I won’t pretend to have been a saint at the time, somehow immune to male attention.  But the last line of attack I’d have considered for securing guys’ interest was scorning my friends for taking it from me.

Still, like lotsa gals, much of my twenties was spent hoping guys liked me.  A cute one would come ‘round and I’d feel pressured to become a sexier, smarter, sassier version of myself, all smirky and eyelashes aflutter.  When dudes weren’t around, I was relaxed and keeping it real, praying for the day I’d be freed from stressing about being a hit with the boys.

I used to be afraid that day would never come.  But yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

This weekend, a gal named Christina proved those days are long behind me.  We met at a two-day writing conference.  Christina was naughty librarian sexy with the kind of combustible “not quite sure who I am yet” energy that makes folks in their twenties both charming and exasperating.  At breakfast, Christina formed a friend crush on me and a regular old boy crush on Billy, a handsomely tortured grunge king who had all the girls at the workshop in a tizzy.  Ten years ago, I might have had eyes for Billy, too.  Now, I’m wise enough to know self-important hot guys usually have little to offer, especially if they’re flirting with everything in a bra.

Christina wasn’t as wise.  When Billy noticed her, she feigned indifference even though stars were shooting out of her eyes.  When he walked away, her entire being deflated like a popped balloon.  When Billy chose to spend his lunch sitting with a pretty blonde instead of us, Christina sat quietly seething as if plotting her next move.  On the conference’s second day, she showed up in a low-cut shirt and bright red lipstick.  Then she spent the day saying raunchy things super loudly and emanating a willful sexuality as if mind controlling the boy to come to her.

Christina didn’t seem smitten, she just seemed pissed.  I assumed she wasn’t as much interested in Billy as she was bothered he wasn’t noticing her.  Still, she didn’t care when I suggested the boy was obviously a player and not worth the effort.  She didn’t buy my theory that not being desired by every male on the planet was no big thang and that all a gal needed was one decent man to love her.  Ultimately, I stopped offering support altogether once the recurring question of the conference changed from “how can I be a better writer” to “why doesn’t Billy like me?”

Thank God I’m not there anymore.  Really, it’s been ages.  Sure, my relationships or attempts at entering into relationships haven’t always been smooth.  But I’ve been myself every step of the way and couldn’t care less about any man except the one who makes my heart go boom.  Even back in the day, when I was more concerned than I should’ve been about being the cat’s meow, I always knew there was more to life than boys.

However.

Not long ago I met a woman in her fifties who had recently ended a five-year romance.  The woman had no children and had never been married, though she’d had a bunch of boyfriends through the years.  She proudly announced herself finished with men, finished with the anxiety of trying to appeal to them, finished worrying about whether she’s desirable.

I could tell the woman meant it.  Like wives who finally divorce after decades in a rotten marriage, she looked forward to starting life on her own terms.  On one hand, I envied the inner peace she claimed to feel.  On the other hand, I was sad to imagine a life without love.

So, I’m glad to be way past the point of obsessing over boy love but pray I never arrive at the place where I’m glad to be out of the game completely.  I’m not positive how to avoid such a fate, but there’s one thing I know for sure.  Needing to be the prettiest girl in the room ain’t it.

 
[Image from vanityfair.com]

Those of us who are his friends have mostly been in the “dude, cut your losses” camp.  When a good pal finds more comfort in Jose Cuervo than his wife, not a lot of folks pitch their tent at Camp Hang in There.

The recurring sentiment amongst Buster’s pals when we sit around talking about him is that he’s staying in the marriage because he doesn’t want to be alone.  Apparently nothing is more offensive to the average American than someone else’s fear of being alone.  I know lots of unhappy couples whose inner circle whispers about how their pansy asses stay together just to avoid ending up solo.  As if remaining single is a courageous act on par with traversing the surface of the moon.

However, I think I’m abandoning Camp Cut Your Losses.

