This would all be much easier if he would just say "here is a picture of my boat"

I am notorious for being the girl that has no idea she's being hit on. I meet someone, talk with them, laugh with them, laugh at stupid jokes (because they're funny, duh), graciously accept compliments and all the while have no idea that someone might actually be flirting with me. Unless it's those sixty year old men, they're pretty obvious. And no, not in a good way.

Now, don't get me wrong, I can do my share of flirting. I am very aware of this. I have tried and true flirting practices that even when minimally successful, get the job done. Or at least in my mind, they do. It's sort of like a hobby, even when it's bad, it's good. Or a bad habit, but we'll not go there.

But then there's me, not as the flirter but the flirtee. I used to be almost afraid of flirting, or being flirted with, rather. I didn't know what to say or where to look and, my gosh, when did my hands start getting in the way all the time so I'd just sort of play along and hope for the best. Then sixth grade graduation came (ha! Exaggerating. A little.) and something magically happened to me (hormones?) and I was no longer afraid of it. Rather, I became oblivious to it.

Now we all know I don't go around the Internet talkin' up the dates and what not, that's just not me. First, some things are just mine and second, well the "line at my door" my grandma always used to talk about just, ummm, how do you say... isn't. Nonetheless, we carry on. Or at least I think I do. And I go to coffee shops and happy hours and running events and travel and hang out with my friends and always end up hearing phrases like "what's wrong with you? That guy was totally flirting with you!" And I'm all "Wha? Huh?" And my friends are all "Uhh, yeah." And then they smack me and then we all laugh at me. Because it's funny, except when it's later and I think about it. I question myself and think oh no, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

I usually come to the conclusion that nothing is really wrong, as I don't really believe in "fixing" these kinds of things. Addictions? Yes. Bad habits? Yes. I'm all for self-improvement. But personality? Eh, I don't know. I mean, yes, I could be more aware. But I usually feel I'm aware every day. A few days ago I noticed the woman at the toll booth got her hair cut and I don't even use that toll booth. I notice things. Just not this.

So guess I could ask what you would do? How do you know someone's hitting on you? How do you "hit back?"

I'm expecting some earth-shattering answers here, really. Because as of now I'm just going with the assumption that some people just haven't been good flirters with me. Yeah, I'll let you know how that approach works out.

So...

...you know how you might have once done the online dating thing, and then like a month later you quit because you never had time to check email? Then, you went out with a few people and made some friends but never really dated anyone. Then, you really quit because you decided dating should not have to cost you money, at least not right now.

But even though you quit, the site keeps sending email to your Yahoo account because, apparently, they don't care that you quit and they think that by sending you profiles of all men within a 50 mile radius is somehow going to lure you back in. And, that you're going to pay something like $30 to communicate with people when, clearly, that is $30 you could be saving to spend on vacation.

But then, they send the emails anyway and because you're curious and bored and, well, because you're you, you open the email and look at your "matches" because hey, AT LEAST YOU KNOW THEY'RE OUT THERE. And then, one day when you're doing this curious thing, you scan down the page and bam! you see the husband of your neighbor. And you think to yourself "hmmm, that's strange" and you wonder if they're separated or something. But then, no, you see them outside together and all is normal. Then, you strike up a conversation and still, nothing out of the ordinary is revealed.

So then, because you don't know what to do, you wrestle about it in your mind: Should I say anything? It's not my business, and all those kinds of thoughts. And really, you come to no conclusion because how is that even possible? Then, as if that weren't enough, you lose all faith in online dating "matching" because dang, really? They really thought you and your married neighbor were a match? What the heck?

And then, not knowing what else to do, you go out with friends for $20 All-You-Can-Eat Crab Leg Night because what remedies this kind of strife better than seafood? And, you also have a beer.

High-Profile Survival

Over the weekend, yet another relationship split has been in the news. Prince William and Kate Middleton's break up has been a top story on several news websites. And of course, following any high-profile break up, there's loads upon loads of speculation as to "what went wrong."

