Choosing Attraction

I was recently discussing the demise of a friend’s relationship. Apparently there’s something in the water of late. My friend talked about the gradual loss of intimacy that had grown between him and his girlfriend. I know her too so I was trying to be impartial. Not so easy. They had both been frustrated by the lack of connection that festered at the core of their relationship. Neither had known quite how to solve it and so things had ended.

As a recently frustrated girl myself, I wanted to get at the “cooling off” from the guy’s point of view. As girls we’re raised to think guys are on all the time. No such thing as them not being in the mood. That’s a girl thing, right? Newsflash: turns out a guy’s mindset can in fact override what I assumed was a biological, gender-specific imperative.

“Sometimes I just didn’t find her attractive,” he shrugged.

Now, the girl in question is a babe so I fought the urge to squawk. As far as he was concerned, there existed the real phenomenon of being with a beautiful girl and simultaneously not finding her attractive.

“Sometimes she didn’t make much of an effort.”

Ah hah! Now we were to the heart of the matter. This put the onus on her to cause him to be attracted to her and what could he do about it if she didn’t make this happen? We had inadvertently hit upon what I think is the secret struggle of most modern relationships: the thinking that the causation of the relationship is up to the other person.

Having agonized over The Director for many moons, wondering what I was doing wrong that he wasn’t choosing me, a wise friend finally counseled me: if it’s the right guy, there is no way you can mess it up. And poof, I was free. If he was choosing someone else, he was clearly not the right guy for me and the fact we didn’t work out wasn’t due to anything I did or didn’t do right.

This all came back to me as I listened to my friend talk. And then the next piece: if that attraction – even love – is not based on what the other person does, what is it based on?

Ah hah number two. Try this on: besides being “right for each other,” when we fall in love, we don’t really fall in love with that other person and their actions or appearance BUT with the story we tell ourselves about that person’s actions and/or appearance.

Think about it. Who was the last celeb you had a crush on? Because you knew them? Maybe, but unlikely unless of course you live here in Tinseltown. More than likely your imagination created a possibility of what they could be like. Likewise, we meet a new person and get carried away with new hope. Based on what? The story we tell ourselves about what love with that person could be like.

As I look back over my history I can come up with juxtaposing examples of this. Once I fell for a guy because he was a rebel. Another boyfriend later repulsed me for the same reason. Was the degree of rebel-ness to blame? Or the story I told myself about how a rebel did or didn’t fit into my life based on who I was and what I wanted at the time?

The bottom line? On a super subconscious level, we choose to start being attracted to someone just as we choose to stop. It seems like it’s based on them. But that’s just us not being responsible for our own feelings.

I immediately called my friend’s ex. She needed to know she was beautiful and fabulous and had in fact done nothing wrong. He just wasn’t the guy. If he was there was no way he would have chosen to stop being crazy in love with her, makeup or no.

Later, I talked with another friend who is engaged. He put it even more clearly:

“Every day we wake up and look at each other and choose to be in love.”

Amen.

Starving Artist

Since my fancy movie studio job ended and I've been out here in the self-employed trenches making my dreams come true, I've always thought of myself as a Creative suffering for my art; the true-life representation of the starving artist.

I shop, when I have money, at the 99 Cent store in true starving artist fashion. I almost never buy new clothes or other indulgences. Those things will come with a script sale, I tell myself.

Of late however, it feels like the Universe is trying to amend starving artist to include pathetic and downtrodden as well. It seems like every little task that should take five minutes has six things go wrong and ends up taking all day. Roadblocks are everywhere. I mean I know the old saying goes "into each life a little rain must fall." I know we all have our good things and bad but the bad is just starting to feel ridiculously unbalanced.

So I wonder what the Universe in its infinite widsom is trying to tell me? Slow down? I'm not supposed to be a writer? I shouldn't assume any new light bulb will work for more than one hour?

In a fit of indulgence I decided just now to walk to the store near me. True, it's more expensive than the 99 Cent store but it saves me gas and a walk is always good. I put my last-remaining twenty in my pocket and resolved to only spend ten on the indulgence of a bag of salad and some veggies.

Once in the store, I was seduced by the cheese aisle. I haven't bought myself cheese in months because I don't see it as a staple but a luxury and I'm trying to keep the budget as close to the bone as I can these days. Still, I stood over the cheeses and finally internally OKd the purchase of a $2.79 block of no-brand Monterrey Jack. This is the life!

