Chapter Two
Simmering Enthusiasm
In the quest for learning “to be” and to express myself, I have found romantic relationships to be one of my best teachers. These romantic liaisons helped to define my sense of self as well as partnership. They also opened me to a new awareness about love as The Grand Adventure. I can certainly confirm that each of my romantic relationships was exactly that!
As vivid explorations of passion, they opened new landscapes portraying the vastness of life and splendor of the human heart. When we can love in the face of possible loss, heartache and disappointment and feel exhilarated about one’s faith in “always something more around the corner,” we begin to know and understand at a deeper level our Cosmic or God/Universal connection to All That Is and Is To Be. We discover that at any moment in life, we can choose to make a difference.
Although love needn’t be linked with romance, unquestionably it has proven to be an exceptional pathway to “coming of age” for my own self-awareness. As Tony Robbins says, “life should be lived with passion.” In terms of finding a significant other, maybe all of us dyed-in the-wool romantics aren’t really looking for a way to merge with another but rather a way to seek our own self-fulfillment. Included in that quest is the courage to be ourselves at all times – to face obstacles head-on and find solutions ourselves, rather than relying on others. Isn’t that the irony of it all?!! To strive to be together with someone in order to be totally independent and “alone.” Perhaps we should say “a-lion,” in the light of what it takes to have such fortitude!
Another paradox worth mentioning is the fact that it not only takes a village to raise a child; it also takes a “village” to maintain the health, vitality, and longevity of a relationship. To be an authentic learning tool, we have to incorporate personal ethics and an awareness of the effects of our behaviors on others. We need agreements and we want to be reassured that “the grass isn’t always greener” elsewhere. We must also be aware of possible rocks on the path. Learning to share with another human being in a dynamic and by its very nature, romantic relationship is bound to be filled with joy – and misunderstandings. As we attempt to set our own boundaries and as the closeness develops into the type of intimacy that requires intervention and intermingling, we discover all sorts of hidden mysteries about each other that when brought to light, require exploration as well as definition. What a great learning experience this provides!
Each union is different, of course. Don’t expect any romantic relationship to resemble another former one that you and the other person has had. Celebrate your uniqueness!
Emotions and expectations, not to mention the slew of romance novels cluttering the shelves with silhouettes and mirages for us to evaluate, will do their part in driving us off course. Then, just when we think we might as well throw in the towel on the realities of a romance that just isn’t working and doesn’t seem to have any promise, to the rescue comes that essence called faith. Lurking in the shadows is that one insight or incident that delivers the message that the relationship only needs time to meld together those already identified ingredients that are both positive and promising. Let it simmer; let it tenderize – and let the tears run together.
Communication is a marvelous link with another, but remember, we really don’t have to divulge every thought we’ve ever had! Be selective and stay in the NOW. No one has to know all the details of your past; and the truth is, they don’t want to. In Illusions, Richard Bach writes, “The original sin is to limit the IS. Don’t.”
Admittedly, my own most cherished partners in this adventure of seeking romance have not always been the proverbial knight in shining armor. Like myself, they are vulnerable, with their own agendas. With each, the ecstasy was memorable . . . and so was the pain. In that wonderful film, Something’s Gotta Give, the heroine, learning of her great love’s desire not to make a commitment of monogamy, sobs uncontrollably in fits of utter despair. But instead of going down the tubes and disappearing altogether, like any true romantic, she picks herself up, shakes herself off as if what she had just witnessed was nothing but a bad dream, and once more reaches into her heart to start creating yet another “new life” for herself. Surely it is never long before the next Galahad comes riding along (substitute a man is his forties, slightly balding who sells insurance and had three bad marriages already, etc., etc.)
Isn’t life grand?!
One thing I can assure you: every single romantic encounter or serious relationship I ever had ended with new empathy and compassion – not with the traditional storybook tale ending, but in a way that was far more satisfactory and fulfilling.
Although no one can tell anyone else “how to” find their way, we can at least communicate warmth and an attitude of camaraderie. “Hang in there!” Everything is really going to work out – even if he did tell you there’s another woman in his life or he will never divorce his wife. Pitch that box of emails in the trash and start over.
Please put this statement on your refrigerator door:
One has to get to an “okay” place where you live each day, every day, and for all of eternity.