London tabloids, often leading the pack in "reporting" celebrity splits, wasted no time jumping on the assumption train. It was pressure from the Queen, one says. Another says it was Prince Charles who urged William to break off the relationship if he could not "commit to marriage." Yet another says the fate of the relationship was neither influenced by family nor the two people actually in the relationship but rather, a royal summit.

None of these, in their ever scandalous tabloid nature of course, are suggesting that maybe they just broke up. Maybe it just didn’t work. And when there’s any suggestion of Kate, at the age of twenty-five, deciding that she didn’t want the lifestyle of a princess, well that’s just squashed immediately. Not that I claim to know anything more than I’m reading in the news (which equals basically nothing) but if that might be the reason, well I can certainly relate to that.

Just before I began this blog, I had made a decision to no longer be in a relationship that, though no crowns were being placed on any heads, certainly felt high-profile at times. I dated a man who was a very kind, intelligent person who also happened to already be married. To his career, that is. He was a physician, a surgeon in fact. Anyone who has ever been married, dated or otherwise in any relationship with a doctor knows this: It is not a job; it’s a lifestyle and a calling. It is first, last and best. I saw this from the beginning and it’s not at all something I ever held against him. In fact, I admired it about him. Up until we met, I had never witnessed anything like it. I never knew someone could dedicate their entire life to a career of helping people like he did.

In the time we dated, which I’ve heard since was a “record breaking” duration for most doctors in their residency, there were numerous instances in which I felt our relationship was under intense scrutiny. Looking back now, I can see it was mostly because, well, he was a catch. In addition to being in his residency, having graduated at the top of his class and giving his spare time to research and international medical outreach programs, he was also very popular. No one had to tell me this, it was one of the reasons I was attracted to him in the first place. He was friendly, and before I had any inkling as to what his work was, I was impressed at how easy to get along with he was. This, of course, translated into all of his life. People liked him and therefore, were very critical of who else did, too.

Any event we attended, any time we’d run into anyone somewhere in town, it was a little like a test. A pop quiz, really. When you go to a baseball game, in your shorts and tank top, the last thing you’re really planning for is to run into five nurses looking you up and down like you have arms growing where your ears should be. I was assured by my boyfriend that this wasn’t an issue but when it happens enough times, it stays on your mind.

There was also the issue of time. While I don’t claim to be the most available person in terms of time, dating this man was sort of like what I’d imagine scheduling the launching of a space shuttle would be.

6:04 – meet for dinner (not 6:00 because, well, the only thing that starts on time is surgery)
6:04:42- wait while cell phone is answered
6:05- order dinner to go, emergency call
6:06- say “bye and see ya later”
10:00- finally eat dinner, reheated
10:00:25- boyfriend passes out because he’s worked eighteen of the last twenty-four hours

The time we were able to spend together was, at best, erratic. This also made life challenging when it came time for those stages in a relationship where you meet each other’s friends and, when you meet the parents. In the end, it resulted in me meeting a few of his friends, which also happened to be fellow residents, (because yes, that part of hospital life really is like Grey’s Anatomy) and him meeting about as many of mine. We never did meet one another’s parents, either (and this had little if anything to do with my hesitation to bring people home). Yes, it was strange.

That wasn’t really what any of it came down to, though. The demanding schedule, the exhaustion, the scrutiny, those things can be overcome, I think. The real contributing factor, the one it took me months to be able to accept, is that it just wasn’t the right relationship. Toward the end, which also happened to be toward the end of his residency, I started talking about taking a trip together. He started talking about getting married and moving across the country. At first, I thought we were just on different pages. I thought if I’d give it time, I’d be ready. For the move, a marriage, a lifetime with this man. But I wasn’t, I never got there.

Eventually, we had to break up. Taking a step back and looking at our relationship, there were loose ends all over the place. There were parts of our lives, personalities, likes and dislikes, and life goals that just didn’t match up; that weren’t going to match up. Love was, as wonderful as it could be, not enough. It too would have faded. So we (yes, shockingly, WE) made the decision to break it off. To this day it remains one of the hardest yet least regrettable things I’ve had to do and I think that’s partially because things looked so right to everyone else; which I’d use to fool myself into thinking it was right for me, too. The question of “why did you break up?” could not have been answered by the standard replies. It just was.

