will have the looks.” Fair enough. The river can run in both directions. Ivana Trump, Liz Taylor, Zsa Zsa – they all seemed to try this method of marriage.
Sure we all want nice things. We live in New York, we enjoy dining at the nicest restaurants; we enjoy the extravagance of pampering at the most luxurious spas; we love to look at beautiful works of art. Why should this not apply to dating? “It boils down to the basics,” said one participant who asked to remain anonymous. “Although people don’t openly admit it, women want a wealthy man and men like pretty arm candy.” And frankly, although I do find it distasteful, I do find it honest. But maybe I am greedy, because I wanted more. I guess that makes me more superficial that I throw looks into the pot at the end of the rainbow. While I wanted my mate to be successful, I was not willing to forgo looks – nor personality, nor sincerity, nor humor, nor attentiveness, nor the long list of other characteristics that I deemed mandatory. I wanted it all (and luckily I found the perfect package).
Despite feminist organizations sending hate mail to “Richard Nouveau” and the threats, taunts and ridicule from the public, the event seemed to be a success. “It’s like watching everyday life played out in front of the public,” said Bruno Jamais, the owner of the event venue and spectacular Upper East Side eatery as he watched the evening unfold. “This is what goes on at every upscale restaurant in the world. Beautiful women and successful men.” And when Bruno said it like that, it crystallized for me. You cannot discredit attraction. It’s just like Valentine’s Day – while you want something spectacular inside that box (diamonds?), you cannot help but love the shiny glitz wrapping paper on the outside. Just like the Tiffany’s blue box, it makes your heart beat a little bit faster.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Against All Odds
Last Friday, with M in tow, we went to the 2nd annual Rich in Love charity event. Last year, the event was held in February also, but I went alone. Having not yet met M, I braved the event as a yet another single Jewish New York woman. There were more of those in the room than pairs of Jimmy Choos. The event attracted the kind of crowd where you are bound to run into people from your past. Camp friends, college friends, a friend of a friend who you knew through someone’s first cousin from a Bat Mitzvah you attended in Scarsdale in 1992 where you both happened to show up in the same dress that Kelly Taylor wore to prom on 90210, the room was filled with people from my past. And this year, I expected the same crowd.
Almost immediately after walking into Tavern on the Green I spot a horde of SDT sorority girls whom I hadn’t seen since last year’s shindig – and before that, college. Double kisses all around, I introduce M. “This is my fiancé,” I proudly say as he manages to shove the last of a mini crab cake into his mouth and wipes his hands on a napkin before extending it for an introduction. Fiance, it is a word which M hates because it sounds pompous and affected, but really the only word to sum him up. Yes, he still is my boyfriend, but if I say just that, it minimizes his importance and our commitment to each other. He is not yet my husband, so I have to stick with fiancé despite the word’s affect. I watch as the girls who I introduce him to look him up and down. “Fiance?” one asks. “Yes, fiancé,” I drag the word out, letting it slowly roll off my tongue, each syllable annunciated for complete clarity. The moment feels like the scene from Sixteen Candles. “Mawwed,” Long Duck Dong said. “Married?” hot Jake with the red Porsche repeated back in a state of disbelief.
I know what they are thinking. How a year ago I could show up at an event sans significant other, with nothing more than a Jdate membership and a plethora of horror dating stories and now point to someone and say “my fiancé.” There is an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. The girls say nothing yet offer big smiles and I feel the need to address the question which no one will dare ask. “Things just happened fast,” I say, feeling as if I need to justify or explain the alacrity of my relationship. It feels trite to say, “You just know,” when you are talking about meeting “the one”. It all feels so stupid as if I am some walking-talking Dear Abby relationship guidance counselor now enlightened by my lot.
I have seen that look before, that sentiment is echoed by even my good friends and not just acquaintances. I am aware of the snickering behind my back, aware that people question the veracity of a relationship whose length they deem too short. M and I didn’t go by the book; we did not neatly follow the plotted dateline of dating. That makes people uncomfortable; they view this deviation with judgmental eyes. “They don’t know one another,” other girls utter waiting, and perhaps hoping things go wrong. They assume the worse. “People get engaged quickly because someone is pregnant or ‘cause someone is desperate,” said one girl. There is an unspoken dating timeline in New York for girls post-thirty to follow. It goes something like this:
Month 1: A handful of dates. The first few to be something casual like drinks at a neighborhood lounge, slowly rolling into a Saturday night date at a trendy restaurant, most likely downtown or in a new unexplored neighborhood. You tell your friends, “I really like this one. I really think this may be something.”
