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Posts Tagged ‘why won’t he marry me’

The girl sitting across from me on the subway was an exact replica of me at fourteen years old: chubby face, disobediently curly hair, a slim body struggling to develop and a slightly rowdy innocence that would one day cause some trouble. She looked so much like me I had to do a double take, convinced a miniaturized version of me was within arm’s reach.

I may have gone on without giving the matter much thought, except that there was something even more me-ish about the girl than her plump cheeks. She was pining away over a boy who apparently was giving her the run around. Moreover, she was testing the limits of friendship by giving the pal next to her every minute detail of their last conversation.

Me much?

The boy had told the girl to stop calling him. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. He wasn’t replying to any of her texts or returning her calls. Every so often, she’d call late, sometimes after midnight, and was surprised when he wasn’t home.

Fourteen-Year-Old Me was confused. Older Me knew there were only a few causes for such behavior and they all revolved around other girls, lack of interest and overall jerkiness.

“He says he can’t handle a relationship right now,” the girl told her friend. “He’s worried about his mom and he has to get a job.”

The girl lifted her chest and proudly said, “And I was like, ‘you expect me to wait for you?’”

Older Me hoped either the guy fell to her feet in tears or she gave him the grand heave ho.

“’He told me, ‘no.’ So I asked, ‘do you want me to?’”

It took everything in me not to take the girl by the shoulders and shake her senseless. “Get some strength in those knees and stiffen that spine. You cave to this creep and you’ve got years of male crap to put up with. Get out now!”

“Honestly, Mary, I don’t know,” the girl continued. “I was like, ‘I can be your girlfriend and support you through this.’”

No, you can’t, I thought, trying to use mental telepathy to communicate with her. You can’t because he doesn’t want you to. Or someone else is his support. Or he doesn’t have a problem, he’s just making up bull malarkey because he’s afraid to cut the cord.

“I was like, ‘I’ll be waiting for your call.’ He didn’t call me, so I called him.”

You just earned another year of lessons from the Relationship School from Hell.

“He was on the phone with his cousin.”

Yeah, right.

“He kept crying and crying and I was like, ‘I’m right here for you.’”

Man, was this girl tugging at my heart strings. How many times have I begged some big wounded boy to let me love him? In fact, nearly every female I know has blubbered to me about some damaged soul who won’t let her heal his pain. Few things are as confusing to women as men who turn away love and support.

I wasn’t angry at the apple of Fourteen-Year-Old Me’s eye. Sure, guys like him can be selfish and plain mean. But they’re just snot-nosed little boys and it’s up to the women who adore them to cut their losses when the writing’s on the wall.

Unfortunately, it can take decades before a woman learns to stop hanging on to dead end love. I’m embarrassed to admit how long it took me, but will confess to making tons of stupid decisions, dating scads of nincompoops and coming face to face with lots of not so pretty truths about my own inner workings. Most importantly, it took the real love of a couple good men to show me true connection isn’t something you have to beg someone to share with you.

I wanted to tell Fourteen-Year-Old Me to let this cad go and avoid love she has to wrestle to the ground. Spare her the agony of heartbreak or an on/off affair with someone who only kinda likes her. But like every hard lesson, you’ve got to learn it on your own.

All I could do was give her a smile that said, ‘you’ve got a long, hard journey ahead. But you’ll get there.’

She probably didn’t grasp my message. But maybe she will in twenty years, when her own Mini Me sits across from her on a train.

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There are two important truths to glean from this past week’s news: women are slowly taking over the world and movie stars are idiots.

Ladies first.

The University of Texas has released the results of yet another study destined to make women want to heave themselves off the Empire State Building.  Previous research done by the school suggested curvy women never marry and beautiful women cheat.  Now, they’re rehashing the “successful women have fewer mates available to them and thus will end up sad and alone” baloney.

Nowadays, the study says, women far outnumber men in American colleges by 57 and 43 percent respectively.  When they enter the workforce, women also make more money.  This has created a “boy crisis” and an “imbalance that tips relationship power in the direction of the men.  Instead of men competing for women, today women feel like they must compete for men.”  Since all men supposedly want is sex, young gals are offering easily accessible booty to bait them.  Consequently, men aren’t buying the cow when they can get the milk for free.

But wait a minute.  There are more women in college than men?  Ladies are the ones bringing home the bacon?  Maybe the hidden gem in this maddening study is that the balance of power has shifted.

