New Year's Resolutions

Invariably, any conversation you have from December twenty-sixth through December thirty-first of every year will gravitate towards a discussion about New Year's resolutions. I hate New Year's resolutions. I never stick to them and I suspect that this also applies to the vast majority of people who adopt resolutions as well.

In December 2008, instead of creating a list of resolutions, I thought of a general mantra by which to live my life in the upcoming year. 2007 and 2008 had been rough, so my goal for 2009 was to break free from all of the things that were keeping me down and holding me back – it was time to get mine. "GET MINE IN '09!”

2009 was nothing short of spectacular. I took a comedic writing course at Second City, something I had always wanted to try. In the thick of the economic recession, I quit my steady job at a labor union to pursue an unpaid internship at a Senator's office for three months. Consciously deciding to not pay my bills for a quarter of a year was the most terrifying decision I could make and yes, it was also the most liberating. The internship was a blast! I met new people, had fun despite my limited resources, and lived a carefree life temporarily.

I returned to my old job in late December once the internship ended. Sitting at my desk one quiet afternoon, I thought about the incredible year I'd had. What was beyond getting mine in '09? How could I extend that mantra into the upcoming year?

I created a new list of goals and as expected, my list was quite ambitious. "How in the world am I going to find time for a love life," I asked myself as I reviewed my list. "Well actually, why would you need one," said a little voice inside my head. "Frankly, if you did without men in 20-10  you could get everything accomplished."

Wait, that's it! "No Men in 20-10!” Not that I wouldn't make an exception if the right guy came along, but why not just take some time to focus on other things?

Drive This Train!

Sometimes us ladies need you fellas to "Drive This Train!" But what does that mean, exactly? Well, it's an expression my friend Candice uses when referring to a person who plans a date. On occasion, it's simply nice to board the train knowing that the destination, estimate times, tune-ups and all other pertinent details have been arranged, and that my sole responsibility is to sit back, relax and enjoy the ride...

1) When you ask me out on a date, your next question is almost always: "What would you like to do?" I immediately throw it back into your court: "I don't know. What do you suggest?" Then you say something like, "I don't know. I'm up for anything." Setting a date can also lead to a similar conversation. "When are you free?" "I'm pretty flexible." UGH!!!! Odds are you'll assume that I'm a bougie bitch for suggesting Sullivan's for their jazz trio that does a killer rendition of Mack the Knife. So really, you're not up for anything.

2) You 'could eat' and I'm on a see-food eat-food diet so we settle on going to dinner. Solid choice. Do we really have to go through every ethnicity known to man to decide on a restaurant, becoming progressively more obscure the further we go along? Mexican? Italian? Greek? Pan-Asian? Lithuanian? Australian? WHAT THE HELL DO AUSTRALIANS EVEN EAT?!!?!?!?!?!?!

Australian food it is. I'm excited about trying something new and since this is your first time too, we'll have a shared experience and bond over how amazing or disgusting that Koala dish was.

HOW TO DRIVE THIS TRAIN:

Ask me out to a specific place at a specific time. For example, "I've driven passed this Australian restaurant a hundred times. How about we have dinner there this Friday?" 2 out of 3 times I'll say "Sure, I've always wanted to try Koala," even if I know I'm allergic! And if you're going to force me to make a decision, don't make faces when Mack the Knife comes on. ::ACCESS DENIED::
 

3) On your way to my place we exchange a series of text messages that go a little something like this:

10 MINUTES BEFORE DATE

hey

Hey! What's up?

whats ur address again?

123 Peachtree Lane. You take the expressway to 1, turn left at 2, make a right at 3, and voila! Peachtree Lane.

K on my way

Ok. See you soon! :)

30 MINUTES LATER (20 MINUTES LATE)

hey

Hey! You downstairs?

no still on expressway. were do i get off again?

1

then what

turn left at 2, make right at 3, and voila! Peachtree Lane.

k

15 MINUTES LATER (35 MINUTES LATE)

hey

Where are you?

lost. i went to 4 like you said but didnt see Peachtree

!!!%#@$!!

HOW TO DRIVE THIS TRAIN:

In a world of MapQuest, OnStar, Google Maps, Yahoo Directions, GPS, iPhones, and Blackberries, do not text me for directions.
::ACCESS DENIED:: Here's a novel concept - STOP AT A GAS STATION AND ASK FOR DIRECTIONS! I'm too busy having a crisis over here! (See #4)

4) You FINALLY get to my place and I'm not ready. You razz me about it. Listen asshole, I showered, shaved, waxed, tweezed, went through EVERY fucking outfit in my closet, self-loathed, changed my outfit, sewed a button, squeezed into a girdle, painted the three toenails that will show through my peep toe heels, changed my outfit, drew on my eyebrows, accidentally poked myself in the eye with eyeliner, changed my outfit, danced to Lady Gaga's Bad Romance (twice), curled my hair AND COACHED YOU ON HOW TO GET TO MY FUCKING APARTMENT. I'm down to blush, lipstick, perfume and throwing the essentials into my clutch with possibly one last outfit change depending on what you're wearing. DEAL WITH IT!

