Solving for X

When the pandemic started, I initially believed I would finally read all of the books I'd been meaning to read, which of course, didn't happen. I didn't learn a new language or become a skilled baker. Years late to the game, I started listening to podcasts. 

I can't do audiobooks, my attention scatters and I lose the plot, but shorter listening commitments aren't too challenging for me. I subscribed to a lot of love story related podcasts at first. One was the New York Times Modern Love podcast. At the end of 2020, while living separated in my house, was episode #256, "Desire is Never the Mistake.

The narrator describes a story of flirtation, and the magic of being made to feel special, followed by disappointment and shame. The lesson in all of it, "Allow yourself to want things, no matter the risk of disappointment. Desire is never the mistake."

In the epilogue to the essay, the narrator informs us that her life is full, complete with a husband, kids, a minivan and a mortgage payment. She kept allowing herself to want things, and was rewarded with her happy ending.

Following this essay from 2007, there is present day interview with the author, Paula McLain. Before getting into the update to the update, she summarizes her childhood in foster care after being abandoned by her parents. Her belongings were in a black plastic trash bag, and every time she entered a new home with new "parents" she would have to figure out how to be tolerated by them. It meant being polite, consuming food that she may not have liked, doing whatever was necessary to avoid offending these strangers she she could feel safe.

The way she described that made so much sense. When we are young, not all of us are loved in ways that allow us to be ourselves. We have to learn personalities, and figure out how to survive in the circumstances we didn't have the agency to change. When you grow up, and do have greater control over your life, how do you break out of that mindset when it seems like we are programmed for it? How do we even recognize we are doing it? How do we embrace this idea that desire is never the mistake while we are simultaneously taught to appreciate what we have? How do we learn to be grateful for our lives as they and also accept that it is okay to long for something different?

On the other side of it, we scold ourselves for being cautious. "Do it scared!" "Shoot your shot!" "Ships were not meant to stay in a harbor!" Someone will be there to spout off a snappy quote and judge you, no matter which way you go.

In the interview, the author revealed she was no longer married, and in her words, she chose to divorce because she "was bigger than the marriage was allowing her to be." It's a bold statement for a woman. We aren't supposed to want to be "bigger." We are supposed to erase our names, shrink into "Mrs.," and settle into the wholesomeness of familyhood. We are supposed to be content with the husband, kids, minivan and mortgage, but what if we discover we're not? Then you're selfish, guilty of the sin of "wanting to have it all." How do you stop consuming a life you don't actually like? 

The author shared that this essay had been released before launching her bestselling book, and that her decision, which she admitted felt scary at the time, had allowed her to prioritize her career. She was also celibate in an effort to stop what she called "solving for X." X was the promise of a safe, secure, fulfilled, joyful existence. Following the approved equation - the things we are told result in obtaining X, do not always result in achieving X. By being alone, she prevented herself from making the error of laying blame on a partner for failing to provide her with the elusive X. She closed by saying, "Security is only being able to live with yourself as you are, and like all the parts of yourself without turning away."

It was a timely message at the close of 2020, a year we had started out feeling fairly normal. We eventually learned how flimsy everything was, our healthcare, our schools, our need to protect each other from a virus that ranged from mild to fatal, depending on the circumstances of individuals who caught it. We had started off hoarding toilet paper and baking bread - physical things representing comfort and nourishment. We virtuously wanted to make this extended time at home into an opportunity without recognizing how hard it would be, and how much from the "before times" we would miss. So many of us wanted keep up the distractions long enough to make it back to normal life, while simultaneously learning that the safety and security --the "X"-- of "normal" life was an illusion. 

With the busy-ness of the old life gone, I had no choice but to look at myself and re-assess my existence. I hung onto podcasts to thwart loneliness as I worked from home in one of the bedrooms in a house full of loved ones and a marriage I wanted to end. Like Paula McLain, I was afraid to make that choice. Why wasn't what I had working for me? Why didn't I feel more grateful? What's wrong with me?

I've listened to that podcast episode at least a half dozen times now, feeling the hurt and heartbreak of that holiday story every time. The interview with the author that followed is the real lesson, that there is no formula for X, no narrow path to achieve a safe, secure, happy life, and that is freedom.