I can’t wait to see girls sipping beers and surrounding the dance floor at nightclubs while men dance around hoping to get noticed.  Imagine groups of women describing how their husbands complain about girls’ nights out and spend all their money on Xbox games.  The times they are a’changin’.

The other insignificant but fun piece of news is Ricky Gervais getting into deep doo after making fun of celebs at the Golden Globe Awards.  I didn’t see the show because, frankly, there hasn’t been an interesting star in Hollywood since Clooney made it out of ER.  The last time I watched an award show, Nicole Kidman could still move her forehead.

Oh, how very Gervais of me.  Usually though, I’m against blatant meanness.  But with a few exceptions, I found lots of Gervais’ gibes to be spot on.

Celebrities, and we as their fans, suffer the illusion these people are special.  Indeed, some of them are extraordinarily talented, attractive and sometimes even kind.  But they are not above reproach or even ridicule if, while under our watch, they choose to make fools of themselves, abuse others or do their jobs half-assed.  If you get to make $20 million every time your mug’s in a movie for ninety minutes and we all have to pay $12 to see it, you better work your pretty little tails off to make it a decent flick.  If not, Johnny and Angelina, Ricky Gervais gets to make fun of you.

If you’re a pampered individual with several homes and enough money to take daily baths in champagne, best not be an anti-Semite drunkard who abuses every woman he comes across, from police officers to gold digging wives.  Mel.

Charlie Sheen isn’t some tragic figure trying not to end up on the street while battling an addiction.  He’s a spoiled party boy from Hollywood “royalty” who makes $2 million per episode of his show.  Then he blows it all on thousand-dollar call girls when he hits a rough spot.  Gee, poor Charlie.

How many sad saps out here on unemployment or in soul-crushing jobs, struggling to pay medical bills or put their kids through college, wouldn’t kill to live in multi-million dollar mansions while making a living doing what they love?  I, for one, am tired of superstars shoving their luxuries down our throats, including the luxurious ways in which they suffer and fail.  If they choose to invade our living rooms and our lives, they should show some level of decorum and gratitude considering the great blessings the universe has bestowed upon them.

My guy Gervais, whether intentionally or not, told these folks, “your vanity is offensive.  You’re the most admired people on the planet.  Step it up a notch.”

If Gervais is hosting next year, I just might watch.

[Photos from itsmsnikkitoyou.blogspot.com and tunai.sripengantin.com]

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Women can fake orgasms.  Men can fake entire relationships.

This juicy tidbit marking the romantic distinction between males and females recently made its way onto my Twitter feed.  Enjoying a brief chuckle after reading it, I soon realized how closely this alleged truth hits home: my friend Jay is in a fake relationship and I’ve been wondering if I should tell the girl.

Jay is one of those good-looking, charismatic fellas who rarely have trouble finding a female companion.  A decade ago, he was madly in love with a special lady who dumped him after his ego decided to feed itself by convincing him to cheat.  Since then, Jay has steered clear of anything “too heavy,” opting instead for casual relationships with dippy bores or overly controlling kooks whose mania gives him the perfect excuse to jump ship.

But every so often, Jay wants someone to care enough to check in on him each day, someone for whom he can make elaborate dinners and buy gifts, someone to offer him regular sex and hold him in the middle of the night.  And so, Jay gets a “girlfriend.”

There was the pretty actress with whom he spent every weekend for nearly six months and the slightly neurotic realtor with whom he went on a Roman vacation.  Both of these women were mighty surprised at the end of their relationships to find out Jay was never really feelin’ it even though his actions suggested otherwise.

Then there was the Latin American gal who flew herself back and forth to the States whenever Jay reemerged begging for her company.  The night I met up with them, I watched him walk hand-in-hand with her down the street, introduce her to his friends and fill her imagination with daydreams about a shared future.  Jay’s behavior offered the kinds of clues every silly women’s magazine might say is evidence a dude is thinking long term.  Obviously, the Latin American believed herself involved in a long-distance romance.  But in fact, she was one of a handful of women satellite-ing within Jay’s orbit.

My friend may be an extreme but he’s far from an exception.  I’ve known many guys who’ve gone through the romantic motions with women in an effort to avoid loneliness.  I even know a guy who stayed with a woman for five friggin’ years, knowing every single day there was no way in hell he’d ever marry the chick.