HOW TO DRIVE THIS TRAIN:

Don't razz me about getting ready. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

5) We get to your car and I'm forced to wait outside for 10 minutes while you clear out the contents of the passenger's seat.

6) One block into our trek to the Australian restaurant the gas light comes on. We spend the next 20 minutes driving around searching for a Shell gas station because you've been dying to use that Shell gift card your aunt gave you last Christmas.

HOW TO DRIVE THIS TRAIN:

Clean your car and fill it with gas PRIOR to picking me up. All you have to do to prepare for a date is shower, possibly shave, and pick out something to wear; I think you can afford to spruce up your car before you come get me. Plus, you'll have time to search for a Shell gas station near you since the one half a block from my house is designed to explode should you ever need it.

7) We make it to the Australian Restaurant and it actually looks promising! Who knew Koala was such a popular delicacy?! Upon entering we discover that there's a two-hour wait. You didn't call ahead of time to make reservations.

HOW TO DRIVE THIS TRAIN:

This is remedial dating not even Dating 101. If you suggested a restaurant we've never been to, check it's website for the basics like directions, parking information, and whether or not they take reservations. You can also use this as an opportunity to gauge pricing information. This may be one of the places you save for further down the line once you figure out whether you like me enough to spend $24 on a salad.

An Observation

People often ask me why I date older men. They tend to assume that because I was raised by a single mother, I somehow developed daddy issues and solely select men that possess fatherly traits. Aside from being tremendously rude, these people are also grossly mistaken. It's not that I'm searching for a father figure at all. Over time I've simply developed a theory... an observation, if you will:

Teens: Ah, that young tender love! Teenage boys will love you unconditionally. Flowers. Chocolates. Mix tapes. While it is true that their love may be driven by the desire to have you touch their peen, you'll be the first person to do so and you'll thus be afforded some decency and respect (if you chose wisely). Plus, they'll want you to do it again. And again. So they'll behave.

Early to Mid-Twenties: Men in their early to mid-twenties just want to screw. Screw relationships. Screw monogamy. Screw condoms. Screw! Screw! Screw! Well, screw you!

Mid to Late-Twenties: This group is a mixed bag. You don’t know what you’re gonna get! Some men refuse to let go of their frat boy days and party all the time. You typically see them at nightclubs or bars (‘cause God knows what they do during the day). They travel in packs and come in all different douchey flavors. Conversely, other men in this group are purely focused on their careers. These men may be serial daters in search of a steady lay (think Justin Timberlake) but the odds of actually getting married are slim (sorry Britney, Cameron, Jessica, etc.).

Early Thirties: This is the gray area. I was going to merge this group with the former, but there is one key difference: thirties are a period of introspection and reflection. Men start thinking of what they've accomplished thus far and what's left to obtain. The thought of legacy and family suddenly sounds appealing. While some men may still think they’re frat boys, as hairlines recede and bellies start to expand, they start to reconsider their lifestyle. Other men are still purely focused on their careers but by now, that woman they’ve held onto during their serial dating phase may be pushing for marriage. This man may choose to either marry said woman or move on to someone else with the intention of getting married. Single men in this group make for great dates. They've got the dating game down pat and are able to drive this train. Plus, they read, ::gasp:: make clever jokes, ::gasps again:: and aren't complete shameless assholes. ::faints::

Mid to Late-Thirties: A man should be securely planted in the career of his choice by now and is hopefully working towards something. Usually he’ll have children by or during this stage. If he's divorced, he's probably realized that marrying that woman he serially dated in his late twenties, while convenient, was a huge mistake and he's trying to start anew. What better way to start anew than with a young, sexy lady that will boost your ego simply because you managed to bag a young, sexy lady? And she's smart? ::gasps:: And she has good taste in music? ::gasps again:: And she likes sports? ::faints::

The Apple Incident

On our way back from the movies, we drove down McCormick Boulevard, a long dark road next to a park decorated with massive art structures. The road was eerily desolate for a Saturday night in late August. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and I allowed myself to close my eyes and take in the comfortable silence. A sudden loud bang startled me and I shrieked as the car swerved in and out of both lanes. “Someone hit me in the face with an apple,” he cried as he pulled over to the side of the road. He frantically flipped the lights on and wiped juicy residue off his face. “Are you okay,” I panted. He did not respond. His face stiffened and he turned a chalky brown. My eyes darted. There, lying on the stick shift were the remains of the largest, nastiest insect I had EVER seen. I referred to my date as Beetle Juice for the rest of the night.

LET'S GO ON AN ADVENTURE!

Since The Magician wasn't interested in being in a relationship, I settled on remaining friends. He was as sweet as he was intoxicating, and it was still absolutely impossible to resist him. Our chemistry was undeniable and that magnificent summer night we shared heightened the sexual tension between us.

I don't remember the series of events that led to our little arrangement, but The Magician and I began to see each other casually. Dirty Martinis at Devons. A smoke at a cigar shop in River North. Bandera. Myopic Books. Nick's Beer Garden. The Magician was more than just sex, he was an experience.

