The Lady He Did Not Like

Five years ago, during one of my 3 a.m. wake-ups, my sister texted me. My brother-in-law, her husband of 30 years, had an affair. She was on the West coast, and after a brief back and forth between them, he had gotten his things and left the house.

She and I typed out a few texts back and forth, and then she called. No one else would be disturbed by the call; by then I was separated and living in my own home, with my own blissfully unshared bedroom. My sister was shocked, and simultaneously talking through her to do list and next moves. She had always been more of a woman of action than I was, and she didn’t stay around anyone who didn’t want to be around her, not even her own spouse of three decades. Her mindset was, if he wants to go, I’ll let him go so I can figure out life without him.

I’ll be honest: a part of me felt excited that I wasn’t going to be alone in ending a marriage. I liked the idea of solo queen sisters on opposite coasts. I sent *that* meme to her, you know the one (see below). I also wondered how she would feel about me, knowing I had an affair, and how this would affect our relationship. A few years earlier, a married woman flirted with my brother-in-law at work and texted racy photos to him under the guise of trying to find the right bra (a different woman than his affair partner, by the way, apparently my brother-in-law was a hot commodity). She concluded the conversation about the racy bra shopping woman by saying, “Who does that? Bad people, that's who!” I could have disappeared into a bush, Homer style, with her ruthless character assessment. I too had sought and involved myself with a married man, which made me one of those bad people. Now that we were having this early morning conversation resulting from her husband's affair, I had to come clean.

(*That* meme)

I was on the opposite side of the same coin, separated from my ex several years after he discovered my affair. I wondered if that information would change her opinion of me and our relationship with each other.

“It might feel like he did this to you,” I told her, “but this wasn’t about you. It was about him.” I wasn't defending my brother-in-law, I was sharing what I discovered about myself from my own experience and subsequent introspection. I knew my words might not be well received by sister as she was working through the immediate aftermath of a bombshell, yet she heard me.

In the following months, I heard about the active repairing my brother-in-law did, the way he reckoned with who he was, and what patterns he had carried from his childhood into their marriage. By spring the following year, my sister needed a break from his navel-gazing and resulting existential crisis. She was tired of constantly being expected to validate him because being introspective and having realizations about himself, especially the shadow parts, was new to him. I was a few steps ahead of him, having reconciled most of the shame I felt over my own affair. We had both gone for coworkers, and as someone who was on the other side of it, I could see how cliched, predictable and common these middle-aged tropes could be. I also knew the default expectation for the betrayed spouse was to leave their unfaithful partner, posthaste!

We like to think we know what we’ll do in these situations. In reality, the answers are not immediately clear and the resolution usually doesn’t occur quickly, or neatly packaged.

My sister decided to visit, and stay with me and my daughters in the townhouse I had bought to get out of my own marriage. While she had come to my place for a three week hiatus, my sister would retreat to her room nightly so she and my brother-in-law could spend time on the phone with each other. During the day he would dutifully send her photos of his location and what he was doing, without her asking. She admitted to me that she understood he was doing this to rebuild trust, but she wanted to be past this part, she wanted to reach the point where they both felt like this task was no longer expected or required. It had been less than six months since discovery and she was gentle with him when they talked on the phone. They related to each other like friends. Oh, I remember thinking, while feeling the tiniest pang of envy, they actually like each other.

The older sister I had grown up knowing as occasionally cruel, had the ability to talk to her husband and repair their marriage together, and own her part in the breakdown of their connection. I couldn’t help but contrast that with my own marriage, and the way we seemed to stay in the crisis stage indefinitely. My ex had been unwilling to account for the negative patterns he contributed. His thinking seemed to be, “You broke the marriage, now you fix it!” He seemed incapable of accepting that my decision to have an affair was a symptom of larger problems and not the root cause. I didn't deny that my actions devastated him, but I wasn't going to agree that our marriage had been good simply because our relationship worked well for him. After years without making headway, I began wondering if this was a power play; was it possible he wanted to remain the forever scorned spouse so he could rub my nose into the mess whenever I stepped out of line?

We met in college and had gotten to know each other on a surface level as cadets, with a few shared events and even a few dates, but only because he was romantically interested in me. I was young, and not discerning enough to understand that just because someone was interested in me didn't necessarily mean they wanted to know who I was, or understand how events in my life had shaped me.

My ex’s nickname for me was “Beautiful.” But the person who called me “Beautiful” also teased me for having “pancake butt,” a joke that my ass was flat, a highly undesirable physical feature for black women. “You need to do squats,” he would say, even though I didn't ask for his advice. I purposely did not do squats, as I am the type to settle into passive aggressiveness whenever someone directs me to do something to accommodate their preferences. (For the record, it’s not flat, it’s just not that prize of prized buttocks, the highly coveted bubble)

For the longest time I didn’t run for exercise out of the belief that I was not a runner; my mile times were not putting any land speed records at risk. This mentality began for me at West Point, and carried through my short time in the Army, all the way until I was 38, and I took my ex's invitation to go running. I usually declined, concerned that I was too slow and would hold him back, but surprisingly, I was able to keep up. We ran together sometimes and while he was supportive, he also felt compelled to joke about my "hamster" stride. I run with a gliding style, despite the similarity of my name, I am not a gazelle. He often treated the ways I accomplished things as inferior, or quirky when they differed from how he did things.

In 2019, we visited Manhattan with our kids to watch a Broadway show and walk through Central Park as a birthday gift for our oldest daughter, who was turning 14. I bought the show tickets and he did the rest, to include booking the hotel and driving us into the city. City driving never fazed my ex, and that made so many of our trips feel easy. In contrast, I avoid city driving; my anxiety spikes at the congested roads and the sheer volume of cars parked tightly next to sidewalk curbs. During that trip, everything had gone smoothly, except my ex left his suit jacket in the hotel closet.

Three weeks later, I would be visiting West Point to meet up with friends to spend time together, watch a parade, and wander through a maze of tailgates before winding up in Michie Stadium for a home football game. I dreaded telling my ex that I had planned this trip, and I remember talking to my individual therapist about it. "Anticipatory dread" is what it’s called, and I imagined the interrogation that would ensue around me traveling alone to see friends. “You don’t have to ask permission,” my therapist said, “just tell him you’re going.” I eventually did exactly that, and surprisingly he seemed fine with it without acting like I had a nefarious agenda. The hotel where we had stayed had agreed to hang onto the jacket, and I was going to detour to Manhattan on the way to pick it up before meeting a friend for lunch on the Upper West Side.

I was making the five-ish hour drive alone, which meant I could get myself into Manhattan any way I wished. I crossed the Tappan Zee Mario Cuomo Bridge from Nyack into Tarrytown. The Metro North commuter train had a station in Tarrytown, and I knew I could ride that all the way to the end of the line into Grand Central Station. From there, the hotel would be walking distance, and after I secured the lost blazer, I could figure out how to get to the Upper West Side and back to Grand Central Station to continue on my way to meet my friends in the rented house outside of the gates near West Point.

