Zeke let me cry into his shoulder for awhile on the couch. Then, after I’d wiped my nose on his sleeve, he’d gotten up to find me some Advil. “So, what’s going on Trace?” he asked, as he rifled around in the medicine cabinet.
“He doesn’t love me anymore!” I wailed. I flopped into the couch and buried my face in a pillow.
“Well, yeah,” he replied. “That’s what happens with breakups.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. But he couldn’t really hear me. Continue reading Zeke Comes to Visit. Part Two.
Zeke showed up in my doorway with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a Starbucks coffee in his hand, after having made the long drive from Boston to NYC. There were many times over the years when Zeke had been on the East Coast for work but had never come to see me. This had caused many of our arguments. But a few days ago he’d announced an impromptu visit for this weekend. I had a sneaking suspicion this decision was not a result of him suddenly wanting to see the sites of New York or even to see me really. I had a feeling this was mostly because he was a little worried about my current state of mind. He knew this was the weekend My Ex had been scheduled to come out from California. That trip had been cancelled, of course. And although I’d told him I was doing FINE, he’d still insisted on coming out. Continue reading Zeke Comes to Visit. Part One.
“I think I’m pretty cool.”
“I am very busy discovering the world we live in.”
“Duty is a turn-on.”
“I love to smile.”
“I’m looking for someone with pretty hands and feet.”
“I love epiphanies.”
“If u have a problem with me being 5’4″ then ur are missing out!”
“I live to inspire people and be inspired. I would like more of everything.”
“I’m not good at describing myself…you would have to talk to me, or meet me to know me.”
“You should message me if you love intellectual gymnastics, but you understand that the poetry of the everyday can not and should not be forced.”
“How can I be better than I am today? A better teacher…. a better lover… a better human being…”
“The woman I’m looking for: She loves to talk but observes long silences peacefully and appreciatively.”
Oh my. Who the fuck were these guys? Continue reading We’ll Say We Met at Starbucks.
I’d really let myself go.
Two months ago, I’d been in incredible shape. This was because I was going home for my 25 Year High School Reunion and also because my long-distance high school boyfriend was going to be staying with me in the hotel the whole time I was there.
I’ve literally never been so excited.
I am incredibly disciplined when I’m happy. During the weeks leading up to the trip, I would smugly post one word updates on Facebook like ‘SPINNING’ or ’30/60/90′ or ‘METCON3’ and regularly check myself into every Equinox across the city. I was eating better, exercising a ton and wearing the shit out of my skinny jeans. Continue reading Sanity in Sweat.
“I’m sorry I drunk texted you all night last night.”
“Trace? What the hell time is it?”
“Um, ten o’clock here so I guess seven o’clock there?”
“Trace, I don’t care if you drunk text me all night. Drunk text all you want but don’t call me at seven in the morning on a Saturday and wake me up to apologize for it.”
“Okay, um… But do you still have an OkCupid profile?”
“Oh shit, okay. I can see you’re not going to go away. Hold on.” I could hear Zeke pull himself out of bed and move to the bathroom. He clicked the door shut. Then he reemerged and I heard the familiar flick of a lighter to light his cigarette. “Alright, what’s going on?”
Continue reading When life gives you lemons, send that shit back and demand champagne.
The next night, three of my closest girlfriends burst into my apartment like a fashion SWAT team – high heels clicking on the wood floor, bangles clanging against each other, chic bags slung tightly over shoulders. I looked down at my chosen outfit for the night: a faded, too tight pink Motley Crue t-shirt, black jeans that accentuated my muffin-top and black knock-off Uggs.
This was why I needed their help.
After I finished up my profile, I’d immediately sent out an emergency distress signal to my friends. They’d kindly canceled whatever plans they’d had and showed up toting bottles of wine and enough food to feed us for a week-long sequestering. They knew this was an extreme situation that warranted extreme measures.
An extreme closet makeover was in order.
I hate to shop. I always end up simultaneously dehydrated and also having to pee and never able to find a bathroom. I easily get overwhelmed and so I find myself sweating and breathless, feeling claustrophobic as people shove by me, scratching my arms with their hangers. I just don’t care about clothes and therefore don’t give them a lot of attention and time. As a result, I go shopping about twice a year and try to buy a whole season’s worth of wardrobe in one morning. I’ll find a few things (usually dresses because I am too lazy to try on separates) and then, already aggravated with the whole thing, I’ll just purchase each item in three different colors. Inevitably, I’ll not buy enough so I end up wearing the same outfits for many, many years. Long after they’ve gone out of style. That is, if they ever were in style to begin with. This was not suitable for dating in NYC.