Ever been alone for longer than, say, two years?  I have and I can tell you.  It blows.  No one wants to be alone.  What person prefers sleeping in a cold bed to snuggling up against a warm body?  Isn’t talking to your best friend better than talking to yourself?  Doesn’t life feel more consequential when someone else is watching you live it?  Knowing your mere existence plops another human being onto cloud nine?  That’s pretty rad.  And who wants to be on his death bed with some nurse he’s never met holding his hand as he transitions to the sweet hereafter?  I can’t think of a better incentive to work your tail off in relationships than to avoid being alone.

What are ugly are those relationships where folks have stopped trying.  Dead romances where people who used to love each other go through the motions of loving like state employees nearing retirement.  Should those people bail or just start noticing each other again?

Certainly, some circumstances call for hightailing it out of a relationship.  Like if your partner comes to you one day saying, “Wowza!  Two free tickets to the next Tea Party rally!”  Walk away.  This can’t be salvaged.  Otherwise, maybe put in the time.

Buster has a family and a woman who has known him for ages.  These are the building blocks for the one thing everyone wants most in life: forever.  Buster wants to grow old with someone and have his kids at his bedside when he kicks it.  He wants a satisfying relationship and contented family, and so will do what he must to make it happen.  He may also love his wife even if the rest of us think she’s Cruella DeVille.

There may come a time when Buster’s marriage should officially be pronounced dead and both parties should save themselves from being buried with it.  Until then, ain’t no shame in working toward forever.

[Photo of this completely awesome panda from rootsgpk.blogspot.com]

In the dream, we were at a reunion, where Crush lamented not having had his act together enough to see how special I was back in school and thus, become mine forever.  I woke up in one of those dizzyingly rapturous post-dream spells where, despite everything good awaiting you in real life, you only want to go back to sleep.  Already, I’d been having dreams of ex-boyfriends and now here I was dreaming about my very first gut-wrenching love.  Obviously, my subconscious had something to tell me.

The next morning, I eagerly fired up Facebook to do a search, and wouldn’t you know, up came Crush’s name.  As the page loaded, I was as nervous as I’d been when the two of us were partnered up in an English class reading of Hamlet.  What if our destinies were about to become enmeshed?

At first I didn’t recognize the somewhat handsome, though mostly chubby, grey-haired papa bear in the profile pic.  Where was the serpentine smirk that used to make me go gaga, the lustful twinkle in the eye that made all the girls go gooey?  Maybe this old guy was my Crush’s uncle.

But alas, ‘twas he, the Jake Ryan of my Sixteen Candles-esque high school fantasies.  How odd to see a person jump in your imagination from seventeen to near middle age.  What a disconcerting way to be reminded of the passage of time.

Equally odd was the life my crush had built for himself.  He was an accountant.  He and his family were living in some weird town in Texas.  He was a raging Conservative.

Strange ‘cause this was a guy who dated foreign exchange students and girls from the other side of the racial divide, he was one of the first kids in our school to dig hip hop, he was popular because he was gorgeous but also because he was ahead of all kinds of cultural curves.

Crush looked happy and I hope he is, yet I still kinda wondered what happened.  Mostly, I regretted ever feeling so lousy for not having made it fully onto his radar.

I’ve been fortunate enough to stay in touch with many of my exes and though I admire their lives, I’m glad I’m not in them.  I would never want to live in a weird town in Texas and attend Tea Party rallies, just as I’m glad things never worked out with my ex in the clink now for shady ties to the mob.  Boy, was that a close one.

Knowing I’ve dodged a bullet would make the whole mourning process easier.  Not because my exes lives are terrible, quite the contrary; but because knowing we were on different paths makes the breakup a good and right outcome.  I know full well my exes probably check out Facebook and thank their lucky stars they didn’t end up with that goofy writer who spent her twenties gallivanting around Europe rather than paying a mortgage.