That’s why it’s so odd to me that we’re fascinated by break ups in the media. Heaven forbid people in their twenties (or any age, for that matter) decide that things just aren’t going to work and they need to go their separate ways rather than spend any more time on something that’s not right. Maybe that’s what William and Kate think, too. I don’t know, of course, but let me assure you, it’s likely not nearly as interesting or scandalous a process as the tabloids might have us believe.

On Things You Cannot Make Up

"So what's he like?"

"He's nice. Really kind, a triathlete, owns his own architecture firm, does humanitarian work in third world countries."

"Wow, does he have time to date?"

"I guess so. He has time to ask people out, at least."

"Where did you meet?"

"The office of a non-profit I work with. He was dropping off donations before leaving for the airport."

"Where was he going?"

"To visit his grandmother, and then climb Mt. Rainier."

"Oh my God, if you tell me he likes puppies and kittens, too, I'm going to puke."

"I'm watching his dog while he's gone."

"Quick, get me a bucket."

Re:

It's list time.

Re: Sailing trip
Still working out the details. There's a little more cost involved than I thought but something's still telling me I need to do it. So what's the best way to tell people you're skipping Christmas [gifts] this year?

Re: Half marathon
I'm doing one in a couple weeks. Or didn't I mention that? Yeah, I plan to bring my little camera and make it a "fun run." If I thought this were anywhere near a PR opportunity, I'd need a psychiatric evaluation. Immediately.

Re: Dating
It is less fun than it used to be. I don't like the dragging out of it all. But hey, I'm okay with that. It could be worse, I could be an astronaut.

Re: George Strait
Remains one of my favorite things in music. He was in Denver last weekend. Leave your smoke and mirrors at home, kids, this guy doesn't need any of that, and that's just the way I like it. And if I'm being totally honest, the guy could walk out on stage and sing names from the phone book and I'd love it.

Re: Weather
It has been beautiful here. Spring is coming, I need not whine any longer about hating Winter. I am not sure who's more relieved, you or me.

Re: Caffeine
I haven't had any in three weeks. Some might say I gave it up for Lent, but just started early. I might say I just wanted to see if I could. So far, I can and against all my prior beliefs, I'm not dead yet. I also feel better, I can't explain how. More calm, maybe? I don't know. I'm sure it won't last forever, though. I love chai tea too much.

Facing Aversion

Sometimes, I avoid confrontation. I suppose I do it for a lot of reasons, depending on the situation but most of it is due to my laziness or having already moved on to occupy myself with something else.

Just yesterday, I was walking down the street and turning to go into a store. The store owner was standing in the doorway, talking to another patron. She seemed to be upset about something and the store owner was apologizing. As I approached the door, the unhappy customer had turned to leave and the owner, less than two feet away from me, let go of the handle and headed back inside. She let the door shut in my face. There, in that single second I decided that store had nothing for me. I turned to the friend I was walking with and said "never mind" and we walked away.

The store owner, apparently having seen this, came back out the door and said "we're open, come in." Obviously, she thought nothing of what she did. "No thank you," I said. And part of me wanted to walk back in there and tell her why. But that other part, that avoid it, it's hard and will make you uncomfortable for no reason part, just kept walking.

I do this too much, though. With things I think are unimportant, inconsequential. I did it when I was younger, when I didn't want to hang out with someone anymore- I'd just distance myself, until we drifted apart. I don't do that now, but the problem is, the attitude seeps into other areas. Areas it shouldn't. Some things, you have to confront.

We'd been out twice. Once, for drinks, that turned into dinner. It was nice, but I was worried. "No spark," I'd told a friend. She convinced me to give it another chance. I opened an email from him. If I were a celebrity with a fan club, I'd want a letter like this. I'd want a hundred of them. He was a fan. So we went out again. I was tired, just back from a trip. And a marathon. He was anxious, obviously so. I had a hard time engaging and I blamed it on being tired. At the end of the evening, I hugged him and said sure to another phone call, another meeting.