Everything went as planned, and I spent the next day at West Point with my friends. After perusing a number of tailgate parties, we made our way to box seats in the end zone. Whenever I was there for a home game, I was usually in the regular seats with the masses. I hadn’t even known this section of the stadium existed. I took a photo of my view from the box and sent it to my ex to show off my good fortune.

Could this have been said differently?

Notice the lack of “Wow, that’s great!” or “Cool! Have fun!”

His reply amounts to ensuring I know, while my seats are “big money,” they are also “not necessarily the best.”

I replied:

At this point I was beginning to understand leaving him was an option, and not in a "She ended her marriage over texts about her football game seats and you'll never guess what happened next!" clickbait article headline manner. I was beginning to see how so many of these seemingly little things added up to show a much bigger problem, similar to the way a collection of tiny, unrelated pictures could be arranged to form a much larger, composite image. If I was married to a person who was apparently incapable of being happy for me, what was the point? What kind of masochist wanted to stay yoked to someone -- a former football player for the home team, no less -- who couldn't even celebrate his wife getting good seats at the game? Not only could he not celebrate, he felt compelled to toss in a dash of negging in the process.

When I made it back home, and I shared more about the trip, I explained that I had taken the train from Tarrytown to get into Manhattan. You could insert the record scratch right here, because we didn’t get any further.

"Why didn't you take the train from New Jersey?"

My way of getting into the city was problematic to him. Mind you, I was traveling alone so there was no one else inconvenienced by my way of getting into the city, but because it wasn’t the way he would have gone, my choice was odd, nonsensical, and something to dissect.

“Because that’s how I wanted to go.”

“But that’s stupid! It would have been shorter to go from New Jersey!”

He was right, taking the train from New Jersey would have shortened my trip, but why was it necessary to call my way of doing things stupid? He had benefitted from this trip; he now had his suit jacket back. We didn't talk about how kind the hotel staff was, and how no one would accept a tip for keeping the jacket for us. He didn’t get to hear about my adventure on the subway and how I mistakenly took the train to Canal street, or how a transit cop kindly gave me instructions on getting myself to the right station in the opposite direction so I could meet my friend for lunch. He wouldn’t hear about how I got to watch the parade with my friends, or how we snagged a group photo with the Superintendent, a three star general and the first black superintendent at West Point. He wouldn’t hear about the football game, or about anything else that happened that weekend because we got stuck on the way I chose to get myself into Manhattan, and how it wasn’t the way he would have gone if he had to catch a train into the city.

This kind of obstruction was pervasive in our marriage and I couldn't understand it. My friends could listen, and ask questions without the aim to judge or provide unsolicited commentary on why my method was wrong, or stupid. How do you connect with a person when they didn't want to get past critiquing your transportation choices to hear the actual interesting parts of the story?

I challenged him later on the conversations we had about this trip — the texts about my not necessarily the best football tickets? According to him, that was just how he related to his friends. Apparently my ex and his friends dogged each other out on a regular basis, it was how they connected.

When I addressed his fixation on how I decided to make my way into Manhattan, and how that seemed odd, my ex shared that part of the issue was that he was uncomfortable with me traveling alone after the affair and felt anxious while I was away that weekend, which was understandable. He also acted like this was a normal way people interacted, as if rigorous debate over mundane travel options was just part of life. My conversations with him bore little resemblance to conversations I had with anyone else who was close to me; the way he acted towards me was not friend behavior. When he and I were in agreement, things were fine, sure, but when I did things that did not match his thinking, I became the weirdo, the incompetent, the fuckup.

“I thought you should have taken the train from Edison because it's a safe town.” he said, “I don’t know anything about Tarrytown.”

This sounded reasonable on the surface. Being concerned for my safety was my ex's typical go-to deflection. After all, how could I argue with a man being protective of his wife? But was this really protectiveness? I had gotten myself around safely. Nothing bad happened. He was using Edison, New Jersey, as his frame of reference because this was where his grandparents had initially settled after emigrating from Jamaica. He had spent summers in Edison as a child, therefore it was a safe place while Tarrytown was a mystery. Except we were four decades removed from that era, so the Edison of today wasn't going to be the same place he experienced as a kid.

“I went from Tarrytown because I used to take the Metro North into the city from Garrison as a cadet. It's sentimental to me," I said. "No, it wasn't the fastest way to get there, but I don’t know anything about the New Jersey commuter trains.”

“Ohhh,” my ex said, “why didn’t you just say that?"

Why did I have to explain until I landed on a reason deemed good enough for him? Explaining my adult decision making when it wasn’t the way he would have done things felt exhausting. What made my way of doing things less valid to him, and therefore unsafe, unacceptable, or stupid? What made him think he was the authority on the correct way to operate as an adult? Why did I have to work so hard for basic understanding? He didn't ask questions out of curiosity or a desire to understand me, the questioning felt more like data collection to set up the argument that I was wrong and he was right. This antagonistic dynamic wasn’t some new thing that had developed because I had an affair. This was a longstanding pattern that had been cultivated since the beginning of our relationship, another form of power play. Now that I had stopped believing his narrative that I was the the weirdo, the problem, the fuckup, I was able to see the pattern more clearly. And as things became more contentious between us, the pattern became even more apparent.

On his side, my affair seemed to serve as validation to him that I was, indeed, the problem. And his willingness to stay married was something that required my gratitude, and constant penance. In other words, I needed to know my place.

When I saw that this wasn’t happening in my sister’s marriage, and that they were making real progress in working together to repair their relationship, I fully understood achieving that kind of progress had never been an true option in my own marriage. I did not doubt my decision to leave, but I grieved the decades of my life spent with a person, who, at his core, was not my friend and didn’t want to be my friend. This is not to say we didn’t have fun times, or jokes we shared with each other. For awhile, a little over a decade into my marriage, I consoled myself by reasoning that my husband didn't have to be my best friend, because I already had a best friend. Around that time a number of articles were pushing the message that it was perfectly fine if you weren't married to your best friend. Many of these opinion pieces also implied that the questionable marriages were the ones where women said they had married their best friends. While reading these articles felt reassuring at the time -- I knew that I had not married my best friend, after all -- I didn't stop to question if the person I married was even my friend in the first place. Sure, we had moments when communication felt genuine, and not like a game or a sparring match, but those moments weren't consistent or reliable.

In a moment of vulnerability, my ex once shared that he wished I had told him when I was considering having an affair. I remembered thinking, What would that conversation have looked like? How do you discuss something so volatile with a person known to use shaming tactics, or weaponize their feelings so you eventually learn it's not safe to share with them?

If we had been in a place where I did feel safe approaching him with this kind of confession, then that would have meant we were connected, that we would have been actual friends. This would have meant we would have been able to talk openly, without usual friction from judgment and insults. If friendship was the foundation beneath our marriage, an affair might have been an unlikely consideration because that meant I had a partner who saw me and accepted me. I had made my choices precisely because we weren’t friends, and operating under the radar to get what I wanted was more effective than asking my ex to meet my needs.

