This was the text message exchange that got me to Flatbush, Brooklyn on a rainy Sunday night when I should have been tucked away at home with a pot of tea, a bottle of gin, and a grant application due three days later.
I had been invited out by a German data privacy lawyer I had right-swiped on and who I will hereby refer to as Konig. We were going to travel together to Flatbush, Brooklyn and the absolutely gorgeous Kings Theatre to a screening of “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” followed by a Q&A with John Cleese.
We had moved pretty fast from swipe to date, but my right-swipe had not been immediate. Konig was a dead ringer for the Admiral, my Ex (with a capital E), and that made me uncomfortable.
At some point in my early days studying French, a teacher forced my class to sit through an adaptation of “Les Miserables” which implied that the stories in Hugo’s novel were the only stories that existed and ever would exist in the history of mankind. It was very French. However, that idea stuck with me and I’ve sort of translated it into a dating theory: if you’ve been single long enough, you will have two, maybe three “great” romances that play on repeat, in mild variation over and over again over the course of your unattached life. The Admiral and Frank Hampshire are absolutely those for me.
Besides the physical similarities between Konig and the Admiral, there were other similarities that amused me. Their shared interest in film was one, but isn’t everyone into film? They shared the same birth order with the same number of siblings, with the same genders in the same order. They both earned their first Masters degrees from the same uni in London, only a couple of years apart. They belonged to the same young museum patron program. They both took suiting seriously, though this is where Konig had the upper hand — he was the most beautifully dressed man I had ever met. There were perhaps other similarities, but this is enough… you get the picture. Before I’d even met Konig, I was afraid I repeating history and would once again receive a flunking mark.
Prior to meeting him, in the hopes of settling some of my nerve I did a little social media due diligence. MISTAKE. I stumbled on a relationship past that made an eyebrow raise — a blue-eyed Ex named Cat who was also a fencer. That’s where, as far as I can tell, the similarities between myself and his Ex with a capital E end (she’s a 5’11 runway model.) Every picture I saw of them, he looked madly in love. I wondered, would this be an issue?
It was a treacherously rainy Sunday night. The kind of rain that not only soaks you to the bone, but renders street lines completely invisible. I got pulled over on the drive home for trying to drive straight from a left turn lane. Konig and I said good night after a couple of hours of lively conversation that book-ended the screening. He was the first person I’d met who got as excited as I did about the Seagram’s building… We made plans to see each other the night before he was set to leave for a month in Europe.
And then he cancelled. It was complicated, he said. He could explain more if I wanted, but he didn’t think it was wise for us to move forward.
In a nod to Carrie Bradshaw… I couldn’t help but wonder:
While the similarities we find between new prospects and loves past may only be surface deep, does our awareness of them affect the way we allow the relationship to develop? Had I been superimposing the less admirable traits about the Admiral onto Konig because of a shared surface level biography? Was he doing the same with me? Were we both looking for better variations on a theme, only to find it was better to explore an entirely new tune?
When I started this blog, I was in my 20s — a woman who came of age watching “Sex and the City”, trying to decide if she was a Carrie or a Miranda (or maybe a Samantha, but definitely not entirely a Charlotte) and whose actual generation had yet to be defined by “Girls.” It was the era of “Gray’s Anatomy,” and not yet “50 Shades of Gray.” Tinder and Bumble had yet to hit the online dating market, meanwhile the bottom had just fallen out of the stock market.
All my friends and I were dating. The longest term relationships anyone had been in had been ones that started in college, when life was easy and a twin bed was good enough. Now, my friends are partnered-up, maybe toddler-totting, and likely mortgage paying.
So, in case you didn’t get where I was going, when I started “They Told Me a Rich Husband,” it was a different time. And I was living through a different life decade.
Putting aside that I’m now more likely to be matched with someone by my thumb than by a friend, I realized that dating in your 30s is different. It’s different not because the dating pool is smaller (to be honest, I’m not sure it’s any smaller… it’s just shallower, and access to the deep end is more frequently denied… and when you are let in, you don’t trust that there will be a lifeguard on duty to throw you one of those red floaty rescue things if you need one.)
By the time you’ve reached your 30s, you’re either frantic for a partner, or accepted that you’ve been single most of your life, are happy and can handle being on your own for the rest of your life… or you vacillate somewhere between the two. Dating in your 30s is different because more often than not, you or someone you’re dating is just getting out of that relationship that was supposed to last forever… but didn’t. No one walks around wearing a sign that says “emotionally damaged, handle with care,” and yet more often than I can count since crossing the decade line, I have found myself trying to date someone who was only fresh to market and suffering broken engagement PTSD.
