Measurable Differences

Last week I had an encounter with a new friend. A male, a potential love interest.  We met for lunch then a game of pool and seemed to really click. We texted throughout the week: fun banter, some thoughtful getting to know each other. It was nice, and I felt really hopeful. 

Saturday night we went out again for dinner, had more great conversation, like we had pretty much continuously since meeting. After that he asked where we were going next, asked if I wanted to go to lover's lane (a joke). I suggested a bar for a drink, he agreed, so we went there. 

We had discussed dating in general, online experiences. He was new to the whole thing, having recently gone through a divorce.  There was a group of women sitting next to us and one of them was a bigger girl. I asked him if he had ever been attracted to a large woman, just expecting a yes or no answer, making conversation.

Instead, this is what I got, in as many words."No, I am very selective when choosing a partner. I have been with five women and they have all been short and thin, not anorexic, but thin. In fact, I don't think I can go there with someone unless they are built like that." 

I'm not built like that. I am about 10 lbs overweight, on the verge of being HWP, healthy according to my doctor. Not thin. I looked at him and stated the obvious. He said, yes, he had been feeling that it wasn't going to work out between us for that reason. He said he was mad about it, that it was unfair, that he liked me so much and had been really excited about the possibility of things with me. However, his physical preference was still what it was and that was that. He affirmed repeatedly that I was a normal sized woman, that the "fault," if there was one, was his. 

I told him I didn't like beards, anyway. Sour grapes, true, but I was willing to try. He was not.  

He's bald, I told him that, too. He said,"But I can't help that." 

I started to cry. As much for this particular situation as for sense that I'm not going to find a partner, not now, not ever. He and I were very compatible, on numerous levels, and within driving distance of each other. Those demographics alone were challenging. I looked for months to find him, maybe years. He knew that, and is facing his own set of demographic challenges. He cried a little bit too. 

We made our way home, in his car. He told me over and over that I was great, that I was normal, to blame him, etc. He was a gentleman if that's possible. I asked him to please not do this again to anyone else. It felt awful because regardless of how many times he said I was fine, I knew I wasn't. I feel the fat jiggle on my arms. I see the lines and the jowls creeping. Every centimeter one farther away from love. Those are my fears. I know I'm more than this, of course, but his rejection tapped into those fears, that's all. Not reality, but feelings. Which seem very real about now.  

I left this experience redetermined to lose weight and get enough money for plastic surgery. No matter how many times I yell about feminism I still want to look attractive. And I hate this, but I'm apparently allowing other people to influence my self image. In a negative way. And not even him, the real him who knows I'm fine the way I am, that I am built like a real woman, but the him who isn't the attracted to me wins. Because I'm a girl. 

My last boyfriend loved my body, and I was heavier than now. Why don't I replay those messages? 

The Biggest Fish

How am I 55 and still single.  ?  What a sad song, pathetic, really.

Still I'm lonely. But partnered people can be lonely too.  And have grief from their relationships.  I don't have.  

55 isn't dead yet.

My last love turned out to be lying about his age, identity, and I replayed the victim song.  Was I lying too? About what I wanted? Or thought I deserved?  

That was many years ago.  Yup, many years.  It's taken me longer and longer to heal from heartbreaks.  Each time longer.  And older.

Then again sometimes I think it's taken me 55 years to figure out what I want.  Woah. To recover from violence and treacherous love, unravel the tangles of my psyche and, thread by thread, weave something new.  Now I've figured out I want someone as smart and as fun as I am. Plus tells the truth. Someone who can talk the world in two word sentences. 

This life now is fine.  My two children are happy, prospering, loving people.  My work is so satisfying, I work with supportive colleagues for a pretty healthy organization.  I have amazing friends.   I make plenty of money, for the first time in my life.  

Still I wish.  But don't we all?   

I don't want to throw this out there like a hook for catching the biggest fish. But I do.

I don't really know what it would be like to catch that fish.  Live with it. The stink of it, the nourishment of its flesh, the banality of feeding it everyday. But it would be sweet, still.

A fish that swims in someone else's pond. Who chooses to be there. With a loving family. Part of what makes it the biggest fish is that it is capable of this kind of thing: loving like that. It's not actually a fish to be caught, anyway. Anyway, there are plenty of fish in the sea, right? So I come up with new strategies for catching them.  Sexier lures, tastier bait, colder waters. Hope. 

This is me writing after a glass of red wine.  Hahaha. And I think it's kind of funny to write for a blog that rarely gets read.  Kind of nice.  Like a journal.  A private thing.