Month 2: If you get this far, you usually have that awkward conversation. “Are you seeing anyone else? Are we boyfriend/girlfriend?” If the answers are yes, this is when the introductions to each other’s friends begin. A double date. A holiday party at his office .
Month 3: First fight, growing pains. Do you grow together or grow apart?
Month 6: This is the shit or get off the pot period of dating. Make it 6 months and you are ready to utter those three words “I Love You” – this is where the girl is usually ready to take it to the next level and the guys contend with the fear of commitment that cause them to run off to Scores or hook up with their secretary.
1 Year: It is time for those other three words - “Move In Together” - it is about that time in the relationship just after you celebrate your one year anniversary that women begin planning anniversaries for years to come. You celebrated Thanksgiving with his family, did a birthday with yours. He has given you a gorgeous necklace for Christmas, but now your eyes are set on the prized ring.
1.5 Years: Comfortably settled into a plush one-bedroom somewhere on the Upper East Side, the couple begins to give serious thought to getting even more serious. She leaves pictures of diamond rings around the apartment and drops hints. “At OUR wedding, I want to have an apple martini bar,” she would utter when together they attend another wedding. And it’s just about at this point, where he goes searching on Bluenile.com. It is the point of no return.
This is the approved dating timeline. Purposefully, at a trotting pace, this timeline is acceptable – it is neither a mad dash nor a crawl. But go against this and you set the world off kilter. When M and I met, I knew myself well. I had 31 years of experience to learn from and I knew what I wanted in a soul mate. I was ready. Without games, without the need and creation of drama, when things are simple and natural and real, you don’t need guidelines. M and I moved in together after 4 months, got engaged at the 7 month marker and we will be married exactly 1 ½ years after our first date. We were on the same page emotionally and we wanted the same things. I am sure if Vegas (or girls) made odds on this relationship, using the ‘Bennifer’ Hollywood playbook or the Girl’s Guide to Upper East Side Dating, they wouldn’t have expected us to make it this far, or make it down the aisle. But that’s the thing with gambling, sometimes you just get lucky, sometimes the odds are in your favor even if everyone is betting against you.
Almost immediately after walking into Tavern on the Green I spot a horde of SDT sorority girls whom I hadn’t seen since last year’s shindig – and before that, college. Double kisses all around, I introduce M. “This is my fiancé,” I proudly say as he manages to shove the last of a mini crab cake into his mouth and wipes his hands on a napkin before extending it for an introduction. Fiance, it is a word which M hates because it sounds pompous and affected, but really the only word to sum him up. Yes, he still is my boyfriend, but if I say just that, it minimizes his importance and our commitment to each other. He is not yet my husband, so I have to stick with fiancé despite the word’s affect. I watch as the girls who I introduce him to look him up and down. “Fiance?” one asks. “Yes, fiancé,” I drag the word out, letting it slowly roll off my tongue, each syllable annunciated for complete clarity. The moment feels like the scene from Sixteen Candles. “Mawwed,” Long Duck Dong said. “Married?” hot Jake with the red Porsche repeated back in a state of disbelief.
I know what they are thinking. How a year ago I could show up at an event sans significant other, with nothing more than a Jdate membership and a plethora of horror dating stories and now point to someone and say “my fiancé.” There is an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. The girls say nothing yet offer big smiles and I feel the need to address the question which no one will dare ask. “Things just happened fast,” I say, feeling as if I need to justify or explain the alacrity of my relationship. It feels trite to say, “You just know,” when you are talking about meeting “the one”. It all feels so stupid as if I am some walking-talking Dear Abby relationship guidance counselor now enlightened by my lot.
