Date 1- Nantucket Red

Eli and I texted steadily over Memorial Day weekend; he seemed perky, intelligent and music loving. He revealed that he plays in a cover band with old lawyer friends and sent me Youtube videos of himself playing guitar.  I agreed to a Wednesday evening drink in the middle of an intensely busy market week- I am committed to trolling for Internet dates!

I walk from my office, vibrating and nauseous, and almost turn back five times.  Like a teenager, I  get a pep talk from a girlfriend- what exquisite torture the first Tinder date can be!   I slyly circled the block, groaning audibly to myself (I do the same during pap smears) while I walked, and spotted him standing in front of the hotel where we were due to have rooftop drinks.   I realize quickly he spotted me first, and in what will become a common theme in these Tinder dates, he catches me circling the block.   He is wearing Nantucket red chinos and brand new Adidas, and will later show me his very spiffy socks.   He didn't lie on his profile- he is Tinder 5'10",  which is actually 5'8" in real life.

As we head into the elevator that is sure to take us to paradise, a young urban fellow with face tattoos looks at Eli and says, "Dude, is this neighborhood dangerous?  Do I need to bring my gun?  I don't want to have to kill no one."   To Eli's credit, he is completely unratttled and calmly says, "No, man, neighborhood is fine, but do what you got to do".   The young urban fellow looks impressed that a short Jewish lawyer doesn't sweat for a second.

We have mediocre wine at a very odd rooftop bar that uses a boombox to funnel in music, and he begins to talk about himself.  He recently moved from the West Village to Chelsea and is hoping that the neighborhood will be as lively.  He is visibly worried that he will not have his creature comforts in this new backwater area-  I nod and assure him that he will most likely survive.  He shows me pictures of rugs he is thinking about buying and quickly scrolls past endless photos of boobs and vaginas and various tan body parts.   After two hours of listening to Eli talk about his marvelous self, I tell him I really must get home but I sincerely enjoyed meeting him.   At a minimum, I ripped off the band aid and got myself back in the dating scene.  He tries to kiss me and I just barely dodge his advance.   I hop on the subway, and immediately begin swiping up fresh meat.

DATE ONE-  Showed up, and didn't throw up!   I call this success!

WEATHER REPORT- A fresh and fragrant evening in Manhattan, enhanced by low clouds of electronic cigarette fumes.

WINE SELECTION- When one can only select from Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio, one realizes that there is no winning selection.    

The Lonely British King

This blog took a hiatus when I met Pedro.  Our relationship felt so precious that I couldn’t and wouldn’t tarnish it with my acidic snark.  I could turn the rest of the Tinder fellows into caricatures, but my Pedro, my love, I would not.   If I briefly sum up our 18 month relationship, turn the highs and lows and happy and sad tears into a quick summary, it would look like this: 6 months of inquisitive bliss in a bubble.  Big blow up. 6 months of doubt but furiously treading water and hoping for sunnier skies.  Bigger blow up.  6 months of trying to end it but never wanting to.  I am so envious of that couple in the first 6 months- they had it all.   But isn’t that always the case?  Ignorance is bliss until it isn’t.  I am so sad and regretful for the downward spiral of the final 6 months.  I should have cut him loose when I really had doubts instead of keeping him close to me and constantly chipping away at him, at us.   By the end he said I had worn him down, exhausted even his romantic heart.  We needed to break up, but so much of my behavior towards the end was unnecessary and shameful; we degraded something that was once special.   This unfortunately seems to figure in my thoughts much more prominently than the logical reasons why we ended everything.

And now here I am, 5 months after our final night together, still turning over what this means in my head.  My grief hits me like waves of nausea- a moment, a conversation comes back to me and sends me into a tailspin.  I haven’t seen him since the morning I left his apartment, but my eyes deceive me and I see his ghost everywhere.   I am terrified I will see him on a date and skirt restaurants we once frequented.  I never realized how many bald men were in New York until I broke up with one I ached for.    

A friend sent me an article on Lifehacker that suggests little Tinder flings are like paper cuts- they don’t get the sympathy that broken marriages or cohabitations receive (rightly so) but they hurt.   It wasn't the longest relationship I had been in, but it rocked my world and brought down my defenses.  I know Pedro never felt that way and wanted to keep pushing past the boundaries, but for me, at least for a year, I let them down.  I gave him a key to my apartment and loved finding him there.  We spent every night together, and bathed each other every morning.   He scrubbed my back, then I scrubbed his, and always rinsed off the soap so I  could press a kiss to the shoulder I loved.   We had an intensely intimate relationship, and I miss it.

