I checked my phone messages yesterday, and there is a message from Sharon, one of the women from the birthday dinner the other night. Sharon is a trainer, and she does facials on the side. Here’s the message:
“Hey Paige, this is Sharon. Listen, a bunch of us are going out to dinner on Saturday night, and I wondered if you wanted to go. We’re going to dinner at PF Chang’s, and then, we’re going to catch a movie. Oh, and my friend, Scott, has been asking about you. He really wants to see you again.”
See what I mean about the amygdala?
I call her back and get her machine.
“Sharon, tomorrow night sounds like fun. Give me a call back.”
She calls me back.
“So, what do you think about Scott?” she asks. “He keeps asking about you. He never asks about anyone.”
“Well, he seems nice, and I don’t mind going out with him. But I’m not looking for anything, Sharon. I’m just not into it.”
“Oh, well, he’s not looking for anything either,” she says, too quickly. “He just thinks you’re hot, and he wants to get to know you. ”
What a shining recommendation.
“So what’s his deal anyway?” I ask. “He told me he works in a warehouse, and I laughed at him. Does he really work in a warehouse?”
“Paige, he doesn’t have to work. He just does that because he likes physical labor. He owns, like, three houses and a boat. He’s a millionaire. He’ll totally spoil you.”
“That’s okay. I’m good.” I’m not sure I want anything from this guy yet.
The next night, he picks me up, and it’s okay. We have dinner. Sharon’s date cancelled on her, so she’s cranky. The movie was lame. But I have to hand it to him. Scott was a perfect gentleman. He didn’t push. He didn’t overdo it. He was totally fine. There just was no connection. Nothing.
I’m not ready to give up yet, though. When he brought me home tonight, I gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him to call me.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
Amygdala and Charybdis
I go to a birthday dinner for a friend of a friend. She’s a super nice lady and we’re acquaintances, having done the movies and dinner and parties as part of a group. After moping around all week, I feel as though I need to get out and join society again, so I pick up a Starbucks gift card and commit to the dinner.
I try to dress for dinner, but nothing I own fits anymore. Have I mentioned how much I hate shopping? I end up belting a pair of capri jeans, and, then I have to roll the waistband over the belt. At least they stay on my hips. I wear an old, bright green, sleeveless Polo button down that manages to cover up my haphazard alterations and slip my brown Haviana Slims on my feet. I’m ready to jam.
We agree to meet at Red Mesa, and it turns out to be a party of seven. Four women besides the birthday girl, and a younger man who is with his mother, a yoga instructor I’ve met on occasion. The man’s name is Scott, and we end up sitting next to each other, something I suspect he engineered. I'm definitely getting the vibe.
I look at him a little closer. He’s not bad looking. He obviously has a good relationship with his mother to be here with her instead of out with guys his own age on a Friday night. I decide to go with it.
“What are you ordering?” I ask him.
“I’m having the steak,” he answers. “You?”
“The salmon.”
“That sounds good, too. How do you know Nessa?” he asks.
“Friend of a friend. You?”
“The same.”
When our entrees arrive, we share. It’s been my experience that sharing food with a man, if you’re a woman, seems to make the man feel like they are closer to you. I’m sure it’s some amygdala thing that dates back to when men had to go hunt for food and bring it home to their women.
We get around to talking about work, and here’s where things go south. He tells me he works in a warehouse and that he’s the best worker. Something about his facial expressions makes think he’s joking. Well, to be honest, it’s a combination of his facial expressions, his mother’s diamonds, and the fact that I know his trainer and just how much she charges. So, I laugh. He tells me what he does for work and I laugh. Slick, huh?
Then I see that he’s serious, and I stop laughing. I look again at his mother, and the thought that creeps into my mind is that he may, in fact, be a little slow.
He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m laughing at him. In fact, I think he’s even more into me. Hmm… Maybe he is slow.
I try to dress for dinner, but nothing I own fits anymore. Have I mentioned how much I hate shopping? I end up belting a pair of capri jeans, and, then I have to roll the waistband over the belt. At least they stay on my hips. I wear an old, bright green, sleeveless Polo button down that manages to cover up my haphazard alterations and slip my brown Haviana Slims on my feet. I’m ready to jam.
