Chapter Afterstand up, dust off, and get moving

I went out Friday night with a coworker and his girlfriend, third-wheeling through dinner, drinks, and a show. A recently divorced female friend of theirs was supposed to meet us after dinner with the obvious implied fix-up for yours truly. She wound up at the club next door and when it came down to it, we got a just-barely introduction after our show was over, and that was that for the night.

Previously, on the way to the venue from the restaurant, we were walking down H__ Street, which has become the epicenter of the downtown social scene. A woman standing in front of T__, a coffee shop I’ve been frequenting during the day, said Hi-we-met-at-M__’s-party-with-the-fire-jugglers-and-talked-about-music. My night was already made before I could even remember what she was talking about (two 10% alcohol beers with dinner). This doesn’t happen to me very often, but when it does, I try to remind myself how I feel when I say hello to a pretty someone I’ve met and it takes them a beat or three to remember me. We’d met about a week ago where she was DJing at M__’s studio party. They had a video setup running and we talked about VJing, something I know very little about, but has tickled the intersection of my professional and artistic interests.

S__ asked if I had a card which, Murphy had insured that I did not. She gave me hers and pointed out that she was a real-estate broker if, you know, I needed to buy a house. I tried not to take this as a bad sign, but frankly it didn’t work. She seemed cool and excited by life — definitely the kind of person I prefer to surround myself with, romance or not. C__’s girlfriend insisted that this woman was all about me, based on woman’s intuition and a read of body language. I wasn’t as sure but had no desire to jinx it by offering up any sort of argument. My ego sufficiently fluffed, we proceeded on our way.

This morning I slept in and, after making a killer anti-hangover smoothie, decided to drop S__ a quick e-mail coffee invite, based mostly on G__’s opinion that the appropriate time to call was right now. I got a blackberried reply immediately — she’d “love to collaborate on some projects.” Unless that’s a euphemism I’m not familiar with (it’d be a great one, wouldn’t it?), it sounds like her interest is purely professional. In any case, she’s working today — seven days a week actually.

I’d be perfectly content to simply make a new friend [ed note: liar, liar, pants on fire]; interesting people always seem too busy, boring people always seem too free.

It’s been awhile without an update, and trust me when I say I’m a lot more upset about that than you are. If amazing things were happening, I’d have written about them already.

When I started this site, the scope was meant to be significantly wider than a mere chronicling my newly-single romantic exploits.  I’ve often felt that my life feels a bit like the movie “Groundhog Day,” except for me, it’s more like New Year’s. It’s like I’m permanently stuck in the mode of making my resolutions and rarely graduate into manifesting them.

Finding new love wasn’t my only goal. There were the seminal stand-bys of working out and cooking / eating better. A book or two in need of writing. A few art pieces. Entrepreneurial projects. Most of these had been surfing the limbo long before any serious contemplation of divorce entered the picture. Separating complicated some of the money-management line items. I need to replace my car, buy a house, save for retirement again.

K__ still doesn’t have a job, and I can feel the resentment festering by the day. Plenty of time and energy to have an affair, but precious little to contribute to her exquisite taste in Very Nice Things ™. It’s classic, boring, and cliche.

On the good days, I have the perspective to see the vast distance between my own brand of slacker laziness and hers. But on bad days we are absolutely equivalent in that regard, and perhaps my self-righteousness the rest of the time makes me the more wretched person.

All of this being a long prelude to say that I’ve been staying busy working, and it shows no signs of receding any time soon. I’m running on five to six hours sleep per night over the last three days, and the coming weekend will bring more of the same. I feel old, slightly cranky, hung-over-ish, but it’s a huge boost to my self-esteem to feel productive. The Nazis didn’t invent the idea that “Arbeit macht frei,” but they seem to have succeeded in helping make the idea very, very unpopular.

This episode is brought to you by fifteen minutes of crush on the 32 yr-old pretty-the-way-models-are-pretty profile that just popped up on whatever.com. A (different) favorite feed of mine occasionally has these fashion / lifestyle / photographer show-off pieces with the beautiful girl in the giant, black, frames. The glasses become symbolic of the photography process itself, it’s just that beautiful. One of her profile photos could be from that hipster portfolio. Maybe it is. She was holding a (real) camera in another one. If it was done poorly, I’d tell you she was probably just spam.