This relationship was a tease.  I saw a preview of life with a man who loved to bake bread and spatchcock organic chicken, then take me to bed and make love all night long.  I found him intensely attractive, loved his body and how our bodies moved together.   He made me laugh and he brought passion to my life.  In this movie trailer, you don’t see the problems and wounds, or the nature of two fractured persons struggling to trust each other.  But how will I find someone like this again, who shares my interests and humor and makes me weep with pleasure?  

A friend of a friend gave me his unused extra bed from an apartment he sold in Dubai- a very comfortable and luxurious British King.  Every night I roll to the middle of my big bed, and throw my arm across a pillow.  In my most secret thoughts, I imagine this is him, and he pulls me close into the nook of his chest and arms.  I don’t know if its still Pedro, or the faceless person I hope will come along sooner rather than later, but I wonder how many people in Brooklyn are living in their little apartments, moving through their lives, imagining that someone is holding them at night.     

Back in the Saddle

Dear friends,

After a two year hiatus (to be addressed at a later date when I've had far more Muscadet and feel like reopening a wound), I am back on the Tinder. I'm looking for love in the only place I know, because if I wait for this man to just arrive himself in my life, I will grow old and bearded while waiting. If I am perfectly honest, I am not ready to be doing this- I don't feel good about myself right now and am in the mental state that I can't quite discern why anyone would want to date me. Every previous break up felt like a liberation- back on the scene! Partying with my people! Tearing up the town! But I don't feel that way this time. I miss my boyfriend and can't seem to shake this sadness.

Prematurely or not, I'm hitting the app and swiping aggressively because sometimes I think its a numbers game. I'm weeding through these men knowing they will be a treasure for someone, trying to get better with first date jitters and not lose my mind in the process. But these are shark infested waters, as everyone knows. In the two weeks since I downloaded the app, I have:

a) been asked if I enjoy spanking.
b) been asked if I am a sub or a dom, after being called "cold". (He slipped his own status in a subtle way- "I enjoy healthy cooking, running in the park, sailing, I'm a dom, enjoy Crossfit and make time for charity work.")
c) received suggestive images of torso and nether regions (ok, I egged him on a little).
d) received a fully nude picture of a man proudly displaying his ding dong (different man from above- I did NOT egg this on).

I would call this a fruitful two weeks, if unsuccessful in the actual pursuit of meeting someone kind and normal.  When the spanker first proposed his question, I burst into tears at my desk.  This is what is out in the world? This is what I have to look forward to?  I buried my head in my hands for a few minutes, then shook off my sorrows and kept swiping.  Up the food chain!

Date 15- From Russia with Love

Dimitri showed up in quiet Park Slope with an enormous Porsche SUV; one would have been forgiven for expecting a bejeweled and bechained rapper to step down from behind the wheel. He chose a corner bar that Marcello frequents as he lives only a half a block away; my coworkers mused that it would be the sweetest justice for Marcello to see me on a date with a nice big handsome Russian. What a laugh that would be! Unfortunately Dimitri was a rather small fellow, the top of his head barely reaching the top of my shoulder (I really must examine these Tinder photos more carefully to save all parties from the awkward moment of realizing that I am 6 inches taller than the man). But most importantly, he wasn't a personable or thoughtful fellow; I couldn't tell if he was disinterested or terrible at communication, but I fully expected (and would have been quite fine) to never speak to him again. He looked like he would have rather been trimming nose hairs than having drinks with a dull bird like me.

This brings me to an interesting point: if a man is delightful and the life of the party, a few physical undesirables don't matter. A former boyfriend of mine was a slightly nutty Ukrainian (much like the small Russian- a Jewish entrepreneur with hustle in his veins), and in the beginning I didn't find him terribly attractive. He wasn't conventionally handsome, with rather European teeth and a cromagnon hairline. But he had personality in spades- he could make me laugh from my toes, and was thoughtful, passionate and smart. I ignored that he cried too frequently and went a bit looney in the denouement of our relationship- for a time he was terribly fun to date and possibly the best passport a girl could have to the 5 boroughs.