Two years ago

 On Christmas Eve, my phone showed a prompt to look back at memories from two years ago. I usually ignore the prompt and continue with my day, but the first picture in the series was of the bed in the basement room of the house where I used to live. The headboard was made by my mother's father, and the night tables match my dresser, part of an antique set that my mom insisted on buying in the '80's. The bedspread was orange, and the sheets were reddish purple, a set my mom kept on her bed before she died, and in the center of the foot of my bed was my cat, the only thing there that migrated from that bed to my current one. 

I slept there because I was separated from my husband in my own house. At first, it started with him moving into the basement, complete with silent treatment. When he decided he wanted to talk, I said I wanted to separate. I had voiced that I was on the fence multiple times, and this time I was definitive. It was two days before my birthday, and I decided I didn't want to "work on it" anymore. I didn't want to owe anymore. I did not want the conflict of fitting myself into a marriage that seemed to make everyone else comfortable except me. 

Several days later he set up a Zoom call with friends to celebrate my birthday, later claiming he was still in denial over everything. But that wasn't the point, either. The zoom call was not my style, it was something forced on me, something I hated. I don't like surprises or being the center of attention, or having a cast of thousands acknowledge me. I just want the few special people in my circle, whose connections I've cultivated, to know me, love me, and accept me (and check me when it's needed).

It seemed like yet another glaring reminder that we were attached, but not connected. That he was big on grand gestures that made him look good, without asking himself if it was what I wanted. My sister was the one to warn me about the call, the same way she warned me about the surprise baby shower he tried to throw for me when our first kid was on the way. She knew me, and knew I'd hate this flavor of  celebration. 

In the first couples therapy session after I told him I wanted to separate, the couples therapist kept reminding him that only one person has to want out for the marriage to end. There was no mutuality needed. One person wanted out, and that was enough. This was how many of our sessions went. He would have an issue, and she would gently remind him. He often claimed that she was taking my side. Or, that someone else (or the therapist) had influenced my decision to leave. It was often that way, his idea that I didn't have a mind of my own, and other voices were what solidified my choices. 

After that session, he insisted that I tell him about all of the ways he messed up during the course of our relationship. It was the first time he'd actually heard me. We were the classic case of one partner committing a massive, fatal stab wound while the other made their partner bleed out slowly with the survivable but ever present pain of a thousand papercuts. 

I had an affair, which was the thing big enough to land us in couples therapy. I don't mean to sound casual about that, it wasn't. It was devastating, hurtful, destructive and deceitful. It's also more common than anyone wants to admit. It's the thing that will make your spouse never look at you quite the same again. I make no excuses for myself, as there are better, more responsible, less damaging ways to address your issues before heading down that path. My own actions rendered me voiceless for a long time. I didn't feel I had a right to stand up for myself or ask for what I needed, or be the one to leave the marriage, after what I did. If I brought up "old shit," my audacity to even bring it up would be met with incredulity, and in one instance, a hole punched into the headboard at six in the morning. But is "old shit" old shit if it's never resolved to satisfaction? Is it really "old shit" if it keeps repeating?

I finally voiced the "old shit" and he listened, claiming he'd never realized it was all connected, or that it was damaging and hurtful to me. In his mind, his offenses "one offs," and then, in his mind, the couple kisses and makes up. In my mind, "make up" means the problem is resolved enough for both parties to actually want to kiss again. When I'd get angry before, I'd be dismissed as jealous or overreacting, petty, and once, "spiteful." Now something was at stake for him, and he listened. Now that I was on the edge of the cliff, screaming, he finally saw and heard me.

That was a pattern this couples therapist saw immediately. A parent-child pattern, was what she called it. The "parent" in the relationship acts a certain way and the "child" acts out in response. If I'd pointed out an issue in a calmer fashion, it was brushed off. Not serious, not a big deal. If it escalated into yelling, and obvious upset, then it was something to be taken seriously. I didn't want it to be that way, and here we were again, with me saying I wanted to separate, and him finally taking it seriously, despite months of me admitting I was on the fence. It was fitting, one last confirmed display of that old established pattern. Something about that made me feel despair. Even in this last ditch communication, I had to go to exhaustive measures to be heard and taken seriously.

He'll always claim he was blindsided. And, because he would throw the empty threat of divorce into an argument, that he assumed I was doing the same, not remembering that I didn't operate like that. It was also a way of completely disregarding that I had maintained a deeply intimate relationship with someone else for a long time, and if that isn't an indicator that someone has a foot out of the door, I'm not sure what else to say.