As we went through our separation and divorce, I learned the words to describe what I experienced in the marriage, and my resulting realizations. I had wanted to split amicably, and eventually realized trying to be friends with someone who seemed determined to make sure I was a half step behind him and perpetually off balance was impossible. In one of our last long conversations, I tearfully told my ex it didn’t even feel like he liked me. He acted incredulous.

“How can you say that,” he said.

"What do you like about me," I asked.

"You're a good cook," he replied.

It felt like a punch in the gut. I sobbed in front of him. Decades of marriage amounted to me being appreciated not for who I was as a human, but for what I could accomplish in the kitchen.

"What," he said, the slightest smirk contradicting the concern in his voice. "I thought you liked acts of service! It's a compliment!"

“Good morning, lady I do not like” my ex texted jokingly, as an opening to ask when he could help me install the over-the range microwave I had hauled from Lowe’s to replace one that had just died. After over four years of separation we were a couple of months away from our divorced being finalized by then, but we still relied on each other for tasks that proved difficult to tackle alone. I had been an escort for a couple of his medical procedures, and he had helped me with a few things around my house. By the time he reached out, a coworker who prided herself on being handy had already offered and helped me install the microwave. I felt relief that someone else filled the gap and spared me from relying on him for another favor.

He called later, of course, to ask who helped me.

“It’s handled,” I said, channeling my inner Olivia Pope.

“You got someone to help?"

I could practically hear him working through a list of people who could have possibly assisted me. I didn't hurry to answer the question and he filled the pause with his next guess.

"You hired someone to do it," he declared, as if he had placed himself into my brain and worked out the weirdo's solution.

I didn’t respond. His persistence reminded me of the football seating texts, and the way he needed to know who had done a kind thing for me. Why did it matter? He was no longer needed and I no longer felt compelled to explain basic adult decision making to him or having to hear him tell me why my way was wrong, stupid, or “not necessarily the best.”

A letter from the old me, read by the older me

Last month I was lucky enough to have a small gathering of friends join me for lunch to celebrate my birthday. One of these friends was Trish, who was my closest friend at West Point. We didn't really connect until the summer of our yearling year when we departed the the granite walled barracks of garrison for two months of shelter in the long, metal-walled shacks nestled in the woods. The men had to live in open bays, but the women shared a small four bunk room with its own separate bathroom. Whenevr we had to get a platoon mate, we had to shout "FEMALE IN THE BAY" before entering the men's area. Needless to say, I hardly ventured into their area.

The summer I got to know Trish, and for the remaining time until graduation, she and I stayed close.

I miss letter writing in the way that we somehow shifted from fun stationery and assembling letters to being able to have full conversations by tapping onto our phone screens. The messages can stick around or be deleted based on your preferences, and rereading anything means either searching for a key phrase or scrolling as much as you can stand it. As much as I wrote letters, I didn't keep many of those notes that were written to me; at my birthday gathering, Trish left me with a greeting card I sent from my early days of the officer basic course at Fort Bliss, and a Christmas card I sent our firstie (senior year), in December 1996.

When I received the envelopes, I felt a sense of dread. I waited over a week to peek inside because I was afraid of the level of cringe (as the youths say) I would feel once I started reading. It was strange to read about events that had retreated to the corners of my mind, written in the same handwriting I have today. Instead of feeling cringe, I wound up feeling tenderness for that younger me. I'm going to share the first card I mentioned here -- words from the old me (which is funnily enough, actually the young me) interpreted by me now, the older me.

Trish--WHAT UP DAWWWWG?! How's everything? I'm doing okay, just thought I'd give a little shout out, YOU KNOW

This was part of our mockery of the way the guys we knew would talk to each other, with certain words spoken loudly, with bass in the voice, for emphasis. Moving on--

Anyhow, my weekend is going pretty slow -- I guess I am just lonely.

Oh man! Poor young me.

I don't feel like calling (then boyfriend/now ex-husband), so that leaves me to me, myself and I!

Based on the date of the letter (August 17, 1997), I had not been dating my then boyfriend/now ex-husband very long, maybe one to two weeks tops. I must have been in the "play it cool and ignore him so he doesn't get tired of me" mindset. Or maybe I just didn't feel like dealing with him.

Yesterday was depressing to me for some reason. My roommate (name redacted) had an abortion. She told me a couple of days ago that she might be pregnant and that there were two possible fathers. I guess it just weirded me out.

I described being depressed "for some reason" and immediately followed that with a description of a pretty depressing situation.

I would have done the same thing she had, but I am still pretty disturbed about it.

I often joke that I was like Mayo from an Officer and a Gentleman, specifically that I had nowhere else to go. I say that with a full understanding that I'm being facetious. I could have gone home if I really needed to; I didn't want to. Getting pregnant and having to figure out which way my life would go as a 22 year old newly minted Army officer would have felt devastating. My roommate's situation made no sense to me. The military offers birth control. There are options. Looking back, I feel compassion for her, but while we were roommates, I felt impatient with her, I questioned her intelligence, and I judged her harshly. She had been commissioned through ROTC, she drove a giant white pickup truck that she couldn't park straight (see? Judgy!), and she had a pet turtle which she lost one day when letting it roam freely through our officer's quarters (she eventually found it; yes, it was still alive). I didn't understand how someone who was supposed to be trusted with soldiers' lives could be so careless with her own life. I felt sad for her. Moving on--

So what did I do yesterday? I stayed in my room, played two movies on my new TV/VCR thing in my room (the movies? Zebrahead and Waiting to Exhale) and drank some Bacardi Select with Dr. Pepper.

Sounds like an introvert's party of one to me! Having my own TV with my own curated movie playlist and a mixed drink of one part favorite carbonated beverage and one part dark liquor? Peak Saturday night experience (insert chef's kiss here)!

I also finished off that pack of Newports (yes, that same old assed pack I bought in Highland Falls!) I took a shot too. I don't know what the hell was my problem. I guess I was just feeling down. I didn't drink very much. I can't drink how I used to, I guess. That's probably a good thing.

That escalated quickly. I went from peak personal entertainment with a nice li'l drinky-drink to smoking the remainder of a stale pack of Newports and taking a shot. I should have quit while I was ahead.

What else is going on? Well, we had a fake PT test on Friday and I did okay!! 44 pushups, 73 situps, 17:29 run. Not bad for no preparation. I can't believe how well I can run since I haven't attempted to since the PT test in February!! No joke. Supposedly with the elevation (4,000 ft) you're supposed to gain two minutes on the run, but I guess I adjusted.

Ah, youth, and the gross underappreciation of the fit, resilient body that comes with it.

Friday night I went to a club called Exodus (mainly black folk ☺) and there was a comedy show with three comedians. The last guy was who? GUESS! The guy from the Nutty Professor! WOMEN BE SHOPPIN'!! He didn't actually do that one, but it was him. (Then boyfriend now ex) pointed it out.

Here was my moment of shock while reading, because my excitement is seeing the WOMEN BE SHOPPIN'!! comedian who starred in the Nutty Professor with Eddie Murphy who is none other than DAVE CHAPPELLE! Points for me being excited about it, I guess.