So I hereby make the following request to, let’s say, Google: would you guys mind making some kind of application in which one could project ten or twenty years into the future to see what kind of person a current, prospective or ex partner becomes?  That way, the poor girl who goes unnoticed by the jock in study hall, the husband who gets dumped by his wife, the crazy-in-love gal whose man suddenly asks for an open relationship, can stop agonizing.

People say ‘everything happens for a reason’ when a relationship goes sour, but we all know that’s a load.  Imagine how much better you’d feel if in the midst of a breakup, a quick Google search could assure you, ‘no worries.  In ten years, he’ll be living in a trailer park in Kansas.’

Our story went down like this:

I meet him at a bar the night after Christmas ‘08.  I’m with friends, he’s drinking alone.  He’s tall and gorgeous with black hair so dark you’d think it would chill your fingers to run them through.  When I sit beside him, he says, “whoever gets the bartender’s attention first gets to spank the other.”

I should slap him or at least roll my eyes.  I don’t because he makes my knees quake.  He says he’s French, name’s Nicolas.  I ask what he does for a living.

“Mergers and acquisitions.”

The hair on the back of my neck rises.  “Have you ever read ‘American Psycho?’”

“Yes.”  He flashes a sinister grin.  “And I’m going to pull out your fingernails with pliers.”

Two strokes of crazy, but I’m still there.  Nicolas is beguiling.  He speaks in caustic melodies as if the words are coming too quickly, he moves as if his soul is on the verge of eruption.  He’s brilliant, funny and intense, centering in as if I’m the only other person on the planet.

He tells me his family didn’t call from France to wish him a Merry Christmas and he spent the day alone.  But this isn’t the worst that’s ever happened to him.  If I want to know more, he says, I have to go on a date with him.

And there I am the next night, transfixed by this icy hot tower of masculine perfection and social dis-ease.  Nicolas talks a mile a minute about the hunt of big business and the sweet taste of success.  Suddenly, he’s fascinated by me again and asks about my family.  I describe my kinfolk but he’s intrigued most by the father I never knew.  Nicolas, turns out, is a father himself.

After years of Nicolas devoting himself to merging and acquiring and moving back and forth to the US, his ex felt neglected.  So she took his son to some remote French village and forbids Nicolas from seeing him.  They’ve been battling for half a decade.

“She and her family make lies about me.”  His teeth are gnashing.  “They said I fed him ice cream when I know he’s lactose intolerant.  They say I cheated on her, this isn’t true.”

Nicolas is talking about this much longer than appropriate, his voice rising, everyone around us getting edgy.

“Now,” Nicolas continues, “they have taken a restraining order against me.”

I back away.  He questions my nervousness so I say, “you can’t just ‘get’ a restraining order on someone.  There has to be a reason.”

Nicolas glares.  “Can’t you give me the benefit of the doubt?  I’m trying to confide in you, to let you see who I am, not everything is perfect.  But you put me in a box.  I ask only for compassion.  Do you know what it’s like to have your child taken from you?  I told you because I want you to understand me.  And because you don’t know your father, I want you to know there are men in the world who care about their children.”

What a master of the mind fuck!  How has this person managed to make me feel guilty, judgmental and heartbroken in one fell swoop?  I realize I’ve been there for hours, listening to him leap from one subject to the next.  He says inappropriate things to other patrons, makes weird comments about my body and sex, then chastises himself as if even he’s shocked to hear himself make such remarks.

“I could get laid whenever I wish.”  Nicolas scans the room.  “But these women are like biscuits in milk.  They dissolve immediately.  But you are solid, you understand me.”

I feel as if I’m standing at the edge of the tornado in Twister, watching things get sucked in and chucked out.  I’m waiting to get hit by a stray cow.

“You’re my soul mate,” Nicolas says.  “I’ve told you everything and you’re still here.”

Nicolas takes me in his arms and I become the pussycat trying to get away from Pepe LePew.  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ I wonder.  ‘Is being alone worse than this?’

I take a cab home, Nicolas sends a text letting me know we’re finished.  Despite considering me a soul mate less than an hour before, he now feels emotionally unavailable.  Relieved, I spend the next several months joking about him with friends, imitating his manic gestures and referring to him as ‘French Psycho.’

