It’s been so long since I’ve typed that I don’t even know where to start. Lots has happened, and nothing’s happened, ya know?
I went on an epic, multigenerational trip of a lifetime and I have so many thoughts about that. But they are not yet for this space. And things with Monsieur Magique are… the same? And yet everything is different.
I’m not going to drag this out in the typical way. I think I will just summarize, because I’m tired of myself. I keep getting stuck on the same parts of myself, the parts that needs attention and validation, which I’m well-versed in Buddhism enough to know is my ego. I, like 99% of people on this planet (in the west, at least) am trying to fill a hole somewhere that doesn’t actually exist, because apparently none of this is real. It’s all projections of our minds. Huh.
If you’ve been coming here a while, you know my sticking point. I’d like the men I’m dating to text me and say that they are thinking about me. Or to pick up the phone and call me. My love languages are Words of Affirmation, Touch and Quality Time. My custody arrangement is such that I only really have every other weekend to myself overnights, and even that often gets eaten up by my ex’s work schedule or the kids having events that a mom should attend.
But most men are unitaskers and compartmentalizers. They don’t talk to four different group chats all day long in the middle of work. They are not wired that way. I, on the other hand, am co-dependent with everybody. Haha. I have bazillion group chats, plus robust social media friendships where I am constantly communicating all day long. Writing stuff down feels good to me. However, I think it’s all a bit much sometimes. And in working through a new relationship, you can’t compare one method of communication to another.
I am dating someone who works 80+ hours a week, super-parents his kids, and hardly sleeps. And somehow, despite this, he is trying to make a wee corner in his schedule for yours truly. And yours truly has a lot of trouble just accepting this. She gets restless and makes up stories about her time being disrespected. Or that maybe this dude is so scared of his past mistakes that he is keeping her at arm’s length.
All of this turned out to be right, but it’s also wrong. When I feel like MM is disrespecting my time, I’m also disrespecting his. He works A LOT. It’s unsustainable and he knows it, as we discussed when we last hung two weeks ago. I tried to get to what would his life look like if he was working 40-50 hours a week. And after some deep heart to hearts, I think I both confirmed what I already knew and asked for what I needed, as did he. I will paraphrase somewhat.
“I get the sense that you want more, but right now I work 80 hours a week. The limited time I have free I want to spend with you. Alone. I’m this close to burning out and can’t take on more right now.”
“Of course I want to meet your friends and I want you to meet mine, but I just can’t right now. I do want to plan a future at some point but I’m still finalizing my separation and trying to close these deals at work, so it’s not clean right now. And that’s not how I do things. You’re not seeing my best and I don’t feel good about that.”
So basically he’s a grown-up. I can’t have all of him right now. Maybe never. And vice versa. I don’t want to give up my lady friendships or my writing time. Or my concerts, which I get the feeling he would not enjoy because his love for cheesy pop doesn’t jive with my passion for alternative bands and singer-songwriters.
However, if I’m truly honest with myself, this isn’t working for me. I’m being asked to stay cool on ice for four months. I’m subtly being asked not to text or send photos. The issues here aren’t that different from the ones I had with Ali, Mr. Saturday Night, or even Theo. The men in my life aren’t showing up the way I need them to. My expectations get called into question and I end up vacillating between wondering what’s wrong with me and feeling gaslighted or disrespected. I get told I should accept the male need to chase, but I detest playing these games. They are not true to who I am, which is raw, honest and excited.
My favourite Buddhist nun, Pema Chödrön, asks us to stay with ourselves in times of discomfort. Don’t act. Sit still in the eye of the storm. And I have been trying that, but with varying degrees of success. I’ve realized, it’s OK to have limits. I’m not a Buddhist nun. I have wants and needs and desires. I’m human. I’m not ready to give it all up to live in the grace of the universe 24-7, although the Buddhists would have you believe that the love of source energy is better than sex. I want to have my cake and eat it too.
But perhaps, this experience will lead to my final act of total surrender. I can’t control life or love and neither can you. I can imagine a future, dream of it, try to manifest it through beliefs, but at the end of the day all I can control is how I prepare for a moment and how I react to a moment. And I’ll admit I haven’t been too graceful at reacting to being ignored. Being ignored is my trigger. And social media makes it so that I never have to feel ignored, not even for half a day, unless I don’t need it or care about it that day.
So much meditation and thought work still to do to clear this hurdle. And maybe an acceptance that I never will. All my important relationships with men have been “Do you love me?” exercises, stemming back to things that happened with my own dad. The difference is: I’m quite certain I love myself now, and yet, perhaps not fully. Perhaps the “Do you love me?” exercise is really one I have to apply to myself? Time to do a Wild style walk in the wilderness? Or hit a silent meditation retreat? I’ve got no problems being alone, I even crave my solitude. But perhaps I have to go cold turkey with my addiction to people and the internet?
Let me ponder this some. Am I looking at this all wrong? Am I right to express my disappointment about how this is going after six months? I welcome your comments and suggestions (scroll back up for “Leave a Comment” feature).
I missed a key part of the evening in part two! We had a pretty in depth discussion about exclusivity. It’s worth noting before I take you into the depths of my negative thoughts. I told him I was seeing other people when we were first dating, but then I stopped, because I realized that I wouldn’t like it if he were seeing other people. He smiled and said, “I’m not seeing anyone else. I don’t have the time, nor do I want to.”
Also of note, after recapping this weekend I’m writing about to my friend, she said, “It sounds like he’s in a relationship with you and you’re not aware of it. Like you’re still wondering if this is a relationship.” Whoa. Bang on. All this to say, I’m in a much happier, more grounded place at the time of this writing, two weeks since this all happened. And yeah, I’m in a relationship. Surprise!
I scrapped all my plans and went home to rest. Bath and a nap were what I needed to ground me, or so I thought. I was meant to meet my business partner, Rock n’ Roll Cowgirl, later that evening. She’s the one who introduced me to Monsieur Magique, and I think she’d been dying of curiosity to see us together, so we’d invited MM to join us.
My neck was in really bad shape, and so I did something I’d qualify as stupid. OK maybe risky is better. I had some edibles in a drawer and I took a quarter of a “relax” one and a quarter of an “uplifting” one, hoping to take the edge off my pain and at the same time give me some energy for the night. By the time I got to the bar, I was ridiculously stoned (did I mention I had never tried this before) and on an upper/downer roller coaster that I do not recommend. I experienced the entire evening as though behind a glass and was paranoid AF. I told RRCG that I was stupidly stoned, and we had a good laugh about it, because I knew I was going to be a total weirdo and I needed her to know, lest she think I was being rude or just a freak in general.
MM had been odd about the fact that RRCG’s boyfriend might be joining us. He thought of that as a double date and was opposed to the idea. I could give two fucks about it, tbh, I just wanted to see RRCG, whom I adore, to celebrate our recent event success — OK, OK, and maybe get her POV on MM and me. RRCG’s boyfie did show up and my paranoia had me thinking, “I don’t want MM to think this is a fait accompli!” So I texted him to say who was there as a heads up. I missed his response, which was, “OK, let’s not stay too long then.”
I ordered a salad, because I needed to eat to calm my nerves. But once MM got there I couldn’t relax. He was surprised that I was eating, because we were supposed to go out to eat and obviously this was sending mixed signals because I’d missed his text. I kept scanning his face for annoyance with me, something I used to do with my ex constantly. RRCG was on fire, talking to fill in the conversation gap that we’d typically share together.
“What do you like about Maria that’s different from your past relationships?” GAH! I wanted to crawl under the table. I have trouble with compliments at the best of times, but it’s safe to say that being on a THC-induced paranoia roller coaster didn’t help that.
MM smiles. “Well I can’t compare to past relationships, like it’s not better or worse, but I have to say that if there’s one word to describe Maria, it’s ‘easy.’ She’s just so easy to be around.”
At this point I became a melty liquid pouring under the table where I felt safe. I had been trying to stay ultra present, but the damn glass window of my mind that I was experiencing the evening through was making it so tough. Then RRCG asked the same question of me. I took a deep breath and tried not to fuck up my response.
“I love that Monsieur Magique knows who he is. He has a strong sense of self that is quite attractive. That’s really rare.” I can’t stress the importance of this enough. While at times he can be stubborn about it, knowing who he is and what his boundaries are gives me a really solid playground to explore.
I couldn’t shake my discomfort and because of my unclear mind state, couldn’t quite gauge if what I was seeing and experiencing was really how I saw it. When energy is stuck and reality is unclear, you gotta move until you get some ground. So I got up to use the bathroom and check my phone (my security blanket) and that’s when I saw his text. I was confused because he’d ordered a second drink, which made me realize we were missing each other’s cues all night. I made an executive decision in that moment and stopped at the bar and paid our tab. When I came back to the table, I touched the back of his head gingerly and said, “OK we should go. You must be starving. I settled up so we can leave whenever.” His face whenever I pay delights me to no end. He’s still so surprised by it.
