Entry 1 of My Paul Story
August 31st, 2009 § Leave a Comment
Growing up I dreamed of the day I would date. The idea of meeting a guy, the first kiss, the first time he said, “I love you.” I had big ideas for love and as I grew older, with each passing year, that hope faded. Relationships took their normal toll. Falling in love, realizing after 6 months you were never really in love and then staying for months longer trying to build up the nerve to finally break the relationship off.
I’ve been a serial dater for years. I dated the same guy all throughout high school. I broke up with him when I realized I needed to take the journey of single hood, one I knew I needed to take in order to find out who I was. That single journey lasted a few weeks, before I found myself in another relationship, and then another, and another and another. Clearly there was a pattern that I had began which was solidified on Thanksgiving at my aunt and uncle’s house when the place card next to mine simply read, “boyfriend.” Apparently my family knew my pattern well enough to know that if they wanted to remain current with my love life, they needed to remain generic.
It was sad really. I had always picked safe, nice guys. I was never into the bad boys. I wanted a guy I could be sure wouldn’t hurt me, a guy I knew would much rather spend time with me than with his friends or at a club. I wanted a guy who, in all honesty, liked me more than I liked them. While in return I got a safe relationship I never got a relationship I wanted. To choose a nice guy is a wonderful thing. To choose a guy solely because he is nice, is a dysfunctional thing.
It wasn’t until I moved to Los Angeles over three years ago, that my picker went from safe to really really stupid. I began a string of relationships with men that should have sent safe-seeking me fleeing in the other direction. I dated a musician who only wanted to make out on his couch in between his guitar playing. I dated a guy I worked with who, unbeknown to me, had a fiancee that I discovered only after she confronted me. To this day, I believe there is no lower relationship point in the world than to find out that you are the other woman. I dated my neighbor who quickly became the reason why I spent the last three month of living in Los Angeles in an empty apartment sleeping on the floor.
My last three months in Los Angeles were torture. I went from a cozy apartment overstuffed with furniture to nothing-in a matter of 4 hours. I dreaded going home every night to the emptiness that seemed to swallow me whole. It was during the first week that I convinced myself I was stuck in some sort of relationship purgatory, paying my penance for leaving a string of men who loved me and who I was unable to love back. It seemed unfair that all my prior boyfriends had been able to move on, get married, have children and here I was, still single going through a horrific breakup and sleeping on an air mattress in a hollow apartment. But I had a choice. I could, A. let the bitterness of failed relationships swallow me up and cave into despair, or I could B. Pick up the pieces of myself, take control of my life and approach dating with as much vigor and determination as I had my career.
Luckily I chose to move on and take control. I wanted to run full force into dating, which to me was the same as saying, I want to run full force into sheer terror and unavoidable torturous demise. I wanted to go on as many dates as possible, meet as many guys as possible and spend the time sifting through each of them until I found one I really wanted–regardless of wether or not he wanted me more, or was safe. I figured there was no scarier place to exorcise my demons, than online dating.
I made my profile and made myself a promise; every seemingly sane guy I encountered, I would have a conversation with, and if that went well I would proceed to go on a date with. Within two days and 1,000 visits to my profile I was hooked. I met guys for dinner, for drinks and after 5 dates and countless “get to know you” conversations I was completely and totally over it. I didn’t want to talk anymore about growing up, if my parents were still together, what I liked to do for fun. I was so sick of those conversations the thought of talking about myself one more time, I was sure would send me over the edge. Dating was like the gym, it was exhausting and had yet to prove it would provide the results I hoped for.
Through online dating I met a guy who managed MMA fighters which ultimately ended when, after spending the evening at his house watching Caddyshack, he proceeded to make out with me while clinging to me like a spider monkey. I am not doing the moment justice here…the guy literally, mid make-out, wrapped his legs around my waist like a five year old who didn’t want you to leave and clung to me. Once I wriggled free I quickly wriggled away and we never spoke again. I dated a guy who seemed nice, we went to dinner had good conversation, and in all honesty, I hoped to see him again. I called him twice afterwards, and over a year later, he has yet to return either of those calls. I went on a date with a guy who was the epidomy of metro sexual in trendy jeans and a bedazzled skin tight black t-shirt. We went to dinner for an hour, I felt no chemistry and thought it was mutual until he proceeded to call and email me three times a day for the next two weeks. I was upfront and told him I felt no chemistry although he was a nice guy and wished him the best…his response, “I am much too good looking for you anyway.” Sadly, the calls stopped, we lost touch and I would bet my unborn children that he is still single, living in the Greater Los Angeles Area and getting weekly spray tans.