But seeing Nicolas the other night, trying to endear himself to yet another woman wasn’t such a hoot.  Everyone has reasons why they can’t make relationships work.  They’re insecure, too picky, damaged.  But these are things we have control over.  Imagine being a stunningly handsome, whip smart, super successful man who can’t keep a woman, a wife, or even his own family and child in his life because of a sickness he can’t control.  That’s not funny.  That’s sad.

Lots of women have mothers who nag them about their figures, wonder aloud why their daughters haven’t found a decent fella or tsk disapprovingly about the way they raise their kids.  Not mine.  For the most part, my mother leaves me to my own devices.  Or so I thought.

According to a study by the University of Western Australia, the overt ways mothers try to influence their daughters’ personal lives don’t hold a candle to their more dire biological hand-me-downs.  Scientists studied the DNA of 150 college students and found “the more varied [her] genes…the more boyfriends a woman was likely to have,” the assumption being genetic variation leads to attraction.

The study was cited in an inspiring online article called “Still Single?  Not as Skinny as You’d Like?  Blame Your Mom.”  While few activities are more satisfying than condemning others for your own personal failures, the article is misleading, considering any person’s genetic makeup depends on a mother and a father.  Still, the theory is this: if your dumb mother mates with a man whose genes are too similar to hers, dudes aren’t gonna dig you.  Conversely, if she’s sharp enough to breed with someone from the other side of the genetic fence, well, attach a revolving door to your bedroom.

I’m no scientist, but this theory has lots of holes.  How does having more boyfriends necessarily ensure commitment and marriage?  I know at least five women from my high school who married, and are still married to, the guys who pinned carnations to their dresses at senior prom.  They’ve only had one “boyfriend” during their entire adult lives.  On the other hand, I know tons of women who’ve gone through men like Tiger goes through porn stars, yet still cry themselves to sleep each night because no guy presents a ring.

The study, or more accurately the article based on the study, suggests women with a melting pot for a genetic code should have men beating down their doors with marriage proposals.  But if you believe other stats, most marriages in the US are still made up of people from like backgrounds.  People may wade across the gene pool while dating, but unfortunately, they seem to go back to their side of the tank come settlin’ down time.

And here’s poor Jennifer Aniston again, the go-to girl in any discussion about women relationship-hunting men avoid like the plague.  The article uses her to prove its point that uninteresting genetics doom one to singledom.  But further research shows Aniston’s dad was of Greek heritage and her mother was Scottish and Spanish.  Thus, she should have lots of boyfriends.  And well, hasn’t she?  Why, come to think of it, she’s also had a husband.

Comparing oneself to Jennifer Aniston feels like romantic suicide, but admittedly, there are similarities between us.  I’ve got a genetic mix, too, with African, Italian, Irish, English and German blood coursing through my veins.  I suppose I should thank my mother for her procreative wisdom.  And, like Jen, I’ve had a marriage, and a handful of relationships intermingled with periods of romantic drought.  I’d say that’s par for the course for most people.  In fact, I’d say Jen and I have had fairly robust romantic lives thus far.  Is this because of or in spite of our blend of DNA?

I think universities and magazine writers just want to create controversy, so come up with flimsy facts and build worlds of truths around them.  I mean, I just disproved this DNA theory in seven hundred words.  Where’s my six-figure research stipend?

So many reasons are blamed for the state of our relationships: feminism, genetics, male psychological dysfunction, women in the work place, the advent of birth control, economics, education gaps.  It’s hard to accept we’re having so much trouble making relationships happen.  Love may be about scientific truths and social realities, but it’s also about luck and just following the natural course of life.  Ultimately, we’ve got to accept this, ignore the research and leave poor mom alone.