That was me at 27. I get it. And we often don’t give men enough credit for having feelings, or broken hearts, or for loving deeply.
” Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death,” says Captain Wentworth in Jane Austen’s final masterpiece Persuasion, a story of a rare second chance at love. “…there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating.”
In one of my online dating profiles (because now I, like, have them all) I close by saying: “We’ve both done this before. It can’t hurt any worse than it did that last time. Let’s give this a go?”
There was another shooting at a school in America this week. You’re watching the story, and you’re listening to the politicians and the pundits and the victims and the survivors. And if you’re like me, your heart hurts. And you’re mad.
I don’t really have the words to talk about Parkland directly, so instead, I am going to protect myself inside the framework of this blog — a blog about my personal experiences and human relationships — to tell you about my human relationship with guns…
Chad and I had been dating a couple of months when he suggested taking me shooting one afternoon. I don’t know why I agreed to go, but I did. Watching him thoughtfully select which weapons (because he owned many) would come with us before he methodically loaded his ammo cases made my heart pound so hard and fast my eyeballs and the tips of my toes hurt. He handed me a magazine clip. I swallowed air instead of inhaling it in a cartoonish “gulp.”
The truth is, I knew exactly why I wanted to go to the gun range: I wanted to understand what it was that made gun owners so passionate about owning and shooting guns that they were able to render our government impotent in passing gun control legislation.
Gun violence doesn’t have to lead to a funeral to ruin a life, or destroy a family. I experienced this first hand when I was a teenager, and I was desperate to understand why the Second Amendment was so worth fighting for.
My father briefly served in the South African military. When he talked about it, he talked about driving tanks. Today, he doesn’t have any ephemera from that time in his life, but in my early youth he still had his army-issued rifle. I remembered being about 5 and stumbling on it in the basement. It wasn’t too far from my mother’s fencing foils. The next time I saw my father’s rifle, I was 13. He was walking to his car, hurt in his face, pain in his body, and the vintage firearm in his hand. Its destiny was permanent disposal.
“There will never be another gun in or anywhere near this house,” he said before pulling out of the driveway.
That was the day after my cousin, his only nephew, nearly killed my father. Luckily, my cousin was a terrible shot when he was drunk (this, of course, is the flip and abbreviated version of the story.)
We can talk as much as want about what types of guns or magazine clips should or shouldn’t be on the market, but what I learned that night when I was 13 is that it only takes one bullet to change a life.
My experience with Chad nearly two decades later also taught me a lot. First, it turns out I’m a pretty damn good shot: a bulls-eye on my second shot. It was a rush of adrenaline, pulling the trigger, hearing the pop and watching the casing fly. I was profoundly aware of the power in my hands, and a competitive side in me wanted to keep shooting for another bulls-eye. It was addictive. Once I got my breathing under control, I understood the appeal.
And then I ran out of bullets.
Chad pulled the target in and handed it to me. I ran my fingers over my “trophy,” and suddenly I was 13 again and standing in my cousin’s apartment, now a retired crime scene, running my fingers over the holes in the wall from the bullets that had been aimed at my father, but missed.
Those bullet holes have since been spackled and painted over, probably more than once. But spackle is only a patch. The holes are still there. Physically and emotionally.
What my own experience shooting confirmed for me is that firing a gun is inherently a destructive and violent act. When you pull the trigger, the goal and end result is to remove a part of a whole. You will never convince me that I have or need the right to remove a part of someone, a part of some family, or a part some community in such an irreversible way.
It’s official. I’ve entered that elite circle of New York Singletons — I’m a Time Out New York “Undateable.”
Just in case you were wondering, that’s me on the left. And the swing coat is vintage-ish, circa 1980. Made in Ireland. The photographer, who was great, was totally baffled by what to do with me in it. My date, Lucas is on the right, and he wore a very similar outfit on our date. I’d say, we both look pretty sharp. Thank goodness for that.
I was 2/3 of the way through a nasty cold which was accompanied by a debilitating cough when an email landed in my inbox from “Undateables” writer, Will Gleason. Was I free to go out to a restaurant and a Broadway show (M Butterfly) tomorrow night?
Technically, yes, but I was also a walking mucus factory… perhaps I had better ask for a rain check when I was feeling more myself? It had taken nearly 6 months for my turn to come up in the queue. I consulted my co-workers, and that one friend who I can count on for sage direction…
Reply: M Butterfly? Sign me up!