I didn't intend for this post to pan out how it did. I was going to do a comparison of that basement bedroom photo with the progress I've made, the house I've bought, the new, bright and peaceful place where I sleep, and the lack of regret over my decision to move out.

I’m not sharing this to make my marriage to look bad, or to say I regret getting married. What I learned recently, it isn’t about getting everything right in the relationship, but how the couple repairs together. When he said or did something  that felt harmful, and I pointed it out, he would see it as an attack and defend himself, and sometimes blame his reaction on me. Getting acknowledgement like, "I see how it can feel that way" was an impossible feat. I had made the grave mistake of believing his sensitivity equaled the ability to be empathetic.

Marriage isn't terrible. It can be beautiful when both partners respect and support each other, and have founded their connection on friendship. I question if I ever had a friendship with my husband. It certainly didn't feel like any of my other friendships. Sometimes it felt like a competition, or like he had to bring me down a few pegs, or side with someone else if I came to him with a personal conflict. He would always argue this with, "Do you trust me with your life?" which sounds monumental, but it's a cheap question. We trust strangers with our lives. If I can't reliably share something with you and trust that you can see and validate my perspective, or feel that you are in my corner, even if you disagree, then I can't trust you as my life partner. Others may be able to do this, as these things roll off of them, but I need that, and wanting that isn't too much.

Even COVID didn't stop a pushy door-to-door salesperson

After over two years of dodging COVID-19, I caught it. I'm guilty of attending several indoor social gatherings without a mask after being vaccinated and boosted. I have to say peer pressure, even at almost 47 years old, plays a role here. But I didn't catch it during an optional fun social gathering. I caught it at a fairly large work meeting, which I volunteered to attend to brief a presentation.

In retrospect, all of that seems like a bad idea. I had to drive to a different location, sit in a large conference room with people all day, and worst of all, be the last speaker of the day. I'm an introvert and I like routine. None of this makes sense, but I did it, and what was my reward? A hot scratchy throat, sneezing, body aches and a positive COVID test. 

I self reported to the Maryland website and received instructions to isolate for five days. Hermit permit granted, I guess.

In the evening of day two of feeling like crap, the doorbell rang. I'm in a three story townhouse, so even if I rushed to get to the door from my third floor bedroom, it would take awhile. I looked out of my second story front windows to see if there was a vehicle to indicate some sort of delivery, but there was nothing. Then I heard them use the door knocker. And finally, impatiently, a loud cutesy "Shave and a haircut" rap at the door. 

I cracked the door wearing pajamas and my KN95 mask. It was a young male person with brown curly hair in that signature uniform of people who go door to door on summer evenings. They carry clipboards or electronic tablets, wearing sweat-wicking polo shirts with the company logo, and khakis. The goal is to inform you of a problem they noticed with your house, that a neighbor has used their services, and if they can just have some of your time, they can give you an estimate, and usually a few discounts *if you act soon* on the estimate for the solution to the problem that you didn't even know was a problem until they graced your doorstep.

What was it going to be? I needed new siding? Windows? A roof? It didn't matter. I stood in the cracked doorway and stated: "I have COVID. This isn't a good time."

Any normal human being would have said thank you and walked away. These are not normal human beings. They are fueled by pushy desperation and the effects of being subjected to the heat and humidity of the midAtlantic summer. He kept talking.

"A neighbor... I noticed spiders on your house... something something."

I was incredulous. He was still trying to steal my time, and willing to put himself at risk of catching COVID to do so! Aside from that, my house is situated in what should be the woods, so there will be spiders. And, I like spiders. 

"Please don't do this to me," I said. "Go to the next house, please."

He looked miffed. It wasn't like I removed my mask and coughed in his face. I was trying to do both of us a favor.

"Okay, enjoy" he said in a "Whatever" tone of voice.

Yeah, thanks, I really enjoy being sick. I shut the door with a little more force than necessary and locked it for emphasis.

I'm getting better now. My daily text from Maryland told me it's okay to stop isolating, but I'll savor my time indoors awhile longer.

Compromise creep

 In life, there is no do over machine. No unringing the bell, or taking back certain events. What is done is done. There's an analogy about relationships that I like, that involves a comparison to cement. In the early days, the cement is pliable. But the things that happen in those early days can wind up affecting the shape and state of the cement once it's set.