I have seen that look before, that sentiment is echoed by even my good friends and not just acquaintances. I am aware of the snickering behind my back, aware that people question the veracity of a relationship whose length they deem too short. M and I didn’t go by the book; we did not neatly follow the plotted dateline of dating. That makes people uncomfortable; they view this deviation with judgmental eyes. “They don’t know one another,” other girls utter waiting, and perhaps hoping things go wrong. They assume the worse. “People get engaged quickly because someone is pregnant or ‘cause someone is desperate,” said one girl. There is an unspoken dating timeline in New York for girls post-thirty to follow. It goes something like this:
Month 1: A handful of dates. The first few to be something casual like drinks at a neighborhood lounge, slowly rolling into a Saturday night date at a trendy restaurant, most likely downtown or in a new unexplored neighborhood. You tell your friends, “I really like this one. I really think this may be something.”
Month 2: If you get this far, you usually have that awkward conversation. “Are you seeing anyone else? Are we boyfriend/girlfriend?” If the answers are yes, this is when the introductions to each other’s friends begin. A double date. A holiday party at his office .
Month 3: First fight, growing pains. Do you grow together or grow apart?
Month 6: This is the shit or get off the pot period of dating. Make it 6 months and you are ready to utter those three words “I Love You” – this is where the girl is usually ready to take it to the next level and the guys contend with the fear of commitment that cause them to run off to Scores or hook up with their secretary.
1 Year: It is time for those other three words - “Move In Together” - it is about that time in the relationship just after you celebrate your one year anniversary that women begin planning anniversaries for years to come. You celebrated Thanksgiving with his family, did a birthday with yours. He has given you a gorgeous necklace for Christmas, but now your eyes are set on the prized ring.
1.5 Years: Comfortably settled into a plush one-bedroom somewhere on the Upper East Side, the couple begins to give serious thought to getting even more serious. She leaves pictures of diamond rings around the apartment and drops hints. “At OUR wedding, I want to have an apple martini bar,” she would utter when together they attend another wedding. And it’s just about at this point, where he goes searching on Bluenile.com. It is the point of no return.
This is the approved dating timeline. Purposefully, at a trotting pace, this timeline is acceptable – it is neither a mad dash nor a crawl. But go against this and you set the world off kilter. When M and I met, I knew myself well. I had 31 years of experience to learn from and I knew what I wanted in a soul mate. I was ready. Without games, without the need and creation of drama, when things are simple and natural and real, you don’t need guidelines. M and I moved in together after 4 months, got engaged at the 7 month marker and we will be married exactly 1 ½ years after our first date. We were on the same page emotionally and we wanted the same things. I am sure if Vegas (or girls) made odds on this relationship, using the ‘Bennifer’ Hollywood playbook or the Girl’s Guide to Upper East Side Dating, they wouldn’t have expected us to make it this far, or make it down the aisle. But that’s the thing with gambling, sometimes you just get lucky, sometimes the odds are in your favor even if everyone is betting against you.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Proof
It is confirmed. We are now officially old.
We began our rip roaring Saturday night at a trendy, brand new midtown restaurant….at 6pm. “The only time I could get us a reservation at Dos Caminos,” Keri Cherry said, “was at 6. They were booked the rest of the night.” Dos Caminos, the new midtown outpost of the BR Guest restaurant was booked solid during the prime time dining hours. “Do you guys mind eating a little early?”
Having been out the night before to a big-to-do charity event, M and I spent the day lounging around the apartment. “Is there some sort of early bird special?” I asked assuming that by dining during daylight hours they may throw in a free handful of Sweet and Low packets or offer some geriatric vitamins to the elder crowd who eats at that time. “Sure, we don’t mind a relaxed early dinner,” I said. “Great,” Keri confirmed, “we are going to wear our Boca Del Vista finest. Ron and I are wearing matching leisure suits.” Turns out, she wasn’t kidding.