An hour later, M Butterfly was off the table, but the date was on. A
All I had was a meeting place, a time, and a name: Lucas. It was a blind date in the most extreme sense: No common friend. No over zealous great aunt who fancies herself a match maker and decided her plumber was a viable candidate. No idea what each other looked like. Not the foggiest about age or profession. Not even a phone number. All I knew about him was that he was single, lived somewhere in New York, and that we shared a certain degree of bravery, and perhaps a total lack of ego (or a deep need for attention?)
Dinner at 6PM at Lincoln Square Steak.
I read the Zagat review of the restaurant, and decided it warranted a dress. I pregamed with a Claritin-D, a partial dose of prescription cough medicine, and a puff on my inhaler. Because in the “First Impression” section of the column timeliness or tardiness is always noted, I planned my travel so that I would be 5 minutes early. I planned too well, and was in the neighborhood 15 minutes early. Despite the wintry bite in the air, I took an extra lap around the block, and regretted not wearing nylons. I noted the apartment building where I used to go for SAT tutoring.
Inside the restaurant, I was escorted to an over-sized round table with a sweeping view of the entire space… and the door. I was the first one there.
The clock struck 6PM. I had already read the menu twice. An older gentleman with distinguished white hair and a pinstripe suit walked up to my table looked around like he was lost, then walked up to me and stuck out his hand.
Oh, my god. I thought. This is my date. This is Lucas. I am older than their usual undateable candidates, and this is what I get. That’s OK. It’s OK. Right? This is OK.
In a thick Italian accent, he introduced himself: “Hello, I am Marco…”
Phew. Not my date. Just the Owner. He explained to me how to order, suggested a few of the dishes they were “famous” for and then we spoke a bit about Chappaqua and grandchildren.
It was now 6:15. I asked for a Tanqueray martini, with a twist.
At 6:20, I took out my phone and sent out texts to the friends to had been primed for post-date debriefs.
He’s late. Am I being stood up?
I emailed Will.
6:25PM Text : Oh! I think he’s here… he has a beard… and he’s short…. oh. no. not him.
6:35 Text: This must be him. He looks about 20…. No. not him either.
6:40PM Internal dialog: I can’t believe this. I’m being stood up. I should probably leave. Where am I going to go? Maybe I should just go home? I think I have some Kraft dinner… Fuck it. Someone else is paying. I want pork belly. How come a steak house doesn’t have pork belly? Oh! There’s bacon. That’ll do.
I call over the waiter, and order the “Sizzling Canadian bacon” and a “Petite Fillet,” medium rare, with a side of roasted brussel sprouts.
“A glass of red wine?” the sommelier asks.
My martini sits only half drunk — there was too much vermouth.
“Yes, please… what is a good…”
“You will have a bottle.”
“I don’t need a bottle. He’s not coming. I just need a glass.’
“You will have a bottle.”
The somm brought over a bottle of Frog’s Leap cab, and decanted it before pouring me a glass. The bacon appeared, and I unabashedly dug in. Perhaps I would drink the whole bottle. Or maybe I would go to those bars nearby that I used to go to with the guys when I was in college. At least one has a dart board, and I was in the mood to launch sharp pointed objects at something.
I could feel a drop of pork fat slide across my lips as I looked up. I tried not to choke on my surprise or my bacon.
It was 7PM. Lucas arrived.
“I emailed Will and called the restaurant to tell them I was on my way, but the restaurant wouldn’t put me on hold. I was stuck on the subway. I’m so sorry. I just moved to New York from Boston. I’ve never been this far north on the West Side.”
From Boston? That explained everything.
Four hours later, we parted ways. Conversation had flowed as easily as the wine, and I was grateful that he had been both good looking and an easy talker… even if he had been an hour late. While the hour wait had been emotionally taxing, it had turned into a convenient ice breaker. And so the question remains — is there, has there, or will there be a date the second? TBD.
I got a new phone this past October, just before I left for a two week sojourn in Germany and the UK. It was supposed to be faster and have a better camera than my previous phone. It had a lot of improvements and features I expected, and a few I didn’t… like all the text messages from my old phone. It seems that in transferring all my contacts, apps, and photos, I also transferred thousands of exchanges between myself and friends and family and exes.
I’ve said it in past posts, but I’ll say it again: text messages and emails with your exes are emotional landmines. Even when you think you’ve got them all safely contained, you stumble on one unexpectedly, and boom! Some part of you get obliterated in a cloud of smoke and verbal shrapnel.