When I first moved in to my soon to be husband's apartment, I had come from Korea, from my first and last duty assignment. His place was decorated but some of the things on the walls were from other women. When I wanted to make his place our place, I removed some of these things. 

The centerpiece, a pen and ink drawing of a scene in the African grasslands, of hunters with their spears and shields, and the words "My Father's People" underneath, was a gift from an ex girlfriend. Her father was from Burundi, so this cliched little scene was possibly rooted in something genuine. It was a college project that she was going to throw away, and he asked her if he could have it. A nice enough story, and at the same time, I didn't want this hanging on the wall in my home. When I approached him to figure out what we could do with it, he revealed that his parents paid $80 to have it framed. My suggestion was to take it down, but store it and take it with us the next time we visited his parents. 

Marriage is about compromise, and I thought this was fair enough. At the time, he agreed.

Here was my shortcoming: I was insecure. This was my first (and supposedly last) big real life relationship with someone. I don't have a problem with exes, but there are exceptions. This one in particular was a fame seeker. Once, my husband said, "Did you know I dated an Olympic skier?" What I felt wasn't jealousy. I didn't want to be an activist-actress-artist-athlete. I wanted my husband to stop flaunting past conquests in an attempt to see if I cared. I wanted protection, not provocation.

And there was my husband's shortcoming. He liked throwing out bits and pieces of his past like chum, to see if I'd go into a frenzy. There wasn't a consideration of my much slimmer past, or of how he might have felt had I casually tossed out similar tidbits. It often felt like his way of making sure I knew what I had: a man who was good enough to date an almost famous Olympic athlete. I now realize this not so subtle marketing of his worth was his own way of dealing with being insecure.

 Months after the compromise, he was deployed, and I was home, tending to our pets and the apartment. The art was stowed safely in the laundry room, and life was peaceful. Then, in an email, my husband decided to share an idea. "Let's keep that artwork," he proposed. "It may be worth something some day. We could even send our kids to college."

There's a thing in my professional life called "Requirements creep." It describes how an organization may want something to fulfill a defined need, but over time that something can balloon into more than the original idea, with cost and time needed for development of that magical solution reaching unreasonable proportions. This was compromise creep. I felt my offer was fair, a meet-in-the-middle fix, and now my husband felt it was acceptable to override that with what he wanted: to keep the artwork.

The more I thought about this, the angrier I became, until one evening, I pulled that artwork from its cozy hiding spot, unscrewed the frame, and thoroughly stomped the "might be worth something someday" creation into "definitely worth nothing now" oblivion. It felt damned good to put my foot through that foam board. I wish that piece of art had been a lot larger to prolong my satisfaction of destroying it. I fully understand why rage rooms have become a thing.

Was it immature? Certainly. Did I let my feelings do the talking? Absolutely. Did it calm the fury? For a little while.

I told my husband what I did, and he made sure to say "It's okay. I'm not angry." How magnanimous.

We never sorted through this issue in depth. This "cement moment" kept coming back. After a certain point, past some unspoken statute of limitations, a neat little trick happens: you become the problem for dredging up "old shit." In this relationship autopsy phase (we are separated now, over twenty years later), I look at who I was, how I felt, and why I acted how I did. I look at what fed my insecurities, how poorly equipped I was to sort through my feelings and articulate them, how so many seemingly little slights can erode a relationship over time. Often when I revisit these cement moments, I'm angry at myself for not doing a more solid job of standing up for myself.

It all sounds foolish, but what I know now, after decades of this relationship, and so many years of living, is that the surface issues we argue about aren't really the source of the conflict.

Here's what I should have asked:

Why was my compromise not enough?

Why did he feel so entitled to push for what he wanted, to keep the artwork?

What was so special about this artwork that he thought it would be worth enough to put theoretical children through college?

Why couldn't he ask himself how he'd feel, had the situation been reversed, and we kept some bound-for-the-trash art project from one of my exes at my insistence?

Given how everything panned out (and I am responsible for my own share of offenses), I can also recognize how young we were, how ill equipped we were to commit to a serious relationship when we did, and how many of these seemingly minor missteps wind up forever trapped in the cement, because the chance to smooth them over has long since passed.

The bad penny

The walking red flag that I used to work with left the job in August last year. After he left, we maintained some sort of relationship, which crashed and burned mid November last year. What's lasted longer than that failed connection is his job vacancy.

