Anchors Away: We all have a type

These days, it takes a sailor or two to rock this boat...
These days, it takes a sailor or two to rock this boat…

Whether we want to admit it or not, we all have a type.

Tall + Dark + Handsome.

Architects.

Blonde hair + blue eyes.

Drummers.

For most women, it’s the wrong guy. For me, it’s sailors…

It used to be cowboys. Macho, wild-bull-wrangling types who lived by a creed and by their own making. Men with stetsons who wore their jeans like they were poured into them.

Yum.

My cowboy phase infiltrated my wardobe
My cowboy phase infiltrated my wardobe

This was mostly the result of what I can only define as my “John Wayne Phase” —  a period in my life when I’d abandoned romantic comedies (I mean, how many times can you really watch Knotting Hill?) and turned to westerns. I queued up classics like The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and contemporary remakes like 3:10 to Yuma (did I mention I was also going through a Russel Crowe phase… which I’m still in…) I even went so far as to stage a version of Othello set in the wild west. (Did you know I once wanted to be a screen-writer/director?)

As a result of this phase, I can single-handedly outfit the entire cast of Dead Wood.

But eventually, like Paul Cole* I came to ask: where have all the cowboys gone?

A light bulb went off: with the exception of the “supply-buying” round of Oregon Trail, they were never in New York.

Enter Fleet Week.

He mistook my RL Crest for my sailing club... I probably should have lied, but then I might have drowned...
He mistook my RL Crest for my sailing club… I probably should have lied, but then I might have drowned…

“So what club do you sail with?”

The question came from a tall, blonde, exceedingly handsome lawyer from New Zealand who was a good friend’s older brother.

“The Ralph Lauren Yacht Club.”

He had seen the crest on my blazer, and assumed I raced sailing vessels. He did. And that was kinda hot.

Shiver me timbers…

I did not race sailboats. I was simply embarking on my nautical wardrobe phase.**

I grew up around boats. Mostly speed boats and kayaks, but I had heard stories about my parents as a young, married couple learning to sail in Vancouver harbor.

This always appealed to me — the idea of working together to navigate around troubled waters… or to buried treasure. It certainly felt like a more appropriate metaphor for life than taming a wild mustang.

There’s that and then there’s the romanticism of the man at sea coming home to his loyal girl. A sort of Penelope and Ulysses. And then there’s the Navy uniform…

Yea, it’s really just about the uniform.

A girl is always a sucker for a man in a sailor's hat
A girl is always a sucker for a man in a sailor’s hat

__

*”This Fire” was one of the defining albums of my teenage years, along with Globe Sessions and Jagged Little Pill — both of which still have at least one song on every playlist I create…
**Apparently, the choices I make when I shop are completely analogous to the choices I make when I date (let’s not get me started on my “hippy” summer…)
Apparently my wardrobe choices and my taste in men go hand in hand...
Apparently my wardrobe choices and my taste in men go hand in hand…

An additional note:

My favorite Jane Austen hero is Captain Wentworth, from her final novel Persuasion. Not coincidentally, Wentworth raised himself from meager beginnings by distinguishing himself in the Royal Navy, where he eventually became, well, a Captain… and the object of every gal’s affection. Duh. Anne Elliot is the Austen heroin I most relate to. Over the decades, there have been several excellent screen adaptations of the novel… most recently starring Mi-5’s (or Spooks, for all you UK folks) Rupert Penry Jones as Captain Wentworth… swooooooooon. This might actually explain it all.

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not: Considering a Romantic’s Romantic Past

All it takes is a rose to answer the question: does he like me? It's more complicated than that...
All it takes is a rose to answer the question: does he like me? It’s more complicated than that…

Oh! How many flowers have lost their rosy petals in an attempt to answer a simple question: am I the apple of his eye?

He loves me.

(petal down)

He loves me not.

(another petal down)

You can learn a lot of things from the flowers, Alice taught us when she fell down the rabbit hole. So surely if the falling petals tell you so, he must love you.

Not so fast…

I used to cheat. My flowers always told me exactly what I wanted them to. Somehow, whether I’d count the decapitated stem or count the petals ahead so I could “accidentally” pull off two petals at once, I’d always land on “he loves me.”

