Talk Nerdy to Me...

My post yesterday got me thinking about relationships, and I decided to re-post this. I wrote it 3 summers ago, and it still applies.

"The brain is the most important sex organ in your body. It's your brain's reaction to ideas, fantasies, images, smell and touch that triggers arousal and desire."

That’s a quote from Dr. Rosalina Abboud, an obstetrician and gynecologist at the Mayo Clinic, in my home state of Minnesota. I agree with her (and not just because she’s a Minnesotan).

Some women are attracted to a fat wallet, or eye candy. Although I can certainly appreciate those attributes, the thing that excites me, always, is intelligence. I like bright guys. Politics aside, Bill Clinton is sexy because he’s bright, vs. Dubya (who’s not because he’s NOT), and it’s the light of intelligence in his eyes that makes Matt Damon sexy in a way that Ben Affleck will never be. Intelligence is, and always has been, WAY sexier than brawn to me. Because of my moth to the flame attraction to raw intelligence, I’ve dated a number of very bright guys in my life. But often, I haven’t enjoyed their company. All people are complex and multi-faceted, and I’ve learned that it’s a mistake, always, to allow oneself to be seduced by a single aspect of anyone, even when that aspect is intelligence. But until recently, I frequently allowed myself to be seduced by intelligence alone, and so I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on the meaning of the phrase, “fools rush in”...

A great deal of the time that I’ve spent reflecting on that phrase has occurred in nice restaurants, while I was sitting across the table from any of a number of the interesting, bright guys I’ve dated. Inevitably, on those occasions, I was manicured, pedicured, and spritzed with Chanel 22 for the evening. My hair was usually pulled back into a tidy chignon, and I was wearing a de rigeur chic little black dress or some variation thereof, complete with sexy heels and pearl earrings...but for all the effect any of that had on most of those bright guys, I might as well have been devoid of make-up and scent, barefoot, and wearing a muumuu. Because as we sat there, waiting to order, glasses of wine and a bowl of fresh bread on the immaculate table before us...rather than flirting, gazing into each other’s eyes, and enjoying each other’s company, as couples all around us always seemed to be doing, australopithecus robustus’ head was inevitably bent intently over his dinner napkin, where he was graphing something for my benefit. Sometimes I’d say, “Please! If you must draw, at least use a pencil on that linen!” The response was always a variation of, “But I’m trying to show you something, and this is important!” Then, as my eyes glazed over and I felt my heart sinking in my chest, I’d think, “Shoot! Not again! When will I ever learn?” Sometimes I’d realize that in addition to drawing a graph for me, he was speaking, and I’d try to sit up straighter, and pay attention, as I heard him uttering seemingly random multi-syllabic words and phrases like “sub-galactic” or “quarks” or “stratospheric phenomena”...or sometimes “cardiomyopathy” or “tort reform”, depending on his profession. And I’d nod and smile, envious of the couples around us, whose snippets of conversations contained words like “weekend” and “beach” and “tortellini”. Fantasizing about, and longing for, some friendly banter, I’d plan my escape, and I’d vow to curl up alone with a good book, come next Saturday night.

Eventually, I did just that. I took a break from dating. I spent a lot of Saturday nights curled up, alone, with a good book.

It was good to do that. I’ve learned a lot about myself, and about who I’m attracted to and what I want. I’ll always be drawn to bright guys, but I’ve learned that I want much more than just brightness. I want compassion and generosity and especially, because it’s delicious to me, I want humor. Life is good, and funny, and I’ve learned that what I want is a co-conspirator...a bright, funny guy, who can not only carry on an intelligent conversation and make me laugh, but who can look into my eyes while he’s doing it...because Crosby, Stills & Nash had it right in Suite Judy Blue Eyes: Fear is the lock, and laughter the key, to my heart...

General Petraeus update...

Tonight I worked late and my boss stopped by my cube, as is her habit, to shoot the breeze. She asked about the on-again, off-again, as of last week on-again liaison of Bev (not her real name) with the bogus General Petraeus. Bev took two weeks off, beginning last Monday, because after a months long, whirlwind internet romance that he supposedly was able to conduct in spite of his being Commander in Chief, US Central Command, in Pakistan or wherever he's posted these days, DP was at long last taking a vacation from his post and coming back to the states, to Texas, to meet Bev and her elderly parents before they (Bev, her two geriatric lap dogs, and DP) began a road trip in her vintage Ford Mustang to his splendiferous mansion in...drum roll here, are you ready? yes, that beautiful, exciting, most romantic and vibrant of places...Iowa. Uh-huh. That's what Mr. Scam Artist told her, and she bought it, hook, line and sinker. Her days have been filled with decisions like whether to have the security detail with them or not...uh-huh. Like he could just dismiss that! There was just one little wrinkle, a teeny tiny matter that he hated to trouble her with, it having to do with money...he couldn't access his bank accounts to buy his ticket, that darn ex-wife...(current wife to the rest of the world, because the divorce was secret, of course)...