Last week, my manager informed me that he was trying to figure out how to fill a couple of job openings. Our team has become a skeleton crew, and now we are spread thinner than Piggly Wiggly peanut butter (credit for this phrase goes to a lovely southern-born former coworker of mine). Among the candidates under consideration is Monsieur Red Flag himself.

When he left in August, he took on a significant pay raise, and a significantly shorter commute. Through the grapevine (my manager), I heard that his company has been bought out, and the division he supports will be moving to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. So Red Flag is inquiring about his old job, but with updated terms and conditions.

A raise, two months a year of time off (to visit Thailand, of course), and the knowledge that, when his mom dies, he will be retiring and moving straight to Thailand.

I wanted so badly to spill the beans, to tell my manager that there is no room at the inn for this angry little man. To show the tirade of text messages that resulted when he got into a huff about checking with me if it was okay to have a phone call. To reveal that this guy had a lot of nerve to even consider coming back after burning the bridge with me in such a spectacular, unrecoverable fashion.

Instead, I kept a poker face (thank you, KN95 mask, for protecting the lower half of my face in more ways than one), and said "My concern is that he would leave us again for something better paying, and closer to home." My manager added that he wanted "fresh blood," and while Red Flag is fresh, he certainly doesn't fit that description.

Red flags (in no particular order)

•  "I like what you like."
• Explaining that you have to go to the ATM because the $1042 in cash you planned to carry was forgotten at home
• Too many gifts
• Expensive gifts too early
• Having an entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language
• An interest in coins, where you let it slip that these are essential when the banks fail
• Having a loose panel on your car that you didn't get repaired, it flies off and then you take it to the shop, using your auto insurance.
• Being asked questions and avoiding them
• Saying you planned to be at the get together from your old job, but when the date is changed, you now can't make it because it's not worth your daily pay ("I'm not giving up $450 to go eat chili")
• Complaining about "losing" $30K due to taxes, because you didn't get to work overseas for a full year. And why did you have to come home? Because your dad died. But please, let's focus on the $30K.
• Telling a full grown woman that she's going to "blossom."
• Giving a full grown woman two men's size L shirts (one previously worn)
• Finding a new job and leaving a biohazard in the breakroom refrigerator when you leave, consisting of all the food you placed there and failed to remove over several months
• Telling someone to "ask you anything" - instead of just openly sharing the need to know information naturally
• Getting angry at someone for not asking you about your entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language
• Wearing jeans with a hole in it at a nice dinner (okay, it's petty but I don't think it's too much to ask)
• Insisting on "gifting" someone a handicap placard that they don't need at all, and then being miffed that the person won't use it, on principle
• Offering unsolicited swimming lessons when the person you are interested in reveals she is not a strong swimmer
• Jarring spelling errors, while texting (I know, petty. These are *my* red flags)
• Saying "I don't like cats" to a person who has one
• Saying "I think I know why you're in my life" to someone, and then never actually sharing that thought.
• Excessive use of ellipses while texting
• Going on a texting rant, because the woman you're texting does not appear to have the same feelings for you, and also bashing her preferred method of communication because she's a "grown fucking woman." Throwing in insults about different generations, even though you are both Gen X
• Starting a very personal story about the woman who keeps your entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language, and how this woman had never been kissed "on the mouth" (I did not get to hear if that status changed, or he he'd had anything to do with that)
• Saying "Good night" and "Enjoy your transition" when there is a hint of conflict
• Disappearing for two days after getting angry, and explaining that you had to "re-enter your body" to get to a place to be able to apologize 
• Saying "I'm going to die there" when discussing your entire household in Thailand, where you don't even speak the language

Failure to blossom

 I had a coworker who started working at my job at the beginning of the year. He seemed nice enough, and he seemed competent at his work - an asset, not a liability. Our team was small, and if you could bring more knowledge than your hired position required, you were extra valuable.

I got to know him more and more during a test. We were testing a ventilator, and it was fairly simple to operate, but with pandemic rules, making sure we had enough people scheduled to run tests could be a challenge. He wasn't officially part of our test team, but he was required to be on our site every day, so he recorded data and monitored any faults that popped up.

