Males gone missing

I thought my world had ended when Yukon, my beloved beagle, wandered off one day. Panicked, I called my sister at work and demanded that she come home and help me look for him. (She couldn’t come; nor, in retrospect, was it a reasonable request.) After I had spent a few frantic hours walking the neighborhood calling his name, Yukon strolled back into the yard, completely oblivious to the anxiety he had caused me.

That incident came to mind as I thought about how “Joe” came back into my life. We hadn’t seen each other for seven months when he called in April. When we went for a walk after lunch three weeks later, he held my hand, kissed me on the cheek and called me “honey,” completely oblivious of the torment I endured because of him last fall.

A wandering dog is easily restrained by a leash and a fence. Although we may try, a disappearing man cannot be kept present by ropes and railings, real or relational. In the past I might have tried -- by prematurely extracting some sort of commitment or confession of love. Of course, this is easy to say after a second and thoroughly enjoyable date (more on this later), but my intent for the time being is to enjoy each date or phone call as it comes and not look to a (human) man when I need reassurance. After all, what I'm really looking for is affirmation that I am a worthwhile human being. Depending on a relationship for such security is giving over a lot of power to a flawed human being who has his own needs and means for meeting them.

For reasons I can't quite explain, my recent trip to India has helped me get that affirmation from within. I'm an equally flawed human being, one who can be virtually paralyzed by self-doubt. And in some ways I am harder on myself than a beau might be. But by not looking to a man to affirm me, I'm not giving him the opportunity to determine my worth. That doesn't meant I'm going to unleash my dog or forgo relational boundaries, it just means that I'll strive to have boundaries that are appropriate in motivation and function. It's good to have a fenced-in back yard when you have a dog. It's good when a couple makes the mutual decision to be exclusive. But when it comes to your own sense of worth, you need an impenetrable fortress, not a chain-link fence.

Men gone mad

There’s a saying that’s so familiar that I need only say the first few words for everyone to know what I’m talking about: “if you love something ... ” I’ve done so much letting go in my life, especially in regard to love, that it’s becoming easier to do. But I haven’t had much experience with the “it will come back to you” part, despite how much I daydreamed, longed or prayed for such a return.

But I’ve recently had a couple of instances of the coming back part, one of which turned out to be unwelcome and the other that has yet to be determined.

The first came while I was spending a month in India. My roommate reported to me via e-mail a phone message from someone I’ll call “Steve.” He gave no last name, but I guessed it was the Steve I had dated about 11 years ago. We remained friends even after my less-than-praiseworthy break-up with him. He married within a year or so and we kept in touch through mutual friends.

To make a long story short, we met for coffee one evening to catch up on old times, or so I thought. But when his hand lingered too long on mine, that was my first clue that he had more than swapping stories in mind. “What about your marriage?” I asked. “We have a … good marriage,” he said, taking a little too long to choose an adjective to describe his marriage. I don’t mean to be unkind, but I wouldn’t want to do more than chat even if he were single. There were good reasons for my breaking up with him. I told him that if he wanted to invite me to his house to meet his two boys when his wife was there, I’d be fine with that. But I declined to meet with him behind her back. I hope something clicked in his mind to convince him to work things out with his wife.

That’s certainly not the kind of coming back to me I ever longed for. When the man I mentioned in an earlier post (I’ll call him “Joe”) seemed less and less interested in spending time with me, I decided not so much to set him free as to put myself out of my misery. So after weeks of hearing, “I’m too busy to get together with you,” I sent him an e-mail that went something like this: “This isn’t working for me. Why don’t you call me when you want to have a relationship with me?” Then, over the coming days, I deleted his saved voicemail messages. I deleted his e-mails, as well as my e-mails to him. I dumped the photos I had of him on my hard drive. I wrote up a witty profile and signed up on as many singles websites as I could find. I won’t bore you with those details, except to say that I found there were men on the singles websites every bit as non-responsive as “Joe.” I didn’t find any keepers there, but at least I wasn’t thinking about Joe.

