He looked terribly handsome as he tossed his shaggy dark hair and laughed just a little too hard at my bad joke. While his posture telegraphed confidence — upright yet leaned back, big smile across his face — the laugh told me, “Whoa. This guy is just a little bit nervous.”
I felt nervous too — a tiny fluttering in my stomach, my palms just a little clammy. First dates have a way of doing that to you.
Only, this wasn’t our first date in the traditional sense. No, this was our first date, err, our first “Preparing for Partnership” session, with the rabbi we want to marry us.
You got to know me years ago on The Frisky as Dater X, the girl who just couldn’t get it right in love, hanging intense excitement on each new guy and feeling mildly to horrifically crushed when it didn’t work out. Dater X, the girl on the hunt for her green zebra—safari jacket on, binoculars at the ready—but only finding red koalas and yellow crocodiles. Keep reading »
Two summers ago, I remember sitting on a bar stool, anxiously twirling a straw in my Rum and Coke as a guy I’d been dating for a little over a month explained why he didn’t think we should see each other anymore. “Why?” I asked, stunned. He hemmed and hawed for a moment, and opened and closed his mouth sharply, as if he enjoyed the taste of the air. I could tell there was something he was wanting to say, but couldn’t quite make himself form the words.
“My parents taught me that you don’t date someone unless you can see yourself marrying them,” he said. “That’s always stuck with me. Those are words I live by.”
The wooden bar stool felt harsh and uncomfortable underneath me—almost as uncomfortable as the words coming out of this guy’s mouth. Really, he’s breaking up with me because he doesn’t want to MARRY me? Is this guy I’ve gone on SIX dates with and had sex with ONCE really talking about freaking MARRIAGE? Keep reading »
Last Thursday, I prepared myself for what I thought would be a big milestone in my relationship with The Young One. His older sister—who serves double duty as his best friend—was visiting and I was going to meet her for the first time over dinner. That morning, I rummaged through my closet, trying to find the perfect ensemble to project a cool-yet-wholesome image. Over lunch, I brainstormed restaurants with my co-workers, hoping to find a place that felt special and laid-back at the same time—a true reflection of me. All afternoon I felt on a high that I was about to meet my first member of The Young One’s family—the one he was closest to, no less. Visions of his sister and I becoming besties danced in my head.
But as late afternoon rolled around, I hadn’t heard from The Young One. He remembers dinner tonight, right? I thought before spiraling into another thought. What if he’s changed his mind about introducing me to his sister? Keep reading »
Last night, while watching “The Bachelor: The Women Tell All,” I found myself getting more than a little choked up watching Ashley Spivey’s one-on-one interview with Chris Harrison. Her hands folded delicately in her lap, she talked about how Brad Womack‘s rejection feels like a pattern she’s been stuck in for years. On that first night, Brad had given her the first impression rose. For maybe two weeks, he adored her. And then, he sent her home. “I’m in disbelief right now,” Ashley said in the backseat of the limo. “They always say the exact same thing, ‘You’re going to make such a great wife, just not for me.’” Elvis crooned “Are You Lonesome Tonight” in the background.
I looked across my living room at a bouquet of flowers that The Young One bought me for no particular reason, and noted that my dog was curled up on a t-shirt he left here over the weekend. The Young One and I are approaching the two-month mark and things remain so awesome between us. But man, oh man, do I remember feeling the way Ashley does. Keep reading »
It’s been three years since I’ve uttered the phrase, “This is my boyfriend, __________.” So every time I’ve said it in the past two weeks, as the word ‘boyfriend’ passed through my lips, it felt both totally foreign and completely natural. Even though it’s a word that conjures up images of high school and “Do you like me? Check yes or no” letters, each time I say it, the word makes me feel just a little bit giddy.
I’ve been dating The Young One for six blissful weeks. Keep reading »
Like a cat who constantly wants to be petted, I have an insatiable need for back rubs. I am forever asking significant others for them—a request that is usually obliged, but that is sometimes met with a “Maybe later,” an “I’m tired” or, worse, an “Again?” So far, The Young One has been happy to indulge each and every back massage request. But last Thursday night, as we watched TV at his place, I suddenly found myself sitting on the back of the couch, leaning over and kneading my hands into his shoulders. “That feels incredible,” he said.
He hadn’t asked me for a back rub, nor had I consciously decided to give him one—it was something I did without thinking. It was the first moment I realized that I am totally in love with this guy. Keep reading »
Yesterday evening, I met The Young One outside my office with no idea of where we were going or what we were doing to celebrate Valentine’s Day. I’d pressed him for clues all week and the most he would give me was, “You’ll really like it,” and “If you wear heels, nothing too high.” We began walking, zigging and zagging down the unseasonably warm New York City streets. Every time I thought I had an idea of where we were headed, he’d laugh at my guess, shake his head ‘no,’ and make an abrupt turn. Finally he said, “This is it,” motioning toward an awning with the words “Ballroom Dancing” printed on it. Keep reading »
I love Halloween. Ditto Thanksgiving. I am all about the Fourth of July—bring on the fireworks and hot dogs. I even enjoy a good April Fool’s prank. In fact, there is only one secular holiday that makes me break out into hives: Valentine’s Day.
See, St. Valentine and I have a complex relationship. Keep reading »
I had a picture in my mind of how my next dating experience was going to go. I’d meet a nice guy, maybe at a friend’s house party or while we both tried to flag down the bartender at one of those speakeasy-esque bars that serves cocktails with perfectly square ice cubes. We’d exchange some witty words, some knowing smiles, and clink our glasses as we got a second round. He’d ask for my number and would call a few days later. Our first date would be during the day—maybe to a museum—followed by a dinner date the next week, if things went well. I had in my mind that, next time I got on the dating mechanical bull, I was going to take things slow and steady so I didn’t get bucked off too soon.
But then I met The Young One. Keep reading »
Last week, I met a friend for coffee and, as we sipped our cappuccinos, I pumped her for details on the date she’d been on the the night before. “It was alright,” she said, sounding unenthused. “He was just really … young.”
“How young?” I asked, worried we might be talking about a guy with a fake ID.
“Twenty-six,” she said, wincing ever-so-slightly as she pushed out the words.
“That’s not that young,” I said, rushing to the defense of this guy I’d never met. But as I pointed out that there was five years between them—not the biggest age differential ever—I could tell by the look on her face that it wasn’t going to change her mind. When you’re not feeling it, you’re just not feeling it—and I respect that. Keep reading »