Sharing is a way of elevating oneself and others to perceive life experiences from a more satisfying level. What you bring to reality is your spiritual presence . . . and that is no small parcel. Accepting yourself for all the past replays that cause guilt, shame, regret and a host of other emotions that bring on that familiar ache in the gut should not continue to recur if you dump all the baggage and stay focused on today, and NOW. Then you can start all over with that new friend on the block called “the best you can be.”
We need to be kind to ourselves when our expectations fall short of reality. I used to tell my children whenever they were grumpy, “You – no one else – decide how you will feel today!” Eventually they got the message and learned the mantra by heart.
Life is about choices. Don’t limit your options or opportunities!
INSTRUCTIONS FOR LIFE FROM THE DALAI LAMA
• Take into account that great love and great achievement involve great risk . . .
• When you lose, you don’t lose the lesson . . .
• Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck . . .
• Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly . . .
• Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it . . . AND
• Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon.
I entered my own adulthood with many of the same excesses that are noted in Robin Norwood’s Women Who Love Too Much. Much of my time was spent searching for compatibility in relationships. The journey over treacherous terrain, with a lengthy evaluation of my own responsibilities, has brought me to acknowledge patterns learned in a household of violent alcoholism. Later, my uncle introduced me to, or perhaps submerged me in, Scientology. This experience with its cult mentality, offers far worse properties of alienation by deliberately using intellectual awareness as a tool for hiding one’s imperfections. By being candid and open in what was known as “processing,” I allowed myself to be on the receiving end of denigrating techniques geared toward altering my perceptions of right and wrong. What an important learning experience that was! It was also an eye-opener when it came to evaluating potential romantic relationships.
By examining my fears and learning from the mistakes of those who have chosen such negative, limiting and highly stressful environments, I have become so much more discerning. I have also been delivered from inhibitions that are part of this roller coaster ride of substance as well as cult leader dependencies.
None of us fits into a mold; that would be a contradiction. People-pleasing is a stressful lifestyle and highly unnecessary. Allow yourself to be who you are and kick the monkey on your shoulder! Be strong! Be free!
Self-acceptance and a place in the grander scheme of things will be your rewards . . . You will also rekindle your joy, sense of humor and compassion for others who are caught in those webs from which you have freed yourself.
A line from the movie, Romancing the Stone, seems an appropriate description of my outlook concerning the quest for a romantic partner: “I’m not a hopeless romantic; I’m hopeful.” Instead of trying to find that man who can be all the qualities you seek in a partner – ethical, strong, self-aware, compassionate, and bright – strive to develop these qualities in yourself. Be honest with yourself, and enjoy your worthiness.
Reinforcing my thoughts on the subject of self-empowerment and personal growth are the shopping list in Barbara Mohr’s book, The Cosmic Ordering Service, as well as Phil McGraw’s Self Matters, Esther and Jerry Hicks’ The Amazing Power of Deliberate Intent, Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing, and films such as Must Love Dogs and even Dogma.
I also rely heavily on humor and a keen belief that this existence isn’t “all there is.” Life is no longer merely a desire for controlling someone else’s feelings, beliefs or lifestyle in order to satisfy some craving; I am no longer tip-toeing through the day hoping “I’ve got mail,” that the phone will ring or the postal service will deliver with an amorous letter or marriage proposal. Romance has taken on a new meaning, for now it is first and foremost a romance with myself, my connection to God and the universe, and my interaction with life and all its players.
The Transformation Didn’t Happen Overnight
Following is a brief recap of the last few years of my ever-so-slow growth.
A quote from the Max Ehrmann, poem, “Desiderata” comes to mind:
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
My own case was one of masked desperation in the search for acceptance. In hindsight, I know I am hard on myself. I’m certain others can be just as uncompromising when it comes to knowing when we are operating with facades.
The Masquerade
I told a male acquaintance that I thought my most recent connection with a gentleman I had come to like and with whom I’d engaged in online hopes of intimacy, may have collapsed. His response, although a tad crudely expressed, was actually one of kindness. He suggested that I should enjoy sex only when needed. This response clearly defined the distinctions between male and female needs!
Even in real life, the erotic side of a committed love relationship is only momentary expression of the depth of a union with mutual goals and a future roadmap. Sometimes we forget that this whirl of excitement reflects more than mere animal magnetism.