We said our goodbyes and headed towards my neighbourhood for a bite. But it was late, 10PM and I knew in my gut that my neighbourhood is dicey after 10, notorious for closing early. In the car we debriefed on our evening so far. I apologized for being a bit out of it, told him I’d taken something to ease my neck pain and that it had made me light-headed so I’d ordered food to settle myself a bit. He teased me for a text I’d sent earlier that said, “Let’s keep lines of communication open.”
“What did you mean by that?” He was right, of course, there was a double entendre there in my intention, but I went with, “What? I just meant check your phone so that you know which bar we’re going to!” I love that he catches it and calls me on my shit. I can’t hide.
He looked at me sideways, “You still don’t sense me, do you?” Somethings get lost in translation, but it doesn’t matter, this question was enough to bring me out of my fog and into the present. Boom! I’d been so focused on exterior stuff, on expectations and interpretations, that I’d forgotten to sense him, to just enjoy his presence.
Like, for example, we’re dating, so my expectation is that we do “date stuff.” Or that we shag constantly. But can’t I enjoy him regardless of what we’re doing? Am I into him or just looking for a dance partner? As soon as I realized what I was doing and the thought loop I was trapped in, it faded. And suddenly our whole weekend changed.
After a few expected “Kitchen closed” conversations, we found a spot. It was a noisy BBQ joint, full of bearded white guys in plaid. He looked at me and said, “This is what we’ve chosen, so let’s just enjoy.” As if he knew part of my brain was calculating other options in the hood. So we ordered (freedom) fries and ribs and talked about our first jobs and laughed and flirted and basked in each other’s company.
The rest of our time together was delightful. And I’m happy to report that this past weekend offered more of the same, but deeper in a gentle simmer kind of way. This is a Le Creuset slow-cook bourguignon, not a BBQ. I dropped my expectations, committed to my choice (hosting him for dinner and Beyonce’s Homecoming documentary at my place) and just ENJOYED him. That’s a whole ‘nother story, but let’s just say, yes, I AM IN THIS THING! I AM GETTING WHAT I WANT NOW THAT I’M KNOWING WHAT I WANT! And what I want for right now is him. He holds me all night long and wants to talk feelings and laugh and cuddle… he can watch three-hours of Queen Bey and not even really be that into her music, because I want to. He ADORES me. He constantly asks me what I want, encouraging me past my comfortable-uncomfortable place of being accommodating, of “sure, sounds good.”
OMG I am falling and while it’s scary as heck (hence my past focus on all the perceived negatives), I’m doing it man! I’ve been hurt before and survived, and I’m certainly not the woman I was 2.5 years ago. I’m way stronger and more awake now. I’m as ready as I’m going to be. Clear eyes, big hearts, can’t lose. Let’s do this thing!
After we made plans, he suggested a phone call. “Heading home in 1o and then I’ll call.” The pattern continues of course, the one where he says he’s leaving work but he doesn’t leave work. Something to keep watching and being curious about, seeing if it shifts.
I was putting the kids to bed when he texted and told him to go home, get settled, eat something. I know he doesn’t take care of himself consistently, that he rushes from A to B and fuels himself in frantic sprints in between. And there’s the cigarettes, which we know is gonna be a thing eventually, but it’s early enough on this journey that I feel like something could shift.
45 minutes later I messaged him, “OK ready! In bed and drinking my sleepytime tea!”
“Just leaving work.” He called me from the car, smoking out the window while he drove and we talked. He walked in the door talking to me, fed the cat while talking to me, made himself a wrap while talking to me, and then finally sat down. Exactly what I was trying to avoid. But maybe it doesn’t bother him?
“So what do you want to do Friday night?”
“Should we go straight to bed this time?”
I had another intensely chaotic work week, where everything is changing hour by hour and I am honestly not sure if I should keep working there because the universe keeps trying to throw me off this horse and somehow I keep insisting on hanging on, but that’s another story.
I worked a bit later than I would have liked and decided to go to the work gym to shower off the day and prep for a night of SEXY TIME! I texted him at 6:30 to say I was prepping but might be a bit later than 7:30. “No rush! Still at the office.”
Me, sarcastically. “Where else would you be?” Not cute, Maria, not cute. Passive aggressive snark is not a good look. Stop it.
Packing my overnight bag was a bit of an ordeal as I didn’t know what we were doing the next day so I overpacked and that took time to sort. I decided to Uber instead of taking public transit due to tardiness.
“I’m here!” I texted at 8 p.m. (A beat as I looked in the windows and rang the doorbell for the third time…) “But you are not.” Harumph. My phone rang immediately. It felt like he was giving me extra French accent to make up for it. “Hi sweetie! You’re there? Have a seat in the front or back. I’ll be there in 10.”
So much for going straight to bed. I was pissed and staring at an ashtray of cigarette butts. I decided to write a dirty story on my phone of what I’d like to happen (I walk in the door and he is all over me before I even remove my coat. His hands are up my shirt, undoing my bra…) when he showed up.
DAMMIT. That smile. Those piercing blue eyes. Dammit dammit.
But also… no crotch heat. Just friendly familiarity. We hadn’t seen each other in three weeks. I thought… I thought… (I walk in the door and he is all over me before I even remove my coat. His hands are up my shirt, undoing my bra…)
He produced the French wine he brought me from the place where he visited his parents. I produced wine from the same town, bought here though, because that’s how I roll. We drank both on the couch and ordered pizza and watched American Idol clips on YouTube and it was all comfortable as hell, but, but, but…
It’s a bit soon for this level of comfort, no? I wasn’t getting any crotch energy from him at this point. Whenever I playfully approached him, got the feeling he wasn’t into it, so I backed off. He seems to be stuck in these habits: work more than is healthy for a human, come home, drink and smoke and watch purely entertaining things on YouTube. So I went to the bad place. The place where I’m so triggered by someone who consumes too much wine to relax, triggered by someone who watches too much YouTube to relax. The place where someone is avoiding my advances. I was married to that person.
But then we had such an intensely personal conversation. He said that he could tell I was feeling frisky, but that he felt so gross after work that he needed to relax and have fun a bit first. I was glad he told me, and I get it. It’s not always going to line up perfectly. But let’s just say that I like nothing more than forgetting about work with a good romp. I’d had too much wine by that point and I have no idea what I was saying, but if I’m this candid when I’m sober, you can imagine what I might say when tipsy. It’s all blah, blah, blah in my memory right now, but I do recall saying something about how our values are so aligned and how much his children would adore me.
“You don’t need to sell me on this. I know my kids would love you. I see it (pause) but I just can’t.”
That’s when I realized that it hasn’t even been a year since he left the woman he lived with AFTER his marriage ended. Slow your fucking roll Maria. If you think you’re scared, he’s doubly so. “I understand, and I respect your boundaries.” And I truly do. But I can’t shake this niggling question in the back of my mind. “Is this working for me?”
“Right now, I want you to look at me like I’m sexy,” he demurred. As if. I guess I’d turned off my searchlight eyes when I got the cold crotch. Blink. Just like that, back on. I’m amazed that I’m in my forties and still this horny all the time.
“It’s 11 p.m., time to put you to bed.” So to bed we went and it was fun, but still a bit rushed. I forgot my earplugs, so his damn jealous cat kept me up all night. I was uncomfortable and stuck in a negative thought loop, and lo and behold I woke up with an old neck injury from 2012.
I have talked about the metaphysical before. The body has a funny way of showing you the secrets its been keeping. If I read my diary from 2012, it’s the beginning of the end of my marriage. At about the same time, my neck got severely pinched, causing parasthesia (that’s a feeling of tingling, like spiders crawling on you) on my face. It took months of chiropractic, massage, desk adjustment to repair it. I used to joke to Theo that he was the literal pain in my neck. When he left, the pain and tightness disappeared.
Monsieur Magique had to go to an appointment first thing, so he kissed me and left me in bed. “Maybe you can sext me,” he joked as he left, inferring to an article I’m working on about the ubiquitousness of the medium. I slept for a bit and then I had a shower and got back into bed. I light sexted. “Showered and back in your bed, waiting for you…” He’s still new and not ready for tit pics yet.
I lay in bed, lucidly resting, when I heard him come home. He came up and saw that I was “sleeping” and then went back down. What?! Did I look too cosy? I fell asleep again and when I woke, I realized he wasn’t coming back up. How much time had passed? Was I merely being impatient? I began to get dressed. Suddenly he was outside the bathroom door.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting dressed.”
“I just got your text right now.”
Whoops. Signals crossed again. I made my way down to find a gorgeous spread. Croissants, hand-chopped to perfection fruit salad in pretty bowls, tulips. Sigh. No crotch energy, but so fucking romantic.