Five dates and I was exhausted. I willed myself to forge on and stay committed to my quest, although I did so with far less enthusiasm than I started with. After a month of an active profile and a handful of terrible dates under my belt, I was sifting through my inbox when I saw an email that stood out. At first glance it was seemingly normal, which was the first thing that got my attention. It wasn’t a cheesy, “you are beautiful” email, he didn’t open with a stomach turning, “hi princess”, his email was casual, witty, simple and endearing. I checked out his profile and thought his pictures were cute. I did my fail-safe average of taking his cutest picture with his least attractive picture and I concluded that he was more than reasonably attractive. After a few email exchanges we decided to do the first phone call. I braced myself for the painstaking polite conversation that inevitably comes with this step of the dating process.
The first time I talked to Paul on the phone we clicked. It wasn’t the “he’s cordial and friendly to me and I am friendly back” kind of conversation, it was much different. I enjoyed every second of talking to him. It was the kind of conversation that is easy and fun, where you go back and forth and the conversation is like a good game of ping pong. He lobbed a ball to me I pinged it back and we went like that for 7 hours. We ended our conversation as the sun was coming up and I went to bed smiling.
We met for the first time and our first date was the best date I have ever been on, which really doesn’t do it justice because I haven’t really been on many good dates. I will say though that had I ever been a contestant on the Bachelorette and went on one of those helicopter flights to Napa Valley kind of dates…my date with Paul would remain the best date I have ever been on. This is even more funny to me because we did nothing. We met for dinner, took a walk and went to Starbucks. Everything was easy and comfortable, like I had known him long before that moment and I liked him…even before it was clear that he liked me or was safe. He could have been lying to me, he could have had a secret wife, he could have just wanted to get laid and move on to the next unsuspecting on line profile…but every part of my being was telling me that he was good and he was right.
We promised each other in the beginning that we would go slow, so as not to ruin the relationship. We had both been down roads where we rushed things. He told me how his reservations for rushing stemmed from breaking up with a girl after losing interest because they moved to fast, I didn’t have the courage to tell him my fear of moving too fast stemmed from the fact that I was sleeping in an apartment on the floor.
It is now late and I am tired and cross-eyed so I will call this entry 1 of my “Paul story” because there is so much more of this story to tell.
Sun Damage
August 31st, 2009 § Leave a Comment
I grew up in the sun.
Weekends were filled with boogie boarding, laying out on the beach and running through sprinklers. I am a red-head tempered by being half-Mexican which means I can get away with wearing no sunscreen at all and not burn too badly. This doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of cripsy moments as a child. I’ve had my share of Rudolph nosed moments, painful shoulder burns and I’ve peeled dead skin off my back more then a dozen times. As a child the sun wasn’t the enemy we know it to be today. Parents weren’t as concerned over sun damage. My mom and grandma grew up lying in their backyards on tin foil and slathered in baby oil. The sun was dangerous back then and now it is much worse. Because of pollutants in the atmosphere and the excess in which humans live, the ozone is depleting at a rapid rate. People are more concerned than ever with the harmful rays let off by the sun and what that means for our future health. It is scary to know that it only takes one severe burn during childhood to double the risk of cancer in adulthood.
I work in a hospital and with that comes health information by the bucket load. I am a self-reformed hypochandriac, although I still have my medical freak out moments here and there. Sometimes the information I read and dismiss and some I take to heart. This morning I learned a little more about sun protection that I thought was important to take note of.
The first and most important point is that sunscreen is not regulated. This means a lot of the sunscreen you apply isn’t doing what it claims to. I thought as long as I didn’t turn any shade in the pink spectrum, it meant my sunscreen was working. This is not the case at all. There are 2 types of sun rays UVA and UVB. UVA rays are the rays that turn us pink, UVB rays are the rays that penetrate deep into our skin and don’t show in redness. These are the rays that are responsible for 90% of our skins aging/wrinkles and the ones that cause melanoma. Ninety percent of wrinkles are caused by the sun and just 10% is by again. So…there went my belief that going to the tanning salon was better because I never turned red or burned. You can slather on as much sunscreen as you want but as long as it doesn’t protect you from UVB rays, you may as well not use anything at all. And for those who think a t-shirt protects you from the sun, a thin white t shirt has the sun protection factor of only about 4%.
I thought the greatest invention ever was spray-sunscreen. Obviously I am exaggerating here because the greatest invention ever is ice cream, however spray sunscreen ranked high up on the list. Spray sunscreen eliminated the need to ask someone to slather the spots you couldn’t reach. But spray sunscreens present a great danger. They contain zinc and titanium which are great for protecting against UVB rays when applied to the skin, but in spray form they release toxic metallic fumes that you inhale into your lungs and can be cancerous. If I had to choose between caner or creepy stranger to “do my back”, I will choose the stranger every time.
I have friends who relish in the fact that they use over 50 SPF sunscreen. They talk with such pride about their proactive sun approach but truth be told, you can save your money on sunscreen with anything higher than a 15-45SPF. If you use more than a 45 SPF sunscreen you will only get a 1.3% increase in sun protection. This means you need to weigh in if 1.3% is important enough for you to expose yourself to the extra chemicals present in a higher SPF.