Every time I log into my checking account, I’m asked a “security question,” the answer to which only I’m supposed to know, so the bank can confirm my identity.  Thus far, the only question the bank has asked me upon logging in is the name of my first boyfriend.  And what a joy it is to be forced to recall that relationship on a regular basis.  

When I was setting up the account, I had to select three possible security questions from a handful of rotten choices.  The only questions I could answer with any certainty were my mother’s birthplace and the name of Bozo my first boyfriend.  But choosing the third question threw me for a loop.  The street I grew up on?  Geez, I moved around so much, I barely remember what my high school was called.  The name of my favorite pet?  Well, there was Mitten, my first cat, but we had to give her away.  Then there was my Grandma’s dog, Maggie, but she got hit by a car.  My best friend in grammar school?  Which grammar school?  I had a best friend in each one.  I could say Molly Bartasevich, she was a decent chick.  But am I going to remember ol’ Moll every time I log in?  

Still, the worst question has to be about my first boyfriend, a self-loathing man/boy who cheated and made fun of everything I did.  Now, every time I log into my account I have to think about this hideous example of masculine turd-headedness and what a dip I was for digging him.  

Could there be worse memories to unearth from the past?  How ‘bout, “what was the name of the kid in grade school who used to make fun of you for buying your clothes at KMart” or, “what was more embarrassing; having food in your braces throughout the entire fifth grade or tripping over your shoelaces in front of your quarterback crush in high school?” 

Based on the answers to my security questions, I’ve deduced the following: I may have a fear of intimacy due to a history of rootlessness, mean kids on the playground and pet trauma, culminating in a damaging first love relationship with a complete heel.  

Thanks, Bank of America! 

If we must remember personal information about ourselves with such frequency, how about more forward thinking, more enjoyable security questions?  Here are my suggestions: 

“What is the most interesting city you’ve ever visited?”  

“What do you love most about puppies?” 

“If you had five minutes in an elevator with George Clooney, what would you do to him first?” 

“How much money do you wish was in this bank account after you get through these lameass security questions?” 

Personally, I’m glad to have discovered this banking treasure.  My financial institution is really helping me out in the most challenging areas of my life.  Their exorbitant fees keep my piddly budget in check, the crickets I hear chirping whenever I’m on hold with customer service teaches me patience, and now their covert love counsel is getting my romantic life back on track. 

Who needs self-help when you’ve got a bank?

Boy, do I love conversations that begin with this question.  Nothing’s more fun than having a know-it-all friend instruct you on the failings of your existence.  

Fortunately, I wasn’t on the other end of Dave’s question.  My friend Kim was.  She was complaining about her romantic life and asking our friend Dave for advice.  The issue was sex appeal and how Kim simply oozes with it.  Men are drawn to her like she’s a hunk of steel and they’ve got magnets in their pants.  She has few limits, no fears and porn star levels of experience.  On the outside, she’s a minx.  

But on the inside she’s broken-hearted.  Kim feels deeply and wants something real.  But few men she meets see her as relationship material.  Thus, Dave was educating us over a bottle of scotch. 

“Your problem,” he said.  “Is that men are intimidated by sexually assertive women.”  

“How is that my problem?”  She asked him and nervously lit a cigarette.  “Sounds like their problem.”  

“You know what it’s like?”  Dave took a sip of scotch.  “Batman.” 

“I see your point,” Kim said.  “Kind of…not at all.”

 “You’ve got Batman, right,” he said.  “Batman’s strong, he’s successful, he does good in the world, he’s got his life under control.  But see, there’s this other side to him, this dark side where all his sensuality and weaknesses are.  We all have a dark side, but Batman thinks he has to fight it.” 

“Did I ever tell you how much I love Val Kilmer?” asked Kim. 

“Then you’ve got Batgirl,” Dave continued.  “All she wants is to take direction from Batman, y’know, she looks up to him and never steps on his toes except in cute little sassy ways that really don’t threaten his power.  Most men really want Batgirl.” 

