The look

I have a lot to say but I don't know where to start. The story of the wedding and how I missed the ceremony (blame NJ Transit) but had a great time otherwise? The story of my day in New York City (aka New Yarn City)? My New York moments of casual conversation in lines and shops? How I over packed, stayed warm, and bought too much yarn? How friendly my one niece is, how uninterested in me my nephew is and how annoyed at everyone my other niece is?

Or I could write something more abstract about my (non) dating life.

I'm in the mood for abstract.

I've been feeling discouraged on the dating front. Discouraged and…relieved? Relieved that I'm not spending time worrying about men and relationships. Grateful to be relieved of the terrible anxiety that plagues me when I'm only just inches into a relationship. Being single is mostly good. I'm mostly contented. I'm a bit of a grump but that's nothing new. I just feel strongly about things! (Oy, politics.) And not socializing tons means that my edges are sharper than usual. I blame winter.

I had a totally random chat with someone the other day and it made me think about dating, attractiveness and all that mess. I sent this person a pic of myself, smiling, dressed in a wool shirt, jeans and an old-school Mariners cap. The reaction: "You're a cutie pie!" And I thought, "I am, aren't I?"

Please recognize that I don't suffer from low self-esteem. But I do sometimes suffer from self-forgetfulness. I don't have a good sense of how others perceive me. I usually think I'm pretty and have a nice shape. I look hard for my flaws and sometimes I think, "It's just not that bad." I see a lot of good in me.

Let me say it: I'm attractive. I have a very pretty face, a decent body and a great smile. I'm a winner!

But I'm single.

My good friend Audrey used to tell me I was picky. I'd always argue with her. I'd cite the many different types of men I'd dated: short, tall, fat, thin, bearded, clean-shaven, shaggy-haired, intellectual, working-class , blonde, brunette, redheaded, military, radical, etc. Seriously, name a type and I've dated him. (Admittedly, there are a disproportionate number of assholes in the bunch. They come in all types of packages.)

Thing is, she's right. I'm picky about who I spend time with. I'm picky about my friends. I'm picky about my kitchen, my house, my records. I have a carefully constructed image, life, style. I'm more open and flexible as an adult. I'm more likely to stick to doing things I enjoy rather than things that are "cool" but I'm not above it. I'm fairly relaxed these days but I have strong preferences. I'm never going to be everyone's cup of tea…and, by the same token, I pick my friends carefully. Yes, I'd like more friends and a boyfriend, but given my low tolerance for almost everyone, I'd rather stick with what I've got than be annoyed by who knows what.

(It's not that I don't like meeting new people. I loved my jury duty experience in no small part because I got to meet people who I never would have met otherwise. I was totally open to the experience and, with one exception, I got along well with everyone. But that was a lot different than wanting to socialize with them.)

To actually accept someone into my life, is a big freaking deal. I don't do it lightly. It's not that I plan to change my picky ways, but it's important that I realize why I am where I am. I've written this before but it's a lot of choices that have taken me where I am. Where I am is a good place. I would choose my current single life over any of the unhappy relationships I've had over the last several years. What a great point! If given the choice of getting back together with a past boyfriend or my current situation, there is not a single guy I'd choose from the last several years. In fact, I can only think of one ex I'd even consider dating again. See, I really am picky! But in a good way.

Just because I'd like a boyfriend now doesn't mean I want any old boyfriend. I never do. But wanting a boyfriend NOW can sometimes lead to less than ideal boyfriends. Oh well.

The next time I meet someone I like a lot, I'm determined to do something about it (was there ever really a question?). But being picky means that there just aren't that many people out there who I will like. (I don't think I'm unique in this.)

On Sunday afternoon, I was walking home from Union Station rolling my suitcase behind me, carrying some fancy yarn in a brown paper bag and trying to remember who I'd liked enough to date in the last year or so. Besides Sailor, there was the guy I met at the memorial service for my dad's friend a couple of months ago. If that guy were geographically accessible, I would have called him right away. I would have made my play. Given that he lives in California and we've met exactly twice in 15 years, I did nothing. I'm practical and picky.