Here's the funniest part of the night. I'm sitting there waiting for (then boyfriend/now ex) to bring our drinks and who rolls in but Q, A and second lieutenant F (remember him?). I smiled and waved and then (then boyfriend/now ex) talks to F for a minute. I asked (then boyfriend/now ex) what he said, he told me F said "Oh I didn't realize you had a date, we'll leave y'all alone." Hmmm. Thought so.

Here's some context: Said second lieutenant F was in my basic course. He quickly befriended the aforementioned Q and A, who were both West Point classmates. While interrogating me on my interests in men, second lieutenant F very confidently declared that he heard I "only dated white guys." Was it the "funniest part of the night?" Maybe it was at that time. How better to disprove the false information undoubtedly passed on to second lieutenant F from my classmates than being showing up to the club with my definitely not white date. It has a real, "Ha, I showed them!" feel to it. Why did I care so much about what they thought anyway? And now? I wish I could remember the jokes from Dave Chappelle's set.

Well, that's all with me so far. I guess I'm getting used to El Paso. It's okay, and I'll probably come back after I go to Korea. I decided so far that I'm not staying in. I know it seems early to tell, but I think five years will be enough of the Army for me (yeah, watch me make a 30 year career!)

Morgan Freeman's voice: "She did not make a 30 year career."

Well, let me know how you be. Talk to you soon, Love, Giselle.

And scene!

Beware of Sharp Objects

Months after my haystack burning foray into Hinge, I had a date. Sorting out which men have the potential not to be problematic by reviewing profiles is only the beginning. Next comes messaging. I messaged with a few men and determined my rules of engagement along the way. One responded to a prompt of mine, two truths and a lie. In my answers, I included that I shook the hand of a sitting president. A guy whose profile passed muster attempted a guess and the conversation quickly got weird:

I hemmed and hawed over how to respond to his question wondering if I "actually shook hands with other guys." What? What? I considered responses that might steer the conversation into safer territory. I wasn't even sure what he meant; was this some kind of handshake purity test? Was "handshake" a wink-wink-nudge-nudge code word for sexy times? Then I thought, we are only a few messages in, why am I wasting brainpower trying to interpret this question and come up with a response to reduce the threat? I didn't know this guy, and I didn't want to waste my time entertaining someone with humor that was questionable in both content and quality. I was annoyed with him, and even more annoyed with myself for my initial inclination to try to work with this stranger's lame comedic(?) material. With five decades of life behind me and no real longevity in my family tree, I didn't have time for this. I ended the conversation without explanation by unmatching this dude and blocking him.

I had a few enjoyable chats with other men, but they went nowhere. One guy had gone to an art school in New York and was a graphic designer living in Virginia. We had some fun banter about feeding crows, science fiction and the local women's professional soccer team. When a week passed and there was no movement towards a date, I unmatched and blocked. There was another who was nice enough, but a week went by with no forward momentum so I unmatched and moved on. It wasn't ghosting, exactly, it was the realization that I owed no explanation to people who showed they weren't interested in meeting, regardless of how well the initial conversation started. In addition to eliminating men who didn't seem interested, if 24 hours went by without any messages, I would unmatch. I didn't want to poke or prod anyone into appearing interested for the benefit of my ego, and besides, if it took that much work in the beginning, what would communication look like later on?

My first Hinge date was with A. I initiated the messaging by responding to this:

Okay, he didn't answer the prompt correctly but I was willing to overlook that because his unabashed enthusiasm for reading felt inviting. As someone with bookcases laden with books I had bought but not yet read, his self-described struggle in the bookstore was endearing. I asked what he was reading and our messaging took off from there.

A lived an hour away from me, and in his Hinge profile prompt responses, he also included that he wanted to plan some travel (where to? Vietnam, which conjured up passport bro assumptions, but I didn't investigate further). His photos showed him in an array of activities: hiking, running the Army ten miler, in construction gear at work, dressed in a suit for a formal event, and in a blue button down shirt, at a desk. For spiritual beliefs, he identified as "Atheist," which also felt like a rare find, and relatable. I'm not inclined to say I don't believe in God or a higher power, it's more that I don't buy into Christianity. As a black person in the U.S., I've always felt like an oddity for my beliefs, but that's a topic worthy of its own blog post.

It took less than a week for A to ask me out. He mentioned being interested in trying out axe throwing and unsurprisingly, this was his suggestion for our date. He'd seen a place in D.C. and wanted to check it out. We agreed to meet up on a Saturday evening, and a few days before, he checked with me to see what times worked best for the reservation.

The axe throwing spot was in D.C. At my mature age, I've found that I've gotten quirkier and quirkier about driving places -- specifically avoiding city driving (because I don't need to make my nerves go from bad to worse), and parking. If I can take metro and walk a few blocks, that's my solution. The place was in a section of D.C. I had never visited before, but it was on the same line that extended into my part of the suburbs, the equivalent of a straight shot, in driving terms -- no pesky station transfers or other such obtsacles in the way. I would have roughly a mile to walk, so I dressed in something casual,a cute t-shirt, flare blue jeans and converse low tops. What else would someone wear to throw axes anyway?

It was humid, and I didn't anticipate hills or how it would feel to walk a mile in clothes that weren't designed for a workout. I arrived slightly damp, but on time. A was there with a bouquet of red roses interpersed with lilies, an Easter arrangement. We did the two-people-meeting-for-the-first-time hug and the server led us to our assigned axe throwing booth. What I also didn't anticipate was that an establishment would not have air conditioning or sufficient ventilation. Didn't they understand those of us who road marched from the metro station would arrive sweaty because we were too cheap frugal to hire an Uber?

The server gave us a basic rundown of the rules, including how to throw the axe. The "target" was a projection on a wood covered wall, and apparently there were a few types of games available to play with different wall projections to mix things up. I knew A reserved the axe throwing booth for an hour, but I also quickly realized, as we stood beside each other, throwing our weapons at our respective targets, that this activity was not conducive to conversation. We managed a few basics, but neither of us were very good at this -- I kept throwing the axe at angles that caused it to bounce off of the wall and land on the floor in front of the target. We gave up about fifteen minutes in, when I landed a bull's eye (see above). A seemed more enthusiastic about my success than I was, and snapped the photo. I chalked it up to beginner's luck over any real athletic skill or talent.

There was a high top seating area just outside the half-wall of our booth and again, I realized it was not ideal because it positioned anyone sitting there facing the same direction, into the booth where the targets were. I grabbed one of the chairs and dragged it into the target practice area, so we could face each other and talk.

One of the first questions A asked was, why was I single? I didn't take this as offensive; based on our messages, I took him to be a bit awkward and nerdy, not mean spirited or judgy. I explained that I had initiated my divorce, so in that way I had chosen to be single. When I returned the question for him to answer, he explained that marriage and children had not panned out for him, but he got to be the fun uncle, and had a slew of dad jokes to bolster his standing with his nieces. I had noticed A had a caribbean accent, and he revealed that he had moved from Jamaica at 19. When he jokingly turned up the patois in conversation, I felt compelled to share that my ex was also originally from Jamaica. We had a good laugh over it. I didn't want to hold something against him that he couldn't help; I didn't share that I had blocked anyone on Hinge that seemed overly loud and proud about being Jamaican. Experiencing two plus decades of that flavor of braggadocio was more than enough for a lifetime. A didn't seem overly proud or ashamed -- he did jokingly apologize if he brought up negative feelings.

