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Steve Speaks: From the Other Side of the Table

Fiancé Steve chimes in with his take on our first meeting (and makes me blush).


You’ve heard from Sandee about how we were introduced through a mutual friend and became acquainted on Facebook before meeting in person. Indeed, Steve R. told me about Sandee on February 21st (isn’t e-mail archiving great?), and I contacted her that evening. We traded a few e-mails, scrutinized each other’s Facebook pages, learned what Google seemed to know, and set up a brunch date for February 24th.

We’d agreed on a nice restaurant in her neck of the woods, so I had plenty of time to reflect during the 45-minute drive in. As I motored along the interstate in light Sunday morning traffic, I tallied up what I knew about this woman. Steve R. had introduced her as smart, adventurous, really nice, and single. Excellent qualifications! He never mentioned her beauty, letting the photos I saw on Facebook speak for themselves.

Driving through gray, tree-bristled mountains, I mused that one positive sign was her active outdoor lifestyle. She hiked, ran mud runs, backpacked and mountain-biked—things I also enjoyed doing in the beautiful forests surrounding us. She held an academic position, which meant we’d made some similar choices, had some similar experiences. College professors always seem to have plenty to talk about, even if it’s only commiserating on the elegant dysfunction of so many academic departments.

I’d found an essay she’d written, so I knew she was skilled at expressing herself with grace and humor. And I knew she was witty—in one of her first e-mails, she implied Steve R. told her I had a Marie Osmond doll collection. What a great icebreaker! It poked fun at those red-flag oddities most Internet daters eventually tell stories about.

I knew she was comfortable in her own skin. I’d read with interest (bordering on awe) about her nude modeling on Valentine’s Day. Mind on the road, Steve, this is your exit!

I obediently followed the directions of my car navigation system to the restaurant, arriving early, as I usually do. (My Navy captain father instilled an almost obsessive attention to punctuality and efficiency, and academia has not quite beaten it out of me). By the time I sat down in the restaurant, eyes on the door, I’d catalogued a fair bit of knowledge about the woman who would soon walk through it. Things seemed promising.

However, I’d also endured six years of mid-life dating. I’d discovered how someone looks “on paper” does not necessarily translate to real-world compatibility. I was getting much better at restraining my optimism. I was hopeful, but not confident.

She walked into the restaurant.

The sun did not illuminate her hair like a halo from behind, nor did the camera switch to slow motion as she crossed the room, unfurled her scarf and tossed her hair. I didn’t look into her eyes and see inevitable love.

I saw a beautiful woman, a friend of a friend, someone willing to spend part of her day with me.

I don’t remember what she wore. I don’t remember what we ordered. I don’t even remember what we talked about. I do remember the time passing far more quickly than it usually does, the awkwardness of a first date melting gradually into the easy conversation of a pair of like-minded individuals. Once the bill had been paid, the waiter was more ready for our date to be over than we were, so we headed outside and sat a bit longer in the rare, warm, February sunshine.

For too long, I’d been a daydreamer, and I tended to let my mind skip to the future so quickly that I failed to savor the present. I’d often made the mistake of anticipating what might be rather than fully enjoying what is. It was so much better to enter a first date with no expectations other than “maybe I’ll make a new friend.” It allowed me to see what was really there before me: I had, indeed, just made a new friend. And without all those expectations and imaginings occupying my head, there was time and space simply to let things unfold.

I e-mailed her that evening to ask her on a second date.

Dinner celebrating our first dating anniversary, Seattle

Dinner celebrating our first dating anniversary, Seattle 2014

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Once Upon a Facebook Status: How We Met

A Valentine’s break-up, a sad Facebook status, and a set-up: what could possibly go wrong?

Turns out, nothing at all.

Endings

The day before Valentine’s Day in 2013, I texted a man I’d been dating off and on for a while, asking if he’d be interested in catching a happy hour gallery talk at the art museum the next day. Shortly thereafter, my phone rang.

“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied.