Then there's Sailor. When I see him at work, I inwardly sigh with deep regret at what might have been if only he were interested. I've rarely met someone who is so on my wave length. He's perfect for me in every way (except that he's the perfectly wrong religion for a nice Jewish girl), so why doesn't he get it? Who knows. He may have a girlfriend (current consensus is no), he may be gay (unlikely), he may be a 2x4 guy (if so, I'm out of my depth). Or he may just not find me attractive.

And this is where I had a hilarious thought: I'd rather he were simply not physically attracted to me than not like my personality.

I mean, it makes sense, right? I like this guy so much that it's more important to me that he like me as a person than think I'm pretty. (Anyway, of course he thinks I'm pretty. Who wouldn't think I'm pretty?)

It made me think about all the stories I tell about guys. So many of them are about guys who liked me and who I didn't like. I've been rejected many times—I've felt unrequited affection all too often—but the truth is, I'm more often the object of unwanted affection than the giver of it.

What does that mean? When I tell my stories, I'm afraid that people will think I'm subtly trying to boost myself by always being the object of all this affection. I always undersell myself because I don't think I'm better than anyone else. I know I'm not better. It's just that I tend not to have unrequited crushes. Don't get me wrong: I've had several doozies; legendary saga-esque unrequited crushes. But when I'm the object of such a crush—it always surprises me and I don't enjoy it (because I'm more object than subject?). I feel bad for the guy and annoyed that he is forcing my hand. I hate having to "let him down easy." I'm not good at it. I'm abrupt and sometimes unwittingly cruel. I wish those guys would just go away. That's why when I have my unrequited crushes, I don't push. And that's why I've let go of my crush on Sailor. (Yes, it exists, but it's not a source of anxiety or even thought these days, except in the context of a long, rambling blog post.)

I need to stop worrying about whether or not men find me attractive. While I care, I don't really care. My attractiveness is not the issue with Sailor. Or it is my attractiveness to him, not my attractiveness in general, that is the issue. There are plenty of objectively attractive guys out there who I just don't like. The Sailor situation is a head scratcher because I know he likes my personality (we get along well) and how could he not think I'm pretty (I'm pretty, dammit!)? But it's a riddle that can't be solved so I put it down, walked away and we're friendly and chatty when we meet. The end.

I'm trying not worry about boys and not care about when (or if) my next relationship will be. And some of the time I succeed and I manage to be happy and content doing my thing. And sometimes I forget to try not to worry and I just live my life and it's even better. Realizing that I'm possibly above average in the realm of physical attractiveness makes me feel better. I'm not scaring the boys away with my looks—it's just my abrasive personality that I have to blame. Heh. Yeah, but I like my personality too, so I'll just have to wait until a suitable suitor comes along. I guess wondering if he ever will come along is just part of the price one pays for choosing a certain kind of life.

Grateful for: re-thinking, unthinking and liking myself.

Yaffa=Pretty

[Note: here's one I've had around for a while. Hope you enjoy.]

When we moved to Seattle, I was in the seventh grade. I started in a new religious school right after my mother and I moved to town. Classes were held on Thursday evenings, rather than on Sunday mornings. On the first night of our Hebrew class the instructor, Mr. Coen asked us what our Hebrew names were. I don't have a Hebrew name. (My mother still feels guilty about not giving me one.) The year before, some Orthodox girls gave me the Hebrew name "Yaffa." (I was visiting my Orthodox brother at his Yeshiva in Baltimore for the weekend and I spent the day with these girls while he was in class.) Yaffa means pretty and I took it as a compliment. So, when Mr. Coen asked for my Hebrew name, I said, "I don't really have one but I guess you can call me Yaffa." And he did. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one.