We shared two plates of tacos and I kept emptying my glasses of water in an attempt to cool off from my metro walk and the lack of ventilation in the building. The place was okay, but felt unfinished, like one of those large warehouse or loft spaces that had been converted into a living space without much effort towards making it feel cozier and more cohesive. When we finished up, A suggested a walk around the block to cool off, which I appreciated. After the sun had set, the outside air was cooler and a breeze was blowing. As we rounded the corner, A realized he'd forgotten to pay the bill and we returned to the axe throwing spot. As we walked by a younger couple dining outside, the man exclaimed that A and I made a "beautiful couple." We both said thank you, but internally, I rolled my eyes.

What does this guy know? Why did he say that? Why did he think anyone cared about his split second observation of two people on a first date? I was annoyed that this stranger felt the need to weigh in; the compliment felt more burdensome than flattering.

I waited outside for an extended amount of time as A settled the bill. He was very apologetic, and when I said I would order a Lyft to get myself back to the metro station, he offered to drop me off instead. He respected that, as a woman, I might be hesitant to take the offer from someone I didn't know. I appreciated that, and took him up on it.

The parking garage was across the street and we walked up a few ramps to get to his truck. The interior smelled brand new and he admitted a recent accident had totaled his previous vehicle. We made small talk and hugged across the armrest when we reached my metro stop. I rode home and snapped a selfie with my flowers, and assured the friends who had been along for my dating adventures that the date had gone well.

A and I met up again, this time at a bookstore on the wharf in D.C. on a Saturday morning, my choice because I knew the metro station was a couple of blocks away, well under a mile, and the sun was up but the air had not yet warmed to late afternoon temperatures. A was already there when I arrived and we hugged when he found me. We browsed the shelves and made our selections. He bought one book to replace one that his mother had borrowed, and I learned that she was living in Jamaica. From what I had gathered, A's father relocated to the U.S. and remarried. A was living with his father, and hinted that he had some financial trouble a few years earlier. Based on my state court system searches, it looked like A had some money issues that had gone to trial.

How did I feel about that? I was relieved there was nothing indicating A was violent or dangerous, but I also felt protective of myself. Everyone was vulnerable to financial problems, but was this a pattern or an isolated life lesson? Could I consider someone whose financial shit wasn't together if they were fine in other areas of their life? My old ways of gazing upon men I liked as if they could do no wrong was long gone. I finally understood men weren't mysterious and special creatures; they weren't smarter than women, they weren't inherently better, they weren't stronger, more capable, or more financially savvy. They were just people. With that realization, my usual tendency to don rose colored glasses was gone.

At this point, I wasn't going to decide, but I filed it away. A offered to buy my books as we stood in line to check out, which was sweet and generous of him, but unnecessary. A date wasn't a free invitation to have some dude buy books I could afford to pay for myself. I thanked him and refused the offer. We continued on to share an early lunch where he talked about his father and his stepmother, and how their marriage had become more of a roommate situation. "That's not what I want," A declared, and I nodded, thinking, these are the thoughts of a man who hasn't experienced the ebbs and flows that come with being legally hitched to the same person for decades.

I knew A had afternoon obligations, and my kids, who usually got up later on weekends, probably had things they wanted to do. At the point when I thought we would split -- he drove, while I caught the metro -- we detoured to his parking location, which was located at different metro stop, still walking distance but further away.

This was when I understood I still had some work to do.

Along that walk, A shared that he was grieving a friendship, and how people don't talk about that. I commiserated, and shared that I had a few friendships that had ended without much real discussion or mending. His friend had served with him in the Air Force, and according to him, she got tired of hearing about his "high school shit."

I liked that his best friend was a woman, but as a woman, I understood the fatigue of hearing someone share problems they made little movement to solve or change. A said he attempted to reach out to her, but she didn't respond. At some point as we walked up the hill to the further-away-than-I-liked metro station, A reached out for my hand. This was another moment that showed me I had work to do.

I did not want to hold his hand. I liked A, but I wasn't attracted. I didn't know if an attraction was going to develop with time. Two dates in, approximately four hours in total with a person who was still mostly a stranger, was enough time to understand what I was not feeling, and not enough time to predict how I might have felt in the future. I took A's invitation and held hands as we walked up the hill, but it felt inauthentic, an act of pity more than desire. I held his hand because I didn't want A to experience the sting of rejection.

We turned the corner and I immediately recognized the Smithsonian museums I had visited with my older daughter a few weeks earlier, and the separate parts of D.C. that seemed so far apart began stitching together. As we walked, A commented that I moved at a pretty decent pace. I questioned this and he said, "well, if we had to get moving, I know you could keep up."

Again, I will chalk this up to awkwardness more than anything judgy or weird. It had a hint of "You're not like other girls," but I didn't press the issue. I wanted to get on the train and go home. When the metro station came into view, I pointed it out and we headed over. Just as I was ready to rush off, A kissed me on the lips, and we said our goodbyes. I descended the escalator fully knowing not only did I not want to hold hands, I didn't want a kiss, either, not on the lips or anywhere else. I was relieved to get on the train and head back home. I wasn't looking forward to a third date.

I reported back to my friend M when I was done with station transfers and settled into my seat for the ride home on the red line.

Not a bad outing. I am not in a place to be dating at the moment. I like A. I am not attracted to A. I have to be honest about that.

M replied right away.

This date caused me to realize dating came with a script, and I realized I didn't like the script.

I did not want to participate in a ritual that included automatic kissing on a second date, reminiscent of the way one advances along a path in a board game. I had already been through a long marriage that came with its own societal script. I wasn't eager to jump into a something else that came with expectations I had not fully examined or agreed upon. I didn't want the burden of having someone pay for my meals so I unconsciously or consciously would buy into the belief that my body would be the expected reward. I am in a stage in life where I will not do things for the plot, or to see where it goes, or to hope my feelings shift, or that the person changes in a way that makes him a more palatable prospect.

Why had I detoured out of my way to a metro station convenient to A's parking instead of staying true to my original plan? The entire detour, to include the hand holding and the unsolicited kiss, was an act of self abandonment, which was my work to overcome. Women are routinely pushed to dismiss their feelings because it's "just holding hands," or "just a peck on the mouth," and ultimately, in the larger scheme of physical acts, deemed harmless. That voice lived in me: instead of creating a public moment of discomfort, I had kept that discomfort to myself for an entire walk to the metro station.

I thought of the ways I'd internalized the message that it's more important for a man not to feel bad than for me to honor my own feelings. It was fear-based decision making; if he didn't feel bad, the risk of him getting angry and taking it out on me was low. Overriding my own feelings to spare someone else's is a survival tactic that may have kept me safe but never served me well. To make it right with myself, I was going to have to be the one to pull the emergency brake and get myself off this doomed ride.