The highest incident rate of skin cancer is currently in Australia. Australia is therefore at the cutting edge (no pun intended) of regulating sunscreen. This means that when you go to buy sunscreen you should avoid some of the more popular brands, which are often the worst offenders of misinformation, and go for a brand that adheres to Australian testing standards.
My grandfather is in his 80′s and his face is mottled and caved in from the skin cancer his dermatologist has carved away from his nose, head and ears. He spent years in the sun with no sun protection and is now paying a high price. I’m sure if he had to do it over, he would want this kind of information to help him. Enjoy the sun but do so well-informed.
Happy Birthdays!
August 29th, 2009 § Leave a Comment
I am stubborn, for this I blame my mom.
I have trouble asking for help, for this I blame my mom.
I understand the delicate balance between silly and smart, for this I blame my mom.
I would chose a nice guy over a bad boy any day, for this I blame my mom.
I know what it means to always be independant, for this I blame my mom.
I’ve worked hard to get where I am, for this I blame my mom.
I know what it takes to earn something, for this I blame my mom.
I blame my mom for a lot of things. Most of them being the qualities I possess which I am most proud of.
My mom is small but mighty. She possesses a strength that is part fierce independence with an underlying vulnerability and love that she shows during the moments that count. Like when I seven and needed something to make me smile, so my mom put underwear on her head as she was folding laundry and sang I Feel Pretty. Or the time I forgot my umbrella at home when it was pouring rain so she delivered a brand new bear handled umbrella to me in my classroom. Not only was it a cool move, but I became the proud owner of the most coveted umbrella in the third grade.
I grew up in awe of my mom; the way she worked out like a machine, the fact that she could survive off hard boiled eggs and cottage cheese alone, the idea that she could wake up at 5 a.m. with unbridled energy. Not to mention that she was beautiful, and was never at a loss for men who wanted to be in her presence. I would study her through my thick bifocals and wonder how someone so pretty could have created a specimen like me; an awkward, clumsy, bat-visioned, ratted red-headed child. But as I grow older the similarities between my mom and I are undeniable. Our laughs both turn into cackles if they last more than 5 seconds, both our noses tip up at the end, and we are both at a loss when it comes to asking for help.
Asking for help was never something my mom was good at. The older I get the more I understand this was probably formed from necessity. After being let down too many times, maybe she was forced to become independent, and after being strong for so long maybe it’s hard to go back. I never truly understood how deep that need ran until the day our car broke down. I was around 7 years old when our little Hyundai couldn’t make it the last 4 blocks home and coasted to a halt. My mom calmly steered the car into the bicycle lane, flung the drivers side door open, propped her left hand steadily onto the open door frame, grabbed the steering wheel with her right hand and then pushed with all her might. Mind you, this was a fairly busy street and many guys predictably pulled over and offered to help. More than a dozen men must have stopped and offered help and all were met with the same response from my mom, “it’s okay, I got it.” And she always did. Even in the moments when she didn’t have it, she never let on.
She worked hard, made sure we lived in a nice neighborhood and went to a good school. She always made sure that we had great birthdays, loving Christmas’ and notes in our lunchbox telling us how much we were loved. And in return I always wished that my mom would find someone to love her as much as she loved me. I spent the greater part of my younger years studying the guys my mom dated. I took notes on how they laughed how they acted towards my brother and I when she wasn’t in the room, how they walked. I convinced myself that if I could discover the formula for what was wrong with them, one day I would be able to find the perfect guy for her. Unfortunately the only thing I became good at through this exercise was determining the kind of guys to stay away from when I was old enough to date.
When I was around 23, long after I had moved out of the house and began making my own way in life, I came home to meet my mom’s new boyfriend. I was poised for the worst but Tony, the guy, seemed nice enough.
Over time I got to know Tony better. After spending years perfecting my ability to spot a jerk in no time flat, through careful and meticulous observation, I was poised to take notes on him. Funny thing was that when it came down to it I didn’t have to study Tony, I only had to study my mom. For the first time I saw my mom more relaxed. She didn’t seem to carry the same tension, a tension I never realized was there until it was gone. For the first time I actually felt my mom’s hopes for someone to depend on wouldn’t be met by disappointment.
A few years ago, after a number of years being together, my mom and Tony got married in a very small ceremony (just my brother and I) on a beach in Kauai. One of the many reasons I love Tony so much is that he was the one to cry during the ceremony…my mom of course did not. Tony is a good balance for my mom. He makes her softer and she makes him happy. Granted my mom will always keep a small part of herself separate from everything, forever at the ready to stand on her own, but the great thing is – I think she finally realizes she may not have to anymore.
What I had always hoped for finally happened, she found the love that seemed to elude her for all my years growing up. It seems funny to call Tony my step dad because I met him in my twenties. Truth be told though, he is more than a step dad. He is the first person to ever come into our lives that I trusted with my mom’s heart and with mine. He is a good man and even though it took us over twenty years to find him he was well worth the wait.
My mom and Tony both celebrated their birthdays in August so with that I will close with happy birthday to you both, I love love love you!