In this case, I had stumbled on an exchange between myself and Clark. It had been just about a year since we had dated and then not dated, and a few weeks since we had crossed paths and decided to start anew with a different tone. And then there they were — every text message sent from our first to our last.
One thing I’ve gotten very good at is moving on after something ends. With Clark, it was difficult, largely because we ended abruptly. I had allowed myself to fall fast and hard for him, knowing that eventually, I’d hit the ground and that it might hurt. The ground came up on me faster than expected.
I didn’t linger long on or pine for the sweet moments we shared. I stood up, shook it off, and pushed forward… with a visible emotional limp that would handicap me in what came next: a real relationship.
And then I read the texts. All of them. Separated from the exchanges by a year and a serious relationship, I was now a detached 3rd party — a voyeur looking into someone else’s relationship. I was sad for the couple in front of me. There was so much joy and promise in them. The chemistry was palpable. Then the final “hey. You up?” from her which triggered the break up email from him, and then a month later she said: “hey, I have mono. Pretty sure you gave it to me. #SoThisIs30.”
Now that we’re safely just friends, I’ve been tempted more than once to delete them all — especially the ones where he calls me beautiful or says how much he’s looking forward to seeing me or talks about kissing me in the ocean. I don’t want those around when I’m trying to forget that at one time, I thought I might have found a forever guy. And then I read this one and decide to keep them, because this is a good reminder of how I want to feel with each new “something”:
You can never tell if things are going to work at the start, but if we get to be our best selves for a while, then it will have been worth it. You make me smile.
“How do you feel at weddings? Because I feel pretty fucking awful at them.”
Oliver was hungover and sitting in a Midwest airport, a few days after his 30-something birthday and the morning after a close friend’s wedding. He continued before I could answer, drawing a comparison to being 30 and single at a friend’s wedding to being 80 at a friend’s funeral. Suddenly you’re aware that you’re the one left behind — the loneliness is palpable.
“I love weddings. And I love flying solo at them,” I chirped in when he done with his melodramatic imagery. But then again, I had accepted the possibility of a life lived sans co-pilot. He was a chronic monogamist, who for as long as we had been friends (now more than a decade) was always pining for a wife.
Our conversation brought up a few memories…
Memory 1: When my best girl got engaged, I was terrified about how I would feel at her wedding. I expected to feel a mixture of sadness and jealously — both selfish responses to your best friend finding a happily ever after. I was present when she met her now husband, and as we all joke, I get to take some credit for their meeting (it was my idea to go to that bar, after all.) But there’s another way to tell the story: two girls walk into a bar. One walks out with a husband, the other with a hangover. I never think of it this way, but I was afraid that come her wedding day, I would. I was the only unattached bridesmaid, and wasn’t offered a plus-1. Would I feel all alone?
When the day arrived, I was relieved that all I felt was happiness — happy that I was there, happy that I got to be a part of the day, and happy that the friend who was like a sister to me was happy. (If I was starting to feel low, it helped that one of the groomsmen asked if he could take me to dinner one day…even if he was nearly 20 years older than me, and was rocking a soul patch… soul patches are unforgivable facial hair decisions.)
Memory 2: It was the middle of October and I was milling about the first floor of one of Amsterdam’s most luxurious department stores, stocking up on Christmas cards with yuletide greetings written in Dutch (because, of course.) A text message came through — my Ex with a capital E wanted to know what I was doing on Saturday.
Kat: Flying home from Amsterdam.
Ex: What time will you be back?
Kat: Why, what’s up?
Ex: I wanted to know if you were free to be my plus-1 at my sister’s wedding.
Kat: That’s rather short notice! Suddenly feel like you need moral support?
Ex: Don’t need moral support. Just want someone at my side who I would want at my side at these kind of important things…
I didn’t make it back in time to be his plus-1, but if he had asked me sooner, I would have been willing to book an earlier flight. Not because I wanted to fall back into the role of girlfriend, but because I understood.
When you’re single, other people’s weddings trigger complex emotions. We get a front seat in a real-life fairy tale, and that can inspire in us everything from hope to despair, happiness to loneliness. We can revel joyfully in the moment of the party, or wander aimlessly down memory lane, reliving all the relationships that could have made it to the alter. The ones that got away are specters that hang behind centerpieces and under place cards. For some singletons, all they need to weather that whirlwind of feels is a strong drink (or an open bar) and the right song to dance to (all hail the Wedding Singer!) Others meanwhile need a companion. My Ex and Oliver are of the latter. I’m in the group that hands them a drink and makes them join me in the macarena/hokey-pokey/electric slide. At least, that’s where I am for now.