As soon as A texted me later that week suggesting a third date, I said something. I had a long history of being afraid of men getting angry and I hoped I was right about A -- that he was a little awkward, and a little nerdy, but he wasn't an angry man. I came up with a tailored way of replying, "It's not you, it's me" in a text message and sent it.

He took it well:

I felt some sadness and a huge sense of relief. I would like to cultivate a friendship with A -- he seemed kind and sweet-natured, and I liked that he was a reader -- but I didn't want to invite confusion or inadvertently send mixed signals. I want male friends, but I fear the script -- that message that men and women cannot truly be friends, or that any attraction must be acted upon -- will always get in the way.

I deactivated my Hinge account, which also brought relief. No more checking to see if anyone had pinged me, no more scrolling to see which men had minimally acceptable profiles.

These dates showed me I needed to stick to staying true to myself, including when doing so might make someone else uncomfortable, sad or angry. I learned I'm unwilling to follow the script, even for someone who seemed nice enough. I realized I don't want to adhere to some imagined timeline, to go along to get along with the hope attraction will eventually spark. I don't want to move through life bypassing my own feelings, fooling myself into believing doing so will help me find the type of connection I'm seeking.

I often think of a quote by bell hooks:

We fear that evaluating our needs and then carefully choosing partners will reveal that there is no one for us to love. Most of us prefer to have a partner who is lacking than no partner at all. What becomes apparent is that we may be more interested in finding a partner than in knowing love.

I've sought love from men who seemed thoroughly unwilling to connect or know me beyond their impression of me. I've pursued people who looked good on paper and seemed to have enough in common with me to theoretically work out, yet these relationships failed. I think of how often I could not identify what I wanted out of a relationship until I experienced what I didn't want. I consider how I may never find the romantic love I seek, and that the idea that there is someone for everyone may be just as false as some of the other societal scripts I initially accepted without question. I think of how to make peace with that consideration with the understanding that no relationship, or promise of a relationship should come at the cost of abandoning myself.

Eight Years of Motherlessness

I was on a morning walk when spotted a ribbon on the ground. It wasn't just any ribbon, it was a ribbon with my mother's not very common first name on it, and this wasn't just any time of year, it was less than a week after the eighth anniversary of her death, and less than two weeks before Mother's Day.

Later, I shared my discovery with my closest friends, and (of course) my sister:

She died unexpectedly, in the way I had dreaded ever since we had agreed she would sell her house and move in to live with me, my then-spouse and our two daughters. A sudden and unexpected death left me with the duty of telling the rest of the world, including her family members in Italy. I emailed my cousin Marco, who had a better grasp of English than I had of Italian. He had the task of passing on the news on to his father -- my mother's only living brother -- and every other family member in their vicinity. I texted my sister, and gave her a play by play as the funeral home removal technicians puzzled over removing the way too small wedding ring from our mother's finger (they were successful), followed by moving her from her second floor bedroom down the stairs and out of our front door. I snapped a photo as the technicians wheeled the gurney carrying her body over the flagstone walkway she had designed and past the garden beds she had planted, two features she had actively taken on to improve our home's curb appeal.

My mother lived with us for seven and a half years, moving in with us less than two months before my youngest daughter was born. The three bedroom townhouse quickly became cramped; our baby didn't even have her own room. Within the following year we sold that house and spent two months househunting all over the local area, to include deep dives into some of the towns in the neighboring state. We ultimately settled on the opposite side of the same town, into one of the few houses we all seemed to like equally. My mother's presence made my life easier in ways that felt invisble until she was gone. She took care of the baby until she was a toddler, and was there when my other daughter had to leave for school, and come home. She bought groceries without asking to be reimbursed. he prepared meals. She included shopping for clothes and shoes for my daughters in her errands. She entertained my youngest daughter by reading books and welcoming her into her bedroom to sit beside her in bed. She provided.

My other dread was when I would be put in the position of having to favor my then-spouse over my mother and serve as the tie breaker in their disagreements. By the time she died, we had reached that point. My marriage was strained and I didn't have the type of relationship with my mother where it would have been comfortable for me to share. So I didn't. I knew she knew things were bad, but I also knew she wasn't going to ask me about it.

She used the entire value of the house she had moved out of to serve as the downpayment for our new house. We had all hoped to find a home that had a connected apartment, or two owner's suites, or a walkout basement situation. She dreamed of an apartment over the garage setup as seen in the movies, or a TV sitcom with the cool older brother asserting his independence. Even though we all liked the house we bought, it did not have the type of separate space we wanted. She compromised and got the second biggest bedroom, but had to share a bathroom with her granddaughters. There would be no separate kitchen and living area; to compensate, I offered her the first floor office which was right next to the powder room, with a clear view of the back yard.

Weeks before she died, my then-spouse put me up to asking her for the office. He needed it for his latest career move as a financial advisor. He claimed he needed a door that could shut and a place to keep locked file cabinets with sensitive information. I didn't buy it. There were other options: the mostly unused formal living room and dining room, the guest bedroom in the basement. Maybe those weren't ideal, but my mother had already compromised for a living situation that wasn't her ideal. To make a land grab for the room we all had agreed was hers felt greedy. "Aren't there financial advisors living out of studio apartments?" I asked. "What do they do about needing an office with a door if it's all one big room?"

I knew how this was going to end. My own mother was the one who told me that after you marry, your spouse is the one who always comes first; that person becomes your immediate family. As the source of that advice, I still have trouble understanding why she chose to live with us. I knew she didn't want to be bothered with the headaches of home ownership, and that she believed it would be more affordable and better for everyone to pool resources and live together. Even though I still have to go through some of the possessions she left behind, I also believe this was her version of Swedish Death Cleaning, to get rid of her own house, and most of what she owned to make it easier on my sister and me when she was gone. When I finally asked if she would give up the home office so my then-spouse could use it for work, she looked defeated. "What else do I have?" she asked.

My marriage aside, the year had been off to a rocky start. We sent my mother to stay with my sister for over a month from Christmas and into the new year so we could all have a break from each other. I remembered an argument months earlier that escalated to a point where my mother said she would move out. After she died, I discovered a business card for a local senior living center not far away. She had explored her options.

Days after I asked her for the home office, I left for a week long business trip in Texas. Work travel provided a brief escape from home turmoil. You could focus on the daily checklist in your itinerary and at the end of the day you could return to the peace of your own hotel room with a bed you didn't have to share. The trip lasted an entire week. When I finally did get home that Friday evening, I entered the kitchen and my mother looked happy to see me. She reached out to me in a way that invited a hug, and I didn't have it in me to indulge her. I collected my bags and went upstairs to unpack instead. She would die the following day.

We were an hour and a half away from her that Saturday. Our older daughter had a soccer game with her travel team in a town that was nearly two hours away. I had initially planned to stay home, but decided on a whim that I would go. Early that morning, before we left, I knocked on my mother's bedroom door to let her know I was leaving, and she told me she would take care of my youngest daughter. "Thank you," I said, not knowing those would be my last words to her.