She’s studying Same Major As My Wife’s. Sure statistically, plenty of cool women will study that. Just like plenty of women will be sitting in The Place We Met. It won’t play well. It’s going to add definite friction to an already high friction situation.

Yeah, yeah, “not the good kind.” Ba-dum-ching.

So I got nothin’. Nothing else I know to say to her. Saying something about the music, movies, or books she listed would require Google. It’s like when you’re watching Jeopardy and a category comes up and you say to yourself how you’re going to kill this, and then it’s “Don’t know it. Don’t know it. …”

I went with a touch of existensial angst re: her major and how cool I think it is, but, … you know. Detonate it early and collect whatever consolation points for being honest. Followed this with a quick reference to related books I had both liked and neglected and asked how mere mortals get access to her department’s library of brain candy.

We’ll see if she stops by to borrow my copy of the one that’s always checked out. Not banking on it.

One of the younger guys I met over the weekend confessed the levels of douchebaggery he was drunkenly talking, but we all know, and he knows, that douchebaggery will get you a lot more ass-tappery (ahem…as it were). I over-compensate for the filthy, disgusting things that go through my mind with real life confessions of imaginary, future slights. The fear of the slippery slope to flipped collars and Too Much Hair Product keeping me the wrong kind of honest.

I’m a big fan of walkable communities and, years ago, heard a related piece on the radio. They mentioned that one of the things lost in automobile culture is the “random swerve” (although some drivers apparently didn’t get the memo). On foot, you notice details that you simply can’t in a car whether it be because of speed or road noise or safety. Those details and the ease with which you can change direction, take a few steps down a side street and discover something new are a huge advantage — they give neighborhoods life.

R__ town isn’t walkable per se, but I don’t drive in winter weather, and when it started snowing last night before I’d had a chance to get my Friday night on, I suited up to brave the two mile walk to the nearest dive bar. It was cold, a little wet, but I’ve always enjoyed long walks at night. Add the magic of fresh snow, and by eleven o’clock I was trudging my way towards whiskey.

I only got about four blocks up the street before I came across the sounds of a house party. A small group stood outside in a semi-enclosed patio, bundled up and laughing, the glow of electric light and good friends bouncing off the snow and spilling out to the sidewalk as I passed. I wished a jealous wish and kept moving. Suddenly, I heard, “Hey, look at that guy walking!” Like I said, not many people walk here, especially not at night, and I figured they were curious how many DUIs a person has to have before they’re forced to march down D__ Road. I smiled to myself without breaking stride.

“Hey!”

“What?!” I yelled, feigning incredulity. How dare you interrupt my lonesome walk in search of social interaction with your social interaction. I backtracked a few steps and one of the party-goers asked if I wanted a smoke. I was already halfway into the yard when I asked what kind he was smoking.

It was a great group of mid-twenty somethings, ten maybe fifteen people in all, and we drank and talked shit until about three in the morning. A few of the guys are headed to New Zealand, and this was their going away party. They’d already had at least one, but the parties were turning out to be so much fun, there was talk that perhaps another could be squeezed in before their flight.

A couple of the guys, very drunk, bemoaned the fact that they’d had to move back in with their parents, and this was putting a huge damper on their sex lives. I’m not sure how much of this was purely economic and how much was the transition between school and the workforce. Guy 1 said he needed a friend with an apartment, somewhere to host after the party leaves the bar. “Done,” I said and gave him my card. I’m not sure which of us was more surprised by our incredible luck. I say that like I’m not aware how much trouble I’m probably in for if it actually works out.

R__ town is friendly, but not so friendly that a guy walking alone down the street would get pulled in on just any night. I credit the magic of snow and the wild possibilities of the random swerve.

Last night, a series of friendly (and occasionally spicy) internet chats culminated in a first date. We had dinner and went to a show. It was fun, but on a modern scale from sucked-to-awesome, “fun” isn’t saying much. The band wasn’t mainstream pop, but it wasn’t avant-garde either. I don’t think she liked it really, and it left me wondering whether (and how much) that reflected on how much she liked me or whether that had been decided way before the music started.

