Love is Blind Wednesday, August 19, 2009

We always say we are never going to be that girl (or guy).  The one who is so blinded by the power of love that they lower their standards and expectations, and ultimately forget what it is that is truly important to them.  Not to mention manage to look like a total idiot when all is said and done (yes, I am speaking from experience here).

We all know it happens, and whether you have been directly affected, or are a victim of someone else’s erratic lovesickness, you are all too aware of the symptoms.  A few of my most recent experiences (personal and observed) have included things like the fear-of-break-up compromise and what I like to call the over-giving of the “benefit of the doubt” to people who don’t exactly deserve it.  Other common symptoms can include avoiding certain situations that lead to unwanted truth, tunnel vision and ignoring the blatantly obvious (most of the time only observed by us outsiders, unfortunately).

It can happen to anyone, and yes, I’m sure you saw this one coming, it happened to me.  But hopefully my confession will help some of you avoid similar situations, and have a good laugh at my expense.

I met a guy at an event I was working, and after the event ended, we continued to talk long-distance.  At this point, I didn’t have any expectations being it was pre-lovesickness, but the next time we were in the same town again, he took me out.  From there things seemed to heat up rather quickly.  Two days after returning home, he flew me into where he was living and we spent an unforgettable 4 days together.

(Photo from 'xKimJoanne' via Flickr)

We had “the talk” at the end of my visit and decided it would be best for both of us to not remain exclusive for the sake of the business of both our schedules and the distance factor.  We both really liked each other, but did legitimately have a crazy few months ahead of us work wise, and didn’t know when we were going to see each other again.   That didn’t stop me however from marking my territory by strategically leaving one of my dresses in his closet (in plain view of his bed I might add) for potential female visitors to see.   Some call it crazy, but I call it tactic.

Most people can’t honestly look back and say they can pinpoint when the lovesickness actually set in.  But I sure can.  How could I forget?  After changing my flight so I could stay just one more day, he dropped me off at the airport and we said our goodbyes.  It wasn’t until I got in the security line at the airport that I lost all control.

I reached into my purse to pull out my id and all of a sudden I realized I was crying.  Was this really happening?  Was I really crying in an airport over a guy I barely knew?  And in a public place none the less?  I thought this only happened in the movies!

But I couldn’t stop.  The waterworks continued until I got to my gate, and after going to the bathroom to try to compose myself and failing rather miserably, I tried to find an unoccupied gate in an effort to avoid the stares and whispers that were being shot my way by God knows how many strangers.  Could this get any worse?

Apparently so.  I managed to see one of my co-workers in the most remote airports in the state of California.  Figures.  Try explaining that one on Monday morning.

I tried to get back to life as usual once I returned home, but as expected for someone in my condition, it was next to impossible.  Lucky for me, I was able to hide it from him, which was definitely in my favor.  No one wants to be known as a crazy girl, even though all girls secretly are.

We talked a few times a week, but for the most part texted as our work schedules never seemed to allow for much else.  Things seemed to be going well, minus my fast-progressing illness that is, and before we knew it we had planned another visit.

But this time it was different.  What had once been over-the-top effort on his part slipped to marginal.  At the time, however, I just played it off as his work commitments and tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.  I mean, what guy wants a girl who won’t accept his best as good enough?  I went along with the change of pace, continuing to be supportive, and trying to remind myself of the other stressors in his life that were likely the cause of it all.

Even after finding another girl’s lip gloss next to his bed, noticing he had removed my dress from the spot I had strategically placed in his closet and finding a picture of him and another girl at the bottom of his laundry basket (I was not snooping I was cleaning) I didn’t acknowledge the obvious change.  Why ruin our time together?  It was short, and I technically couldn’t be mad since we weren’t exclusive.

Looking back, this is where I start to feel really stupid.  If he is careless enough to leave another girl’s lip gloss in plain view when he knows I am coming to visit, can’t find a better hiding spot for his picture framed princess and can’t think to bring my dress out of hiding before I get there to notice it is missing from where I left it, what is he really trying to tell me here?  I should have realized right then and there that the time and feelings I was putting into whatever was going on between us was a waste of my time, but I couldn’t.  I didn’t want to hear the truth.

After I left to go back home, things started to go downhill.  He was not calling when he said he was going to, texting me back sometimes days later and when we did actually speak on the phone, things were different.  And as badly as I wanted to bring up the obvious change, I didn’t in fear of losing what connection we still maintained. I continued to accept his behavior and make excuses for him, and even sent him a birthday package (a damn good one I might add).

