Four Letter Word

A few months back, I was on the phone with an editor from Time Out New York (a great magazine, I might add.) The editor suggested that I should teach a class at the Learning Annex about Dating, given my fluency in both Martian and Venusian. Although I was flattered, I must say, I sort of agreed with her. Unlike many single people (I refuse to use the already overused "singleton" here - that word has always annoyed me - it is as though being single defines you into a sort of existence or odd club of the few, the brave, and the desperate, but I digress...), I maintained a cavalier attitude towards romance, admittedly avoiding anything that smelled of seriousness, commitment, and drama. One of my male friends even posted a quote of mine on his Facebook page - "Love makes me inefficient."

Indeed, Love was my own personal four letter word. Life is difficult enough, and my previous dances with Romance showed me quickly that we were not compatible partners. Plus, there are so many amazing people in the world, the idea of "settling down" seemed more like just plain "settling." Out of the gates when I moved to New York, I immediately started dating, almost with a vengeance.

Here I must pay homage to every person I have dated over the last few years (and, yes, even that ex-fiance I had years ago). Every person who has been so kind to spend time with me in a, err, romantic capacity over the last several years has thoroughly enriched my life. Some encounters brought flashiness and excitement, some brought philosophy and introspection, and some brought pure fun, but I am fortunate to say that I am blessed to have dated all the great people I have (ok, there are a couple of exceptions, but that is a blog entry for another day). Most of the people I have dated, including that ex-fiance of mine, still remain dear friends. Through all of the nights at the theater, the Sunday brunches and prosecco toasts, the late night prix fix dinners, the vacations abroad, through all of it, I thoroughly enjoyed life and blissfully recounted my adventures to my girlfriends in late night phone calls and martini lunches.

Then, in spite of my seeming contentment and in accordance with how our lives play out in general, a tragedy slowly started to unfold. I met a man who knew who Charles Baudelaire who was not an English major in college. Actually, he chose a completely different path in life that was, to the extreme, a path that engaged the left side of his brain. Sure, I found him attractive, but adopted my standard approach (i.e. ambivalence) as we started seeing each other. I was clear, from the start, that I was disinterested in "Romancia." Keep it light, keep it casual, keep it safe. Ever so slowly, that intention unwound.

Everything changed the night he invited me to come to his home for dinner. He went through laborious efforts to cook dinner for me, something only my ex-fiance had attempted (Michael, I still appreciate your attempt, though I will bet we are both still laughing at the rice that tasted like fish.) At dinner, everything was accounted for and delicious, but what crushed my intention was the fact that all of this had been done for me and me alone! (Let me be clear - all of my former dates were very good to me; this gesture was simply exceptional.)

So, the gauntlet was thrown. I was putting on a scratchy wool sweater by the designer "Falling in Love." I hated the way it made me look...at myself. Falling in love, in the adult, non-Romeo/Juliet sense, forces you to reexamine yourself. You start feeling insecure about your "flaws" - am I good enough? will he still love me if he knows "x" about me? will he betray me? will I cheat on him? Questions, and more questions, run through my mind, and I realize that Drama has moved into my apartment, and, especially in New York City, there is hardly room for an extra house guest.

The first time I said that dreaded four-letter word was under the influence of alcohol. Same with the second, but the second time I said it, I woke up and texted him that "I meant what I said last night." Because I did...with every ounce of my body, heart, and soul. I was infected with the Romancia Virus, and I needed to come clean about it to him, and later, to everyone. Still, I let him know that this sweater was itchy, and I was struggling to keep it on, to resist the desire to rip it off of me. Fights, erratic behavior, rebellious dates with others - all of these terrible acts I admit to. Yet, he stayed by my side, rubbing my shoulders covered by this uncomfortable sweater and telling me that I would grow to see how beautiful I would feel in it, if I could only give it a little time. That seemed impossible to me.

The funny thing about life is that all that feels impossible eventually evolves to possibility. I date a man who tolerates my "Meatgrinder Thursdays," the day of the week when my job and the stress it involves invariably wins the battle against me. I date a man who picks me up from the airport with two dozen roses and has a martini waiting for me at home with handmade blue-cheese stuffed olives. I date a man who has seen me fall apart through the death of a loved one, through physical trauma, through life drama. He has seen me at my worst, but chooses to stand by my side. The funny thing is, that good old sweater is looking better and better on me every day, despite the occasional itch. Perhaps that four letter word is the key to a more comfortable five-letter one - Peace.