A friend cross-pollinated our online profiles about a week ago. Perhaps the mutual friend explains how easy it was to convince her to drive the 20+ miles into town for our date. She was late, which didn’t bother me much at all, but when she did arrive, I found myself sizing up whether she was heavier than I was attracted to, and repeatedly deciding, “no, she’s completely attractive enough“. I’m very thin myself and, the national obesity crisis notwithstanding, it seems like most of the women with online profiles are Curvy+. I’m not perfect either, and I can tell the difference between the Plato’s-all-holy-ideal-aesthetic-form and the actual human being right in front of me I ought not to underestimate too soon.

So what, I thought, extra pounds. Don’t count her out, roll with it. Maybe she read my hesitation right away and gave up early. But she seemed slightly bored the whole time, and when it came time to decide between “Goodnight” and “My place, or yours?” I gave it an honest shot knowing full well it was going absolutely nowhere. (No! Jesus, that’s not what I actually said, the quote-marks are a typographic metaphor!)

The show ended and she drove home around midnight. I wasn’t ready to turn in, so I swung by the studio to smoke half the joint I’d rolled thinking I (we?) might get a chance to indulge between dinner and the band. P__ said he’d be working late if I wanted to grab a drink, but he wasn’t there. I went over to L__ anyway. It was as dead as I’d ever seen it, and the bartender agreed without my prompting. Tuesday’s aren’t huge anyway — I told him I blame the economy, Christmas, and the fact that it’s the second-half of the month. Everyone is dead broke.

I drank whiskey like a proper lonely gentleman, and pondered my (our?) rotten luck.

L__, who welcomed me many posts ago to the local singles scene, didn’t acknowledge my existence though it wouldn’t have been at all hard. As I was coming back from the bathroom, she finished saying a goodbye, turned, and walked out right in front of me. I like to think she never even saw me, but that seems a stretch. I’d have gone over to her table, but I chicken out when I only know one person in a group.

I woke up slightly late, slightly hungover and while working and drinking coffee at J__ I talked to K__ who was friendly to chat with and dropped that she was seeing someone. I caught S__ online around noon. I said I’d had a good time, thanks for coming out and suffering my off-kilter taste in music. She was kind, said thank you for treating. Then she apologized for her bluntness, but said she’d detected no spark, and had learned from experience to walk away. She told me she was kinda bummed about it. Me too.

I totally appreciated that and told her as much. I’m actually glad to have my initial read confirmed. I must be learning.

But as with everything newly learned, it raises more questions than it answers. The true nature of desire and attraction. Whether spark can be manufactured (for lack of a better word). Why shouldn’t two people who are bummed about there being no spark get it on anyway? Could online dating feel a bit less like shopping? Should I reasonably expect to be able to have sex with someone (period?) who has an ass … say S__’s size (which is, yes, larger than I prefer) or smaller? Should someone who probably has no intention of ever sleeping with you order desert & coffee? The commerce of dating deserves it’s own article. How guilty should I be feeling about thinking any of that even fleetingly? Publishing it? Fair enough. Shameful thoughts, these.

One of the characters in Cryptonomicon experienced a productivity boost that lasted up to a week after having sex. I think I identify with that, I’ve been getting a lot done, though I’ve been on the far end of the gradient back to the anticipation in the days before a date. About as far from sex as you can get, but way, way better than no date at all.

Speaking of being productive, I wonder if there’s any truth to the idea that I was more successful getting women to pay attention when I kept my head down and worked hard on something awesome.

K__ was really short on the phone this weekend. At first, I figured it was because when she called to say goodnight to I__, we were still out finishing up dinner. Keeping a consistent schedule is important for little kids, especially bedtime. But half-an-hour here or there isn’t going to hurt anybody.

Anyway, she sounded really over the top. It’s not like I care exactly so much as I wanted the opportunity to say, “what in the fuck is your problem?!” should, you know, the shoe fit. I told her she sounded upset and rather than actually address my question, she quickly veered into giving me a hard time because I__ had called her an asshole the other night.