Months came and went, including a month I spent in India. That could take up a month of blog entries in itself; suffice it to say for now that it was a tremendous experience. One of the best things about it was that seemed to satisfy that empty place in me that I’m always trying to fill with a man. The satisfaction lingered, giving me memories to savor when my mind wandered from the theology books I was supposed to be reading.

One evening as I sat at my computer, the phone rang. I let the machine answer, as usual. The male voice was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. When he identified himself as “Joe,” I was frozen in disbelief. It didn’t matter that it was April 1, because I couldn’t believe it was him calling, whatever day it was. I even had to play the message for a roommate later to be sure I wasn’t imagining it. I would have bet my last penny that I’d never hear from him again.

To be continued ...

Girl gone crazy

“I don’t think I’ll ever fall madly in love with you.”

Mere months ago, such words would have sent me into a tailspin. Instead, when the man I’m crazy about said them to me yesterday, I experienced pain, sadness and what surely will turn out to be vain hope. But no tailspin.

We had spent a cozy if wet afternoon at an outdoor art fair. The constant mist didn’t dampen my enthusiasm just to be with him. We held hands. We shared an umbrella. We laughed and talked. He moved his chair close to mine and put his arm around me at the puppet show. We were acting like boyfriend and girlfriend – which is what I hoped for but knew better than to assume.

The question had been on my mind for the last couple of dates. When we went back to his place and peeled off our wet shoes and socks to dry by the fire, it happened: We had “the talk.”

“My life is just too busy for a serious relationship,” he said. I had just finished reading the book, He’s Just Not That Into You, which says that most every statement like this has the same unspoken meaning. So I said, “Tell me if this is correct or not. When a man says, ‘My life is just too busy for a serious relationship,’ I interpret it to mean, ‘I’m just not that into you.” (Thanks, Greg Behrendt!)

What he said next was meant either to soften the blow or to leave the door of possibility open a little crack (I know, I know, Greg, a man who is into a woman is not satisfied until the door is blown off the hinges. Allow me a few days to fantasize.) I think he said something to the effect that he didn’t know if he would be more into me if his life weren’t so demanding. (And you’re thinking, “She finds this somehow hopeful?”)

I’ll confess, even though Greg’s book laid bare the years I’ve wasted pining for men who just weren’t that into me, it’s going to take me a little while to do more than quote it during “the talk.” But I’m not here to psychoanalyze what may seem my desperate need to grasp at straws. I’m here to celebrate the truly destructive things I didn’t/won’t do.

As I said, mere months ago my reaction to his statement would have been to, first, argue with him about why he’s wrong and he really is into me. Then I’d cry a lot and maybe go for a walk in the dark. If it’s raining, all the better. Then I’d go into the aforementioned tailspin and become so morose that no right-minded man would give me a second thought. This pity party with an attendance of one (or is that a given?) would last until something came along to distract me.

OK, so I exaggerate. (Really, men, it’s called “poetic license.” I’m not as whacked out as it may seem.)

Some of you may recognize this behavior. But he hasn’t seen it in me.

My “change of heart,” you might call it, occurred almost imperceptibly over the summer. A co-worker and I started the season lamenting our lack of significant others. One day as we were eating lunch, one of her male friends, who has a lovely girlfriend, happened by, so we thought we’d get a man’s perspective on it. “Where can we go to meet nice men?” I asked. Considering the fact that he’s not in the market for a nice man, it was only logical that he shrug his shoulders and say he didn’t know. So that dashed my hope that "location, location, location" would provide the answer to finding a man.

As I considered the situation, I remembered hearing what seemed good advice: Do the things you enjoy doing and you’re more likely to meet someone who enjoys them, too, giving you something in common. It made sense. Then I thought of the years I spent in church choir with mostly married people. Because I was there to meet a man, the apparent “failure” of that endeavor sapped much of the joy I would normally feel while singing. So while the philosophy of doing what I loved was clearly an improvement over “cruising” for men, it still left me feeling empty.

I‘m not sure just how it happened, but I made a big leap forward about then. It might have been that a long-standing issue in my life seemed to have been resolved. Or maybe I had heard this for the requisite nine times it takes for things to register with the human brain. But it finally sunk in: Do things you enjoy for your own sake, not with an agenda – an agenda over which you have no control.