We loitered a bit. He tinkered in the yard while I closed my eyes and tried to stretch out my neck. But I was stuck in a horrible place mentally. Like with the neck pain, an old version of Maria, one I’ve worked through (or so I thought), showed up and wouldn’t leave. And she was picking apart all of it and mad because the day wasn’t meeting her expectations of hand holding in the sunshine and going for walks. Also that we weren’t shagging again. I just assumed it would be a weekend fuckfest. Nope.
Instead we ended up at the mall to buy his daughter a birthday gift. Then we went for tacos. I was exhausted and repeating myself and just not my sparkly self. It felt like there was a wall where normally I’m happy to just orbit in his energy. I could not shake it. We decided to break after lunch and meet up later. I needed some alone time to clear my head, maybe do some yoga and some work. Little did I realize that my mood would get so much worse.
I never realized how passive I can be until this week. I read an article about passivity vs. passive aggression vs. aggression vs. assertiveness. We use all four of them at times, but there’s one that dominates. I can be assertive with my kids and assertive at work, speaking clearly for my needs when needed, but somehow in matters of love, I’ve lost my voice. Lost my SHOUT!
Where aggression is bullying and passive aggression is manipulative, passivity is saying everything is OK even when it’s not. Assertiveness, however, is simply saying what you mean from a place of kindness and respect, from a place that honours you as much as it honours the other person.
Passivity means avoiding eye contact during conflict, or avoiding conflict altogether. Passivity means I’m not being clear with my wants, my needs and my boundaries. What came out of my therapy session this week was that I need to be more direct. (Hi lady! My lovely therapist reads this blog. It makes our sessions super awesome and I’m grateful she appreciates my writing.)
While out with my sister and girlfriends last week, I was asked to talk about Monsieur Magique. I replied that had they asked me a week prior, I’d be all gooey, but as he hadn’t messaged me in four days, I was annoyed. “Just text him,” they said, but I reminded them that I was still a bit fucked up from my marriage and so one of my biggest fears is that I will like or love the other person more than they love me. That, as a result, I want to be chased a bit. I get that this is scarcity mindset, but bear with me. I also worry, I told them, that I will do more, nurture more than the other person, that I will give so much and lose.
“Just be yourself and treat him the way you want to be treated,” my sister said. “Text him now.” So I did. He was in NYC for work but responded immediately. “Hi, sorry I haven’t been in touch. Crazy busy. How did it go on Monday?”
We chatted a bit about where he was, my big event, etc. He was flying home the next day. When I woke up the next day thinking about him, I said, fuck it, be yourself and texted that I was thinking about him and couldn’t wait to be in his arms again. He texted back later that day, rushing from airports to playdates and offered to call that night after the girls were asleep.
I was prepping for my big speech/talk the next day, but kept glancing at my phone. And much like I’ve been waiting for that postcard to show up in the mailbox, it was there, in the back of my mind, distracting me when I needed to have my head on. (Distraction, like procrastination, is a good reminder that there’s emotional regulation work that needs to be done. Also, SIDEBAR: is romantic love even worth all this mind-fucking? Sigh. Yes, yes it is.) Anyway, at 10:20pm I picked up my phone and begrudgingly texted, “Look I know you’re probably tired and I need to focus, so let’s connect later in the weekend, k?”
He responded a few minutes later. “You don’t want to talk?” Followed by explanation that I didn’t ask for, followed by, “Just call me when you can, even if only for a short time.”
Sigh. Eye roll.
So I did. “Sure, sounds good. Give me five.”
I called him twice, fumbled and hung up, because subconsciously I wanted the feeling of him calling me – like he was SUPPOSED TO. “I don’t know why my phone is doing that…” I answered, playing dumb. We had a lovely chat, he was curious about my event and the talk and how it was all gonna go. He wished me well and sent me off to bed. C’est tout. I was kind of hoping for an additional text the next morning but it never came and the call the night before was enough, I convinced myself. Why am I so NEEDY?
The event was amazing. Exceeded my expectations and we are getting so much better at this. I left feeling proud but exhausted. I walked into the house after a FULL day of emotional thought work with 35 women and was greeted by my boisterous, funny kids. As they were telling me about their day with my sis (“We played RICH all day! We went to the RICH mall in our RICH car and bought stuff. Now we are drinking our RICH water!” LOL), I was changing outfits and trying to coral us out the door to meet friends for dinner, when my phone rang in my hand.
Flashback to when I was feeling giddy one day and put heart emojis around MM’s name in my phone. So when he calls it’s super alarming. It’s like LOVE itself is calling. I was so discombobulated in that moment that I answered, “Hi! Did I just pocket dial you? What’s happening?”
His voice always waits a beat, smooth as silk draped in soft smoke plumes and velvety French, always slightly amused at my Amelia Bedelia sensibilities around these things, “No. What? I’m calling to see how your event went.”
I took a breath and ran to hide in the kitchen – the furthest back place in a house with no privacy. I gave the rundown of the event, told him it was magical. He listened and asked questions and let me go. “Well you sound busy, I just wanted to check in and see how it went and it sounds like it went great. Go enjoy your evening with the kids.”
When I had a moment to gather my thoughts, I sent a text. “Thanks for calling. Sorry for sounding so frazzled. I adore being called and haven’t had a relationship where a man called me on the phone for a long time. It’s so thoughtful and means a lot.” Better?
If I’m being honest, I’ve had at least four therapeutic conversations in the past week about my needing to be more direct. The one with my sister, one with Dr. X during a homeopathy call, one with my business partner Rock n’ Roll Cowgirl during a business call (we talk every day so it’s probably more) and then one with Danny my therapist (there Danny! I gave you a nickname, same as the street you work on, but also because you kept referring to Monsieur Magique as “Daniel“).
I was trying to get to the root of it, wondering if it was from childhood. There’s definitely stuff there. I always felt “not heard” as a child. I lacked agency and autonomy because my darling mother, who was raised by post-genocidal parents and was an immigrant to this country, was a dictator more than a teacher. It’s the reason (I believe) that I need to broadcast every thought on five channels when I am struggling with or celebrating one.
I never truly learned to trust my own voice or decision-making as a kid, because I was always taught I was too trusting, too willing to see the good in everyone. It’s the reason I need to ask the chorus every time I’m noodling through a decision. Because I’ve forgotten how to trust my own intuition in certain situation. I’m getting better at it, it’s a work in progress, but I wanted to write about this today because I think it’s something a lot of people (women in particular) struggle with, and because after all the work I’ve done on mindset and behaviour (which will be a lifelong practice), this is one of the last niggling pieces to work through. So of course it’s THE BIGGEST.
But Danny was quick to remind me that I didn’t need to go that far back into the past to find the source of my inability to speak my truth. That my experience in marriage had a lot of silencing or dismissing of my attempts to ask for what I want or need. Right. She encouraged me to talk to Monsieur Magique about why it’s so hard for me to ask for what I truly want or need.
Dr. X is so good at reminding me to step into myself. To “stop it with the pity party of that last post,” which, hilariously, Danny thought showed that while I accepted the cadence at which I was seeing Monsieur Magique, I quickly determined I needed more effort in between visits with him to keep the connection. Positive! And this is normal, I think, the dance of figuring out how to communicate, how to find middle ground, how to determine how the dance goes. It’s OK to ask the DJ to change the song if you don’t like it. It’s not OK to dance a dance that brings up painful memories. If you catch yourself in Old Habit Energy, you HAVE to say something or change something up, otherwise you’re participating in self-harm.
By Tuesday this week I was annoyed again. We’d been chatting and yet there was no invite for the weekend. It was a rare event in that he typically books the next date at the end of the last one. Invites from friends were coming in, but for some reason, I wasn’t saying yes to anything. Actually I know why I wasn’t saying yes, because my tendency is to fill my calendar and I had mindfully tried to leave gaps for MM time! Am I supposed to channel that book from the 90s The Rules? What was it? If he asks you out later than Wednesday, say you’re busy? Ugh. I don’t want to play games. And yet, it’s all a damn game. Isn’t saying you’re not playing also a way of playing? “Play your cards right,” my mom keeps saying, creating self-doubt, implying that I’ve got something to lose in a man other than in myself.
Dr. X told me to just be direct. So I messaged with, “Are we seeing each other this weekend? I’m starting to make plans.”
“What are your plans? Want to come over Friday night?”
Sure, sounds good.
What I should have said was, “Yes, I haven’t seen you in three weeks. I want to come over and have sex with you Friday night, before we do anything else, not at 2 a.m. And then I want to get a glimpse of what the best of you is. I want to spend the weekend with you and see how our downtime plays, hopefully with a mix of doing fun things and multiple shagathons that result in many orgasms for ME!”
I’m working on a speech/talk for a big event I’m co-hosting this weekend, but I can’t shake my annoyance so I’m going to use this space to work through it. It’s been a week (isn’t it always? Is it like this for everyone?) and I’ve needed some emotional support.