“But what about Catwoman?” I interjected.  “He wants her too, doesn’t he?  Catwoman can defend herself.  She has her own agenda and doesn’t need any direction from Batman.  He wants her because she’s sexy and strong and tempts him to his dark side.  He wants her as much as he fears her.” 

“Catwoman’s evil,” said Dave. 

“Only because no one will let her enjoy her own power,” I told him.  “Batman can’t handle Catwoman because she’s sexual in her own way, and if she’s sexual in her way and not his, then he has to satisfy her and he may not be able to.  How can he dominate a woman he can’t satisfy sexually?  How can he control a person who has her own agenda?  How can you tame a wildcat fighting for her own survival?” 

A trail of smoke poured from Kim’s lips.  “I totally need to see that movie again.” 

Dave and I glared at each other.  He was just about to attack my Catwoman theory when Kim flailed her hands in the air as if she’d burnt them.  

“Oh my God,” she shouted.  “I’m Batgirl.  I just realized I’m Batgirl.  I wanna be Catwoman but I’m really Batgirl.  Oh God, who else is there?  Pick somebody else.  I don’t wanna be Batgirl!” 

“You’re not Batgirl,” Dave assured her. 

“I’m totally Batgirl,” she whined.  “Oh God, this is terrible.” 

“Well, even if you were Batgirl, it’d be okay,” I said.  “She’s the one Batman loved.” 

“No, Batman loved Vicki Vale,” Kim whined.  “And she didn’t have any power at all.” 

According to Dave, lust and admiration were mutually exclusive concepts for some men.  Apparently for these guys, the two-hour conversation a woman had about the implications of Derrida’s quasi-transcendental thinking on modern deconstructive theory was erased by the image of her boobies jiggling as she grinded him into the box spring. 

And so what was a woman like Kim supposed to do?  Deny her desires and be the Madonna dazzling a guy’s romantic vision, or give into them and become Magdelene getting flicked off the hem of his robe? 

Kim wasn’t interested in smothering her sexual passions and didn’t really buy Dave’s Batman analogy.  However, she did come to one conclusion.  Whether she was Batgirl or Catwoman, she had to stop knockin’ around with jokers.

For a while, I agreed.  My own divorce was a liberation leaving me with a minimal set of emotional baggage to carry onto my next romantic flight.  I wanted a man whose heart was as unsullied by the muck of botched love as mine and who had no links to unsavory situations or people.  Why would I want a bitter victim of divorce when there are so many fresh-faced bachelors with whom to build a life from scratch?

But I’m beginning to think divorced men are the way to go.

Young bachelors are cute.  Eager to grab life by the tail.  You introduce them to music, books or political ideas they’ve never heard of, and their eyes twinkle like lightning bug butts.  Too often though, you’re stuck watching these guys try to fit themselves into their grown-up skins.

The relationship issues that come up with bachelors, and probably bachelorettes, pale in comparison to the challenges of matrimony.  Once you’ve endured marriage’s endless struggle to maintain a household with someone who’s at times a best friend, and other times a stranger, it’s hard to seriously discuss what would happen to a dude’s beer can collection once you move in together.

Marriage is maturing, more character-building than a war zone.  Marriage pries you out of the infinite autonomy of singlehood to pull you through the somewhat tedious but ultimately meaningful process of building a solid foundation for existence.  In marriage, the joys and burdens of life are split in half like a popsicle – you may get less but you also have less to stomach.

But unfortunately, in this monumental effort to pour oneself into romantic collaboration, lots of married folk completely abandon the person they were before slipping on the gold band.

Take my friend Daryl.  The life of any party, Daryl had a brazen, often raunchy sense of humor, a killer CD collection and a legion of adoring friends.  Then he got hitched.  Not only did his pals hardly ever see him (his wife didn’t like him having lady friends), but lots of the activities and personality quirks that made Daryl unique went MIA.  He let them go to keep the Missus happy.  It was time to be “tamed.”