We didn't return until early afternoon. As soon as we entered the house, my youngest daughter exclaimed that Nonna was sleeping on the floor, and wouldn't wake up. I immediately ran upstairs and found my mother, not completely on the floor and not on the bed, but positioned in a way that indicated she was reaching to get herself into bed, but didn't quite make it. When I think of this, I imagine whatever happened was quick, and hopefully painless. If she hadn't died that way, she might have been in the hospital hooked up to monitors, followed by a stint in a rehab center, languishing in a way that would drain both her spirit and her finances. If she'd lived, she might have had to endure the remainder of Trump's first term, experience the pandemic, and possibly face Trump's second term as well. She would have hated it.

We called 9-1-1. She was still warm and I didn't realize she was already gone. My then-spouse and I positioned my mother flat on the floor for chest compressions. When the paramedics showed up, they weren't in an ambulance but a giant red fire engine, which they parked parallel to the front yard, right in front of our house. When they left, I wondered how they manuevered around the miniature roundabout at the end of our street. They informed us that my mother had died and that the police would stop by to follow up with us.

Two male police officers showed up at our door next. One was soft spoken and I noticed he wore a pair of black metal studs in his ears. They had to investigate, they said, to ensure there was no foul play. They had a paper handout with lists for funeral homes, and counseling. They checked out my mother in her bedroom and told us there was nothing suspicious. "You don't have to decide anything right now," the soft spoken one said when I was reviewing the handout. That advice has stuck with me ever since.

From what I pieced together, my mother had made breakfast for my youngest daughter and went to her room after. Some time after that my youngest daughter went to get her and found her "sleeping." It wasn't the worst way to go but sudden and unexpected loss can impact those of us left behind in ways we can't comprehend or articulate. She was six years old. One and a half years ago her father traded in the car she she had known for years without warning. When he showed up to pick up our daughter (who was 13 by then) from middle school in the new vehicle, she cried. Her father didn't understand why she was upset that she didn't get to say goodbye to the old car before he traded it in.

The year our mother died, my sister made two trips to help me sort her things and work through the will. I didn't use up all of my bereavement leave right away and going back to work so soon felt like a welcome break from grieving. There was no funeral to plan because she hated funerals, so I didn't need the time until later. We had a small gathering close to her 71st birthday that year, and my then-spouse put together a slide show of photos. We also arranged a bookcase with her books for guests to browse and take home, and created bookmarks with my best attempt at an obituary on it. My then spouse also got to try his hand at sorting out investment assets for my sister and me, thanks to my mother, and he wound up getting that home office after all. I never asked if it bothered him or if he felt any guilt, probably because I was afraid of hearing the answer.

I feel guilty for not hugging her, but I also realize I wasn't in a great place and was returning to a home full of arguments and upheaval. Besides, I was not raised in a touchy, huggy family. Hugs were for holidays, and maybe birthdays, or encouraged when we were visiting relatives from the extended family. "I love you" was not said out loud but conveyed with providing: food, clothing, shelter, and money.

My mother's death made room for me to do things without her solicited or unsolicited opinion. I recently wondered if I would have pursued a divorce if she had lived. I'd like to think I would have arrived where I am now, but I doubt it. I have a closer relationship with my sister without my mother being the third party talking to one of us about the other. We are freed from our roles as the black sheep and the good child and it's a relief.

My mother thought Mother's Day was a stupid holiday. On this side of it, I understand. The additional pressure to buy cards and flowers, and go out to brunch and wait for your reservation to be called in a crowded restaurant doesn't sound enjoyable to me. I'd rather not be treated to gifts and meals when they are societally dictated obligations for the performance required of a specific day. The sentiment gets lost when the calendar, commercialism and capitalism dictate when and how we should show our appreciation.

In the past eight years I've received occasional reminders or visits, usually in dreams and most recently, on my walk. I've looked online for what might be branded that way, in that font, and nothing is a match. And maybe it doesn't matter. On a day between the anniversary of her death and Mother's Day I found a ribbon with my mother's name on it. I picked it up and took it home.

Goodbye, Terrific Tuesday

Last year I had the good fortune of being introduced to someone through a mutual friend. This felt ideal and old timey, reminiscent of friends setting each other up on blind dates or meeting someone in the wild while running errands. After a long marriage, the pandemic, and the gamification of online dating, meeting someone through a friend I knew and trusted felt like the optimal and safe way to put myself out there.

How it Started:

On a Wednesday, my friend M got the ball rolling with a mutual text once she was sure both parties were interested. She'd met "T" at a professional course for federal employees that were all at high levels within their careers. She shared photos -- T was tall and elegant looking, with perfect posture . His son was a West Pointer, which was a perk; it meant he would have a solid understanding of the quasi-college culture I had survived. He was divorced, and according to M, his lack of being remarried or even in a relationship was a source of mystery among their cohort. (And before we go any further, yes I asked if he was gay; M assured me he was not - also, I promise this is not going to show up later a la Chekov's gun.)

T was 12 years older, which could skew anywhere from "Ok, Boomer" to a barely perceptible gap, akin to the space between siblings. He was religious and involved in his church, which might mean he was preachy and righteous, or private with his faith with a heart that loved himself and his neighbors. Finally, he was a member of what I believed was the most obnoxious fraternity in the world, which had the potential to be his whole personality or present as one facet of a complex human being.

The morning of the introductory text led to a lunchtime phone call. T sounded very pleasant over the phone, he was clearly comfortable speaking to people. What he shared was a rundown of his resume, thirty years as an artillery officer in the Army concluding in retirement as colonel, followed by a high level position in the Environmental Protection Agency as a civil servant. I didn't get much of an idea of who he was as a person, and thought, maybe sharing the professional stuff up front felt comfortable. He asked what days might work for us to reconnect for a longer conversation and I offered that Friday evening. Right after the call he texted to say it was nice to meet me and that he looked forward to chatting again on Friday.

When Thursday evening rolled around, T texted me to say he had an obligation that evening, and left me with the choice of calling before or after the event. I opted to talk later and thought, how considerate, he gave me a day's notice and asked whether I preferred to talk before or after his event. Finally, a guy who knew how to communicate!

When the phone call finally happened, I was scrolling on Instagram, and landed on a noisy video that kept playing on a loop. When T called, I picked up, and not realizing that a phone call didn't mute other apps that were playing, I assumed he was still out and about, in a place with a loud background. I knew he had gone to watch an NCAA tournament game with a college friend for his birthday, and I wondered why he didn't move to a quieter location for our call. We must have been ten to fifteen minutes into our conversation with me straining to hear him over my own phone playing a ridiculous instagram video when I mentioned the noise.

"There's no noise over here," he said, adding that he had purposely waited until he came home to call, to ensure he could talk to me in a quiet setting. Uh-oh.

I held the phone away from my ear, looked at the video playing on the screen and quickly recognized I was the problem. Mortified, I immediately closed the app, put the phone back to my ear and confessed. He didn't think anything of it, while I felt terrible for wrongfully accusing him of having the noisy background. Our talk was surface level stuff. Did I like the mountains or the beach, and other questions. We both liked the beach and he asked if I had a favorite one; I said no, there were too many nice beaches that offered different perks. His favorite beach? Waikiki. I thought, huh, a tourist trap. When I inquired, later, I learned that it was his shorthand for the beaches of Hawaii. T had traveled to the North Shore during a solo trip he took for his 60th birthday, and found the beaches exquisite. His default Facebook profile photo is a selfie of him with a Hawaiian beach behind him.