“That’s, well. You know.”

I did know. I knew we’d been drifting away from each other yet again. I knew spending Valentine’s Day together would signal we were headed in the same direction, when clearly we weren’t. I knew these things so well, in fact, I’d already made alternate plans for after the lecture, anticipating that otherwise I might well be spending the evening alone. Instead, I was scheduled for my first-ever figure modeling gig with a community drawing group.

“That’s okay,” I said. And it was true.

 Middle

The next day I went to the lecture alone, then hopped in my car to drive to the drawing class. I’d mixed up my directions, so by the time I arrived, I was more anxious about being a few minutes late than getting naked. I quickly changed into a robe, then almost just as quickly dropped it. I concentrated for the next hour and half on holding poses.

That evening, I posted on Facebook:

Spent my Valentine’s evening as the sole naked woman in a room full of strangers.

If you can’t make love, make art.

Steve, as yet unknown to me, also posted about his day on Facebook:

For Valentine’s day dinner—an evening at Bull & Bones with guys from the office and the Forest Service. Sigh. Such is life. At least there was decent beer!

Meanwhile, our mutual friend Steve R. scrolled through his newsfeed. He spotted our lonely-hearts updates—one right after the other, I like to imagine. He’d already been contemplating setting us up. A few days later, he sent me a message about a nice guy he knew who was looking to meet someone.

 Virtual Beginnings

After I agreed to be introduced, Steve R. sent me a message saying he’d told Steve about me. That was at 8:05 pm. By nine, I had my first message. Steve’s eagerness was refreshing, and the decisiveness seemed a good sign.

We traded a few messages on Facebook, including a running gag about Marie Osmond memorabilia. Since we’d both already learned that extended online communiques prior to meeting face-to-face were a bad idea, I quickly said yes when he suggested getting together that Sunday. I had afternoon movie plans, so we settled on brunch.

It was the first best yes ever.

 Beginnings

When I walked into the restaurant Sunday morning, Steve had already arrived. He was seated at a booth along the left wall, and as soon as he saw me, he rose to his feet, his face hopeful, a little anxious. He was tall and bald, neither a surprise, vis a vis Facebook. After I joined him at the table, I noted his bright blue eyes and warm, handsome smile.

I don’t remember much of what we talked about that day. As academics, I suspect we shared our current projects—I was on sabbatical, working on a book; he was in the early stages of founding his center for sustainable forestry. I do remember that we lingered until it felt impolite to keep occupying the restaurant’s table, then lingered a bit longer over drinks purchased at the coffee shop next door. It was warm for February, so we sat outside in the sun talking until I had to leave to catch my movie. Steve walked me to my car and gave me a hug good-bye.

I liked him. I didn’t yet know where it might or might not go, but I liked him. And I really hoped he’d meant it when he said we should get together again.

Turns out, he did.


Today is the two year anniversary of that first brunch date. 

Happy anniversary to my honey, Steve!


Photo, Mountain Lake, April 2013: first picture we had taken together. Photo credit: B. Rotche

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Invitation: Traditional-Fairy-Tale-Takedown Challenge

As Valentine’s Day approaches, it’s almost impossible to escape the standard romantic narrative that presumes we all aspire to march two-by-two into happy (and usually heterosexual) committed couple-dom. But so many of us whose feet don’t fit the standard glass slipper are living amazing lives we love, and those stories need to be told, too!

Your challenge: write your own alternative fairy tale, one that describes your current awesome life or hints at the fairy tale life to which you aspire.

Guidelines:

  • Your fairy tale should open with (what else?) “Once upon a time” and be 6 to 7 lines long, loosely following the models of the “world’s shortest fairy tale” and other examples, below. Unconventional tales most welcome, but more conventional ones are too, if that’s your happy place. No need to include a proposal, unless it’s part of your story.
  • The challenge remains open from February 10th-20th; post and link or submit within that window.
  • To participate, post your fairy tale on your own blog and link it back to this post, post it in a comment below, or send it directly to me at 40somethingfirsttimebride@gmail.com.
  •  All entries PG, please. 🙂
  • Tag #fairytaletakedown if you wish (I’m still kinda figuring the hashtag thing out.)