Of course, he rarely did. But when you’re young and your eyes are blinded by infatuation, you’re always optimistic.

Staying an optimist when you’re older: Or, enter “It’s complicated”

As I was deadheading my rosebushes this afternoon, I flashbacked to playground crushes and flowers as  Magic 8 Balls shedding light onto my romantic fate. It occurred to me that whenever I respond with an “it’s complicated” to an  inquiry into my relationship status, I was employing the grown-up equivalent of cheating at the “he loves me/he loves me not” game.

Let me explain: saying “it’s complicated” is giving yourself a sense of hope that eventually it’ll all work out. “It’s complicated” is the optimist’s definition of an enigmatic, most likely dead-end relationship.

This realization occurred to me when “the one that got away” magically resurfaced after years of silence. For the first time since he was in my life, I was finally able to evaluate what we were without a biased heart.

For a long time, I defined our relationship to outsiders and even our friends as “complicated.” When I say complicated, what I really mean is that we were close friends, I liked him and wanted more from our relationship. We never talked about our fate or our feelings, in fact we avoided talking about those things even though everyone around us tried to instigate a happily ever after. For months, nay, years I believed we were teeter-tottering on the edge of “something.”

In my mind I had attached an “it’s complicated” status to us because it kept the possibility of an Us open. We weren’t complicated. We wanted different things. And while I waited for him to get on the same page (because, of course that was going to happen), I missed out on a few good, uncomplicated men.

Here is a basic truth: Relationships can be complicated, but feelings are not.

I’ll probably never really stop being an optimist when it comes to love — I’ll never stop cheating at the “he loves me/he loves me not” game. But hanging around in an “it’s complicated?” I think I’ve finally learned to keep it simple.

Yup, that's me.
Yup, that’s me.

Have We Met Before?

The year I was 21 was the year of that reality show named “The Pick-Up Artist.”

You might remember it. It was that Vh1 reality show with the audacious failed-rock-star-type Pick-Up Guru who attempted to teach groups of men with no game whatsoever how to get any woman into bed. I only watched one episode. In it, Mystery (an appropriate name, since his marketability as a dating guru is a mystery to anyone who saw him) taught the young Jedis how to make a move on a girl who was on the move. That is, he showed these gameless men how to pick-up a woman who was walking down the street.

Gameless? Mystery's here to help......
Gameless? Mystery’s here to help……

(Now, for anyone that’s lived in a city, you know there are neighborhoods where any man can be successful at this without even saying a word. Thank you, Red Lights… obviously, the Pick-Up Artist found his disciples on farms…)

If Mystery was anything like Robert Downey Jr., who played in the late 80s flick of the same title, I might have ignored his fur-clad top hat and cut him some slack. I mean, did men take this guy’s advice seriously? I was doubtful… Until the following Friday night…

I was plowing through the lower west side, with a  few of my girls a few steps behind, all of us en route to a concert, when a short, chubby, blonde guy walked passed me, looked back and then cut in front of me.

“You look familiar. Have we met before?”

My jaw-dropped. Clearly he’d seen the same episode.

“No.” I pushed him out of the way and kept walking.

“I think that guy thought you were a prostitute,” my friend Maddie said when she and the other caught up.

Maddie always had a way of making me feel better…

You look familiar. Have we met before? <– that combo of phrases was the key to the approach.

It implied a kind of safety (you know me, so you know I’m not a serial killer.)

It’s an understated compliment (you’re memorable.)

It might also imply fate (I knew you before I met you.)

In theory, it’s a good approach.

I’ve rarely fallen for it. The answer is almost always “no,” unless you’re at an alumni event, and then it’s only vaguely likely (You studied in the architecture library!? Me too!… Oh, right… orientation week…)

Every once in a while, it’s worth taking the bait (like that time in the elevator with the Coulda-Been-A-Gucci-Model…)

Unless you’re wearing hoop earrings, stiletto heels, and are walking through that neighborhood where it’s easy for men with no game to pick up women on the move…

That was the last time I tried to harness my inner Pretty Woman....
That was the last time I tried to harness my inner Pretty Woman….

All the World’s a Match Maker

“When people ask you that, you should say: ‘I’ve just gotten out of a serious relationship.’ You don’t need them to think there’s something wrong with you.”