Anyhow, Porsche-driving Dimitri and I had the requisite Tinder two drinks, plodding through tedious conversation about travel and apartments, and headed our separate ways. He doesn't offer me a ride home in his ostentatious SUV so I strut home 20 blocks, thankful that Marcello didn't walk through the door of the bar.

DATE FIFTEEN- Just like Dr. Zhivago...if you completely forgot how the story goes.

APERTIF DU JOUR- Brighton Beach Bummer.

WARNING LABEL- Beware of horseradish vodka.

Life Before the Tinder- Roman Holiday

July 2008

We hadn't been dating for more than three months when we went to Istanbul together; waiters asked us how long we had been married, and we said, "We finally left the kids at home with their grandparents". They smiled and nodded; other than wedding rings, we looked from the outside world as a happy unit, such was our affection and ease with each other. In Istanbul we were equals, both lost in the language and trying to navigate maps and heat. To work as a team was one of the most exhilarating experiences, and we both enjoyed the challenge of traveling in an unknown culture. After Istanbul, we went to Rome for a few days, a last hurrah before we would be separated for 6 months, by visa regulations too strict to breech.

I first went to Rome as a 17 year old girl, fresh from high school and inexperienced in nearly every way of the world. I threw my coins in the Fontana di Trevi, and returned 8 years later, this time with my Italian love. He was always at a disadvantage in the United States; he barely spoke the language, and the customs were not his own, made worse by his shyness. He preferred for me to negotiate taxis and order food. But Rome was his oyster, his language, his history, his people. He pranced around in his tight jeans and designer sunglasses and looked as Italian as Michelangelo's Davide; in my eyes, he was even more beautiful. It was my first experience traveling with a boyfriend; although the girlfriends I had traveled with in the past were troopers, this was entirely different. This was a strong hand catching me before I stumbled over cobblestones, a tourist who charmed his countrymen into taking pictures of him with his American girl, a lover telling me we could be happy living in a little sun-filled apartment in Trastevere. We walked across the Tiber at midnight, holding hands and breathing in the heat. For the first time in my life, I understood why poets write sonnets and musicians write love songs; this was such bliss, and I had never loved a man who embraced me so fully and loved me so purely, for every oddity and quirk.

The night before he left, he made me promise to wake him up if he fell asleep; we didn't want to miss a moment together. I walked him to the train station at dawn, boarded the train with him, and kissed with force until we felt the engines rumbling as it prepared for departure. This man who always seemed so cold before our romance, stood between train cars as it pulled away, blowing me kisses with tears in his eyes. As the train pulled away, I put on the beautiful sunglasses he had bought me to match his own, and I wept. When finally the train was out of view, I walked back to a cafe and bought a cappucino to take to my hotel, but couldn't drink it. I couldn't watch RAI on tv, and I had no desire to try and speak Italian. I finally summoned my strength and wandered about the city, but saw nothing. For me, Italy was over. When would I see him again? What is the purpose of finding a love so exhilarating, but so impossible? For the first time I realized I didn't want to be alone; I knew how to take care of myself, but unexpectedly, truly when I was looking the other direction, I found a man who wanted to take care of me.

We stayed together for two years, and shortly before we broke up he had to go back to Italy again for his visa. I was tormented, nearly destroyed by being separated once more. The night before he left, like that night 2 years before, he asked me to wake him up if he fell asleep. He held me tightly and said,"I'll be back soon, and then we will be happy, won't we? Then we will be happy." The desperation in his voice haunted me, because I knew what he wanted, and worse, I knew what he deserved. He should have had a girl who squeezed him back and said, "Don't worry! Nothing will hurt us! We can make it!" His terrible girlfriend could do nothing but weep; I knew our end was near, and couldn't bear the grief.