My gut tells me no woman would ever do such a thing and not for any noble reason, like sparing someone else’s feelings.  I just think most women are too gung ho on finding Prince Charming to waste time on a peasant.  And I can’t imagine any woman being able to turn off her emotions or even worse, pretending to feel something she doesn’t feel.  If you’ve ever seen a Sharon Stone movie, you know how to fake an orgasm.  But love?

So, Jay has started up again with the Latin American and is even considering giving in to her demands to be more exclusive.  From the beginning of this relationship, he has said, “I don’t love her and know I never will.”  Meanwhile, his girl is fantasizing about lifelong love, marriage and family.  So is Jay…with some other woman he hopes to meet one day.

I only met the gal for the second time over a group dinner, when she indirectly expressed doubts about Jay’s intentions.  She dropped hints about being open to any insight those of us who are his female friends may be able to provide.  Whenever I considered cueing her in, I remembered how perilous it is to place oneself in the center of a couple’s battlefield.

However, I also wonder if sometimes all it takes for a man like Jay to finally make a commitment is to force himself into one.  If certain men tell themselves they’re not in love in order to make sticking around seem less confining.  In the end, can fake love ever become true?

What say you?

[Photo from the film Lars and the Real Girl, Sidney Kimmel Entertainment]

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For the second time this year, my friend Kim has had to tell a guy who offered to pay her for sex to get lost.

Though Kim is no bombshell, she’s certainly real-world hot.  Great bod, killer personality, enough sexual dynamism to ignite World War III.  Men write poems to her in European cafés, chat her up in bars despite the presence of their wives and girlfriends, and friend her on Facebook to tell her she’s still their “best” even if it’s been decades since their roll in the hay.

When Kim was younger, she liked being a sexual supernova.  No shame felt she for her wanton ways, her colossal lustiness, her stereotypically manly ability to separate sex from love.  She wasn’t a man stealer or desperate fool.  Kim was a healthy sexual being, as whip smart as she was sensual, as capable of meaty conversation as she was blowing minds in the sack.

Then all in the same week, stuff happened.  First, she had to tell the gentleman who wanted to pay for her services she wasn’t that kind of girl.  Next, she got propositioned by a married male friend with a new baby.  Then, a lover from the distant past re-emerged with an ill-timed, monstrously pornographic email.

But the real doozy was the text message from Matt, the one man with whom Kim had fallen deeper in love than any normal woman deserved.  For a year, she’d enjoyed a passionate but inconsistent romance with Matt until he picked up and moved to Hawaii for business.  Though Kim was trying to move on, whenever he contacted her, tiny red hearts poured from her eyes.  A month had passed without word, when all of a sudden, in the midst of this already strange week, she got a text.  Matt wanted to know what she was wearing.  All this time, Kim had been pining away.  Matt was only sporting a woody.

As she gets older, Kim wants love, a family.  However, she hasn’t wanted to shut off the erotic valve to suckle the Goody Two Shoes one.  But after this crazy, sexed up week, Kim came to a painful realization: the men in her life don’t see her as an intellectually gifted, emotionally sophisticated feminine force who just happens to like to get it on.  She’s a fantasy, and like all flights of fancy, she dissolves in real life.

My dear friend is suffering the Marilyn Effect.

Marilyn Monroe might have been the sexiest woman ever to have lived.  However, she was also the most notoriously heartbroken, bowling over everyone from dorks like Arthur Miller to superstuds like the Kennedys, yet being ditched as soon as these guys had their fill.  By the end of her life, the loneliness and rejection tangled with the reality of losing one’s charm to old age.  Legend tells us Marilyn just wanted a baby and a man to love her.  But no one could see past her intoxicating sexuality.

“People had a habit of looking at me as if I were some kind of mirror instead of a person,” Marilyn once said.  “They didn’t see me, they saw their own lewd thoughts, then they white-masked themselves by calling me the lewd one.”

My girl Kim is tons healthier than Marilyn, though she’s starting to feel just as tragic.  She fears becoming the washed up floozy who one day turns into the unfortunate spinster.

It’s easy to blame men for being schmucks whose thoughts originate from the lower portion of their bodies.  Easy to blame a society for creating double standards.  But like every arrival at a crossroads, the question shouldn’t be, “how’d I get here,” but, “where do I go now?”

To imagine my friend no longer giving into her appetites is like imagining God turning off the spigot to Niagara Falls.  But that’s what Kim’s decided to do.  No longer will those of us who love her salivate over stories of sexual intrigue or envy her bawdy invitations from men.  Kim’s done.