Arriving promptly as the sun began to set we entered a nearly empty Dos Caminos on 50th Street and 3rd Avenue. “Our friends Leigh and Josh are joining us too,” Keri said. “They also just got engaged.” The six of us were seated downstairs in the main dining area. A few other early birds grazed on chips and salsa. One couple sat a few tables over- she, holding a new born and he holding a beer. “Is this dinner or lunch?” I joked as we perused the Mexican flavored menu. The waitress came to take drink orders. “I think I’ll have a white wine,” Keri said. “Ok, I just need to see an ID,” the waitress asked looking totally serious. The table grew silent. We waited for the waitress to crack a smile or make a joke, but she was serious. Carding a table of 6 adults most of whom had a 30th birthday party when boy bands still ruled the air waves. “I don’t have my wallet,” Keri finally answered catching onto the reality of her request. “But I am 32 years old. This is my husband,” she said pointing to Ron in his leisure suit, a stay piece of gray hair dangling from a curl on his forehead. We were now closer to 41 than 21 – an ID is something I usually leave at home for lack of need, trading its space in my wallet for a frequent flier card from Tasti-Delite. The waitress eyed everyone’s face at the table, looking for fine lines, gray hair or some proving mark of time – that we were children of the 80s and not born in them. “I am going to need to speak to the manager,” the waitress said. “We need to proof the whole table before serving anyone.” She turned on her pointed heel and scampered off to find her supervisor.
“This feels like the suburbs,” I said when she was out of earshot. “When was the last time anyone was carded in the city, let alone dining at 6pm at a nice restaurant. I am in bed by the time most underage kids go out for the night.” The waitress came back with her supervisor who again surveyed the table, looking very carefully at our IDs – checking them for signs of tampering like my mother used to check Tylenol bottles during the cyanide scare in the 1980s. “Everyone at this table is either married or engaged,” Ron said to the woman as we all held up our left hands flashing our diamond rings while holding our state issued licenses in our other. “They aren’t child brides. Nor would it make sense that my wife is ten years younger than everyone else here,” he said trying to logically argue with the supervisor She seemed to believe our truth and signaled for the waitress to deliver the tray of drinks. “Just don’t get too rowdy,” she said in earnest as if our group planned on throwing back shots of tequila and doing the can-can on the table come midnight.
Over dinner we discussed both engaged couples’ upcoming nuptials. Ron and Keri offered wedding planning insight having just tied the knot 5 months ago, they were the experienced elders. “Go to Hawaii,” they echoed each other sounding as if they had been married for years. “We loved it for our honeymoon.” Leigh and I bonded over our shared love of Anna Weatherly china patterns while M and Ron discussed the rise and fall of condo prices. It was hardly the type of conversation held by kids still wearing Greek letters and drinking Boones before trying to sneak into a bar without ID. By 8pm, rowdy and drunken from our two glasses of sangria each, we paid the bill. The restaurant was just starting to fill up. “They totally lied,” Keri said as we made our way up the stairs to the main level. “They could have easily sat us at 7:30 for dinner. I guess they were trying to look cooler than they really are by pretending to be booked.”
“Anyone up for going clubbing?” I said totally joking. “Ah Ker, we can’t get in anywhere without your ID our in those leisure suits.” Instead of going to “Bed” the club or to bed, we opted to grab one more drink somewhere local. Peeking our head into PJ Clarke’s we backed out in unison. “Too crowded in there. Too young a crowd,” Keri said as we dashed across the street to a no-name pub that was empty. At our age, it is no longer about the coolness of the venue, it is about the quality of the company.
An hour later, M and I called it a night and were home in bed for the 10 o’clock news. “I am exhausted,” I said looking at the clock. “Me too,” M said as he turned the TV off and flipped off the lights. “I wish the waitress from the restaurant were here right now,” I said. In the darkness I could see M’s face, a puzzled look of incomprehension. “Huh?” he mumbled as he turned the pillow over to place his head on the cool side. “Well, this is guaranteed proof that we are really over 21. We are in bed at 11pm on a Saturday night.”
We began our rip roaring Saturday night at a trendy, brand new midtown restaurant….at 6pm. “The only time I could get us a reservation at Dos Caminos,” Keri Cherry said, “was at 6. They were booked the rest of the night.” Dos Caminos, the new midtown outpost of the BR Guest restaurant was booked solid during the prime time dining hours. “Do you guys mind eating a little early?”
Having been out the night before to a big-to-do charity event, M and I spent the day lounging around the apartment. “Is there some sort of early bird special?” I asked assuming that by dining during daylight hours they may throw in a free handful of Sweet and Low packets or offer some geriatric vitamins to the elder crowd who eats at that time. “Sure, we don’t mind a relaxed early dinner,” I said. “Great,” Keri confirmed, “we are going to wear our Boca Del Vista finest. Ron and I are wearing matching leisure suits.” Turns out, she wasn’t kidding.