We agree to meet at Red Mesa, and it turns out to be a party of seven. Four women besides the birthday girl, and a younger man who is with his mother, a yoga instructor I’ve met on occasion. The man’s name is Scott, and we end up sitting next to each other, something I suspect he engineered. I'm definitely getting the vibe.
I look at him a little closer. He’s not bad looking. He obviously has a good relationship with his mother to be here with her instead of out with guys his own age on a Friday night. I decide to go with it.
“What are you ordering?” I ask him.
“I’m having the steak,” he answers. “You?”
“The salmon.”
“That sounds good, too. How do you know Nessa?” he asks.
“Friend of a friend. You?”
“The same.”
When our entrees arrive, we share. It’s been my experience that sharing food with a man, if you’re a woman, seems to make the man feel like they are closer to you. I’m sure it’s some amygdala thing that dates back to when men had to go hunt for food and bring it home to their women.
We get around to talking about work, and here’s where things go south. He tells me he works in a warehouse and that he’s the best worker. Something about his facial expressions makes think he’s joking. Well, to be honest, it’s a combination of his facial expressions, his mother’s diamonds, and the fact that I know his trainer and just how much she charges. So, I laugh. He tells me what he does for work and I laugh. Slick, huh?
Then I see that he’s serious, and I stop laughing. I look again at his mother, and the thought that creeps into my mind is that he may, in fact, be a little slow.
He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m laughing at him. In fact, I think he’s even more into me. Hmm… Maybe he is slow.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Pinot Colored Toenails
I spend the evening at my neighbor's house. The two of us split a bottle of wine, read poetry, and listen to some seriously obscure tunes.
We end up spending half the night looking for this poem I love but of which I can only remember a few lines: “In the room the women come and go/Talking of Michelangelo” and something about measuring time in coffee spoons. No name. No author. We tore up her bookshelves and did countless Google searches and finally find it in an old textbook of hers. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot. If you haven’t read it, you should. It’s a real cautionary tale about not ever making the leap. "And in short, I was afraid..."
During the search, Lily comes across a poem by ee cummings that she’d framed in a little Plexiglas holder years ago, and the paper’s a little yellowed with time. It’s something I would do, putting it in a frame and keeping it. The poem’s really beautiful, and there’s this line that just struck me: “…something in me understands/the voice of your eyes…” I don’t know why. I just like it. I mean, it’s pretty, right?
By the end of the evening, we're lying next to each other on her living room floor, poetry and art books stacked up in piles around us, with our legs up in the air comparing our pedicures. Lily's a small woman and her feet are tiny with incredible arches. She practiced ballet for years as a child but grew up to be this free-spirited scientist who can do just about anything from installing a deck to organizing a countywide coastal cleanup. She's ten years older than I am, though our kids are the same age. I'm terribly impressed by her.
I don’t even remember what we talk about, but we talk and talk. Sometimes we just shut up and listen to the music. Lily’s my person to talk with about ideas. She doesn’t waste a lot of time on the small stuff. She puts it in perspective and moves forward. I like that.
And how cool is it that she was willing to tear up her house to find a poem for me?
We end up spending half the night looking for this poem I love but of which I can only remember a few lines: “In the room the women come and go/Talking of Michelangelo” and something about measuring time in coffee spoons. No name. No author. We tore up her bookshelves and did countless Google searches and finally find it in an old textbook of hers. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot. If you haven’t read it, you should. It’s a real cautionary tale about not ever making the leap. "And in short, I was afraid..."
During the search, Lily comes across a poem by ee cummings that she’d framed in a little Plexiglas holder years ago, and the paper’s a little yellowed with time. It’s something I would do, putting it in a frame and keeping it. The poem’s really beautiful, and there’s this line that just struck me: “…something in me understands/the voice of your eyes…” I don’t know why. I just like it. I mean, it’s pretty, right?
By the end of the evening, we're lying next to each other on her living room floor, poetry and art books stacked up in piles around us, with our legs up in the air comparing our pedicures. Lily's a small woman and her feet are tiny with incredible arches. She practiced ballet for years as a child but grew up to be this free-spirited scientist who can do just about anything from installing a deck to organizing a countywide coastal cleanup. She's ten years older than I am, though our kids are the same age. I'm terribly impressed by her.