So I rediscovered roller-skating. I bought some CDs (second hand, of course) because I liked them. I started wearing make-up again because I feel more confident and pretty with a little eyeliner and mascara. And I plan to spend next January in India volunteering at an interfaith dialogue center.

My old mindset made me inclined to think of this short-lived romance as a waste of time and emotional energy. But my new outlook reminded me of what I've gained: a new appreciation for myself, in part through his words. I'm literate, pretty, generous, funny, surprising and sexy. And the lead sentence for the singles ad I plan to write for myself comes almost verbatim from him: I'm not like the women you usually get liquored up with.

So any of you men reading this who might be interested in getting to know me, be forewarned: my life is too busy for a serious relationship.

I guess the girl hasn't gone crazy, after all.

Cat gone home

There’s nothing I like better than to climb into bed with a good book, surrounded by my beagle and two cats.

But my bed will be emptier tonight. I had to say good-bye to my cat Frances this morning. I noticed something amiss only last week. Tests showed there was something wrong with her liver. She took a turn for the worse overnight and no amount of doctoring would have saved her. I was with her when she died, but I'll always remember her more like she is in this photo: healthy, alert and looking for trouble.

What is it about these creatures that binds us to them so tightly? We can’t communicate with them except superficially. Their life spans are so short as to guarantee us heartache. By those who don’t share our affection, pets are seen as poor substitutes for human children and we are often looked on with pity for not knowing that.

Why do they wrap our hearts around their little paws? “Unconditional love” is the standard answer. But as I thought about what made me love Frances so much – her feistiness, her energy, her curiosity, her love of the outdoors, her willingness to tussle with her feline sister – it reminded me a little of myself.

While they do love unconditionally, pets do so much more: They remind us of our capacity to love, even when they scatter litter across the room or dig holes in the backyard or cough up hairballs on our beds. They show us that love is not so much about what we get as what we share. They remind us of who we are – imperfect, mistake-prone and at times willful – but able to love and be loved, nonetheless.

All you animal lovers out there give your furry kids an extra treat from me today, OK?

Girl gone wild

Have you ever seen a happy dog, I mean, really happy? (I'm not talking to you nay-sayers who would dismiss this as a meaningless anthropomorphism.)

I saw a really happy dog tonight. My dog Yukon and I went for a walk in the woods. Normally, Yukon is something of a couch potato (unless there's food around). He gets excited when it's time for a walk. But when he gets to root around in the woods, my 11-year-old beagle is like a puppy again.

You can judge his state not so much by the "smile" that results when his tongue hangs out; that's pretty much there all the time. But it's the way he carries himself. His ears are a little perkier, his step a little quicker. His white-tipped tail, which helps me keep track of him in the underbrush, is just a little more erect. He hops around as though he wasn't carrying around a few extra pounds. No doubt about it in my opinion – he's having a ball.

If you ask me, every dog ought to be really happy every once in a while, if that means an extra T-R-E-A-T now and then, a good scritching behind the ears or a long, luxurious nap on a forbidden chair.

If Yukon had paused in his snuffling long enough to look behind him, he might have seen a happy human. Yukon and I have a lot in common: We both enjoy a good ethnic dinner. We both like our tea with milk and sugar. And we both like traipsing around in the woods.

That's part of the reason I decided to take a sabbatical, as one friend put it, to live and work at the ARC Retreat Community near the bustling metropolis of Stanchfield, Minn. I'm in the midst of studying for a master's degree. I own a home. I feel like I can never get caught up with every thing I have to do. So the solution? Move away from home for three months, of course.

When you were in school, did you ever pray for a snow day so you'd have another day to finish your homework or study for a test? It didn't happen, of course. But when you're a grown up, sometimes you get to make your own snow days. (For a price, of course.)

When the opportunity arose to spend some time at ARC, I weighed the pros and cons. It defied logic and practicality to come here.

But in my mind's eye, when I saw Yukon bounding through the woods like a pup, it was too good to pass up – especially when I saw the pup was not alone. A little girl who looked a bit like me wasn't far behind.