I got to the check-out only to discover that my precious twenty had somehow escaped my pocket. There will be no generic Jack in my life today. I apologized to the check-out girl and ran the half mile back to my house looking on the street, asking startled pedestrians if they'd found a twenty, hoping they'd be honest enough to 'fess up if they had. No luck. The Spearhead song "Hole in the Bucket" rattled through my head followed by Superchunk's "Punch Me Harder." Thanks, Universe. If I make a nice paper cut, would you like to squirt some lemon juice in it?

So I return to my little apartment. Sans cheese, sans veggies. Sans dignity. And instead of eating a lunch salad right now like I'd planned, I'm sitting here writing about it, wondering what I'm meant to learn from all these recent roadblocks. At least I'm writing about it. Maybe that's what I'm supposed to be doing. I have been a bit distracted by a job which brutally underpays me - we're talking Dickensian salary. But still, ya could have gotten the point across in a slightly less "no soup for you" way, Universe.

The Starving Artist forges ahead. Or should I say forages?

Cougars R Us

I am a young woman. Just putting a tippy toe into my prime. I still keep up with the scene. I shop at Forever 21. I follow the college radio charts as the ones that count.

Music has always been one of my life cornerstones. Although there is a little something missing for me of late.

“I swear, they’re twelve.”

My friend and I watch the band, Artic Monkeys, bounce across the stage.

“I think they may be thirteen,” I muse. “I can’t be attracted to that.”

She raises an eyebrow at me and grins lasciviously, “Welcome to Dirty Old Lady Town, population: you.”

With this new crop of hipster kid bands I suddenly find myself in “old enough to be their mother” territory. When did that happen? Not so long ago I looked up to the hot boys in the band and wished I was old enough to date them. My attraction to, say, Simon Le Bon is a key part of why I loved Duran Duran.

Then for a long time, you had to be at least as old as me to be in a band. Any musician was fair game for a celeb crush. Now, out of the blue, I’ve strayed into the older woman territory. Just like that.

“Now you’re a cougar,” my friend laughs. “You know, and older chick who preys on young boys.”

“No, I’m not!” I squeal. My friend’s bemused stare brings me down to earth. I reconsider. “Well they are nice and…energetic, the younguns.”

Still, I like to think of myself as being the young crowd. Not as hunting them. But sometimes it just sneaks right up on you.

I met a guy at a bar recently. A lawyer. He asked me out and though I had the nagging sense he was a good bit younger than me, I reasoned: he’s a lawyer, law school takes a few years, how young can he be?

We went on our date and all was well. He seemed worldly enough. Then he mentioned his MySpace page and I thought we might be straying into dangerous territory. Later he dropped me home and I couldn’t resist. I made like the kids do and checked his MySpace page.

While I couldn’t actually be his mother: seriously too young for me. Seriously.

So I guess all that’s left is for me to accept my cougarness as the next stage in my personal evolution. I am a Leo after all. Relating to myself as another kind of big cat isn’t such a stretch. It fits. I just didn’t think it would happen so suddenly.

As my friend and I applaud the Artic Monkeys’ closing number, I think of the bar manager down the street from me with the liver spots and the miniskirt. I always thought of her age-inappropriate clothing as laughable. I guess it’s time I ask her where she shops.

All The Pretty Horses

I know I’ve said a lot about being up for leaving this crazy place when I lose my faith but I think this case is an exception.

For as long as I can remember I’ve had the Cinderella fantasy of meeting my Prince Charming and creating a wonderful life with him. I’ve often alarmed friends and family with my ability to jump into new relationships with both feet giving new attachments the weight of love when perhaps they only merited fondness. I always held out hope that maybe that next guy coming around the corner will turn out to be The One.

Sitting at a café last week, a cute guy came around the corner and to me he was just that; a cute guy coming around a corner. It was then I realized I’ve lost my faith in The One.

My blind faith in love dragged me hook line and sinker into my last relationship. My panel of experts (i.e. my girlfriends who don’t want to see me with another jerk) weren’t thrilled with his Match.com profile.

“He sounds immature,” one cautioned.

“Doesn’t sound like he knows what he wants,” noted another.

Despite the fact I had “responsible yet playful adult who knows who he is, what he wants from life and is passionate about it” at the top of my list, I let these red flags slide. I held onto what I did get: playful. He dazzled me with extravagance. Tickets to my favorite band. Lots of attention. After a brief two weeks, he informed me he was taking his profile off Match.com and wanted to only be with me. Even though I was thoroughly enjoying my single-gal-about-town life, I bought into the US-ness he was selling.

As things progressed he wasn’t clear about what he wanted but he was clear about not being ready for thinking about marriage or kids. We met his newborn niece and he was great with her. I asked him if this changed how he felt about the whole kids thing.