And even after he conveniently decided to visit his family in another city at the last minute when I was scheduled to be in town for a family vacation it didn’t dawn on me that I should speak up.  I again reassured myself as I had been doing all along and continued to feel the complete agony that had now overtaken by daily life.

It wasn’t until my sister-in-law, who had met him when he took me out on our first date, inquired about how things were going between us that the truth I had been avoiding all along dawned on me.

What the hell was I doing?  I credit her (and a few other people I ignored throughout this 4 month process) for bringing me back to reality.  I had done something I promised myself I would never do—settle.  I can’t tell you how many times I have preached to my girlfriends about lowering their standards, forgetting about what they wanted and deserved.  And here I was allowing it to happen to me.  How did I let it get to this point?

There is only one explanation—love is blind.  And until you are ready to see things for yourself, no one is going to change your perception.

From that moment on, I ceased all contact, and realized in the process, that was what he had been trying to do all along—the infamous fade-out (I personally, I am not a fan of the fade-out, and prefer the cut-off instead, which I am rather good at, I might add, but everyone is different I guess).

As I have been able to look back on this situation and reflect on what has happened, I have learned more than I could have ever imagined.  Though it was disappointing (and embarrassing, let’s be honest) to be in this situation, I in no way blame him for my ignorance.    He taught me a great deal about myself and I will never forget the way he made me feel—and for that I thank him.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is true—I have been that girl.  But in my defense, it is hard to walk when you can’t see.

The Great Flood, Volume III Thursday, May 7, 2009

One evening, at a causal BBQ with some family and friends (not the kind of BBQ where you would usually meet someone you were interested in), I saw what looked like a mirage peeking over the fruit salad.
His name was Jay (not really, but you know the drill) and I couldn’t tell if he was extremely attractive or if I just hadn’t come across any decent looking men the past few months.  There was a drought going on, you know.
We ran into each other a few times after that, and as I soon found out from a few inside sources, he was interested too.  So, I’m sure you all know what happened next—oh yes, that’s right, I Facebook friend-ed him.

(Logo from Wikipedia)

That’s the first step in every relationship now-a-days, right? 
After exchanging a few flirty messages and a handful of witty wall-posts, the number exchange occurred. 
A few days later, I received The Call.  You know, the first call—the one that is a little bit awkward—in a good, new way that is—that includes talking over each other and what my friends like to call my use of “the phone voice” (a sweet, accommodating tone that only seems to make an appearance on professional phone calls, ones that occur after 2 a.m. and in instances like this). 
He asked me out for a drink and of course, I accepted.  I have to say, I was a little relieved.  I was beginning to think I was in a Facebook relationship.
In true guy fashion however, he kept an “out”, telling me he had planned to meet up with one of his friends from high school that was in town for the weekend after we went out.  This would make it easy to make a quick get-away if things didn’t go so well.  I went along with it, and in nice-girl fashion made him think I didn’t know his secret plan. 
After a few drinks, I slyly asked him if he needed to leave to go meet up with is “friend”.  He quickly assured me that he was fine and that they would just meet for breakfast in the morning.  Yeah, that’s right, I speak “guy”.
Overall, what could have been an awkward first date was a good one.  We hung out occasionally over the next few weeks and of course, kept it real on Facebook, too. 
But then, one hot August afternoon before Jay was headed out for a family vacation, the truth came out.  Instead of the usual short, flirty Facebook message, my inbox was inundated with a novel that went something like this:
“I have been meaning to talk to you about this for some time now, but have not gotten around to it…” 
**Translation:  I have been avoiding talking to you about this and now am in a position where I have to talk to you about this because otherwise you might find out on your own.
“I am really glad I met you and have enjoyed the time we have spent together the last few weeks…”
**Translation:  I am about to say something uncomfortable, so I feel like I should give you a compliment first.
“I started casually dating a girl before I met you.  It is a long distance thing, and I am not good with the long distance thing, so I am trying to figure out what to do…”
**Translation:  I have a girlfriend but I like you and I don’t know what to do about it so I am going to make something up to make it sound like I am confused. 
“I don’t want to go into details, but just know I think you are great and deserve someone great too…”
**Translation:  I don’t want to talk about it because it is uncomfortable for me, but I am going to give you another compliment in an effort to look like a better guy. 
CLASSIC. 
I quickly responded, wishing him safe travels, and didn’t acknowledge much else about the essay I had received. 
Not 24 hours after he had returned from his “family vacation”, the Facebook news feed (best invention ever) informed me that Jay had been tagged in a few pictures.  I followed the link to his page and saw pictures of Jay and the girl he was “casually dating long distance” along with him on his family vacation.  Shocker…after a Facebook message like that, who would expect anything less? 
We hung out a few more times but ended up just being friends, which is what we should have aimed for in the first place.  I mean, he did have a girlfriend!