Continue reading Wait. So you mean crushed-velvet blazers are not the look for Fall?
My back hurt. I was starving. And my blood alcohol content was getting dangerously low. It was 8 o’clock that Friday night and I was just now getting to the part of actually filling out my profile. This was not going as planned.
I’d already made it through the anxiety-producing process of creating a username. It needed to be fun, flirty and positive without seeming too artsy or naive. It also needed to not sound too desperate, bitter or inadvertently pornstarish. After discarding many choices, I felt I’d come up with something that sounded relatively interesting without seeming as if I was trying too hard to sound relatively interesting. So that was done. The next step was to upload profile pictures.
I am hopeless when it comes to anything technical. In truth, the only reason I was able to even put this blog together was because my co-worker, Lux, tirelessly built it for me and then walked me through each small, painful step to actually utilize it. (Her: “No, stop clicking on the actual site! Click on the Dashboard!” Me: “What’s a Dashboard?!”) I was trying to pull pictures from Facebook but they were all too small. After an hour and a half of exasperation, I put my head on my desk and wished I could just call Lux and have her do it for me. The only problem was that she had a new baby so it seemed totally inappropriate to call her at 8 o’clock on a Friday night with such a ridiculous request. And also, I didn’t have her phone number. Continue reading The Beauty is in The Details. Or At Least a Good Profile Picture.
“Match.com is for people who have to pay to get a date. And you, my dear, are better than that. Now it’s all about OkCupid. That is the site you will join.”
When my boss, Wade, said things like this with such assuredness, I knew I needed to sit up and take notice. He was perched on the exercise ball I keep in my office cube for visitors, drinking a protein shake with an peculiar green tint. He was the vision of business-casual perfection with his lightweight sweater of that certain shade of yellow that can be worn in any season and perfectly tailored pinstriped slacks. His shoes were, of course, unscuffed but not offensively over-shined.
“But I thought that was what made Match.com better, that if you’re paying then you are proving you’re serious about actually meeting someone. Isn’t OkCupid more like a hookup meat-market site?” I asked, as I surreptitiously began applying a floral scented lotion to my hands and arms as I was pretty sure I smelled like a frat house from last night’s overindulgence of beer and cigarettes. Clearly I was not handling this breakup well. Continue reading Wade Takes the Wheel.
“You’re too pretty.”
“You intimidate men.”
“Your online dating profile is too long, it makes you look crazy.”
“You look down too much when you walk.”
“You don’t get out enough.”
“You have your headphones in when you’re on the subway.”
“You come across as a bitch when people first meet you.”
“New York City is a hard place to meet someone.”
“You just haven’t found the person who will accept your flaws.”
“You don’t say ‘hi’ to strangers.”
“You don’t try hard enough.”
“You have a cat. It makes it look like you’ve given up.”
“You don’t show enough cleavage.”
These are the reasons people have given me for why I am still single at 42. As each of my friends have paired off over the past decades, I’ve often wondered why it really is that I am still single. It certainly wasn’t what I’d hoped for or planned. What was I doing wrong? I have my own list of why I think I’m still single. It is:
I never meet anyone my own age.
I hate shopping so my wardrobe is still stuck in 1995.
I would rather be home watching Investigation ID than go out.
I need to lose 10 pounds.
I have a compulsion to drunk-text.
I know nothing about music.
I can’t cook. I smoke cigarettes.
I’m an over-sharer.
I talk too much and too loudly.
I always look tired because I have insomnia. Or I’m hungover.
I’m too needy.
I’m too pale.
I have a cat. It makes it look like I’ve given up.
I don’t show enough cleavage.
I recently reconnected with my high school boyfriend. I hadn’t talked to him in 14 years but I can say honestly, he’d never been far from my mind. I’d always loved him. When we got back together six months ago, I said to myself, “This is why I’ve been single for so long! High School Sweethearts Reunited! What a great story this will be! I can’t wait to update my Facebook status!” But it was not meant to be. I was crushed. I thought this was finally my Happily Ever After. Continue reading IF YOU ARE NEW TO THE BLOG, START HERE: When One Door Closes, Another One Opens. Even If You Have to Kick It Down.
Not Quite A Cougar 