“No. I still don’t know if I ever want that,” he informed me.

He continued to hand me red flags like this, laying them right in my lap. Apparently, I just put them in a linen closet for later use as lovely red napkins.

After a while I took him home to meet my family. I can’t be sure, but I imagine that seeing that possible future of family with me right there freaked him out big time. About a week after our return, my best friend took me to lunch. She waited until I had nearly finished my gnocchi before she put down her fork and said:

“I have something to tell you.”

It was kind of her to let me eat first since I wouldn’t be able to for the next week.

It seemed the man I had believed was madly in love with me was back on Match.com looking for other girls. It hit me like a punch to the chest. I confronted him and he hemmed and hawed about not being sure and not knowing what to do. I should have walked right then and there but I was too shocked to just let go. At the end of a long night’s talk, we decided to continue together.

I forgave him. I had to for my own sanity. Trusting him again was another story. The rose colored glasses were definitely off. I began to look at his behavior for what it said about his feelings. For instance, I confronted him the following week about a nude model friend he took to dinner.

“You don’t trust me!” He whined when I dragged the truth out of him. Hmmm and why would that be, I wonder?

Long story short, after a few more months the behavior had shown me all I needed to know. He avoided the deep relationship talks I craved. He avoided touching me as much as he could, providing me with my first (and hopefully last) celibate relationship. He avoided managing his life like an adult blaming his woes on the circumstances rather than looking for where he was responsible for how things were. With the hurt subsiding from my heart, I was finally able to see what my friends had seen from the start: we operated from incompatible life philosophies. Though he was a good guy at the core, he wasn't right for me. It was time to call it.

In an exchange of emails that followed he wondered what had happened so suddenly when everything was fine. He said we’d been so happy. I wonder what relationship he was in. It certainly wasn’t the same one where I cried myself to sleep wondering why he wouldn’t touch me. He claimed we had great kisses. What? When exactly? I attempted to refute the revised history he was coming up with but it kept coming. I found myself being dragged into an emotional quicksand attempting to manage his baggage and keep my head above water.

He informed me his niece had in fact changed the way he felt about starting a family. Huh? Then why had he said no when I’d asked him? Maybe he’d thought about it and changed his mind. Perhaps. But I’d never known since he always avoided feelings talks. The circular, losing battle becomes apparent.

With each relationship I always strive to end things on a positive note – stay friends – and I’m proud to say I usually manage. It’s always been important to me to make a positive difference in people’s lives and he was no exception to that. But he wasn’t getting himself the therapy he’d admitted would be a good idea. He wasn’t hearing me.

He said he knew I’d never forgiven him. For a while I was sad because it wasn’t true. I wrestled with clarifying for him yet again that forgiveness and trust are two separate things. I finally decided that wasn’t worth my time either. Maybe if he does think I didn’t forgive him he’ll think twice before betraying the next girl who falls for him.

Mostly I was sad to realize all the communication we’d missed over the course of our relationship. We were truly not on the same page. My own fault for not pushing the communication I knew we needed because I knew it made him uncomfortable. And I'm not pointing fingers. I know the relationship went the way it went because of the flags I ignored, the assumptions I believed and the choices I made. I wanted him to know that. But as I read his last revisionist email I realized he’d never see things from the place I stood. The only thing I could do was detach and move on. So I stopped replying.

Can’t we at least be friends? He wants to know. No, I don’t think we can. At least not now. For now I need the crazy-making energy out of my world. Not the most mature way I’ve ever concluded things. I’m not proud of it. But it’s true about relationships being like kindergarten. When they’re good it’s fun, play and finger-painting and when they’re bad it’s name-calling, crayon throwing and silent treatment-ing.

So I’m back at the LA singleton café. Now that I’m free of the relationship quicksand, I want no part of it any time soon. Now the hot guy with his latte looks to me like a bag of issues and delusions in a cute package. I don’t need it. Where before I would have seen a “maybe,” now I see an “unlikely.” This is a complete paradigm shift in my world.

It’s not a bad thing. I see it as a freeing. Now I can truly put my mind to all the other things I’m committed to accomplishing. Like making this movie. Selling this script. I still have my faith in the movies and the true craziness of this town. So though a certain faith has been lost, I’m not leaving anytime soon.

“You’re sounding bitter and cynical about men,” a friend counsels.

Not at all. In general, I think men are great. I think they’re a lot like horses. Beautiful to look at and fun to play with sometimes, but at the moment I’m definitely glad I don’t have to take care of one.