I will never forget the time I visited The Magician at his new apartment. I brought along a bottle of wine and we toasted to his new place. Channeling my best Rita Hayworth, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed his tender lips. I felt wanton and brave. Aggressive. Feminine. Beautiful. Loved. Special. The Magician took me in his arms as my legs buckled beneath me.

When I moved into Wicker Park, The Magician was the first person with whom I explored the neighborhood. We ventured into Nick's Beer Garden and enjoyed some live jazz. We befriended the waitress and like me, she fell for The Magician's doting affections. We ended the night back at my place and were lulled to sleep by Billie's mournful blues.

My last encounter with The Magician took place last year. "Let's go on an adventure," he exclaimed. He picked me up and we drove to Chinatown. It was as if The Magician had commissioned the city to shut down the neighborhood just for us. The stores were dark and the streets were quiet. We walked hand in hand down the main drag, illuminated by neon signs and city lights. We found a quaint little restaurant off the main strip and had a marvelous dinner.

The Magician and I gradually fell out of touch with one another. Once again, I am scarce on the details that led to the dissolution of our arrangement. Whenever I needed him most, The Magician appeared out of thin air and brought along a little razzle dazzle. For that, I am eternally grateful. I don't know if I'll see The Magician again. All I know is that he left the magical imprints of many wonderful adventures in my mind and on my soul.

Toxicity

Although I was fulfilled emotionally, the sex with Mr. Ed continued to be atrocious, disgusting, terrifying bad. I asked guy friends for advice, consulted sex books, and attempted to get Mr. Ed to talk about his problem. It was in one of our discussions that I learned a groundbreaking truth: While Mr. Ed had sworn that he wanted an independent woman at the start of the relationship, it was my independence itself that emasculated him, causing the dysfunction in the bedroom.

Looking back, I should have ended our relationship right then and there. I was absolutely horrified at the notion of being someone's housewife and even more petrified at the thought of settling on a life that was not at all what I wanted. But how do you tell someone that they're not "The One?" That while they didn't do anything in particular to merit it, you want to end the relationship? How do you tell someone that you think you deserve more than what they are able to offer?

I felt that Mr. Ed would never understand me wanting to end things over our massive ideological differences. In his mind, differing ideologies was a pretext meant solely to conceal the actual reason for my unhappiness - his inability to please me sexually. But in reality, his penis was just one of many shortcomings.

While we both grew up in rough neighborhoods, Mr. Ed was never able to get out of the ghetto mentally and that, to me, was the biggest source of contention. He ran back to the west side every chance he got, having a couple run-ins with the cops along the way. We were never able to solve disagreements by having rational discussions but rather by raising our voices and hurling disrespectful obscenities and painful insults at one another.

Mr. Ed also didn't understand my sense of humor. A large number of our arguments were generated from misinterpreted sarcasm. I found myself having to dumb things down for him thus reinforcing his feelings of being emasculated.

The more I spent time with him, the more I disengaged from the relationship. Mr. Ed of course, was quite the opposite; the more we saw each other, the more he talked about a life together. Not being able to find a way out myself, I did the next best thing - I tried to make Mr. Ed break up with me. I turned into a cold-hearted bitch, mercilessly kicking him out of my apartment or not talking to him for months at a time. I told Mr. Ed I had been honest about not wanting a serious relationship and that if he chose to stick around, that was his problem. The straw that broke the camel's back was fairly minor, but Mr. Ed had finally had enough and he broke up with me.

Easy To Love

We made our way over to the bedroom and it was there that I awoke the next morning, wrapped in the arms of my lover. When he got up, he brought back tea and we spent the next few hours in bed enjoying each other's company.

The Magician was my ideal man - educated, ambitious, considerate, a classic gentleman from the 40's transplanted into this era specifically for me.

It was so easy to love him,
so easy to envision a future together...
so easy for him to turn me down.

Those Summer Nights

I drove myself close to insane reliving the final moments of our
date - the lingering hug, the smell of his skin, the tender good-bye. Our date was perfect! Why didn't he kiss me?!?!

The Magician's restraint had absolved me of my own and now this liberated temptress would show him a little magic herself. When he called to schedule a second date, I suggested we have ravenous sex all over his apartment I cook him a nice Puerto Rican dinner at his place and he agreed without hesitation. ::ACCESS GRANTED::

The Magician lived on the first floor of a classic graystone in Palmer Square. The apartment itself was a vintage gentleman's bachelor pad; dark woods, imported leathers, and dark fabrics dominated the space.

We caught up over cocktails in the living room. The Magician opened the windows, allowing the breeze to bring in all the sweet scents of summer. We ate dinner by candlelight while Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, and Frank Sinatra serenaded us. After dinner, we cuddled on the couch under a throw blanket, watching the trees sway romantically in the park across the street. Once again, I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.

I turned to face The Magician. His twinkling eyes met mine. I leaned in and gave him a soft, sweet kiss. It was infinitely better than anything I had ever imagined. We made love on the couch with the sweet summer breeze blowing in through the stained glass windows and Billie's melancholic song ringing in the distance.