“Across the Gap” – A Parody of Hopefulness
It was the end of summer and already cold here in Montana. Soon it would once again be snowing. It was that time of year when she loved to be inside, cozied up by the fire, her head nuzzled in the lap of a lover . . . She was seated at her computer, totally absorbed in responding to an email, when suddenly she felt his arms circling her shoulders. Quickly he swiveled her around to face him; cupping her chin in his hand, he kissed her sweetly at first, and then, as she began to respond, more deeply, with greater passion. At once her body was on fire, the flame of his lips igniting her expectation. As he withdrew from her, his mouth curled upward in a tiny satisfied smile. He knew exactly the effect he created, and it was good. He liked that, for it also kindled his own fire.
The smell of him intoxicated her as once again he drew close and covered her mouth with his own, kissing her hungrily. She was already aching for his touch, and he knew it. Resting his hand lightly on her shoulder, slowly he moved downward with his fingers, lightly tracing the outline of her low-cut blouse. As they paused tentatively on the pulse of her neck, he felt her breath quicken then grow erratic. He knew what he wanted and he also knew she could not resist him much longer.
Taking her hand in his, he placed it where she could feel his mounting desire and held it there. He nuzzled her neck, covering it with slow, small deliberate kisses, his hands moving beneath the soft material of her blouse, unfastening her bra and slipping it away from her breasts. A barely audible sigh escaped her as she moved against him and let herself be lifted up and carried to the bedroom.
Gently he lowered her onto the bed, already removing her clothes, at the same time getting naked himself. As he pulled her to him, he let his hand memorize every curve of her body. He knew women all right . . . knew exactly where it would feel best to have him touch and stroke and linger just long enough for the type of arousal that would cause her to surrender . . . but not yet. It was still too soon.
Now all she cared about was making sure he knew he was making her feel sexy and glamorous and most of all, desired. How she had longed for this moment … for days, months, she had mentally choreographed it . . . all she wanted was for him to show her just how special and remarkable she was.
She also knew she was inducing the same effect. Now he held her tightly while practicing all the techniques he knew would hold her captive . . . and when she gasped and begged him not to make her wait . . . but he persisted . . . now teasing her and driving her to even greater ecstasy . . . just when she thought she couldn’t stand any more . . . stopping, then starting all over again, gentle at first and then demanding . . . it was as if they had been lovers forever, as if they had always known everything about each other.
It had been so long since she’d last felt love like this . . . Then as suddenly as it had begun, all movement ceased and they relaxed into each other . . .
This little fantasy was of course, nothing more than that. At age 53 and momentarily without a partner, I found myself daydreaming about romance. My poor mother would be horrified at my erotic writings! Like most women of her generation, she was very strait-laced. What kind of daughter did I raise, she’d be wondering. Ha! If she only knew!
I did have a sense of balance, however. The hunger for romance was nicely controlled by the glut of responsibility in raising two daughters almost wholly on my own. Integrating my own social activity with the propriety of acceptable standards for them was one of those remarkable juggling feats known only to single moms who enjoy adventure and will settle for nothing less than Authentic Romance. Obviously, such encounters can never take place within the confines of one’s own residence and must be logistically planned to coordinate with the PTA bake sales, Girl Scout outings, piano lessons, meal planning and dropping off and picking up the dry cleaning. But I did it . . . successfully.
Fifty-three years old and here I was, writing borderline pornography; I looked in the mirror at the aging woman staring back at me and my eyes crinkled as I started to chuckle at my own inimitable self. “You romantic old devil, you!”
Soon after I scripted that little ditty, a new man entered my life — and I might say, not a minute too soon! My appetite had been further whetted by two DVDs, Someone Like You and The Mirror has Two Faces . . . Posting my profile on a couple of new Internet match sites, I put the fresh pot of romantic stew on the front burner and as it started to simmer, I could already smell its heady aroma wafting through my imagination . . .
In the initial emails between this latest fatal attraction, an actual connection didn’t seem likely. First of all, an ocean divided us. One of my less desirable traits is my necessity to eat when I’m hungry. I had little patience for long-term keyboard relationships. Leftover stew is supposed to get better with age, but I like mine freshly cooked, and immediately. After a few weeks, other forms of communication seemed necessary in order for the romance to grow and have merit in terms of – there’s that ugly word again – possible commitment.