As a rule, we only went by our Hebrew names in Hebrew class. In the other classes, we went by our "regular" names. Since no one had ever called me Yaffa except for that one weekend when I was 12, it was rather jarring when one of my classmates, Jeremy, started calling me Yaffa all the time. I asked him to stop, but that seemed to have the opposite effect. I tried that ignoring thing, but that didn't get him to stop either. He never stopped.

By our tenth grade year, I was used to being called Yaffa. I didn't like it, but I'd stopped trying to make the boys stop. It wasn't only Jeremy who called me Yaffa, but a whole crew of mean boys, lead by the rabbi's son, Joel. Joel was a clever, troubled kid and a creative teaser. I almost didn't mind when he gave me a hard time but I still didn't enjoy it. I reserved my contempt, though, for idiot boys like Seth, who clumsily followed in the expert teasing footsteps of Jeremy and Joel. Seth didn't have feelings about me one way or another, he just teased me so he could seem cool. I was actually able to get my own back at him fairly easily, which I could see that Joel and Jeremy appreciated.

This teasing dynamic was the norm for me throughout my religious school life and I never understood it. However, I know that I made things worse when I started in the Early Entrance Program (aka college) in what would have been my ninth grade year. I was humble and non-elitist on campus. At Thursday school, however, I had no problem casually impressing my instructors with tales of college knowledge while not-so-subtly antagonizing my classmates. I'd been teased for so long, I didn't care anymore. If I could make some of them feel stupid along the way, that wouldn't hurt either.

After the seventh grade year, we no longer took Hebrew classes, since we'd all had our Bar or Bat Mitzvahs. But that didn't stop Jeremy from continuing to call me Yaffa. I continued to hate him.

For my last year of Thursday school, my class of six or seven kids, was combined with a much larger class of ninth graders because the Rabbi was taking a sabbatical the next year. Tenth grade in Thursday school was "graduation year" or "confirmation." Our Rabbi called it "covenant renewal" (confirmation has Catholic overtones). If you'd had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, you agreed to continue until the tenth grade year. The ninth grade kids just got lucky. Also, Joel, the rabbi's son was in the ninth grade class, so for the first time, I was confronted with him in at least one of my classes each Thursday. Before, he'd only get a few shots in during breaks. Jeremy was always egged on by Joel, so I knew this combo was not going to be fun for me.

One day, I was in a classroom with a couple of the ninth grade girls and boys, Joel, and Jeremy. The boys were calling me Yaffa and yukking it up, as usual. The girls were unfamiliar with this routine and one of them whispered to me, "Why are they calling you Yaffa?"

"You'd have to ask them."

"Don't they know what it means?"

I knew she was insulting me. I said, "I'm sure they know."

"Then why do they say it?"

"I don't know."

She said, "Can we ask them? Do you mind?"

"No. Go right ahead. What do I care?"

The girl in question turned to Jeremy and said, "Do you know what it means? Do you know what 'yaffa' means?"

"Of course I do!" Jeremy laughed.

"Really?? You really know?!"

Jeremy went to the chalkboard and said, as he wrote, "Yaffa equals pretty."

As soon as he stopped talking there was silence. Complete silence. The girls started laughing. I was stunned. Then I smiled and shook my head.

Jeremy was flustered and erased the board as quickly as he could. He said, "Oh, no. No, that's not what I meant."

But in that moment it became clear to me that it was exactly what he'd meant all along.

My mother, of course, had told me some time before that Jeremy liked me, but I didn't believe her. I said to Mom, "I guess you were right, but I still don't like him. He tormented me for all these years because he liked me? I don't get it. I don't think that's how you act when you like someone and I'll never forgive him."

Right after the covenant renewal ceremony, Jeremy found me and pulled me aside. He apologized for all the years of teasing and confessed that it was because, um, you know, he um, sorta had feelings for me, or something. He was sincere and I had to grant that it took a lot of courage for him to say anything. My response? I thanked him, accepted his apology, and got away from him as quickly as I could. After all, I've had lots of crushes and never once did I show my affection by cruel, relentless teasing. I would never like Jeremy, but I pitied him. And I forgave him.

Grateful for: forgiveness.