Daryl rearranged his identity and life to be what his partner wanted and to “make the relationship work.”  His friends barely recognized him.  He barely recognized himself.  Once in the thick of things, his options were to continue inhabiting this disfigured version of his former self or turn to his spouse and say, “I want to be me again and I want you to be you.”

Or call it quits.

Daryl divorced then spent time rediscovering all the things he dug about the world and what he wanted out of life when he wasn’t sharing it.  He became a more authentic person and wanted an equally actualized individual as a companion.  Considering he’d already made a go at building a successful marriage, he was better prepared the second time around.

Having been through her own divorce, Daryl’s new woman is keen on Daryl Version 2.0, a more effective model because all the bugs have been worked out.  The two are comfortable enough in their own skins to let the other be free in theirs.

The Daryl Situation didn’t encourage Melissa.  Unlike Daryl, she says, her divorced guy was too “set in his ways.”  So maybe Melissa’s man didn’t heal as well.  Maybe he was greedy with boundaries because too many were crossed in his marriage.  If so, then her withdrawal makes sense.

But I wonder if Mr. Divorce’s fixedness was only a result of his rock-solid selfhood and if Melissa just wanted someone more moldable.  At least he wasn’t a whiner using divorce as an excuse not to couple up again.  Then again, if I had a nickel for every commitment-shy bachelor I met, I’d finally be able to make a down payment on that beachfront property in Cabo.

Of course, some lucky dogs find the person they can be themselves with until death do them part.  For those of us who don’t, thank God for starter marriages.  If we’re lucky, we come out of them more complete individuals who know better how to create a partnership of equals.

Funny, eh?  The one person who best prepares a man for a healthy, new relationship…just may be his wife.

Ouch.  Yuck.  Puke.

Many of my exes have gotten married and the news hasn’t ruffled my feathers.  Even my ex-husband has a new wife and I feel nothing but joy for him.  I’ve remained buddies with most of the men who’ve been in my life, especially with the advent of Facebook.  All of these guys could get married, father a boat-load of children and be so rapt in domestic bliss that stars shoot from their ears.  I’d still be able to offer them a sincere, “yay for you!”

But not this one.  Martin was a Dutch guy working on a Masters in political science at a Spanish university.  He and I met back in ’03 after I’d moved to Madrid from New York.  What started out as an expat-gone-wild fling, turned into nearly two years of off-and-on romance, mutually discovered passion and an unearthing of one another’s souls.  Martin’s presence made me re-examine my life, he became a muse and confidante.

But he was also flaky and unsure of himself, and in the end wouldn’t be mine.  Ultimately, he went back to his Dutch homeland where “real life” awaited him, leaving me bed-ridden with the flu like some heartbroken maiden in a Victorian novel.  The men I dated after Martin wondered how I could be so cold, never knowing I’d been seduced and abandoned like a raging Medusa with snakes in her hair.  Any man who looked at me could have turned to stone.

I’m not one of those nutty dames who try to destroy the lives of people who’ve wronged them.  I’m mature enough to accept that even men who are unwilling to fulfill my romantic desires can still be friends.  I’m forgiving and nice.  I trip over my own shoelaces to avoid stepping on ants.

So imagine my shame upon discovering how nasty I could feel toward a person.  After the breakup, I’d get messages from Holland where Martin admitted life wasn’t so swell.  When he confessed to feeling lost, I was pleased.  When a new romance he’d begun fizzled, I cackled like a demon.  In the film Sexy Beast, Ben Kingsley plays a maniac who wants to ruin his ex-girlfriend’s new relationship with another man, telling them, “I won’t let you be happy, why should I?”  Seeing the movie after Martin’s departure, I thought, ‘I’m with you, Ben.’

Flash forward to 2009 where Martin had become a fond but distant memory…until I saw his wedding photo.  As if the wind had been knocked out of me, I ran from the house and roamed the streets with tears streaming down my cheeks like a disoriented victim of a car crash.

