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 »
There are few things I love more than a good pun. And a sly piece of word play? I like to think that I deploy them often. I am all about analogies, and probably use them more often than a “Real Housewife” gets Botox. I, Dater X, am a word nerd. I’ve known this about myself for years, and generally it’s something I like potential suitors to match.
But in the the past week while exchanging emails with Petr, the Czech sculptor I met in Prague 10 years ago, I’m finding that many of my usual rhetorical rhythms simply don’t work. Keep reading »