Groupie Gone Wrong Monday, April 27, 2009

If you know me at all, you know my body not only cannot physically digest any sort of Asian food, it flat out rejects it on contact; which is precisely why when I was asked by a group of friends to go out for dinner at a popular Chinese restaurant, I was hesitant to accept.  I mean, really…who wants to overpay for a meal that is just going to give you diarrhea anyway?  Damn MSG.
But being the good sport that I am, I humored my colleagues and friends and graced them with my presence.  After all, for some odd reason, I did have a gift card for the place. 
When I arrived a few minutes late, I was escorted to a large table in the back of the restaurant that was only half full.  I sat down wondering who all the extra seats were for.  I was sure I didn’t have this many friends in this town.
We ordered drinks and as the waitress left our table, I noticed an influx of tall, attractive men in suits entering the restaurant by the dozens.  It sounds crazy, but it was what I had always imagined Alaska would be like—full of big, tall men (only without the suits of course), drastically outnumbering the female population.  I felt like I had died and gone to Heaven.
I did a long sweep of the restaurant, slowly sipping my martini, hoping for some eye contact.  But as I was scanning the room, I began to wonder—to what did I owe this blessing of male invasion?  Whatever it was, the ratio was on my side and I liked it. But as I started to spin my wheels, I began to put two and two together. 

(Logo from Wikipedia)

All I have to say is DAMN I was lucky.  Who knew the NBA D-League Showcase this year would be here of all places?  Ah, success.  A long weekend filled with professional basketball players, coaches and scouts.  And as a self-proclaimed, closet sports groupie (ahem…NOT the slutty kind), it didn’t get better than this.  It was like a mini-final four in the middle of January…only better. 
Just as I realized what was going on around me, a handful of guests began to fill our long, half-empty table. 
And then I saw him. 
He sat down next to me and after pretending I didn’t see him for a few long seconds, I was introduced by one of my friends. 
His name was Jacob (well, not really, but you know the drill) and I later found out he was in town for the tournament for work.  Upon introduction he politely engaged in conversation and by the end of dinner (or in my case, a few more cocktails), the nice to meet you’s had turned to flirty banter. 
The next day, on my lunch break, my friend and I headed for the arena to catch part of the game that was taking place that afternoon.  And shockingly enough, we ran into each other again. 
It was no coincidence, I assure you—just fate, hard at work.  
We chatted for awhile, and after asking me what we were doing later that night, casually offered his number.
A group of us met up later that night at a local dive bar.  I pulled out my usual bag of tricks (you know, the mild southern accent, deep stares and conversational touching) and we continued to hit it off.  Was there a make-out in my future?  The way things were going, it definitely wasn’t out of the question.   
After too many Jager bombs (one of the few downsides of hanging out with a giant crowd of guys) and a lot of karaoke, closing time rolled around and as everyone in the group tried their hardest to get their ducks in a row to exit the bar, the awkward “what now’s” began. 
Being the anything-but-forward girl that I am, I decided to play it cool and just see what happened.  I’m sure you can guess how that turned out. 
Five minutes later, the bartender kicked us all out and my girlfriend and I were out on the street waiting for Jacob to hail us a cab. 
He gave me a long hug and a kiss on the cheek and sent us on our merry little way.  Seriously?  I mean, it’s not like I was going to go home with him, but I thought there was at least a late-night food vendor in our future.

(Photo from 'Sammy Hancock' via Flickr)

The next day, I couldn’t stop talking about Jacob, and how confused I was about how the night ended.  My friend finally broke down and told me what had never once crossed my mind in the 24 hours I had known him:
He had a girlfriend. 
And not just a girlfriend, I believe the quote was “practically engaged and living in sin”. 
Well he sure didn’t act like he had a girlfriend.  But then again, I guess they never do.  I sure do pick the winners. 
If only I had known about this “almost engaged” situation…the weekend could have ended a lot differently—possibly with the future title of “NBA Wife”.  Good thing I don’t care about all that stuff…I mean…okay I already told you I was a groupie now let’s just get on with life.