Sure, it’s nice to know your booty is so good, dudes will pay for it.  Nice to find out an island of hula girls can’t distract a man from wondering what clothes you’ve got on.  But at some point it’s much nicer to be in love.

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If you’d like to figure out what’s wrong with you relationship-wise, don’t read a self-help book.  Get an online bank account. 

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?

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Biracial couple loveA guy sitting next to me on the bus the other day kept looking over my shoulder to check out the book on my lap.  When I stuffed it in my bag, he asked, “what are you reading?”

Slightly embarrassed, I told him, “it’s called, Love, an Inner Connection.”

“What’s it about?”

Self-help books and pseudo-spiritual tomes I’ve always considered hokey.  Human beings are fantastically complicated, a lifetime isn’t long enough to discover all the nooks and crannies in one person’s psyche.  Merge two of these creatures in a relationship and they’d need at least a couple centuries to figure one another out.  For every self-help “rule” about relating, you’ll find a thousand situations that break it.

So, when a friend suggested Love, an Inner Connection, my first reaction was to gag.  But since the book’s based in Jungian psychology and ancient Chinese philosophy, I gave it a whirl.

Here’s the gist: there’s the “essential” self and the ego.  The essential self is our identity in its purest form, untouched by social conditioning.  The ego is an insecure bully who concocts a social role and avoids challenging situations to keep the self from harm.  When two people fall in love, their essential selves recognize each other and connect.  In a real love connection, two people can manifest their essential selves, savor intimacy’s bliss and fulfill their lives’ purposes together.

But along comes the ego shouting things like, “you’re too ugly and stupid for someone to love,” or “yo, the last time this happened, your heart got trampled.”  The beginning of love is always a battle between one or both partners’ egos and essential selves.  Thus, the journey to love means silencing the ego, withdrawing when your partner’s ego is actin’ a fool and having the patience to endure the initial difficulties.

When I described the book to the guy on the bus, he nodded and said, “see, my problem is whenever love comes, I push it away.”

The fact that most of my acquaintances and even strangers on the bus (swear to God, it happened) are voicing romantic concern suggests lots of people are struggling.

Having allowed his “issues” to get the best of him, my friend Jay cheated on the girlfriend he’s crazy about and has been fighting ever since to get her back.  My girl Diane caves into the whims of a guy she loves but who sucks at the teat of non-commitment like a baby to a pacifier.  Jack’s in love for the first time but won’t make the changes that would allow a new person into his world.  Irene drives away every man who shows affection because she won’t take the time to let feelings evolve.  Everyone’s selfish, terrified egos are running amok.

Years back, a recently divorced guy I’d been dating admitted to some anxiety about the intensity of our fledgling romance.  He wanted to keep seeing one another, but a small part of him was tempted to back out.

I went ape shit.

“Nooo,” I wailed.  “It’s too soon to freak, you can’t do this, give it a chance.”  And so on.

Dude disappeared.  Shortly thereafter, I picked up Love, an Inner Connection. And by gum, the book changed my life.

Instead of pushing my own romantic agenda, what if I’d taken into consideration what the other person wanted?  We like to think love is all about tying someone down and eliminating whatever in their life threatens our attachment to them – a busy social calendar, autonomous behaviors, emotional hang-ups.  But love is about freedom.  Someone chooses to love you and to be loved.  You shouldn’t have to convince or force people to be with you.  They should want to be with you.  And if they need time to work through some stuff, well, you best chill.

Jay’s ego didn’t want him to admit his mistake, while his essential self was pining for the woman he betrayed.  After he read Love, An Inner, he snubbed his ego and told the girl he missed her.  She came back.  Consequently, the book is making the rounds and guiding my friends to softer places in their souls.

It’s hard to be patient.  Hard to put someone else’s needs on par with your own.  Hard to know whether you’ve got a true love connection or whether you’re a fool.

But as I told my friend on the bus, if there’s one tried-and-tested rule about love, it’s that it’s worth the risk.

**Love, an Inner Connection is by Carol K. Anthony

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RingMy friend Melissa recently stopped dating a guy because he’s divorced.  In her mind, divorced men are damaged goods.  She wants her guy pure – no festering resentments, no messy attachments to another woman, no failed model of marriage to replicate or rebel against.

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.

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