Blubbering on the phone with a friend about how one of the great loves of my life had gone on to find happiness without me, I started listening to my own complaints.  The conversation began with Martin, but moved onto the men I’d known since him, and ended with my feelings about my career.  Whether I was getting closer or farther away from my goals.  Whether my life was rich enough to keep my creative fire burning.  Whether I still liked the neighborhood I was living in, whether my friendships were supportive enough, whether it was time to rethink my relationship with my finances.

Really, I was agonizing about everything that was supposed to have happened in my life since I last saw Martin, including finding someone I cared about as much as him.  A fragment of my heart still burst knowing he was someone else’s passion or problem.  But if I was satisfied with my own world, I wouldn’t give a rat’s behind about his.

In the end, I was able to wish Martin happiness.  I’m glad for him and hope he makes the best of his new life.

Meanwhile, I’ve got my own work to do.

“Oh, I’ve been there loads of times,” my married friend said after I described my most recent run-in with a sexy, relationship-shy stoner.

She’d been there loads of times?  Shocking.

Married women, especially once they’re moms, seem to me so organized and fulfilled, it’s hard to imagine any of these poised individuals knocking around with losers.  But once I thought about it, I remembered all the other married women I know who’ve admitted to the same sordid pasts.

My friend Sonya’s husband is a successful TV producer with a taste for fine wine, classical music, and most interestingly, fidelity.  But before she met him, Sonya was chasing after an egomaniacal actor who was two-timing her with a co-worker.  My friend Jane married a well-to-do marketing exec who’s the most loving, mild-mannered husband in human history.  Before him, she dated a series of flakes, most notably, a lunatic with an addiction to crystal meth.

The other intriguing comment from my married friend was in response to my single pal’s confession that she thought her new flame was “super nice,” but her “heart didn’t skip a beat” when he walked into a room.

“Never mind that,” my married friend said.  “The man you feel passionate about is not the one you should be with.”

So the good news is single women who constantly meet up with commitment-phobes and jerks can rest assured they’re not aberrations on the dating landscape.  Apparently, it’s normal to meet a bunch of meatballs before you find the good man you’ll call your own.

The other side of the story is how so many of my wifely friends admit these meatballs made their hearts go gaga and their loins lava hot.  On occasion, some of them even miss the beloved jerks who made them so loony, reminiscing about the roller coaster ride that added kick to life, the emotional depths they found themselves swimming through, and of course, the fantastic sex.  But these wives also seem glad to have been saved by their husbands.

Since the end of my marriage, probably ninety-five percent of the men I’ve dated fueled my engine, but were certainly not stars on which to hitch my wagon.  The “nice guys” who’ve entered my world always become friends while the not so nice become much more.  Maybe it’s because I’m a writer or because I bore easily and dig emotional extremes.  I’ve always preferred the roller coaster to the merry-go-round.

Of course, passion fades over time.  Unfortunately, even the most constant love can, too.  Both scenarios leave one numb.  So I’m wondering about this passion thing.  What is it anyway?

A skim through the dictionary will tell you passion is all about lust.  It also describes the most amorous love, the deepest hate and every overpowering emotion in between.  But the word comes from the story of Jesus, referring to the pain the man endured before he was nailed to the cross.

Thus, passion is really about suffering.  And, well, I’m tired of suffering in relationships and tired of deprivation.  You get to a point where the inner turmoil of loving a maniac loses its romantic sparkle and you want something that sticks.

Still, I am who I am, and I want to be as hot and bothered by a man, as I am comforted and contained.

Rather than finding someone who stirs my passion, maybe the point should be to find someone who has his own passion, so our two fires can fuse together and spark a volcano.  Rather than connecting myself to someone who lets me know through suffering how deeply I can love, the goal should be to find a person who doesn’t consider sharing and intimacy a death sentence.

A man can be a maverick without being a loser, and his intensity can be unwavering instead of chaotic.  He can be hot-blooded and also able to commit himself, self-assured without forgetting to be kind.  The challenge for a woman is to be emotionally ready for such a unique individual.

And be lucky enough to find him.