I’m lucky enough to have a caring circle of friends and family. Friends texted and DM’ed and called after the initial news of work changes last week. My parents called me Monday to check in on me, because I had a big offer coming my way that needed reviewing so I could assess my future. My parents, being pessimists, assumed this meant I was losing my job, so they worried. But all was fine, the offer was as good as could be expected given the circumstances. In essence everything is fine, except it’s not.
Everything is fine in that after years of cuts, this week (maybe even this whole year) we all have jobs. That’s good. But as an industry under constant fire, we all have a bit of PTSD. We’re all a little shell-shocked, so we look gift horses in the mouth because we no longer believe in good things. We no longer believe someone could just want us for us, for our talent, experience and creativity. For what we produce. Even good things, we think, will only last a short amount of time before our work families are inevitably destroyed, our craft eroded yet again. And yet, we are still here, still trying to tell the truth every damn day.
And I think where I’m struggling is that everything in my life feels precarious like this. I’m scarred from my experiences, and as a passionate person I want things to succeed, to flourish: my children, my garden, my relationships, my work… I know, through my meditation and Buddhism studies, that this is par for the course, that I must accept that I have no control over this and accept the “is-ness of the now” or risk suffering. So I’m fully aware that my suffering is at my own hand/thought.
I feel grounded but then it’s like I overdo it and then I’m a mess again. I’m good with Monsieur Magique being the way he is, I tell myself, CONVINCE myself, and then he does not connect with me for THREE WHOLE DAYS on a week where I need a check-in and a laugh, and I’m doubting everything again. How can this person, who has shown time and time again that I will be priority #3, be enough for me? Am I looking at this all wrong?
Even on my busiest days, I have time to send a quick note. But then again, I have an easily distractable brain and enjoy interruptions. What does it say about him that even while waiting to board a flight, or sitting in his hotel room on a travel day, that he cannot be bothered to send a note?
When we are together, this is not a problem. He’s present. We connect. We enjoy each other. But in between, while he’s in touch more frequently than Mr. SN was, there’s the same feeling of lack. Lack of interest or curiosity in me and how I’m doing. Is that just my ego flaring up. Should I continue to be confident in what is? Why is it that I can’t be OK with this?
Ultimately a relationship is a partnership of equals. My job, my career, is not just a fun thing to talk about at parties (though it is very fun and cool). It matters to me. I’m invested in my team and my organization as a whole. I believe in what we do. My passions are a huge part of who I am. So if I’m stressed about a particular event in that space, I would hope to get some support or inquiry from the person who should be the most interested in being supportive. And here we now have the biggest red flag of all. The not calling/texting IS an issue after all, because it suggests a self-involvement or prioritization of his tasks/issues above anything to do with me. It’s not equal.
Now I get it, MM’s freshly back from the EU. Jetlagged. Working AND parenting at full throttle. I have compassion there, I do. This is not all about me. But I’m trying to see how this is gonna go, and the actions say, “I don’t have time for you right now.” Sigh. Gonna ride this feeling of discomfort out and see what happens, keep an eye out for patterns. When in doubt, do nothing.
So while I haven’t heard from my “maybe boyfriend,” my ex-husband has gone out of his way on all fronts this week. Weird! Texts asking about my day, about my event Saturday, general cheerleading from the sidelines about how lucky our kids are to have me. I’m not going to read into this further, I’m just going to appreciate that now that we are not together, he’s become more of the man I needed him to be when we were.
And now that I’ve barfed that out, back to the speech-writing.
Monsieur Magique was headed to Europe for a week of business and visiting his parents. He asked if I was able to switch up my co-parenting schedule so that I could come see him before he flew out. My ex, who is a lot of things, but chiefly a lovely, kind man who wants me to be happy, was good enough to accommodate and take the kids so I could connect with MM before he left. (Yes we are THAT open with each other as exes. It oddly works for us.)
I was worried that MM would not leave work again, so I texted to say I was making reservations near his office. He replied that he was thinking takeout and chill at his home and could I come by for 8. He’s on the opposite side of the city from me, so I decided to go straight from the office and therefore had some time to kill. I had my nails painted “Bastille My Heart,” bought a little lingerie set (silky, lacy shorts and a tank plus something to throw over for breakfast the next morning), two tarts for dessert and headed over.
I wore my favourite red pixie pants with a navy silk tee and straightened my hair. He misses NOTHING. “Ooh, I like this! You’re wearing the French colours!” Coincidentally, I redid my whole wardrobe, a la capsule collection recommendations (stick to a colour palate) before going to Spain in 2017 and bleu, blanc, rouge is a BIG part of my closet. We quickly fell into easy chatter, had Lebanese food and Spanish wine and all my worries were addressed in one very wonderfully honest conversation.
“I’m sorry we didn’t go out to eat,” he began. “I don’t feel good about this. It’s always the same and I’m sorry. We meet late, we eat something, we’re probably going to have sex later…” hinting at a pattern.
“Oh are you sure about that?” I teased.
“I’m just so busy with work and the girls. I want you to know that I want to take you out. I want to do fun things with you. I don’t want to rush from work and then off to work again. I’m sorry it’s not turning out like that.”
“Magique,” I said with kindness in my eyes, “You made it very clear from our first date that work and the girls are your priority this year. Do I like to go out? Of course! But I am very good at filling my time with fun and don’t need a man to make that happen. What I’m not so good at is slowing down. And to be honest, this enforced relaxation has been really nice, because I’ve never met someone who made me WANT to stay home before.”
And I meant it, honestly. I do want to take this relationship out on a test drive with friends, of course. But I also get that with all the travel he does, he craves staying home. I have a full dance card all the time, so taking time to rest is becoming increasingly important as I grow older. And I’m terrible at it, because I want to do ALL THE THINGS! I want to see ALL THE PEOPLE! So having this sanctuary with him, well, it’s turning out to be exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
He balked and apologized some more, so I looked at him and smiled, “I don’t want to add to your stress or your guilt. Your stress is often palpable, it’s so present, but you can still be light and funny despite it and that says a lot. I have learned from YOU. You are such a clear communicator about your availability that if I don’t hear from you, I find I’m not spinning about whether or not you like me. You have always been so confident that this was going to be a thing. So I just trust that this is going to happen in its own time. I’m not in a rush. I will text you on occasion when you cross my mind and you can respond when you’re able. And if you have time for me, you let me know.”
He softened and smiled, a thousand suns shining from his beautiful blue eyes. I see you. We connect on a level so deep that sometimes I wonder if I’m imagining it.
The rest of the night needed some adjustments, and I realize that there’s something in each of us from our pasts that made it this way and upon reflecting over the past week, I have a good sense as to what’s happening here.
After dinner, he made a quip about wanting to play hide and seek and I missed the cue. So instead, I ended up sitting on the couch and we stayed up until nearly 2am playing “The Best Duets Ever” contest on YouTube. As in, we’d each think of a duet and then say it into the Apple TV remote to pull it up and then we’d laugh as we watched the performance. “Go gently,” he teased, putting the remote’s microphone to my mouth, “It’s used to a soft, French voice.” Swoon.
We were snuggling and touching the entire time but why neither of us jumped each other’s bones, I don’t know. Except, well, I know my side of it. I’m paralyzed by my past experience with Theo. With Theo, after the kids were born and especially after we realized that I get pregnant at the drop of a hat, I was called a “nympho” for wanting sex as much as I did. I could initiate sometimes, but I could not guarantee his participation, and I certainly could not guarantee that he’d be invested in my orgasms.
But MM and I are in our 40s now, so going to bed at 2am is going to guarantee that sex is not an A+ scenario. He’s stressed and tired, and I had stuff on my mind too (THE FUCKING BOIL that will not DIE), so neither of us could really get into it. I mean, we did OK, but it was like “sex five years in” sex, not “we just met and want to bone all the time” sex. It’s full of comfort and warmth but lacks some of the experimentation and unexpectedness of what I experienced with my last two lovers.
I spent the next day wondering if sex matters that much when everything else is so great. And then I realized I was being a dolt. I can tell this man ANYTHING. So why is talking about bedroom stuff so nerve-wracking? And what’s with this idea that everything has to be 100% exactly right, right out the gate?
Good things take time. They evolve through respect and trust, one conversation at a time. And if I am truly in no rush, then I should just relax and know that someone who cares about me will care about my pleasure too, and will make time for my pleasure. I need to stop taking the past to bed with me. I need to be more forward, too. And if sex is not as important to him, I have a right to ask why, to try to crack that nut, and to express that I’m a highly sexual being who will not hold back her desire or make concessions for it. I don’t have the same life pressures I felt in my twenties. There’s no clock or life list forcing me to get off the dating train here. It’s a choice.