We bonded over things we had in common. His car was an updated version of a car I had for 13 years. The body was even the same vivid pearlescent metallic light blue. His parents were white and black, but the reverse of mine - his mother was black and his father was white, and he made sure to point out that when they had married, interracial marriage was still illegal in 20 states.We were both former military, and both of us seemed to develop a mutual appreciation for each other as time went on.

As we became more familiar with each other, gifts would appear on my desk. San Pellegrino sparkling seltzer, in matte metallic cans, in varying flavors. Izze soda cans. This progressed to bowls of fruit - cherries and grapes and berries, when they were in season. I would snap photos and brag to friends. Look at what C brought me!

When I later shared the photos of these offerings with my sister, she commented that something in me was compelled to document this. Maybe because, after two decades with someone who didn't do this for me (and in fact, it felt like he often took more than what was fair), I needed evidence that there were men who were thoughtful, and generous, and knew how to rinse and prepare bowls of fruit for other people. I know, basic shit, but the bar can go very low if you forget what that looks like.

We continued like this, with offerings. He sometimes brought in larger fruit, which he would cut up and share with the entire team. I thought this was especially gracious, a version of breaking bread. C brought pineapple, watermelon and cantaloupe. He loved cherries, and a few times if I found some at a good price, I'd bring them in, and leave them in the break room refrigerator, for everyone, but really, for C.

I liked seeing his car parked at the test site when I would pull up to the gate. I liked the days when we would do outdoor work. I didn't like when we would take a break and he would send me inside. I didn't really like the nickname he'd come up with, "Lady G." I didn't like when he acted like I was doing anyone a favor, doing that kind of work. It was part of my job, and I had accepted the position knowing there would be manual labor, with sweat and dirt involved. As long as I wore the right clothes and could shower at the end of the day, what was the big deal? I was getting a very nice salary for a break from sitting behind the desk. I didn't like feeling singled out because I was the only woman out there.

C found a new job in August. I was disappointed for our team, because we needed him, but also happy that his commute would be much better, and that he'd gotten a raise. Before he left, he said he wanted to talk to me, but in person. If you're an overthinker, you already know it's terrible when someone reveals that they want to talk, but you have to wait, and they give no indication about what will be discussed. So your mind develops a hundred imaginary scenarios while you wait for the real one.

We talked on a Monday. "I wanted to stay in touch after I leave. I have cookouts, and I'd like to invite you over for those. And your husband, of course," he added, ensuring that I knew there was no disrespect. I was separated, but I wasn't sure if he knew that. He would joke and flirt, like the time when he saw me I cleaning the front door of the large trailer building, where we worked. "I wish you weren't married!" He'd said. 

I treated him to lunch at a local Caribbean place as a farewell. I drove, and we joked a little, sitting across the table from each other. Away from work, I shared that I was separated from my husband. Well, he said, smiling, "Then you and the girls are invited to the cookout." I laughed.

I received a barrage of parting gifts as he made his way out of the building for the last time. Silver dollars, a metal tool to prevent having to touch icky, germy things when you're out in public. Hand soap and hand sanitizer from Bath and Body works. He even gave me a handicap placard for my car, which expired in 2029, and that I knew I would never use (I gave it back, and sensed he felt hurt or rejected that I could refuse such a valuable gift. I will not take a parking spot someone else might actually need). I left a small gift bag with my favorite things from Trader Joe's. I hope you like them, I'd said. "Whatever you like, I like," he replied. It seems like a sweet thing to say, but it felt completely off.

After he left, we went out a few times. I wasn't attracted, but thought he was nice enough, and maybe there would be a slow build to something warmer. If not, the friendship would be good, too, not in a consolation prize way, but because I didn't seem to have luck with male friends. C certainly seemed open to it.

The first time we went out, I chose a restaurant at what felt like a middle meeting point. Coal fire pizza. We sat outside, under the harsh lighting of the the strip mall walkway, and ate and talked. He wanted to walk around afterwards, so we drove to a nearby outdoor shopping area, which had a nice path around a small manmade lake. That became our place. We went there two more times, to walk after dinner. The other times we went out, I met him closer to the city, and finally, for lunch near his new job, on Veterans Day.