I  javelin-tossed a wooden spoon in my mother’s direction after she handed me this unsolicited advice on how to deal with the line of questioning beginning with “are you seeing anyone?” and upon my negative reply, followed  immediately by: “why not? you’re so [insert complimentary adjective]!”

keep-calm-i-am-still-single-1“Since when has being single indicated there’s something wrong with me?”

Siiiigh.

It’s always a disappointing moment when your family turns on you.

There was a sort of cruel irony in the recent rise of people inquiring into my marital status — when I was dating someone rather seriously, no one seemed to ask. But the minute I went back to being a bachelorette? Well, “are you seeing anyone?” is as ubiquitous in my daily conversations as “hello! how are you?”

Is it the question that bothers me? No, not any more. I’ve learned to read “are you seeing someone”  an indication of genuine interest in me. (Between you and me, I’m more troubled by the people who ask about my kids. I don’t have kids. As far as I’m concerned, I’m not even old enough to have A kid… but that’s a blog for another time….)

What gets me about the “are you seeing anyone?” investigation is the follow up question: “why not?”

Flashback to my first annual check-up with my gynecologist:

“Do we need to talk about birth control?”

“Umm…. Not this time.”

“What’s wrong? The boys you hang out with don’t like pretty women?”

I indignantly twisted my head around my knee and stared at the middle-aged man at the end of the table, who was holding a medical device probably invented in medieval times… by a man. Isn’t this moment awkward enough? Do we really need to go there? And do I really need to answer that? And why, all of a sudden, do I feel inadequate, despite the ill-timed compliment?

Every time someone asks me why I’m single, I think of my gynecologist and his exam table. I guess there’s just no way to avoid the awkward.

That's right -- I just made an art-nerd pun. Maybe that's why I'm still single...
That’s right — I just made an art-nerd pun. Maybe that’s why I’m still single…

“I bet you’re stuck up,” said a cab driver to me one late night in downtown Manhattan after asking me if I had a boyfriend. He decided he’d answer the “why” for me.

“I might be.”

“Don’t you want someone to wake up to?”

“Doesn’t everyone? But having someone to wake up to doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

As I paid my fair he handed me his personal card and offered to fill the vacant boyfriend position, despite the fact I was, apparently, stuck up. I declined and made my way into the night.

Inquiries into my marital status have always felt intrusive to me, but worse is implication that being single means I’m some how falling short. Perhaps its a consolation to know that at I’ve reached the age and point in my career where people stop prescribing a rich husband. Instead, they prescribe qualities in a prospective partner…

…Or a drink with one of their few remaining single friends.

All the world’s a match-maker, after all.

So, Let’s Hang Out? Considering “The End of Courtship”

“Ok. Let’s do this! Let’s hang out!”

I confess, I was caught completely off-guard. It wasn’t exactly the declaration of affection or attraction or, hell, even interest that I had hoped for from a guy I considered “most likely to be cast as leading man in the movie that is my life.”

"Let's do this!" was more game-time cheer than romance. I wanted romance.
“Let’s do this!” was more game-time cheer than romance. I wanted romance.

“Let’s do this!” was less romance and more pre-game pep-rally.

Were we going to jump off a cliff together? Maybe metaphorically. But if his “I want to hang out with you” was the 21st century equivalent of Mr. Darcy’s “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,” then we were certainly in for a bumpy ride.

But such are the times we live in….

In all likelihood, you or someone you know shared that NYTimes Sunday Styles piece about dating in the age of texting and social media. About how traditional courtship has been replaced with the flippant one-offs of the hook-up generation.

For the most part, I thought the essay was a gross generalization that painted a bleak picture favoring an ever-increasing divorce rate.

But Alex Williams was on to something — “hanging out” has exited the realm of friendship and infiltrated the realm of courtship, leaving singles (particularly, single women) hoping to make the jump from “gone fishing!” to “got him!” in a perpetual state of confusion.

“Let’s hang out.”

When I was a college student with more male than female friends, this was something I heard fairly often. In those days, it’s meaning was crystal clear: we’re going to keep it casual, keep it low-key, throw on a movie or pull out a deck of cards, open a bottle, maybe some people will join us, and by the way, we’re going to keep it platonic.