In early March, I’ll feature some of my and my readers’ favorite fairy tales in a follow-up post. Please visit the blogs of those who submit, and like and comment on your faves! Any non-bloggers, indicate how you’d like to be identified in the post should your fairy tale be included in the March feature.

The inspiration for the challenge

Back in October, I questioned the privileging of a single model for happily ever after, and its counterpart as featured in the following meme:

fairytalememe3

You can read the original full post here, but here’s what I had to say (with a few updates) that’s relevant to this challenge:

“The meme made me laugh—and think. It works specifically because we’re familiar with its counterpart, the fairy tale wherein the girl says “yes,” they marry, and presumably live happily ever after. In the male version, the “happily ever after” is spelled out in detail, though in traditional fairy tales it’s not. The conventional version, if it were spelled out, might look like this:

Once upon a time, a man asked a woman, “Will you marry me?”
The woman said, YES! And they lived happily ever after
and settled into a lovely house with a big yard
and had one boy and one girl and a well-trained dog
and the man made lots of money while she cooked perfect dinners
and they held hands every day until the day they died.

Of course, even for women who desire marriage or partnership, not everyone’s happily ever after includes 2.5 kids and a mortgage. The assumption that marriage per se is every woman’s dream—the assumption the original meme’s humor depends upon—is, if not sexist, at least shortsighted. A good marriage built on true companionship is something I want (even though it scares me in some ways). But I resist the easy equation of single male = happy and married female = happy as a default setting; it seems especially problematic in a world where not everyone has the legal right to marry even when they wish to. There are alternatives to both of the above tales. My  own life, prior to Steve’s presence in it, looked a bit like this (yes, I was proposed to once before, but that’s a story for another day):

Once upon a time, a man asked a woman, “Will you marry me?”
The woman said, NO!  And she lived happily ever after
and moved to Virginia and traveled at every opportunity
read incredible books and drank good wine and tea
and spent money on journals, artwork, and clothes
had a raspberry-pink sofa and loved her four cats
and farted whenever she wanted.

The last line is not a typo. You think women who live alone don’t enjoy the freedom to fart with abandon (or put off shaving, or let the dishes pile up in the sink…)? Now, there’s a fairy tale.

Here’s another, a composite fairy tale based on some awesome women I know:

Once upon a time, a man asked a woman, “Will you marry me?”
The woman said, NO! And she lived happily ever after
and traveled to Africa and met fascinating people
took up running and drank cosmos and craft beer
and spent money on marathons and beautiful shoes
bought a sewing machine and fostered rescue dogs
and (just guessing here, friends) farted whenever she wanted.

The upshot? One person’s sweetened-up Disney fairy tale is another person’s gloomy Brothers Grimm version. And (this is not news): there is no “happily ever after,” at least none that applies universally—nor, I would hazard, only one that is possible in any one person’s life. I wrote about the “infinite variety of paths” we might travel as we wind our way through the world, and, for each of us, I believe, there is more than one route to happiness. Mine is starting to look a little something like this:

Once upon a time, a man asked a woman, “Will you marry me?”
The woman said, YES! And they lived happily ever after
and traveled together to oceans and mountains
and talked and read books and gave each other plenty of space
and spent money on wedding stuff and shopped for a house
and wondered when to introduce her cats to his dog
who farted whenever he wanted.”


Submit your alternative fairy tales!

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On Cats and Weddings

A day or two ago, a post about CatCon LA showed up in my Facebook newsfeed. Sporting the tagline “It’s like Comic-Con…but for cat people,” CatCon LA is “part expo, part symposium,” and will, according to its website, feature “the world’s top cat-centric merchandise including furniture, art, toys and clothing for those of us who possess a great love of the feline.” There will also be speakers, including Simon Tofield, the creator of the brilliant Simon’s Cat animated cartoons. I’ve never really understood the appeal of Comic-Con, but CatCon kinda makes me wish Los Angeles weren’t so far away.