We primarily stayed in touch by messaging. He didn't have an iPhone, so the messages I sent were glaring green. His claim was that he didn't like iPhones because he didn't want a phone smarter than he was, but that's a strange thing to say - aren't all of these devices smarter than we are by now? He certainly wasn't choosing an old flip phone to stay in touch. I found some of his claims, even joking, to be weird, or nonsensical, or dare I say it, bold-faced lies. He said he didn't know if someone could have a Top Secret clearance if they'd had a DUI. I said I didn't know. Then he said, "I have a Top Secret clearance and I had a DUI." I said, "So you do know." Whether he was bragging about his clearance, or his DUI, I don't know. I threw that red flag into the pile with the others I'd seen.

We talked on the phone a handful of times. He shared that he had feelings for me, but didn't know what to do with that. I said, "You don't have to do anything." We are so often fooled into thinking we have to act right away, DO something, urgently! Shoot your shot! Now or never! The truth is, you don't. Sometimes it's okay to simmer. Sometimes doing nothing is okay. Sometimes the issue solves itself if you just leave it alone.

He tried to get to know me by asking questions. "Have you ever done this, have you ever done that." I said no often, and felt like an unadventurous sheltered loser. He tried to persuade me to agree to swimming lessons with him. I am not a strong swimmer, but I can swim. I am not comfortable in deep water; I have this need to know that I can drop a leg and touch the bottom with my foot. I mentioned that I wanted to buy a folding kayak, so I could use it at a nearby lake, but also store it at home without it taking up too much space. "My sister has kayaks, I can get one for you." With limited storage and no way to carry a traditional kayak in my car, I refused the offer, and thought, did you listen to me at all?

He was always offering things. A fire pit. A grill. A TV. An inversion table. I suspect men that do this don't feel they have anything real to offer from themselves, so they show off by upping their currency with what material comforts they can provide. My refusals didn't mean he didn't try. Every time we went out, he arrived with offerings. Coins, crystals, shirts, washable playing cards from Dubai, gold plated earrings, to name a few. I would pull things from the gift bag like a magician who didn't know what was coming out of the hat. None of the gifts seemed personal; it seemed he was decluttering and also giving me things he knew were expensive, but it all felt aimless. He gave me a necklace that was too expensive for the level of our limited relationship. I googled, and saw that it was $250. I made the error of saying I liked it in a different color combination and would it be okay if we exchanged it? I braced myself for the lecture that I was ungrateful, or for an angry response, but he was nice about it. We returned one necklace as he ordered the one I liked better.

When we messaged, I noticed a pattern. When it seemed that our conversation was veering towards conflict, he would abruptly tell me good night, and that was the end of that. The first time, I brought up a high school soccer game in which my daughter's team beat the other school 10-0. Not only that, but these goals were scored in the first half. The game ended there, due to lightning. When he responded "That's great!" I tried to explain why it wasn't great, how it was a display of the economic disparity. That the girls on my daughter's team also played soccer for club teams, which cost thousands of dollars a year in dues and travel. In certain schools, you have to be at that level in order to make the varsity team, and at this opposing school, they clearly were not. I shared my annoyance that I was aware of this, but also participating in contributing to the problem.

Instead of acknowledging what I was saying, I was told that I couldn't be the "world's hall monitor." "That's the way of the world, bae" he'd say, which caused me to roll my eyes. The terms of endearment irked me. They were interchangeable, impersonal, and not a thing that someone who *gets* me would use. I'm not a dear, sweetie, or babe.  Another time, I was told to ask him questions because he's an open book. When I failed to ask him about his household in Thailand , he took offense. 

I didn't ask because having an entire household in Thailand seemed like a giant escapist red flag, and I wasn't sure how to get around that without sounding judgmental. But that conversation ended the way the soccer one did, with an abrupt good night. This time, though, he called in the morning to apologize. I accepted it.

The entire time I'd been asking that we move at a snail's pace. He assured me that he didn't want to repel me, or for me to be uncomfortable. I wasn't very interested in him, but he seemed nice enough. He donated blood for children with sickle cell anemia. He took his mother to her chemotherapy appointments. He cooked dinner for his sister and mother almost every Sunday. Aren't these the marks of a good person?

Why is settling for nice enough - a good person - especially as a woman, supposed to be enough? 

I questioned if he was genuinely good, or more interested in appearing that way. I side-eye anyone who seems to brag about their good deeds a little too much. I know it's tempting to want that pat on the back, but I'm suspicious of those who make sure everyone around them knows of the latest act of kindness. Isn't the value in doing good in the deed itself? Do we need an the applause of an audience to feel our efforts are worthwhile? I never got to ask.