Just at that time, I was gifted with an unexpected financial windfall and found myself contacting tour guides and bed & breakfasts for a trip overseas. This overseas outing was described to my deceased mother — whose face appeared in the shadows whenever I went to (an empty) bed at night — as cultural enrichment, a way to expand my horizons.
Would she have believed me? Of course not! My real reason for the trip was to feed my lust and pray that he didn’t have prostate problems or need Viagra. I liked my stew au naturel, or let’s say I like to know what I’m getting, raw and up front.
My new virtual friend was charming if a bit quiet . . . nevertheless I could sense a drive and passion beneath the calm; and he was incredibly bright. That is ALWAYS a plus. On his resume he listed IT expertise and military service. His apparent vitality coupled with the exotic flavor of a European Man made him deliciously “bigger than life.” The ethernet waves indicated an anxious heart and also that he really did like me.
As I mentioned earlier, I am no spring chicken, and at 53, most assuredly I would not be recruited for a head or body shot on the front cover of any magazine except maybe a How to Clean Almost Anything catalog. I can most aptly be described as the “stay at home and be sloppily comfortable” in sweatshirt, jeans and tennis shoes type of gal. I am not and never have been a suited, heeled and heavily detailed office or corporate type.
Short, somewhat stocky, with brown/black hair and golden brown eyes, I resemble the odd-ball female in The Truth about Cats and Dogs. I don’t think I need to say anything more.
On the brighter side, I like to think of myself as possessing intellect as well as keen evaluative skills. Those are valuable traits for any man, are they not? — as long as he senses no serious competition with himself and his ego, of course.
In the marriage department, however, I’d have to admit I’m a slow learner. With five failures to my debit, for some reason I seemed to keep hitting on the wrong formula, or the wrong men. Or maybe the “something wrong” was with me and not them. I hadn’t figured that out yet, but at least I had a sense of humor about it, and hadn’t given up.
Believe it or not, in spite of all these escapades and my determination to keep my mother’s ghost locked in the closet, my life for the most part was rather humdrum and dull. Of course, even the ordinary has its rewards; I have two wonderful daughters to show for all that boredom, in addition to two glorious grandsons.
When I thought of my life like that, I started to feel depressed; I could already see where this analysis was heading. It was time once more to focus on my Mission.
It was the first time since I’d engaged in Internet matching that I did not initiate the contact; he did! I can’t begin to tell you how many tally points that automatically put in his corner. Usually I was asked by my potential “matches” to make a list of questions (ingredients for the stew?) and send it to them so I could learn more about them. Didn’t they have enough originality in them to write that list themselves, I often wondered. This method of breaking the ice seemed totally unromantic — too left-brained and logical.
How enchanted and immediately charmed I was, to be approached by a conversationally-adept man of maturity who was actually able to write a complete sentence that was both clever and literary! I was virtually mega bitten and smitten already.
Months of emails and telephone calls had fleshed him out a bit more, or at least as much as possible with the ocean still dividing us. His photos depicted a tall, ruggedly handsome man definitely of Irish heritage as I was. The expression in his eyes and the way his mouth curved ever so slightly upward, indicated he had not only experienced a full life but had come through it “safe and sane.” There’s much to be said for that alone. His conversational skills were comfortable, smooth, and oozing masculinity with an Irish lilt. He was the essence of humor and charm. I was also reading “integrity, strength, easily shared world views and business acumen.” Oops . . . the white knight syndrome was creeping up on me. Of course, I was curious about why he had contacted an American woman if everyday, viz., physical foreplay, interplay and postplay was on his “to do” list. However, in one of his phone calls, he had provided a ready response to my query. He’d simply entered the “search” profile generically without specifying a location for the woman of his dreams.
One hears all sorts of stories about Internet matching, and you really have two choices. You can listen with both ears wide open or you can refuse to listen and enjoy the risks. I had chosen the second.
I was ready for the ultimate test. It was time to dry up that ocean or learn to walk on water. I told myself if I booked the flight I would be doing it only to participate in a chemistry experiment, i.e., to see if my raging hormones were simply mind-induced or if there was some actual juice behind all this sturm und drung.