Speaking of well fitting shoes.

My wife and I both have potty mouths and we agreed we’d have to stop when we had kids. To her credit, she’s probably done a better job of this than I have. Now, anything like this is automatically my fault. But not this time. I tried to tell her over the phone, but she wasn’t hearing anything I had to say. I was in a good mood after a couple beers, and the calming knowledge that I__ would soon be asleep. I emailed it to her instead. For your entertainment, I now present:

An Open Letter To My Wife On the Occasion of Our Son Directing Profanity At Her

let’s clarify some things, so you don’t continue to go through life with some ill-concieved notion of How Things Are.

I don’t call you an asshole. It never occurs to me to say that.
When, in a moment of weakness, I utter profanities about you,
you are a “fucking bitch.” If I__ were to repeat something I’d said,
that’s what he’d say.

Instead, he calls you an “asshole” which, I believe, is highly likely
to emanate from your own lips, in reference to me as he’s called me this
*plenty* of times. Let me repeat: *plenty*.

Plenty.

That’s *your* chickens coming home to roost. Not mine.

enjoy!

God. Damn. That felt good. I’m still grinning about the cosmic justice of it.

This morning, I dropped I__ off at school, and then went over to her place to drop off his things. Her car wasn’t there, but a long weekend’s worth of newspapers were on the front walk. Probably went on (another) trip with her boyfriend instead of doing something productive like working on those job skills.

Fucking bitch.

Dreamt wife gave me oral sex. I’ve only experienced lucid dreaming a few times, and the first trick is knowing you’re dreaming. You’d think this scene would be enough to clue in the snoozing consciousness, but it wasn’t. I remember being smugly aware that we weren’t together anymore, and this wasn’t necessarily make-up sex. I could just enjoy it, whatever. I also remember being terrified knowing sex never wound up being that simple with us.

I can’t explain why I have absolutely no problem frequenting just about every independent coffee shop in town, but I’m nearly monogamous with respect to bars. When my wife and I first met, we ran into one another at two different cafes in the same day. She started calling me a coffee whore. Apt, I admitted, but of course that makes you one too.

My body can’t process caffeine like it used to — I could drink coffee at midnight and be asleep by 1AM. Now, I can tell a difference eight hours later if I have any after about 3PM. Even ignoring sleep disruption issues, I’ve been looking for some other spots to hang out. A friend suggested the local university, but I’m too susceptible to Dirty Old Man Disease as it is. Then I remembered the library. I spent a good part of my teens there, but forgot about this wonderful institution after college during the rise of the internet. A crying shame too.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been telling myself I should try spending the morning or afternoon there, but it wasn’t until today that I actually followed through. But first…

This morning, I walked to my favorite downtown spot and soon after I sat down, noticed the arrival of my favorite regular. I’ve seen her there several times, tall, beautiful, redhead (oh to break my losing brunette streak), always has a book, and she’s usually alone. She’s got this fantastic fashion sense, and even though it’s winter, I think she’s got a thing for cute skirts and leggings. (What a coincidence, me too!) I must admit there being no particular reason for mentioning this except that these outfits accentuate her butt. I’ve never considered myself much of an ass-man, but it’s enough to convert the wickedest non-believer.

Ask her what she’s reading, I said to myself, but instead I stuck to my work and before long she was packing up to go. It’s hardly anything of note, though I admit she’d already made enough of an impression that I was thinking about her with no minor fondness without seeing her in several days.

Fast forward to the library. There’s a coffee bar just inside the front door. Before I even had the opportunity to grin at the irony, who ["whom" ed.] do you suppose is working the counter?! So much for avoiding late afternoon caffeine.

Oh universe, you sly, mischievous motherfucker, you.

[Ed. Note: This is likely an example of selection bias. You remember noticing the girl because she's the girl you "randomly" happen to have both 1) run into at a new place and 2) remembered fondly. This is statistically inevitable, not the universe treating you special.

And I done told you about the scarf. The one your wife made you. That women comment on. Women you're trying to hit on. They mention it. The scarf your wife made you.]

I’ll be glad to see Spring.