After C left our work place, another coworker asked me to help him clean the fridge. When I did this, I realized much of the food, which were now science experiments on mold and fermentation, were likely C's leftovers - the extra cut up fruit that hadn't been eaten, the potato buns he had purchased months ago, during a lunch time outing to Food Lion, a half dozen baggies that contained two boiled eggs and a small yogurt container. It was as if the things C placed into the refrigerator never came back out, just like those old commercials about roach motels. Part of me wanted to verify that he was the culprit, by asking what he liked to bring in to work for breakfast, or a snack. If he responded,  "Two boiled eggs and a yogurt," then I had my offender. Let's add that possible red flag to the pile, shall we?

The last lunch took place near his office in a town in Virginia where I had previously worked for nearly a decade. I usually took metro and didn't like driving there but it was a federal holiday, I was off of work, and I figured the traffic would be bearable. I texted when I left and told him when I was going to arrive. "Call me when you are five minutes away" he texted. I took that to mean, call him when I was parked, as it was going to take at least five minutes to walk to his building from the parking garage. So, I pulled onto the main drag, snapped a photo and sent it off to him before the light turned green. I pulled into the parking garage, found an acceptable spot, and parked. My phone rang.

He asked where I was, and I said I'd parked in the garage across from his building. "I told you to call before you got here," he said. I sensed some irritation in his voice.

He gave me the nickel tour of his new office and then we ate outside, at a burger place I loved. He ordered almost exactly what I chose, the second time he'd done that. I always got the sense that he was careful to reveal what he genuinely liked, and wanted to play it safe, by going with my choice of restaurant, and even my selection from the menu. I didn't feel entirely comfortable at lunch, but couldn't put my finger on it. I had gifts for him (it now felt obligatory not to show up empty handed), and he gave me the necklace in the color that I had wanted. I thanked him.

He walked me to my car and he told me he'd wanted me to call so he could get me into the parking garage. He offered to cover my parking fee, but when I drove up and inserted the ticket, there was no charge, maybe because of the holiday. I dropped him off in front of his building and headed home.

Things seemed okay. We usually started the days with warm good morning messages, and the day after the lunch started the same way. In the evening he asked if I was busy. And then texted "Guess so." And then later, asked if it was okay to call. Then came the text tirade.

What I gathered was, he didn't like that he felt like he had to ask "permission" to call me. He didn't like that I preferred to message (so much for "Whatever you like, I like"). Unsaid: he had feelings for me, and apparently it was clear that I was not at the same level. He told me I was a "grown fucking woman" and should have been able to talk to him. He closed by saying he had "broken his finger with this..." (I guess texting is strenuous?) and finally, "I think you are special in many ways and know you will blossom."

And there was the root problem with him. He was a 55 year old who talked to me like I was 15, not 46. I tried so often to point out when things he said felt condescending. The issue is being heard when you say it, and not being told "I didn't intend for it to sound that way." Whether one intends it or not, it felt condescending and sexist. I don't hear about men in their 40's blossoming, or being told that by someone not even a decade older than them.

This was the end. He reached out in little ways over the weekend, sending an email about restaurant week (did he actually think this was a possibility, after the things he'd written?), and sending a Facebook message with a video of five ways to apologize in Italian. On Sunday morning, I texted him to let him know I would send back his gifts. By the time Monday morning rolled around, he was asking to talk - even texting was okay. I was done.

I was done "giving him a chance," which so many women are expected to do just because a man spends extra attention on them. I was done ignoring red flags for on the surface "good" qualities. I was done even trying to cobble together a friendship with someone who did not seem to want to know me, a real person who would never live up to the fantasy version in his mind. I boxed up his gifts, and got that package into the mail. I stayed as calm as I could, and businesslike, when I communicated. I asked valid questions (which, as usual, he failed to address), and closed with, "If this is how you treat people you claim to like, then please do better."

You can understand someone's pain and forgive them while also walking away. I was not obligated to give him a chance, or keep trying with someone who had repeatedly proven himself not to be safe, or even able to listen. Safety goes beyond physical - if I feel like I have to censor myself, or tiptoe around someone's feelings, they aren't safe, and I can't really be myself. And as I get older (and yes, this will be a terrible metaphor because of the current pandemic), I refuse to wear a mask so someone else can be comfortable with me.