I sent him a text to say I’d made it home from his place the next day, thanking him for a lovely time. He took a few hours, but responded later with a heartfelt thank you that I had switched things up to see him. “Chilling with you is just so comfortable and pleasant.” I asked him to send me a postcard. Let’s see if it shows up. I’m curious about my feelings should it not materialize.
He has messaged me from Europe nearly every day since the vacation part started. He has been sending photos of where he spends his days and even a photo of his parents. Then he told me that he told his mum about me, that “funny, light-spirited” Maria. That he showed her photos. That she said I looked, “douce.”
“I told my mom about you, too.” I felt 17.
This morning I woke up to a photo of a sunrise. “Sharing my sunrise for your rise…” He’s on a plane home. I decided to risk it all and reply with,”You are the most wonderfully romantic man I’ve ever met. Thank you for sharing your last French sunrise. I don’t know how I will be able to last two more weeks without being able to wrap my arms around you, but I’m really happy we found each other. Welcome home, Magique.”
Home. Feels a bit like we are starting to build the foundations of one together. I feel it in my solar plexus. But I gotta stay in the now. Only time will tell. I’m going to get up the courage to write down my vision for a future, just to keep myself from getting scared of it.
It’s hard to believe it’s only been two short months. 70 days at best. And yet I feel as though I’ve always known him, Monsieur Magique. I feel so SEEN, because although many of our interests are different, our spirits, our energy, our values are so aligned. He seems to just GET me. Sometimes it’s like looking into a mirror and seeing a smarter, more logical version of myself.
Except there are things I have mastered that he aspires to. I bring something to the picnic too, big time. Through hard work, focused learning and constant dedication to prioritizing what fuels me, I’ve got my stress and self-care in check. His desperate need to make time for relaxation means that my desire to reduce my tendency to overschedule myself is addressed through our time together. My planning brain doesn’t need to change drastically. On the contrary, its enhanced by creativity, trying to find fun new ways to rest or create de-stressing. It’s self-love partnered with caring for this man, who fell from the sky and anchored me to the universe. It’s less about doing and more about being.
I’m going backwards through time at the speed of light I’m yours, you’re mine, two satellites Not alone No, we’re not alone A freeze-frame of your eye in the strobelight Sweat dripping down from your brow, hold tight Don’t let go Don’t you let me go
I listened to a great podcast this week called Unf*ck Your Brain. The host specializes in thought work. And she blew my mind a bit, although there may be more enlightened schools of thought that disagree with what I’m about to break down. But hear me out. Basically, love is just your thoughts that create positive feelings. So loving someone is just for you, really. You can go ahead and love someone as much as you want, as long as you are being treated with respect and it feels good! Love is not a finite resource. We can make as much love as the love thoughts we have the capacity to generate. You do not need to ration it or budget it. You can spend it, assess if where you spent it served you well and decide to keep spending it there or withdraw and spend it somewhere else.
But start with yourself. Because negative thoughts are just that—THOUGHTS! And you have the power to change or re-write them. If you’re not feeling it with someone you’ve loved, examine YOUR thoughts first. Start with yourself. Is the issue deeper, a past hurt or trauma perhaps? Or is it simply that you chose to love someone/spend love thoughts on someone who can’t meet you at your level?
We all grow at different rates and paces, not just physically but intellectually, cognitively and spiritually. You can wake up one day to find you’ve outpaced the person you started out with, be it your parent, your friend, your spouse. Or that they couldn’t keep up with you. And that’s when things get painful. Because you either start holding yourself back for the person you love to catch up, or you constantly feel like you’re not enough to keep up with the person who got there before you. You don’t understand why the other person doesn’t see the world the way you do. And it hurts, because our instinct is to think that one of us is wrong, when often we are both right.
When you start tuning into where you are vibing, when you pay attention to your pace and your steps, the body that houses the spirit and the mind that often gets too much power beyond running the order of operations of that body, THEN things do fall into place. The only two things we have control over is how we prepare for a particular moment and how we react to a particular moment. Once you spend some time with that, little by little, you let go of worry and fear, one act of surrender at a time.
In that regard, I see falling in love as a choice and staying in love a mix of choice and actions, small surrenders and kindnesses done on the daily—by choice.
And I never was smart with love I let the bad ones in and the good ones go, but…
I’m gonna love you like I’ve never been hurt before I’m gonna love you like I’m indestructible Your love is ultra magnetic and it’s taking over This is hardcore And I’m indestructible
Monsieur Magique was an hour late. I expect him to always be 30 minutes late—that’s the basic buffer I mentally put in as a safety measure. He’s a European stereotype with those things and also has an extremely intense job, so I understand his dedication to his work to-do list. So I just physically prepare on the off-chance he will be on-time, but mentally prepare for the fact that I have 30 minutes to tweak things like my makeup, my food presentation, or the arrangement of pillows on my bed. I put music on, I pour some wine and a just float through the house. If it’s a restaurant and I’m waiting the 30 minutes, I flirt with the waiter. But by the time he arrives, he expects me to be angry. It’s like he wants to be punished for being a naughty boy, and I think he might be disappointed when I’m completely unfazed.
I was irritated, and he’s right, I should be mindful of that. I think that this is me choosing not to be angry, but also I’ve learned that expectations matter. That if we don’t say something is unacceptable when it is, the person trespassing will continue to trespass and offend and you will keep saying, “It’s fine,” but not really mean it and then 20 years later you will wake up and hate the person for not knowing it’s not OK and not being able to read your mind after 20 years.
But also, do I need to sweat the small stuff? No harm, no foul. He usually let’s me know he’s running late in plenty of time and so we’re good. But on Friday night, 30 minutes became 60 with no notice. And the thing that irked me was I had gone out of my way to make him dinner, because I knew he was coming from work and probably had little but cigarettes for dinner. He has not been great at taking care of himself in the time I’ve known him, though he manages to go swimming or to the gym when he can.
His job is eating up his life. He works seven days a week AND tries to be SuperDad at the same time. From school to the airport or office and back again. And from our very first most magical date he made very clear that work and kids were the priority right now, so I accept that completely. But I CHOOSE to care about him, and seeing him constantly putting himself last (save those tiny smoke breaks), hearing him complain, seeing him look so stressed and tired… well it tears at my heart strings a bit. He’s a giver, but I wonder if he’s giving so much at the expense of himself. And then where do I fit in? What’s my part in all this? Do I need to define it or do I just go with the flow, filling in the gaps as I see them?
So I chose to welcome him into my home, to ignore his guilty look, and to wrap him up in my arms and hold and kiss his face to tell him it was OK. Because I wanted to create a safe, comforting space for him. This home was a battle zone and not a sanctuary for so long. I’ve worked so hard to give it new energy, and I want there to be something sacred in the space and time I choose to spend with the person I choose to care deeply about.
As I was flitting about the kitchen, getting everything reheated, he came up behind me and held me tight. “Smells so good,” he said, “Thank you. It kind of feels like I’m coming home.” My knees buckled a bit.
We ate and talked in depth about our kids and it’s never a problem because it’s both our favourite subjects and a great way to learn about each other. “You bought French wine!” he remarked. Indeed, I’d bought it with intention, thinking about how he told me that the good vintage is 2015. But I love Bordeaux, it’s one of my favourites (along with Rioja and Garnacha), so much so that it was the colour I had my toes painted this week (also with intention). “I often buy French wine,” I smirked.
Dinner was cold and not my A-game, and apparently I was a bit cold and B-game too, because he commented that I didn’t seem myself, that I seemed distant. I think I was just trying to observe what was happening, trying to keep an eye on how I was feeling and reacting to things, but he was convinced I was mad and holding back, not showing my Greekness enough. So I said, “Fine, I will tell you. This work stress is not your forever, but it’s your right now. And it’s OK right now, because it’s cold and icy, so hibernating is something I appreciate and a night at home is a nice thing. But come long, sunny days, I will resent you for being late. I’m very good at filling my own time with fun. Don’t keep me waiting. D’accord?“
We danced to 80s records again until late. But I was cognizant of the fact that he had to be up early to get his kids the next morning. “How much sleep do you need to be functional for your kids tomorrow?”
“Hmmm? Are you getting antsy to get me into bed?”
“No, well a bit, but I’m also respecting your time and your schedule,” I replied. “And don’t feel like you need to stay. If you need to be in your own house tonight, just say the words.” I was antsy, but only because the ghost of Susan FUCKING BOIL was back and I wasn’t sure how to address the fact that my ladytown was off limits.
“Five hours,” he replied, putting on Duran Duran’s “Reflex” and twirling me around the room. “Last song,” he said, and when it was done, he reshelved the record, then calmly walked over to his overnight bag. “I brought my jammies!” he smiled, tossing a pair of PJ pants down to my bedroom. I guess we were having a sleepover. Not gonna lie, I was giddy.