Arriving promptly as the sun began to set we entered a nearly empty Dos Caminos on 50th Street and 3rd Avenue. “Our friends Leigh and Josh are joining us too,” Keri said. “They also just got engaged.” The six of us were seated downstairs in the main dining area. A few other early birds grazed on chips and salsa. One couple sat a few tables over- she, holding a new born and he holding a beer. “Is this dinner or lunch?” I joked as we perused the Mexican flavored menu. The waitress came to take drink orders. “I think I’ll have a white wine,” Keri said. “Ok, I just need to see an ID,” the waitress asked looking totally serious. The table grew silent. We waited for the waitress to crack a smile or make a joke, but she was serious. Carding a table of 6 adults most of whom had a 30th birthday party when boy bands still ruled the air waves. “I don’t have my wallet,” Keri finally answered catching onto the reality of her request. “But I am 32 years old. This is my husband,” she said pointing to Ron in his leisure suit, a stay piece of gray hair dangling from a curl on his forehead. We were now closer to 41 than 21 – an ID is something I usually leave at home for lack of need, trading its space in my wallet for a frequent flier card from Tasti-Delite. The waitress eyed everyone’s face at the table, looking for fine lines, gray hair or some proving mark of time – that we were children of the 80s and not born in them. “I am going to need to speak to the manager,” the waitress said. “We need to proof the whole table before serving anyone.” She turned on her pointed heel and scampered off to find her supervisor.
“This feels like the suburbs,” I said when she was out of earshot. “When was the last time anyone was carded in the city, let alone dining at 6pm at a nice restaurant. I am in bed by the time most underage kids go out for the night.” The waitress came back with her supervisor who again surveyed the table, looking very carefully at our IDs – checking them for signs of tampering like my mother used to check Tylenol bottles during the cyanide scare in the 1980s. “Everyone at this table is either married or engaged,” Ron said to the woman as we all held up our left hands flashing our diamond rings while holding our state issued licenses in our other. “They aren’t child brides. Nor would it make sense that my wife is ten years younger than everyone else here,” he said trying to logically argue with the supervisor She seemed to believe our truth and signaled for the waitress to deliver the tray of drinks. “Just don’t get too rowdy,” she said in earnest as if our group planned on throwing back shots of tequila and doing the can-can on the table come midnight.
Over dinner we discussed both engaged couples’ upcoming nuptials. Ron and Keri offered wedding planning insight having just tied the knot 5 months ago, they were the experienced elders. “Go to Hawaii,” they echoed each other sounding as if they had been married for years. “We loved it for our honeymoon.” Leigh and I bonded over our shared love of Anna Weatherly china patterns while M and Ron discussed the rise and fall of condo prices. It was hardly the type of conversation held by kids still wearing Greek letters and drinking Boones before trying to sneak into a bar without ID. By 8pm, rowdy and drunken from our two glasses of sangria each, we paid the bill. The restaurant was just starting to fill up. “They totally lied,” Keri said as we made our way up the stairs to the main level. “They could have easily sat us at 7:30 for dinner. I guess they were trying to look cooler than they really are by pretending to be booked.”
“Anyone up for going clubbing?” I said totally joking. “Ah Ker, we can’t get in anywhere without your ID our in those leisure suits.” Instead of going to “Bed” the club or to bed, we opted to grab one more drink somewhere local. Peeking our head into PJ Clarke’s we backed out in unison. “Too crowded in there. Too young a crowd,” Keri said as we dashed across the street to a no-name pub that was empty. At our age, it is no longer about the coolness of the venue, it is about the quality of the company.
An hour later, M and I called it a night and were home in bed for the 10 o’clock news. “I am exhausted,” I said looking at the clock. “Me too,” M said as he turned the TV off and flipped off the lights. “I wish the waitress from the restaurant were here right now,” I said. In the darkness I could see M’s face, a puzzled look of incomprehension. “Huh?” he mumbled as he turned the pillow over to place his head on the cool side. “Well, this is guaranteed proof that we are really over 21. We are in bed at 11pm on a Saturday night.”
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