The Great Flood, Volume II Monday, April 13, 2009

I know you are going to say I told you so, but let me try to explain myself first…
I usually tried to steer clear of the bars labeled “college hangouts”, but one night found myself there with a group of girlfriends because of their drink specials.  Shocking, I know.  In my defense, it hadn’t been that long since I had graduated college, and I was working for a non-profit at the time.
Upon arrival, we scouted out what you would call a prime table in a place like this—equidistant from the dance floor, bar and bathroom, and tried to blend in. 
A few hours and our fair share of L.I.T’s later, the dancing, loud talking, and picture taking (all common among all intoxicated groups of girls) ensued.  Yes, it seemed this was going to be one of those nights. 
Sure we were being so obnoxious that no guy would be interested in approaching us out of sheer annoyance, I was shocked when a male approached our table.  It took me a few minutes, but I soon realized he knew one of the girls we were with.    
After making introductions around the table, he walked over to me, and without wasting any time, informed me that his friend, who was standing less than 5 feet away from our table, wanted to know if it was okay if he came over and talked to me.
I reluctantly agreed, but had my doubts at first—I mean, who has their friend come over and ask if it is okay to come talk to you?  It was almost as bad as a guy asking if he could kiss you…seriously dude…just buck up and do it.  I chalked it up to some kind of whacked out manners, and tried my best to take it as a compliment.  Maybe there were a few southern gentlemen out west that weren’t cowboys after all.
After his friend gave him the okay to talk to me, the two of them came back to our table to join the group.  He sat across from me, and for the next hour, we tried to scream over the loud rap music that echoed throughout the bar. 
To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t remember much of what we talked about, mostly because I couldn’t hear a word he said.  But I must have been doing a good job of acting interested, because he asked me for my number at the end of the night.  I had no problem with it—after all, from what I remembered he was pretty cute. 

(Photo from 'Spikenzie' via Flickr)

A few days later he texted me.  His delivery was solid—he asked if I wanted to have a conversation that didn’t involve screaming at each other.  Sure, I still didn’t remember his name, but he was witty…and I liked that.
I agreed, and that Thursday after work I met him at a local restaurant downtown.  I was fashionably late (of course) but when I wasn’t there at two minutes after we agreed to meet, I received a phone call from him frantically asking where I was. Looking back I consider this red flag #1.
As I approached the restaurant, I noticed what looked like a 17-year-old pacing anxiously outside the entrance.  It wasn’t until after the double take that I realized this was my date for the evening.  Definitely not how I remembered him…
Okay, so he looked like he was in high school and seemed to have serious separation anxiety…things could only go up from here, right?  Or so I thought. 
He greeted me with an awkward side hug and we walked into the restaurant.  It was crowded, so we made our way to the bar.  We sat down, and as soon as we did, I had the overwhelming urge to order a round of tequila, but I resisted.  He ordered a beer (thank God) and I quickly placed my order behind him.  Vodka tonic.  Double. 
It was awkwardly silent for a few seconds after placing our drink orders, so in an effort to save the day, I swooped in with the normal, politically correct first date questions.  Our drinks arrived, and Jeremy (yes, I finally figured out his name) began to comment on the price of alcoholic beverages around the area.  It seemed like a decent topic.  I was always down for a good happy hour, and at least now I knew he was 21 (or had a good fake ID anyway).

(Photo from 'Spikenzie' via Flickr)

But the conversation turned uncomfortable yet again when he announced he would rather drink at home alone instead of go out with his friends.  Let’s just go ahead and call this red flag #2. 
When it came time to order, I kept it casual and decided on a grilled cheese sandwich and the soup of the day—a creamy squash and pesto (this may seem like too much information right now, but trust me, it’s relevance will soon reveal itself).  He ordered a sandwich and soup too, but decided on the minestrone. 
Our food finally arrived and I tried to continue the conversation in between bites.  I politely asked him how his food was and after expressing his satisfaction, he dove right into the topic of the caloric intake on each of our plates.  Uh…yeah…red flag #3. 