Hands up in the air like we don’t care We’re shooting deep into space And the lasers split the dark Cut right through the dark It’s just us, we ignore the crowd dancing Fall to the floor Beats in my heart Put your hand on my heart
I won’t get into details of what ensued (sorry pervs), but let’s say that some interesting things came up, all of which are promising and can be worked through with communication. He is a giver! And I think has a hard time with letting go, like he’s too wrapped up in his own head. I can work with this.
So I pretended I had my period to not get into the whole “maybe I have a staph infection” conversation. And as a result, try as he might to change the course of the evening, I did not have an orgasm. And I was totally OK with that. It was my choice, not due to a bad lover. You get to choose how you ride your ride. Instead, after we fooled around in other ways, I got another all-night snugglefest. And for the first time, I really fell asleep. I woke up a few times to adjust blankets, pillows, positions, the thermostat… but I learned how to accept his snoring as purring and let him white noise me to sleep in his arms.
When I called it purring in the morning, he softened. “You’re so kind to call it that.” We don’t have to make someone’s physical flaws a liability. We can be gentle with them. And we should be just as gentle (if not more) with our own. What I adore about Monsieur Magique is how he notices kind gestures and really expresses his appreciation for them. No one is perfect, but I get that some things are deal breakers, I have them too, and I watch for them like a hawk. Perhaps I should make a post about them, my makers and breakers, because I’ve put a lot of thought into them, but haven’t validated the breakers properly.
We shared a bagel and talked about our plans for the week. He thanked me countless times, apologizing again for his lateness. We hugged deeply, with meaning. “Text me to keep me updated on your adventures and I’ll try to do the same,” he said over his shoulder while leaving, eliminating the last niggling feeling I had about our inconsistency in texting styles. I had permission to text when I felt like it. I just have to accept that the response will come in its own time.
I went to yoga later and had a hard time setting my intention. I settled on choosing an open heart. My mom and sister constantly worry about how trusting I am, about how I give my love to everyone. But if love is a choice to think love thoughts, what’s the harm in that? I’ve proven that I’m not as fragile as I was lead to believe. “You’re just so sensitive,” my mom would say, mistaking empathy or heightened awareness for sensitivity.
I’ve been hurt before (or chosen to think painful thoughts about the end of something) and I licked my wounds (with the help of many MANY people, mind you) and moved on. Isn’t life just a practice of this? Love with abandon (as long as you’re being mindful throughout the process) and if it comes back to you, great! If/when it ends, accept it and move forward in your own time. Nothing’s here to stay anyway. Shouldn’t we all just savour the love when we can get it?
I’m going all in.
And I never was smart with love I let the bad ones in and the good ones go, but…
I’m gonna love you like I’ve never been hurt before I’m gonna love you like I’m indestructible Your love is ultra magnetic and it’s taking over This is hardcore And I’m indestructible
Earlier in the day, I had listened to another Oprah podcast with the author of Produced by Faith, DeVon Franklin, where the Hollywood success felt so strongly about “bathroom moments.” He was referring to the scene in The Pursuit of Happyness where Will Smith is sleeping with his child in a washroom and prays desperately to God for help and the answer comes shortly after. It stayed with me. I don’t like asking God for this kinda help unless I’m really struggling.
After Stavros left, I took out the Answer Feathers. I read the instructions. I looked at the feathers, which were both variations on brown. I wanted to make time to treat them with the respect and mindfulness they deserved. You don’t have time for this now, I kept telling myself.
I was expecting dinner guests so I ran around the house picking things up and tidying. I ordered the takeout and mentally planned to pick up eggs and orange juice for my morning guest, Monsieur Magique. I washed my sheets and began to change my bed. Did I even have pillowcases big enough for my new pillows?
I passed the Answer Feathers again. And then I decided I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to know yet. It was too fun, the not knowing. And yet my insides were getting chewed up. How would I ever choose? Someone was going to get hurt! Was I being true to myself? Didn’t I already know? Why was I adding confusion to the mix?
I went to sort out the upstairs bathroom to make sure there were towels and toilet paper, when I came across a pair of silver feather earrings I’d forgotten about and absent-mindedly put them on. Then I literally had a bathroom moment in the bathroom. Overwhelmed by not knowing which man to choose, I prayed to God for the answer. That whichever man was the one I was supposed to be with would become clear to me. I’m not religious, I don’t believe in organized religion, mostly, but I’m spiritual AF. And I do believe in the life force or source energy. And since I was brought up super Christian Orthodox, when I need it to REALLY work for me, it takes the shape of “God.” I’ve come to accept this, and that my idea of God cannot be defined.
That’s when I noticed that one of my feather earrings was missing (it’s still missing, days later). It had fallen off my ear somehow while I was running around. I tried to avoid the Answer Feathers, but a decision was made in spite of my waffling. I had a sign. I took a deep breath and continued on with my day. By morning, I would know what to do.
A group of former colleagues came over for takeout and wine and giggles. We went around the table giving updates on work and personal lives. It was funny and touching sometimes. We had been through a lot together, the seven of us, and I was glad to spend time with them. But when it got to my turn, I told them they had to leave at 10:30, because Monsieur Magique was coming for a sleepover. That’s when they decided to linger. “I’ll take that tea you were offering!” Gah!
I realized he’d be there soon, so went down to quickly brush my teeth and touch up my face. I’d kept my makeup natural and was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but as I had made a point to get my hair cut and nails done, I was feeling pretty damn good. Underneath it all, I had a secret: I was wearing a mauve bralette and tanga set that I’d carefully chosen. My ex-husband used to freak out if I dared to put on lingerie, saying that my expectations for sex were so obvious, as though I were wearing a sandwich board that screamed, “Have sex with me!” that it turned him off. And yet if I hid the fact that I wanted to have sex, we just mostly wouldn’t, sooooo… Anyway, bygones…
When I came out of the bathroom, I realized Monsieur Magique was here. I came up to find my handsome Frenchman sitting at the dining room table, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling women, who were all clearly adoring his accent and his dapper way. “Hi sweetie,” he said, noticing me, “You look great!” We kissed awkwardly because I wanted to plant one on his lips and he was trying to give me a French kiss — not with tongue, but double cheek. “Did you get a haircut? I’ve never seen you with straight hair! I got a haircut too!” OMG, how do you not fall for this enthusiastic man, who notices details?
My guests finally left, albeit apprehensively. I could tell they wanted some more Magique in their lives too. Who could blame them? I locked the door, turned around and stared into the face of the sun. Remember when I said I’d written in my journal after our first date, “The sunshine in his heart greets the sunshine in mine?” There it was! His stress, palpable on the phone earlier in the week, seemed to have dissipated for the moment. I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him. “What?” he asked, looking at me with playful curiosity. “You’re just so…” how to describe it to him? He beams!
We played the Lionel Ritchie record I picked up after our last dance-a-thon here, went out to the porch so he could have a smoke, and then he suggested we play a game of some sort. We played one of my kids’ games, smiling and laughing at my competitiveness. Then he taught me a French card game, which was like Euchre but more complicated, because French. Have you seen that video of the cab driver who tries to explain counting to 100 in French? Hilarious. He mentioned a big tournament with all his friends in two weeks and suggested that maybe I should come. The thought of that intimidates the hell out of me right now, so I pretended not to hear clearly. Card came I don’t know well and a room full of people I don’t know speaking a language I can’t speak fluently? Gah!
My brain was saying, “Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex, SEX!” all night, and I was really hoping he wouldn’t pick up on the vibe. Around 1 a.m. it became clear that his brain was saying the same thing. “OK, shall we go down to your dungeon?” he asked, grabbing my shoulders. He pounced on my bed and laid back casually. “So…” he smirked, “How many sleepovers have you had here?”
“You mean NOT with my daughter? Zero. You’re the first.”
“Really? Well, I’m honoured.”
We made out for a bit and I can’t totally recall how the front of his jeans opened up, but whoa Nelly! My room was gently lit and we were sober. “You’re not wearing underwear!?!” I exclaimed. “No, I haven’t worn underwear since I was… 17? Only when I wear a suit.” I was so freakin’ excited that as I tried to pull off his jeans while kneeling at the foot of the bed, I completely fell off. Like a sideways somersault. Boom. We laughed so hard. I was mortified, but he’s so good humoured that the joke went on all night and the next day and I’m still giggling, imagining my Kimmy Schmidt moment.
“It’s not fair that I’m unclothed and you’ve got so much on,” he said. So I got down to my pretty skivvies, and he oohed with appreciation. “Nice,” he said, pulling me close. I raised an eyebrow. “What? Don’t think I didn’t notice. You had your hair done, your nails done. Thank you. It’s appreciated.” Who. Is. This. Man?!