Date 14- Rock Lobster

Despite the Chilean-induced hangover, I drag my carcass to the couch on Sunday morning, order cheesy scrambled eggs and french fries from the diner, and eventually run 7 miles because I am paranoid and afraid to gain weight. I have a date with the Tree tonight. He has been texting throughout the week, very cute perky nebbish texts and I am optimistic, if not entirely physically attracted to him. Being a man of manly habits, he sends an Uber to pick me up, which of course my girlfriends find to be impossibly gallant and romantic. Its a lovely touch, but I keep feeling like this is evidence of a habitual serial dater. I wear a blue menswear shirt (Marcello is obsessed with how I look in this shirt so I want to see if it works on other men....are they just imagining how I look wearing their shirt post coitus?), tight black jeans and black ballet slippers. I feel like Audrey Hepburn if she had been 60 lbs heavier with a bushy blonde weave. We have casual lobster rolls and beer at Red Hook Lobster Pound which doesn't strike me as a bona fide date spot, but the conversation plods along pleasantly. I wish alcohol wasn't always the key to success in dating but it sure helps.

We move on to a bar around the corner, where the conversations rolls a bit faster as the wine flows. His schtick remains but he loosens up a bit, and we discuss business, music, his vegan ex girlfriend. He pulls me into a feathery little butterfly kiss, and says he wants to book the next date immediately. I actually find him to be totally pleasant, and refreshing change from the last few men I have been out with. He explains to me that after the Vegan, he needed to take a few years to work on his career and not stress about the dating scene; I unfairly wonder why at the age of 40 this man isn't married yet.

DATE FOURTEEN- LOBSTER ROLLS DON'T MAKE UP FOR SPLINTERY PICNIC TABLES.

NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH- BEWARE OF 40 YEAR OLD TINDERFELLAS TRYING TO MAKE OUT ON CORNERS IN GREENPOINT.

MENTAL STATE- RUNDOWN. NEED TO GIVE UP MY HARD LIVIN' WAYS.

Date 13- A Latin Lover

Saturday night in the East Village, and the natives are restless. My tribe is having sushi and 2-for-1 bottles of Pinot Grigio, but there are hordes of New Yorkers in the streets, looking for adventure, cocktails, love, or all of the above. Saturday night brings with it endless possibilities to meet the right man, or possibly have a few thrilling hours with the wrong one.

After dinner, my posse and I retreat to Eileen's nearby apartment for more cocktails and chit chat. I tell everyone what has been happening in my life lately, relating the Marcello blow off in gruesome detail and the Vanilla Boredom. Marcello has texted throughout the week, with cryptic messages saying, "Still so sick!" but I ignore him and move on. Tonight he wants to see me, and despite that fact that I am wearing the most bewitching and painfully tight black dress with a deeply set lace vee, I know I can't. I am tipsy and will want to fight and talk about how devastated I was to be blown off, and I never win with him even in the best of circumstances; additionally I would like to be my loveliest self and I fear too much wine and sushi might have already set me over the edge. But I am restless and hungry; I want a handsome man to tell me I'm beautiful tonight. I call in a secret reinforcement plucked from my former life as a bartender at an upscale Italian restaurant, a handsome Chilean manager names Juan Carlos who salsa dances well and is almost as tall as I am...but not quite.

As a single girl, I find the Juan Carlos types to be useful in a pinch and incredibly liberating; he is an impossible match, which means I can text him when I feel like it and never worry about the games. He could never be a boyfriend because our worlds and long term goals are so different, but for a sip and twirl he is perfect. I sneak out of my friend's apartment, telling her I am heading home on the subway to be a good girl and get back to clean living ways. About two minutes after I walk out of her apartment, a taxi pulls up and a dark eyed South American beckons to me with a smile. I hop in and we head to the Lower East Side for Negronis. He talks about opening a restaurant in Queens and we both know he will never open this restaurant in Queens because he is a good looking man living for the good times. While this might be a debauched Saturday night for me, this is every night for him, as he loves the ladies. He confesses he has a 10 year old child, and from his tone I gather he isn't particularly thrilled about this. He plays the role I needed him to play, holds me close for a dance, tells me I am gorgeous in two languages and looks good. Our conversations are casual and open, because his opinion matters very little to me and I am not worried about impressing him; he says "You are incredibly sophisticated". I don't recall what prompted the comment, but thought to myself, "Yes, I am sophisticated as shit, and I gotta move on". And that's what I did.

DATE THIRTEEN- EL AMOR PROHIBIDO

COCKTAIL LIST- STRONG NEGRONIS AND HANDSOME MEN OF WEAK CHARACTER

PARTING GIFT- WICKED HEADACHE