You? Or What You Represent?

I received a note from a Reader the other day:  "Have you ever written about telling the difference between whether you really like someone or just like the idea of someone? I'm trying to figure that out." 


I knew exactly what she meant.   A relationship I was in ended earlier this year.  He lived on the opposite coast and it was just too tough to maintain a real relationship with that much distance between us.   He wanted his girlfriend-or-whatever-I-was to live a lot closer.   I actually didn't mind the distance; every get-together was romantic and special because we didn't have to deal with real-life stuff.   So I was a little bummed when he thought we should end it if neither of us was going to move.  (We weren't).  


I was lamenting the relationship's end and my girlfriend said "Gee, I didn't realize you were that into him".  Then it occurred to me that she was right.  I wasn't that into him.  I wasn't lamenting the loss of him as much as I was lamenting the loss of a relationship.  It was the idea of having a beau, not the actual beau.  I recalled that when he and I had that final conversation, I was thinking to myself "Damn, now I gotta start all over.  Looking around, trying on different guys, blah blah".  

So shame on me, because I was definitely more into the idea of having someone than I was into this someone.  And I totally get it when Dear Reader asks the question.  


I think one of the ways to tell the difference is whether when you think about him, are you thinking about him, the way he looks, his laugh, the things he says, memories of times together -or- are you focusing on something else, things he doesn't "own".   If you're thinking more in the abstract like "it would be great to have a man to help me with this…to travel with…to accompany me to this wedding…to talk to when I come home (not that men want to talk to you when you come home), then I think you may be more into the idea of him.  It's any "fill-in-the-blank-guy" to fill the man role.  


I think a lot of women love the idea of a special someone and what that represents to them (and others) more than they love the actual someone…but, whatever.   I think it's important to know and admit the difference, though.


What do y'all think?  How do you tell if you really like someone -or just like the idea of someone?








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My Spinsterlicious Week: 3 Things

I was told by a couple of readers that I should post more about myself; not just what I think about stuff, but what I'm actually doing.  So, here we go:  3 things I did this week.  It was a pretty good week:


1.

On Friday, I had a most amazing dinner at Per Se  one of NYC's finest (and most expensive) restaurants.  My good friend, Benilde and her husband, and my lawyer/friend decided to treat ourselves to what truly was an exquisite experience.  The prie fixe menu is $295 per person (yep), which I thought was kinda ridiculous, but I love new experiences and I love a good story so I figured I'd get both of these if it satisfied and if it didn't.


But it did.  More than satisfied, as a matter of fact.  I went there half-way expecting to be disappointed.  I mean, really, how could any meal for one person be worth $300+?  And while I still think that's a ridiculous amount of money, I must say that we didn't feel robbed.  The views and decor are amazing.  The staff is abundant (we had 4 servers attending to us) and they were really nice.  Personable, helpful, and not uptight, fake, or stuffy like one often finds at expensive restaurants.


I would love to gush in detail about each dish, but I can't. Primarily because I didn't recognize most of the ingredients and to mention the few things I did recognize wouldn't do it justice.  We did joke that we think they made up some of the descriptions.  I mean, wtf is "sabayon" and "coulecot" anyway?  I still dunno, but I like them.  Every dish looked like a work of art and really was delicious.  There was only one dish most of us didn't like, which Cliff decided was "Spam masquerading as chicken".   Everything else was fab, though.  Dinner lasted 4 hours.  8 courses.   And I don't even want to think about how many calories we consumed.  I'm just glad this isn't something I can do all the time.  I'd have to buy a new wardrobe in a much bigger size (and refinance my house).




2.

On Thursday, I went to a dear friend's birthday dinner party.  She invited about 15 of her favorite girlfriends to her house for Mexican food and margaritas.  Lots of margaritas.  We played a "game" in which we each introduced ourselves and told how we first became friends with the Birthday Girl.  It was hilarious how many of our stories began with "Well, I didn't like her when I first met her"...though they all ended with how she's now one of our favorite people.  (People describe me that way, a lot, too.  The "not liking at first" thing).   It was so great being in a room with 15 fun, smart, and interesting women --some married, some not, with and without kids-- and just relaxing, laughing, drinking, and telling stories.  I got home around midnight with a smile on my face.




3.

On Wednesday, I explained to a 52-year-old man why we could be pals/platonic friends -or- he could maybe [insert sex act here]...but not both.  He seemed confused.