After very good sex, he held me again. We cuddled ALL NIGHT. Again, I didn’t really sleep at first, but I didn’t fret this time. I just smiled at the beauty of it. His snores were quieter and towards the wee hours of the morning, he pulled my face into his chest and purred me to sleep like a cat. I woke up mouth-breathing and drooling all over him, but he didn’t wake up, so I nestled in and went back to sleep.
When it seemed reasonable to try and start the day, he mentioned he was famished. His bedroom has giant south-facing bay windows under a turret, so he wakes to natural light. My basement bedroom is like a Las Vegas casino: there’s no way to know the time. When he commented on the utter dark of my room, I told him it was great for sleeping-in and that he needed it. I made him breakfast while we talked about our breakups in a bit more detail. What worked, what didn’t? We ate and chatted about our kids again. He keeps calling me SuperMom, and I know this is an important quality for him, so I am flattered.
He had asked for chill time earlier in the week, so I suggested we watch A Star is Born in my bed. I told him I was never a TV in the bedroom person, but that my bedroom used to be the family room and the TV stayed. That the only way I learned to fall asleep after nearly two decades of someone sleeping beside me was by watching Downton Abbey each night until I passed out. He looked into my eyes deeply, sympathetically. Then we headed down for… snuggles. (OK hot sex first, then snuggles.) “You’re so easy to be with,” I murmured, “You just know yourself so well.”
“Well I should after all these years,” he quipped. “You’d be surprised at how rare it is,” I responded. He stroked my hair while we watched the movie, which I found hard to watch, so the hair stroking was so comforting. Being a part of a two-artist couple for so long, where one partner’s success overshadowed the other partner’s… where the male partner put down the female partner’s success, because he felt that authenticity mattered most… Where he self-medicated to deal with childhood trauma and the ego… it was tough. But dang that “Shallow” song is good and so are both the actors. It’s just hard for me not to be completely pissed off at Jackson Maine. What I loved about the movie was all the talk about Ally’s nose. It was so key to the story that it was validating for me, a big-nosed girl, to see Bradley Cooper’s character tell her she’s beautiful and that he loves her nose.
Anyway, suffice it to say that watching a romantic movie with a French hottie, who wants nothing but to snuggle you, to be close and touching the entire time, is my idea of total bliss. The movie ended around the time he had to leave for work stuff, so I offered him a quick shower and said that I would resist the urge to climb in with him because I knew he was pressed for time. He came down in a towel, which was hard to resist, and I made it clear that I didn’t want him to leave, but that I understood. He apologized for having to work, thanked me for breakfast and a lovely evening, booked our next date as he always does, and left.
We texted that night as “our song” was performed live and perfectly. To quote the movie’s anthem…
Last summer, my friend gave me the gift of two feathers for my birthday. These indigenous “answer feathers” are like nature’s magic eight ball. You’re to look at them, feel their energy, think on two things you are choosing between and then choose the feather that speaks to you. Your answer will be clear within a day.
I had a kid-free Saturday, and I’ve gotten so good at curating them to be soul-filling. I wish I could convince my friends who are partnered with kids to do this for themselves more. It’s funny how we think we don’t have the time, because we are always attending to the needs of others, and yet when forced to share the kids by law, BOOM, there’s the time. I began the morning by going to my favourite cafe and took two oat milk lattes and some croissants to my hairdresser’s and we had our usual best time ever. “I was thinking of you and thinking sleek hair,” she said. I told her to go for it, because the last time she did my hair (wild and fuckable), I met Monsieur Magique at the party that changed my destiny.
I bought a reissue of Joni Mitchell’s Blue on vinyl, talked to my mom on the phone while walking to get some sundries, felt the cold winter sunshine on my face. Then I went to visit Gogo of the Witches, to get a pair of gloves I’d left there at her last party. She was in post-coital bliss, having reconnected with an old friend who had turned into a lover the night before, and we had such an awesome connection and discussion as always. I appreciate my big energy, open-hearted romantic friends so much. I ran into her again later and told her she feels like my Saturday elf — with her shockingly red hair and her Rainbow Brite snow suit — that seeing her on one of my free Saturdays almost always guarantees I’m going to have a good weekend. Do you have anyone in your life like that?
Then I went to yoga, where I set my intention to “centre,” because there were rumours of a racist rally in my neighbourhood and I felt that “centre” was the strongest word to dedicate to my community to prevent hate from showing up, while also serving me where I needed to be that busy Saturday (where I had admittedly over-scheduled myself). The rally never happened, so I’m gonna go with “my yoga intention worked,” because I honestly felt some very present vibrations during savasana. Yoga was HARD, a total sweat fest of flow-time, and I needed it to beat my brain into blissful submission, because I had two dates that day. Eek! WTF am I doing?
Monsieur Magique almost always books our next date as we are saying goodbye. When I had flagged that we kept getting drunk and could we have a day date so I could see how I feel about him when sober, he’d enthusiastically said yes to a “playdate” for Sunday of this weekend. But later that night, he’d texted to say he’d had such a fun time with me and might he come over after my dinner guests leave the night before so he could cuddle me in my cold basement bedroom and then start the day together Sunday. Swoon. I knew he’d be working working working, as is his non-dad mode lately due to pressures on his business. So I wasn’t surprised when he texted Saturday morning to explain that unfortunately he’d have to leave at 1pm the next day. He was sincerely apologetic, citing that he knew I’d put some thought into what we might do (I had planned to take him to play a sort of bocce-meets-mini-golf). I told him not to worry, that they were calling for rain and 100 km/hr winds, so I was changing the plan to staying in bed and watching Oscar movies with him. I went to buy new pillows, because MM’s bed is like a goddamn hotel bed, and I wanted that same fluffy feeling. I wanted my first ever man sleeping in my new basement bedroom (!!!) to feel comfortable and cared for.
I listened to an Oprah “Super Soul Conversations” episode on Spiritual Partnerships, while carrying all my stuff to the café where I was supposed to meet Stavros. By the time he arrived, I was good and centred, ready for what might come, knowing full well what I want from a partner. He showed up, dark, playfully brooding as always, a slight smile on his face to see me. We had an intense, intimate conversation, where I was surprised by his honesty and vulnerability. He admitted to being negative and anxious his whole life, a symptom of the way we’d been brought up, which I understood. He explained the breakdown of his marriage to his high school sweetheart, and how much work he’s done on himself to fight his negative thought patterns. He’s medicated for depression, which I respect a lot as my ex never got the medical care he needed for his. Stavros said that he feels a clarity of mind and focus that he never had before, but my red flags were going off big time. I am definitely drawn to him, but can’t help but feel like our timing is off. Like he’s a year behind where I’m at in my journey, and that he is a bit of work still (though he insists he’s not). His natural way is not “sunny.” Is this just another Theo in a better package? Employed steadily, working on himself, aware of his bullshit AND Greek? Honestly, a man that says “therapy” and can speak the language of psychology is pretty hot to me right now.
I told him that I know I want to be someone’s girlfriend eventually, I just don’t know if I can make that decision right now. He responded that he didn’t believe in labels, that the only thing he wants from me is my time. I’ve made it clear that I don’t want to be someone’s sunshine, that I want the sunshine in a man’s heart to greet the sunshine in mine. I can’t be responsible for someone else’s happiness. I tried to help a depressed partner once and it backfired.
Still, Stavros is so damn easy to talk to. Beyond our mother tongue, we share a language of culture, of music and movies. We have a similarly dry sense of humour. I decided I needed to kiss him to see if this was just a friendship. So when he offered to drive me home, I said yes. He put my bags in his car, opened my door for me, and off we went. I told him my funniest stories of working in the film industry (he’s film school grad and had spent some time working at film festivals, on top of his acting experience). I told the story of working on a major Hollywood film and being given the job of watching three hours of porn in the director’s office alone to select a super sexy scene that would ultimately appear in the film. They chose me for the task, because the production manager thought giving the job to my male colleague meant he’d masturbate, so I was the supposedly safer bet. Stavros asked what I did. “Of course I had a wank or three on the director’s couch! It’s not gender-specific! Three HOURS of porn-watching!”
“There’s another way you’re not like any other Greek girl,” he said through impressed laughs. To which I retorted, “I’m not like any girl you’ll ever meet.” A bit cocky of me, I’ll admit.
He managed to get a parking space on my snowy street. “Yay,” I bluffed, “Now you can help me bring my bags to the door!” We went up to my place, not edging past the doorway vestibule (yay for winter boots creating boundaries). “Wow,” he exclaimed looking around at the kid art and the photos and the books, “Your place is so full!” I reminded him that I didn’t start with a blank canvas like he did, that all I had to do was fill in the spaces Theo left when he took his comic books and concert posters. “I hate comic books,” he said, trying to be funny. A red flag. I probed him on why and he back-tracked a bit. We chatted until it got awkward. “Are you gonna kiss me or what?” I asked. “First I’m going to hug you,” he said. And the hug was intimate and wonderful. And then we kissed, a bit formally at first, but then it got hot pretty fast. He held my face with both hands and kissed me passionately. DAMN! I was really hoping for a bad kiss so I could call this already.