I don’t even remember what we talk about, but we talk and talk. Sometimes we just shut up and listen to the music. Lily’s my person to talk with about ideas. She doesn’t waste a lot of time on the small stuff. She puts it in perspective and moves forward. I like that.
And how cool is it that she was willing to tear up her house to find a poem for me?
Monday, August 4, 2008
Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda
One of my best friend’s turns forty today. He’s just broken up with someone – the right way – and she’s giving him all kinds of grief. Phone calling non-stop, showing up at his house, texting at all hours. I totally feel for her, but I can't relate to her, at all. I mean, I get it, but I would never, ever say the things she’s saying:
“How could you throw what we have away?”
Well, Honey, if he’s breaking up with you, it’s probably not all you thought it was.
"If you'd just let me talk with you about this, you'll see why we belong together."
Really? Seems to me, he'd have come to that conclusion on his own after spending three months in your loving embrace.
That reads cold, I know, but I think you can see things so much clearer when you’re not going through it. Even without all the facts, the minutiae of a relationship, I truly believe that a whether or not a relationship works comes down to both people wanting it. One of my long married uncles told me that, and he's pretty smart.
What Josh tells me next gives me pause.
“You know, Paige,” he says to me, “if she’d just back off and let me miss her, maybe things would work out.”
Hmm..
I love this guy to death. He’s always been my fallback. He’s the guy I always figured I’d marry if nothing else worked out.
We met in Hawaii about 17 years ago. He married a girl I used to live with in the 90’s, and they had three kids together before it ended.
“She’s an idiot,” is what I told him at the time.
We hung out a couple of times before they actually got married. She had moved away, but they were still involved. My fiancé, at that time, had moved home to Florida, where I was shortly to join him.
The few times he and I went out were nice, but there were no fireworks. I mean, how could there be? We were both promised to other people. A romance with him was the furthest thing from my mind. One night, he'd come over to my place to watch a movie. I'd fallen asleep on the couch using his leg as a pillow. I woke up as the credits were rolling, looked up at him, and, just like that, he'd leaned down and kissed me.
I thought he was awesome, but I hadn’t ever thought of him as anyone but her guy and a great friend. Nothing ever came of it, and he married her within the year. I moved on from my fiancé shortly before the wedding.
Now we’re in the same place, free, but on opposite sides of the country. Figures.
“How could you throw what we have away?”
Well, Honey, if he’s breaking up with you, it’s probably not all you thought it was.
"If you'd just let me talk with you about this, you'll see why we belong together."
Really? Seems to me, he'd have come to that conclusion on his own after spending three months in your loving embrace.
That reads cold, I know, but I think you can see things so much clearer when you’re not going through it. Even without all the facts, the minutiae of a relationship, I truly believe that a whether or not a relationship works comes down to both people wanting it. One of my long married uncles told me that, and he's pretty smart.
What Josh tells me next gives me pause.
“You know, Paige,” he says to me, “if she’d just back off and let me miss her, maybe things would work out.”
Hmm..
I love this guy to death. He’s always been my fallback. He’s the guy I always figured I’d marry if nothing else worked out.
We met in Hawaii about 17 years ago. He married a girl I used to live with in the 90’s, and they had three kids together before it ended.
“She’s an idiot,” is what I told him at the time.
We hung out a couple of times before they actually got married. She had moved away, but they were still involved. My fiancé, at that time, had moved home to Florida, where I was shortly to join him.
The few times he and I went out were nice, but there were no fireworks. I mean, how could there be? We were both promised to other people. A romance with him was the furthest thing from my mind. One night, he'd come over to my place to watch a movie. I'd fallen asleep on the couch using his leg as a pillow. I woke up as the credits were rolling, looked up at him, and, just like that, he'd leaned down and kissed me.
I thought he was awesome, but I hadn’t ever thought of him as anyone but her guy and a great friend. Nothing ever came of it, and he married her within the year. I moved on from my fiancé shortly before the wedding.
Now we’re in the same place, free, but on opposite sides of the country. Figures.
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