Dunno whether she sent him the money or not. I did hear they were fighting about something. My overactive imagination immediately thought of a few things she might object to, like, in addition to asking her for money, maybe he asked her to bring rope, duct tape, gloves, garbage bags and a shovel, for example...but I digress. Someone who couldn't stand the suspense (not me) called her on her cellphone last week. Don't have any details, but it seems he no showed, so she was at home...alone.

Physically, at least, she's safe. Dunno about her bank account, and don't even want to contemplate her psyche...but I thought of a poem by Bukowski, entitled Oh Yes...

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.

Flying Solo

dan fogelberg - same auld lang syne II

On Christmas Day an old friend called to wish me a Merry Christmas. He left voice mails on both my cell phone and my land line, saying it's been too long and he'd like to get together soon for scotch and oysters. There was a time when a call from this guy would have caused my heart to pound almost out of my chest, and I have to admit, when I saw his name on the caller ID and heard his voice on my voicemail, I felt a catch in my chest, as if my heart had skipped a beat and I couldn’t quite catch my breath…and I knew with absolute certainty that if I allowed myself, I could still give in to that, could still feel “an old weakness comin’ on strong”, even after all this time. It took a moment to come back to myself, for the room to stop spinning, but then my hard-earned, carefully honed sense of self-preservation kicked in and the floor was again firm beneath my feet, and I smiled, poured myself a glass of wine, and busied myself with things to help me not think about returning his call, at least not immediately.

When I first got divorced I assumed I’d eventually marry again. I enjoy the pleasure of my own company, and am quite capable of entertaining myself; I have no fear of going out to dinner or to a concert or movie by myself, so this wasn’t a fear of being alone. I’m fiercely independent, and even while married, I always required a certain amount of time by myself for what Bettelheim (out of favor now, I know, but he was right about this), called “changing of the masks”. But getting divorced, more than ever I became aware that I longed for someone with whom to share a meal and a glass of wine, someone with whom to talk and yes, someone with whom to make love, and curl up and fall asleep. I love intimacy, and I longed for someone to know me so well he’d know the weight of my wrist on his heart in the night, as Ondaatje so eloquently writes in The English Patient. Getting divorced, I longed for someone to love.

In therapy at the time, I confessed all of this to my therapist. I remember, because I found it maddening at the time, that she smiled patiently as she assured me that even if this didn’t happen and I ended up alone, I’d be fine.

“But I’m not sure that I will!” I wailed.

“Yes,” she said firmly, “You will! You absolutely will be fine!”

It took some time, and a number of bad relationships (most of which I can now laugh about, thank goodness), before I began to believe that maybe she was right after all. Now, some 10 years after the last time I sat weeping in her office, I'm finally at a point in my life where I'm comfortable not only being alone, but knowing that I may be alone ad infinitum. And yet I have to admit, for this guy to call again, after all this time, rocked my world a bit. I know him so well (or did), maybe better than he knew himself. He's funny and bright and capable of being quite tender, but introspection was not one of his strengths, at least not when we were together. At the risk of sounding cynical, after thinking about it, I think the most likely reason for his call after all this time is that something has happened for which he requires consolation. He always came to me for consolation, and I was always pretty good at providing it. But although I'm good at providing it, I'm at a point in my life where I've come to realize that I'm not willing to be his (or anyone else's) consolation prize.

Of course, I could be wrong. That may not be the reason he called at all. I called him back on New Year's Eve, midday, when I knew the chances of reaching him would be slim. I was counting on getting his voicemail, and I was successful. I left a message saying I was happy to hear from him and that scotch and oysters sounded great. If experience is any indicator, the crisis, whatever it was, has passed and he'll be too busy to follow up.

But all of this has made me think...would I still like to have some bright, funny guy to share my life with? Yes, I would, but as my friend R always says: "better an empty flat than a bad tenant"...and so until/unless I find that guy, I'll be flying solo.