“I’m going to let you lead,” he said, putting all his trust in me, making me feel guilt at the duplicitousness of dating two men without telling any of them. It’s my control habit energy showing up — the need to feel like I’m the one who gets to make this decision. Sigh. It feels very unlike me to have secrets at all, though I realize that having two men keeps me distant and mysterious enough that I’m not overly available to either one, creating a desire that wouldn’t exist if I was my usual “dog greeting his owner when he gets home from work” excited and overly loving self.
To be fair, the common thing I hear when talking to others is, “Everyone should assume that everyone is dating everyone, unless you’ve had a conversation otherwise.” I do like this, because then it takes the pressure off. You don’t need to make anything a THING until some time has passed and it organically makes sense to. And yet, when I was out with my coach and biz partner, Rock n’ Roll Cowgirl, the other day, she asked if Monsieur Magique knew about Stavros. When I said no, citing the modern day rule above, she said, “Yeah, but somehow I don’t think he would like it if he knew.” I agree with her. He’s romantic and a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to matters of the heart. If I hadn’t been so surprised by all the similarities between Stavros and myself that I swiped right and messaged, I wouldn’t be in this situation. And I know fully well that beyond the curiosity of it, I did it to protect myself and pace myself from going all in with Monsieur Magique too quickly. So here I am.
“Should I text you less?” He looked a bit hurt when I said yes, it was a bit much, that I wasn’t getting anything done during the day, not paying attention in meetings, due to our constant text banter. “I mean, I could also just not be so responsive,” I said. He touched my collar bone and then we kissed again with such feeling that I was grateful that lazy me hadn’t made her bed that morning. “OK, you have to leave, I have a dinner party to prepare for,” I told him. We made a plan to see a movie on Thursday. I closed the door and said, “Fuuuuuuuck. What now?”
It started out as a lark. I’d popped back into OK Cupid in December when my therapist suggested I could make time to swipe right a few times before the holidays if I really wanted. She wanted me to remember that anything could happen, that I didn’t have to put arbitrary timelines on starting to seek something new, that I should embrace the moment.
So I did some swiping and then promptly forgot about the app. In my mind, I’d deleted it. But then every now and again, an email notification would appear in my Gmail. And I’d screen grab them (because they are hilariously bad more times than not) and share them on my Instagram stories. Then one day, I got one that piqued my curiosity completely.
“Well, from one media professional to another, hello.”
The message was from Stavros, a name I instantly recognized to belong to a fellow Greek like me. What are the chances? We work in the same industry and we have the same ethnicity… come on!
“Well, from one Greek to another, yassou!” I replied.
Our text exchanges were initially not great, but I gleaned that he’s a TV producer and sometimes actor, and the father of two. I didn’t feel like he asked me enough questions about myself. Or rather, he didn’t know how to volley conversation over text to keep it going. I’d wake up to a “Psst” — what do you want me to do with that? I’m not a cat! Do some inquiring, otherwise all you want is my attention lavished on you and you have to earn that!
I also detest the apps. They’re a necessary evil. I don’t like how someone can see when you’re on there or when the last time you checked in was. I don’t even know why I asked him to take it to text. But I gave him my number (and one other guy, but that’s another story), told him that I had a weekend to myself so he wouldn’t hear from me until Sunday, and then deleted my profile. I have Frenchie, I don’t need further complications.
I messaged Stavros that Sunday. I know why. Part curiosity, part “OH MY GOD I HAVE FEELINGS FOR FRENCHIE!” You see, I don’t trust myself yet. I am not convinced I know my own heart. I’m too romantic, too idealistic, and too eager to have an eligible person take me off this dating ride. Plus, I have some red flags about Frenchie/Monsieur Magique and I need some objectivity around him, because he’s so damn dynamic and confident. Can I build a life with a smoking, drinking, Frenchman who can go days without checking in on me? I long for banter over text, which is maybe ridiculous, but is something that makes me happy. I have super eclectic musical tastes — can I build a life with someone who likely won’t go to indie rock concerts with me? I know a lot of this is form identity, but while we are in human bodies, we should ideally be with someone who not only makes us feel good, but who also wants to do the kinds of things with you that you love doing, no? Anyway, this needs validation in terms of a judgment on Frenchie. He does like to do a lot of things I like to do. And maybe edgy indie rock types are my past and, as such, should not be my present or future.
Stavros was glad to hear from me and we texted back and forth, getting a sense of each other without ever having met. Online dating lacks that magic “lock eyes across the room” spark that is so damn great. On Wednesday I was supposed to go out with Guy #3 (another story), but he cancelled last minute and I found myself free. I thought about going to the movies alone — something I have yet to do. Monsieur Magique was out of town on business. But then I found myself texting Stavros. “Long shot, but I’m unexpectedly free tonight. Want to meet up for a drink or a movie?”
“Long shot might pay off. What time were you thinking?”
And that’s how I met Stavros. He was waiting for me in the cafe I had chosen for its cute decor and cosy lighting, when I arrived exactly on-time (which is considered late by people who are never late, AKA not me). He had made reservations, something he reiterated at the end of the date, to say they’d denied him but when he explained his situation, they made it work. I appreciate this tenacity; there’s something to it.
He stood up, but having never met before, I didn’t go in for a hug or a cheek kiss. To be totally honest, I didn’t think I was going to like him at all, something he also said to me later that night over text. There’s this inherent bias that intellectual/artsy Greeks have about the average Greek. And we both assumed that the other would be more traditional. So I was surprised when HOURS went by, the two of us talking easily and making each other laugh through sarcasm. Stavros described himself as a bit of a Larry David (Curb Your Enthusiasm is one of my favourite shows).
There is, of course, the obvious — coming from a very similar experience of growing up Greek in North America means we share a language beyond our mother tongue. That we both inherently understand some of the childhood experience of the other, the dynamic in our families and what it’s like to grow up ethnic but not racialized and yet still feeling like you didn’t fit in. There’s the fact that we both dealt with it similarly, by exploring the arts and media and using that as an escape. But that’s where it stops. He married his high school sweetheart, and by the sounds of it, he has not really been with anyone since.
Turns out I liked him. A lot. There was something so easy about it.
Pros: He’s funny. We have a similar sense of humour. He dresses well (he had on great shoes) and I enjoyed making him laugh. Those laughs were hard-won. We like the same kinds of music and movies so there’s loads to talk about and share there. He is really into me and not afraid to share that. We have similar tastes in the arts we consume. He is a communicator. We have a few friends in common. That’s all I know so far.
Red flags: He’s a bit of a downer in that George Constanza way. Self-deprecating. Eeyore-esque? He hasn’t put himself out there for the past 2.5 years, not really. He prefers to stay home alone. He doesn’t exercise. (Frenchie swims and plays tennis and does winter sports.) He’s Greek so he probably has a hairy arse… (So does Frenchie — I mean I could get used to it, but my preference is a smooth bum… WHAT? Men can police women’s body hair, I think it’s fine to say I have preferences!) He doesn’t seem to have a life when his kids aren’t with him or he’s not at work. Unlike me, he hasn’t learned to fill his time with interests that take him out of the home. I don’t think he sleeps much and then he fuels himself on coffee. My spidey sense wonders if he has ADHD like me.
But the worst offence is that he messages me ALL. THE. TIME. He’s like me, 2.5 years ago, when I was a mere zygote in the dating world. I’m as neurotic and needy as the next girl, but funnily enough, all this experience with men who don’t text has made me want to text WAY less. In fact, in tuning into my texting habits, I realize that it’s a crutch. I reach for it when I’m uncomfortable or needing validation. Stavros is all about the validation. He gives it and he needs it. CONSTANTLY. When I try to put some boundaries on it, he respects them, but when I message him the next day, he very honestly says that he’s so glad that I did. I just don’t want to be on my phone that much. And if I don’t write him back, there’s always an attempt to re-engage me. It suggests an insecurity I don’t need in my life where it’s at right now.
So while Stavros is fun and chatty and distracting, and the commonalities between our jobs, cultures and interests are lovely, I’m not yet sure if our values are aligned. Monsieur Magique to me is an aspirational potential boyfriend. He has qualities I aspire to inherit. Where as my gut feeling with Stavros so far is that he’s work. And I really don’t want to be someone’s CONSTANT cheerleader, especially if they are prone to depressive tendencies, because it backfires and works against you after a while. I lived that once already.
Anyway, I’ve got a busy weekend coming up, but I decided to squeeze Stavros in for a quick coffee date to chat some more and see if my assumptions/instincts hold up. Then we’ll see about moving onto activities dates. Right now I’m most excited about my sleepover and then day date with Monsieur Magique (taking him to play some sort of bocce golf!). Exciting times, friends. Exciting times!