Oh! How fast things change!

Imagine my surprise when, a half decade later, a “let’s hang out” has translated into everything from “I’d like to take you to dinner” to “let’s hook-up” to “I’d like this to be serious.”

“Hanging out” as a colloquialism is the new “hooking up” — an appropriately non-committal term that keeps your options open and your morning-after stories vague.

Saying "let's hang out" is like putting on a suit of armor to protect yourself from harm
Saying “let’s hang out” is like putting on a suit of armor to protect yourself from harm

It’s a sort of self-protective statement, one that doesn’t put your heart on the line while still implying an interest in spending time with the other person. A sort of “let’s see if we click as friends” is partially implied — and isn’t the fundamental base of a successful relationship a strong friendship? Isn’t it a good idea to see if you can be friends as well as lovers?

What’s the problem?

More of my 20-something friends are married or in domestic partnerships or engaged than are single. Is Williams’ point, that this behavior might be fostering the kind commitment-phobia that makes it more difficult for people to really develop worthwhile relationships, accurate?

Maybe it is and I just cultivate romantically stable people? (unlikely…. you’ve never met some of the guys I dated…)

Let’s be honest, if you’re an urban singleton, getting a foothold in the industry of your choosing, filling-up your time with friends and social groups, drinking up all your environment has to offer, the notion of keeping it casual when it comes to dating is your best laid plan (pun intended.)

Here’s the problem — it’s the phrase itself.

Instead of "hanging out" consult the thesaurus. Let's phase out that phrase
Instead of “hanging out” consult the thesaurus. Let’s phase out that phrase

“Hang out.” It’s still flippant, casual, an afterthought. If  saying “I want to see you” carries implications of  serious commitment and so you shy away, say you want to “get together” or say you want to do something specific.

We don’t need the guy that says “I want to spend every waking minute with you” (though, when faced with a choice between him and Mr. Let’s Hang Out, Mr. Let’s Hang Out is shown wanting). But it’s nice to feel like we’re more than an addition to a plan.

“Hanging out” leaves lots of things hanging in the air. And frankly, hanging out gets old quick. Before you know it, she/he will be hanging up the towel on this casual courtship and moving on.

 

 

 

 

Here’s a drink to you, 2012

As 2012 draws to a close, I confess, I’m a little sad. It was a good year. Nay, a great year. The kind of year you look back on and think: “Gee, I hope I have another 2012.”

I got my moment to shine, curating my first NYTimes reviewed exhibit
I got my moment to shine, curating my first NYTimes reviewed exhibit

2012 got off to a rickety start. I was frustrated at work and play. I was suffering from typical mid-winter doldrums, the kind that come with a restlessness that makes you start looking at new job postings or considering applying to culinary school. On January 2nd, I had lunch with a guy I had met online and thought would turn into Mr. Right. He didn’t call me back. Humpf. I was uninspired as January began to click down.

By March, I was singing a different tune. Life was off and running. After a few small-scale successes, I was curating my first marquee exhibition for my organization. I’d see a raise, a promotion, and  a full-page spread in the New York times. There would be failed but funny first dates. The guy that didn’t call me back became a trusted friend.

Old friends made their mark as we planned new adventures. Reunions happened on a grand scale. Close friends got engaged or said their “I-dos” with joy and really delicious wedding cake. Love blossomed under a moonlit canopy and carried through the summer into late autumn, when the changing weather brought with it new prespectives. We closed one chapter and began to write another.

Guadi stole our hearts in Spain
Guadi stole our hearts in Spain

My mother and I packed our suitcases and gallivanted across Europe, embarking on the kind of ramble through five countries that can only be summed up as a trip of lifetime.

A hurricane hit. We were left relatively unscathed, but others were less lucky.

Yes, as it turns out, 2012 was one exciting, raucous ramble from beginning to end. There were some rough patches, some catastrophes, some heartbreak, some unpleasantness that will leave their scars, but all in all, 2012 was a year of highlights for me. I’m lucky, and grateful to be so.

My wish for you, and perhaps my hope for me too, is that 2013 is the kind of year where we’ll all look back and say: “Gee, I hope I have another 2013.”