It had come to the point where brief phone conversations and even copious emails would never suffice or supplant mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The only benefit I could determine for staying in this holding pattern was to give my romantic illusions enough time to grow into a full-length porno piece (who knows? Maybe I could even find a publisher). In other words, I could continue being Cleopatra in my jeans and sweatshirt without mascara, earrings or uncomfortable shoes, or take the bull by the horns and buy that plane ticket.
This argument was far from convincing. Sometimes we’ll even sacrifice being ourselves in order to meet that Prince Charming.
We made plans to meet. I got my passport and checked on all the overseas flights. I told my friends and family, contacted employment prospects overseas, and I was ready.
And if I haven’t discussed this before, let me say right here, once and for all, that the Internet is only ether. Smoke and mirrors.
We had one thing in common: both of us believed in reality. In other words, if I’d shown up in my at-home uniform and he’d delivered himself as the doorman or faceless waiter that he was, both of us would have at least created enough spark to light a match. Wooden match, that is; not a his-and-her, she-and-he match.
After five times through the mill, I was still a believer, even though by now I’d realized the grass is the same shade even in the desert where there is none. In other words, even if a car didn’t have an engine or spark plugs, I knew I could make it run – if I wanted to. As I said, I was impressed that he had sought me out first; it had been many a moon since my howling had been silenced by a man’s lips or anything else.
Taking the Plunge
Once more I was on the brink of something and about to fall in. Fantasies? The bumper sticker is right: “Real women don’t have hot flashes . . . they have power surges!”
As I continued to strike out, one of my best friends, a gifted psychologist and psychic, would scold me gently, “You need to trust yourself. You don’t have to fanaticize or superimpose your fantasy on the wrong man. Just let it happen, and it will!”
She was right. It did. It had. Our long emailing and phoning marathon was moving forward, I thought – or at least it felt like commitment with possible marriage; after all, he had already broached that “maybe.” However, my attempts to arrange for a meeting were met with the response that it was “bad timing.”
That statement could have meant anything, of course . . . and I didn’t want to think the worst. I’d already been through that scene a few times, with men who seemed to enjoy bouquets of women simultaneously rather than a single flower, one at a time, as in marriage.
I was stymied . . . and yet the secretive air was mesmerizing. If I were writing a romance novel, it would almost be a necessary ingredient. Yet there was still a part of me that liked Reality. I wanted some type of expectation beyond tomorrow’s email or the weekend phone call.
While clearing files on the Internet match service where we had found each other, I happened to stumble upon his profile in the “active” list once more. Was that a coincidence or was Someone Upstairs (or Downstairs) trying to tell me something? When I casually mentioned this to him, he matter-of-factly answered that he was “no longer in the market.”
That was a good answer, but not honestly the one I wanted to hear, because it didn’t really seem to tell me what I wanted to know. Why was his profile still active? Soon after, however, it was, or at least that profile was removed. I say “that” profile because an unusual thought had suddenly popped into my head.
What was I sensing about this man, I wondered wildly. (What if, in fact, this website was part of a task force of sorts, to follow males who contact females posting profiles?) My imagination was now as fertile as my appetite for romance. I proceeded to make some inquiries into the type of female profile that would flag down such a task force and learned that she would probably fit my specs to a tee: someone relatively long-standing in a community, naturally quiet, economically stable and not particularly outstanding enough to raise eyebrows. If that is how I would be described, I can’t say I was impressed, nor did I feel particularly desirable.
At that point, why didn’t I simply “jump ship”? Perhaps because I want to believe that others are honorable, like myself. Like a true romantic, I wanted this “maybe” to have a happy ending. The last marriage had left me feeling like leftover meat loaf.
I wasn’t asking anyone to evaluate my psychological dependency issue; I needed a relationship because I was a romantic, and clearly this thing called love needed to be done by more than one human being. It was like a battery: positive and negative tips and ends that needed charging together.
The End
Poof, just like that, it was gone. My Galahad simply evaporated as if he had been nothing more than a USB cable that had suddenly been yanked out of my virtual laptop.
What went wrong?
Maybe nothing except that there was nothing to go wrong. Ah, sweet mystery of life along with a bit of misery at the loss of this possibility.
I decided to take a respite from Internet matching, at least long enough to recover from the shock of – well, nothing.