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My Knees, My Gut

I started running again a few weeks ago…against doctor's advice.   I was a runner for years and it's the only exercise I enjoy.   I had knee surgery in 2001 and was instructed that running wasn't "helpful" to the situation.   So I stopped; doctor's orders, right?  I was advised to find some other form of exercise that I enjoy that is better for my knees.   I knew that no such thing existed, but I gave it a shot anyway.  So I joined a gym and wouldn't go.   And I bought a bike that I wouldn't ride...except on occasion, but not often enough to be considered part of my exercise regimen.  In fact, once I stopped running, I didn't really have an exercise regimen.  I'd walk just about everywhere, but walking is slow and is really only a bare-minimun exercise, in my opinion.  It's supplemental, at best.


 I don't enjoy any exercise as much as I do running.   Said differently, I hate all exercise except running.   Plus my other (unoperated on) knee hurts anyway.   It hurt all those years when I wasn't running, so what's the difference?  

But what really got me to lace up my running shoes again was my gut.  Not the gut that = intuition.   The gut that was threatening to hang over the waistline of my jeans.   I'm not having that.   I know that the mid-section of women-of-a-certain age tends to plump up as the body goes through hormonal changes.   I already know that.   But I don't like it.   I've never really had a gut before and I'm not interested in making friends with one now.


I'm accepting of many bodily changes related to aging.  I'm okay with my softer thighs, that funny crinkly skin on my underarms, the cellulite on my butt, my not-as-perky boobs.  But the gut thing pisses me off.  I'm drawing the line there.   So I'm hitting the road with my running shoes, iPod, and knee brace.  


If you hear about me in the hospital for a knee operation, just send me some flowers and leave out the "they told you so" lecture.  My knee might be a mess, but my waistline will be intact...like it's supposed to be.






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That "Look"

I had breakfast the other morning with two really interesting women.  I was meeting them both for the first time on the recommendation of a mutual friend who thought we should know each other because we're all self-employed in businesses where there might be an opportunity to work together.    I think he probably dated all three of us at some point, but that's another story...plus, I don't know it for sure, though it's a pretty good bet.  Anyway, it was nice of him to bring us together (and to pick up the check).

We are all women-of-a-certain age, but I feel we have the verve of women who are much younger.  They both looked really great:  energetic, fit, and stylishly dressed.  Actually, I should clarify:  they looked great...from the neck down.

They both had that weird, too-wide-eyed, skin too smooth and shiny, slightly "off" look of women who've had a tad too much facial work done.  I hated it.  I was unable to keep up with the conversation because I kept staring at their faces and having my own private conversation in my head:  "Do they like the way they look"?

I hate that we have become a society so obsessed with youth that it is almost more acceptable to have bad cosmetic work done than to have a few (or a lot of) wrinkles.   And I consider it "bad" if I can tell you've had it.


And here's the thing:  I don't know if having cosmetic surgery really fixes "the problem".  Many women I see still seem self-conscious and uncomfortable about their age and their looks, even after they've had the work done.  It's like a trick has been played on them.

I understand why women go under the knife when they work in the entertainment industry and their livelihood depends on remaining forever young.  All others, though?  I wish they'd get over it.  There's nothing wrong with a few lines and a little crow's feet.  You're 50, for Pete's sake!


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What's That Smell?

Every now and then I think I should probably get married and/or have some children.   This usually happens when I hear news about a decaying body being found in an apartment.   The body is not found by a loved one, but usually by the Super or the police because neighbors complained about a foul smell coming from the apartment.   It wouldn’t happen like that if that poor soul didn’t live alone.  That’s when I realize that poor soul could be me.

I actually did the math once and determined that it would probably take about four days after my untimely death (any death of mine would be “untimely”) for my rotting corpse to be found.  Sometimes I hear on the news or read in the newspaper about people who knew “immediately” that something was wrong because “she didn’t show up to work” or “she didn’t answer the door” or “she didn’t return my call”.   None of these would apply to me.    If I didn’t show up to work, didn’t answer the door or didn’t return a phone call, people would just think I was being a flake.

It would probably take two days of my absence for my friends and family to raise an eyebrow, so that by day three they’d start asking around.  It would take another day for them to connect and realize that no one had heard from me and to make a bigger inquiry by involving my Super or the police…but by then I would already have started to smell.

 I’m hoping that dear Danny, the world’s cutest dog, might have barked at my motionless body before it lay there for four days, which would hopefully spur the neighbors to come and see what’s wrong.  (This is kinda gross, isn't it?)

NOTE:  If you like "Spinsterlicious" and want to be notified of new posts, please subscribe in the box on the right -or- if you have a Google Account, you can click on "Follow Me" also on the right, near the bottom.   You'll receive an email each time there's an update to the blog.  Don't miss a Spinsterlicious update!