I knew better. Somewhere, and not-so-deep down, I knew what it was. That elusive "spark" I'd wondered about before, it still wasn't there. It wasn't going to be. Something was off, something just didn't flow. It would have been missing, even if the interests weren't romantic. No click, no chemistry. None of those descriptions we use to talk about something good. Someone good.

But the phone calls came anyway. One, two, then three. I'd legitimately missed only one of those, avoided the others. I was ashamed of myself. What was I doing, practicing something this childish, at twenty-seven? So I decided, I had to make the call. And just like that, it was easy. The words came to me, I dialed the numbers. I gave him the explanation, the honest explanation. None of that "I'm so busy" or "you don't want to date me" crap. I said genuine words. Adult words. Call it nerve, call it gutsy, call it about time. What I'm going to call it, though, is growing the hell up.

I think basketball may have been on t.v.

Don't you hate when you're tired and worn out and you've already made plans and you don't have a good excuse to get out of them -or at least one you can live with- so you go anyway? And you hide your yawns and you try to concentrate. You laugh and joke and do your best to engage but your mind still slips to thoughts of your home, and your bed.

This was my night. I'd already made plans. I came home from work, rushed around, showered and got ready to go. Then, on the drive, it hit me: I am too tired for this. But, I couldn't go home now, so I showed up. Right place, right time, wrong person. Me, of course. I just wasn't there.

I played with my brain a little. Trying to repeat things that were said, so I'd remember. So I could remind myself I cared. So I could stay awake. I looked at the lights, squinted a little. I watched the kids running around, hoping their screams would keep me awake. I gazed out the window, and at the television. Hockey on one, basketball on the other. It's that time of year, I told myself.

Two hours in, I couldn't hide the yawning anymore. I yawned, politely. I stretched a little, drank more water and was glad when the check came. I had laughed, I had asked questions. I tried to be engaged, and engaging- figuring the entire time that it seemed so fake. The bad news is, I don't know if it worked. The good news is, I'm still too tired to care.

On Sharing

I’m sitting at dinner the other night, having a perfectly good time. There’s a lull in the conversation and my mind wanders. I wonder, all in the span of twenty seconds, when the right time is to share certain things about yourself. When do you tell them your dog’s name or your favorite book? Do you tell them you hate chocolate? When is the right time to share that you’re about a week away from losing your first toe nail?

A monumental, disgusting fact of distance running, I suppose but nonetheless, a fact. I’m guessing you can really go quite some time without sharing this information and some people might never, but I’m a sharer. Not too much, too soon, but eventually, in any relationship, it’s where I find my comfort. It’s not so much what I’m sharing as the reassurance I find in disclosure. I keep and I keep and I keep and the times I can let a little go, well I adore those times.

That’s why I felt so great about my run the other day. Though I understand it’s just a small part of my life, I like to think that some things happen that have significance completely independent of any other force. It’s not true, but how else are things real? How else do we decide between good things and just mediocre? How does one occasion mean more than another? Is it because we choose to make it that way? I think so. And I think we do that by the way we choose to share it.

Which is where I find myself now; really having a lot to share and unsure of where to direct that energy. I’m well aware that a first date is not the time and place for toenail stories. I’m also aware that driving my friends and family crazy with disgusting stories is no wiser. But where does it all go? Well, it looks like right now it goes here, but how long will that work? It would be far more productive to have a place, I think. I’m also, however, aware of what’s under my control, and this isn’t.

I had a friend, that two days ago completed a 100 mile endurance race. His wife, was there for the twenty-eight plus hours and even paced him at the end for the last few miles. His words at the end? “There’s no one else I would want to share that with.” It meant a lot for him to finish, of course, but it meant more that his wife was there with him, to share.

I hear this over and over, that things mean more when you share them but I rarely have chosen to believe it. Sure it can make an experience deeper and more memorable, but it doesn’t make it worth more, does it? Well, turns out now I think maybe it does. Figures, the time this actually starts to resonate is when I realize I’m losing a toenail. How deep and meaningful is that? I know, it’s not. It’s just disgusting.