Go ahead, roll your eyes.

One of the unexpected benefits of being engaged: I can embrace my love of felines without fear of being labeled and dismissed as a stereotype: the single middle-aged crazy cat lady.

Charlie in the window

Charlie in the window

I’ll just be a married middle-aged crazy cat lady.

For the record, there is nothing wrong with being a cat lady, or a cat person, single or married, crazy or crazier. Though I confess: I cringe whenever I find myself at the grocery checkout, buying a stash of microwaveable meals, a couple bottles of wine, and 20 cans of cat food. Add chocolate, I’m a walking cliché.

And yet: my cats are really the only creatures who’ve been my constant companions, day in and day out, greeting me every morning, welcoming me at the door every night. I have wonderful friends and human family I love dearly, but none of them wakes me up purring with a chin resting on my pillow, or perches in the front window, anxiously awaiting my arrival home. Continue reading

Not-So-True-Love Tuesday: The Non-date Date

 Broken heartWelcome to the first installment of Not-so-True-Love Tuesdays, featuring silly and scary and “Seriously?” stories from my dating days, now also known as the “BS” years: Before Steve. (Since Steve refers to his midlife dating period in the five years before he met me as “BS,” Before Sandee, I’m following suit.)

Maybe it’s the gloomy weather or renewed pressures at work.  Or maybe it’s the fact that even now when I have a sweetheart, my anxiety still ratchets up a notch when I see store aisles packed full of Valentine’s Day gifts—no doubt a holdover from too many misspent years wondering if lack of boyfriend = unlovable Sandee. In any case, it seemed a good time to remind myself, and maybe a dear friend or two, that I wasn’t always so lucky, and that you do, indeed, have to kiss a few frogs (or at least meet them for sushi) if you have any hope of finding a prince.

In the meantime? Buy the chocolates and roses for yourself!

The Non-date Date

I’d met “Sam,” a hospital pharmacist, at an event sponsored by a Meetup.com group. I’d joined the group a few months after a break-up with a man I’d met through Match.com left me reeling. I wasn’t ready to go back to the online dating scene, but sitting at home moping wasn’t a healthy option either. So I found a couple local Meetups, one focused on outdoor activities, and another on wine-tasting, took a deep breath, and headed to my first social. Continue reading

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The Wedding Present

Steve and I received our first wedding present shortly before Christmas. Steve’s mother Judy, a widow who lives in a retirement community outside DC, asked us to visit so she could give us a special wedding gift, a crystal wine decanter. The decanter had been a present to her and her husband Jack, Steve’s father, when they were married in Tampa in 1954.

In a note she sent to Steve, she indicated she wanted to give us the decanter now while she still felt in reasonable control of her health. Her vision is failing, as is her memory, and she’s aware of her fading faculties. We’d wanted to make a visit anyway, as her 85th birthday fell in early December, and we knew we’d be away for the holidays. So we drove up to take her out to dinner and sit for a while.

Steve and his mom Judy

Steve and his mom Judy

Petite, with short gray hair, Judy welcomed us warmly with hugs when we arrived. Despite her frailty, she carries herself with poise. After dinner at an Italian restaurant, she gave us the decanter, wrapped carefully in a towel and tucked into a handled shopping bag. It is a striking piece with family history, and I felt honored she wanted to pass it on to us. As we chatted, her frustration with her increasing limitations became evident. She struggled to see the particulars of the engagement photos we’d brought her as a gift, and when she’d begin to tell a family story she would often frown and pause a few sentences in, shaking her head. “Now, where was I going with that?” she’d say, and give a rueful laugh. She held significant events fairly clearly in her mind: she knew we were soon headed to England, and that she would be spending Christmas day with her daughter’s family. But the finer details frayed at the edges, and sometimes the thread was lost altogether. Continue reading