(Photo from 'Spikenzie' via Flickr)

He informed me that when he went out to restaurants, he tried to stay away from “creamy soups” on the menu because he just couldn’t bear to think about the amount of calories they added to his meal.  And it didn’t stop there—oh no—he then made his way to the fat content of the havarti dripping out of the side of my grilled cheese sandwich.  At this rate, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he suggested I jog home.
The crazy part was, it wasn’t like this guy was a serious meat head who only consumed power bars and protein shakes, or freaking Lance Armstrong for that matter.  Seriously…who was this guy and why was he dissecting my dinner? 
When the bill came I as always, offered to split, but he quickly declined.  After our dinner conversation, I was shocked he would pay for such a high-calorie, alcohol and company filled meal. 
The sad part is I really think he thought the whole thing was going well until we left the restaurant.  He was raring and ready for date destination number two, where to I will never know, but I quickly departed, without a half-hug or even a fist bump. 
I have since stopped giving my number out after consumption of three or more alcoholic beverages.  Well, most of the time anyway…

The Great Flood, Volume I Saturday, May 31, 2008

There once was a period of great drought, but soon— it happened.  Like clowns spilling out of a circus car, there they were. 
Exhibit #1:  Jack, the running coach
Jack was one of my running coaches during my marathon training (please see below for dramatic recounts).  He was nice, maybe even a little bit cute.  In fact, I never thought of him as anything but Coach Jack, until that faithful day in March. 

(Photo from 'Thomas Hawk' via Flickr)

It was an email I will never forget, but couldn’t delete fast enough—yes, you read correctly, an EMAIL.  We finished training for our race in January, but to selfishly keep up my muscle tone, I had kept in touch with the running group which Jack led. 
In the email he asked if he could take me out for dinner.  At first, I thought nothing of it—he just wants to catch up, I thought.  I hadn’t been to the running group in awhile due to my busy schedule at work, so he probably just wanted to see how life post-race was going.  WRONG. 
I agreed, still thinking nothing of it.  Then came the next email…dun dun dun…he wanted to pick me up.  Uh oh.  This was a date. 
I was going on a date with my running coach, who had seen me at my worst.  He’d heard me whine, seen me sweaty and without makeup (gross), and listened to me cry and complain for five months straight.  I guess I just never saw it coming—I thought of Jack as more of a father figure.  A dad who just put up with all the crazy things I did and said.  The more I thought about it, the more it freaked me out. 
As the weekend grew closer, I grew more anxious.  But my friends calmed me down reminding me that it was just a date—I didn’t have to marry him.  So, I formulated a plan, mapped it all out and got ready for my big night. 

THE PLAN: 
1. Give the ‘friend’ vibe
2. Offer no physical contact (not even a handshake or a ‘half hug’; we don’t want to send off the wrong message here)
3. Avoid eye contact outside of conversation
4. Go dutch
5. Keep it short and sweet
6. Stay in control (for the most part, this applies to conversation topics, but could also refer to the amount of alcohol consumed)
7. And finally and most importantly, talk about running AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE! 

The day came, and I ended up meeting him at the restaurant—I chickened out at the last minute and told him my Godmother had to have an emergency root canal and she needed me to watch her kids, so it would be more convenient to just meet him there.  It wasn’t a complete lie—it was sort of the truth.  She’d had an emergency root canal, just not that day.  And besides, according to rule #6, I needed to stay in control.    
I walked into the restaurant and found him waiting for me near the hostess stand.  Sticking to the plan, I greeted him with a friendly smile and hello.  He did the same, and informed me that there was a 20 minute wait in the restaurant, but no wait at the bar.  In an attempt to avoid prolonged conversation and some forced awkwardness, I suggested the bar.
As soon as we were seated, I realized I had made a big mistake.  The bar was not just a bar.  It was a sushi bar.  Not only was I going to be on an awkward date, it was going to be over raw food, which at this point, I did not know if I could stomach. 

(Photo from 'Swerz' via Flickr)

I had tried sushi before, and would be willing to try it again someday, just not with Jack.  If I am going to put myself through the uncomfortable texture of raw fish sliding down my esophagus, I at least wanted to have it be in the company of someone I was actually interested in.  I ordered a salad and prayed the sight of his food wouldn’t bring me to vomiting. 
Following rule #7, I talked about running as much as possible.  Lucky for me this was one passion we had in common, so it wasn’t too tough.  We then moved on to work and social scenes, but somewhere in between the two something terrible happened.  Jack got serious.
He began telling me about his childhood and his family, going into non-first date detail.  Abort mission!
When he was done eating his smelly, caterpillar-looking sushi, the check came.  I asked if we could split the bill, but he insisted on paying.  Even though I broke rule #4, I didn’t feel too bad about it.   I felt like I did deserve some sort of compensation for having to watch him eat his fishy monstrosity.    
Shortly after, we went our separate ways.  The plan went off without a hitch—and though it was awkward at times, it could have been way worse.  I arrived at my house at 8:01pm, just 61 minutes after I had left. 
I am pretty sure Jack got the message.  I have not heard from him again, and have since found a new running group. 
Stay tuned, The Great Flood, Volume II is COMING SOON!