From our phone calls, I gathered that T had been divorced for five years (initiated by his wife who, according to him, left because "she didn't want to be married anymore.") I replayed his choice of words in my head. I could easily say "not wanting to be married anymore" was my reason to file for divorce, or reason for anyone initiating a divorce for that matter. It was as plain and obvious as saying, "I fell asleep because I couldn't stay awake anymore." Looking back, there were certain pieces of information I needed to know up front, and that intentional conversations in the beginning can spare both parties from wasting time. What I also know is I sometimes avoid these open conversations out of fear that I'll discover a dealbreaker that cannot be smoothed over by looking at a handsome face or leaning my head onto a strong shoulder. We were a week in and I was enjoying our evening calls. I didn't want to delve into interrogating him when he would probably feel comfortable revealing more of his personal history as time went by. What I know now: the dealbreaker will eventually show itself whether you deliberately try to avoid it or not.

One week after our introductory texts, I asked T if he was available to meet for breakfast that Saturday. Immediately after suggesting it to him, T called me, joking that I had beaten him to the punch. Coffee felt too short and impersonal for the amount of driving required in the DC area, and dinner felt too ambitious and intimate. By chance I had picked one of his favorite spots for our date, First Watch, which we both took as a good omen.

I arrived at the restaurant first and sat at the table with my eyes trained on the entrance for T. When he entered a few minutes after I was settled in, I recognized him immediately. It felt like the moment the server arrives with your entree: exciting, reassuring, and optimistic. He smiled and I rose from my seat so we could hug. Much of our talk covered his days as a field artillery officer in the Army. I guessed thirty years of that life impacted him in ways that stuck. He also shared that he was a deacon at his church. There was a barely perceptible pause, and I nodded, unsure of what to do with that information. Was I supposed to be impressed? I'm not religious, so I had little idea of what goes into being a deacon. I knew T had a church-related event to attend after our meeting, and he explained that his schedule was generally very busy. I told T it was a positive thing that he had a life and kept up with social engagements. There were too many stories of men that divorced later in life languishing because they had no connections, no real friends, and no community to provide purpose and belonging. Still, I took note of his word choice. Busy. The older I get, the more I relate to those lines from a Mary Oliver poem:

Wherever I am, the world comes after me. It offers me its busyness. It does not believe that I do not want it.

T ordered French toast piled with fruit while I ordered a more traditional spread with bacon and eggs. We both had coffee and bumped our mugs lightly, T's idea of a toast. During the date he asked for the date of my birthday and plugged it into his phone. I asked when we could meet again and he offered to meet three weeks later, because, you guessed it, he was going to be busy every weekend until then. He held the door for me as we left and walked me to my car. We shared another hug and parted ways.

"Okay he's adorable," I texted M, my dear friend and matchmaker. "We will meet again pretty soon I'm sure." I reported back to the other members of my "committee" that the first date had gone well. The committee consisted of M, three other close friends, and my sister. They were all rooting for me, and at the same time, I knew any one of them would share their honest thoughts if I shared something about this new prospect that seemed off.

That evening I sent T a text telling him I was reluctant to get in my car that morning, but it had nothing to do with him, it was due to being introverted and a little socially anxious. I told him he had a warm presence and I appreciated the way he engaged in conversation. I wished him a good night and said we'd talk soon. He thanked me for sharing how I was feeling and told me he was glad to meet in person, too. And he closed with "Have a good night and sweet dreams."

Ah, aren't beginnings grand?

We had a few exchanges on Sunday, and I shared some character building events from work, with photos, and we were on our way. The early texts were promising, but texting didn't seem to be a vehicle for long or deep conversations. I am used to having extended conversations through texting but I knew that wasn't how everyone operated. T and I usually talked multiple nights a week, and in the beginning, he had even apologized for not calling one night. No apology needed, I said, you didn't promise to call me in the first place. He seemed like a lovely man, and described himself as always wanting to be a better person. When he said he "cared about how people experienced him," I could feel my brain light up. After being married for so long to a person who seemed not to care about the ways he negatively affected me, these words put me at ease.

While creating this post, I realized going through everything that happened in sequence was going to be repetitive and tedious when describing a relationship with a person I interacted with for the better part of a year. For the duration of this experience, my trusted committee would all weigh in when I needed objective feedback for those times when something seemed off. If you understand my usual style, you've probably guessed this resulting blog entry means this endeavor didn't work out. Spoiler alert: it didn't work out. If I have to endure a crash and burn, at the very least I'm going to get some writing practice out of it.

Let's get to the main points.

The Good:

- T could be considerate. We went on one date where I didn't bring clothing options; I arrived at his house for one of our dates dressed down in a black v neck t-shirt and a pair of jeans. T had a perfectly coordinated outfit laid out, however, he understood he would be more dressed up than I was, so he adjusted what he chose to wear so we would be at the same "level."

-T knew how to put an outfit together. Some former military men are plagued with a lack of style when their days no longer require a uniform. This man had suits, polo shirts, hats, and even changed his glasses. On one occasion he waited to see what I was wearing so he could wear something with matching colors. T always looked tidy, sharp, and up to date.

-T was chivalrous. He always walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He always opened doors for me. He held my hand when we walked together. When we crossed the street, he remained vigilant of our surroundings and made sure I knew I was safe. He requested that I text him to let him know that I made it home safely after our dates. He asked for permission to kiss me when things were still new.

-T could be supportive. He called before my second name change appointment to encourage me.

-T made coffee for me on the mornings after I slept over, and when he wasn't rushing off to a morning event, breakfast too.

-T was great at phone conversation; we had quite a few laughter filled talks and would wish me "Sweet dreams" when we hung up.

-T could plan a date. More than once he'd make reservations and send me the link. He chose a restaurant for my birthday dinner, and came up with plans for an afternoon into the evening date on the fourth of July. Yes, this is basic, but essential so one person doesn't wind up being the planner every time there's an opportunity to go out.

-T was engaging in person. I enjoyed watching him interact with our servers at restaurants, and seeing how he was in the world. On our third date, he corrected the server, who had asked our names, because the server pronounced my name with a hard G. This led to me explaining my name was a French interpretation of a word with a German origin. The server turned out to be fluent in German, which allowed T the chance to practice speaking with the server. T knew how to look at you with his big brown eyes and focus on the conversation. He was pretty good at responding to bids, like the time I sent him a photo of a rainbow I'd caught that day, and he responded with his own photo of the one he'd captured.

-T was in touch with both of his adult children. When they're adults, they have a choice whether to include you, so being in regular communication with both of them was a positive sign.

-T was cute, and a pretty good kisser. He looked younger than he was and didn't have "old people smell." Yes, I acknowledge I'm scraping the barrel for more positives to put on the good list, here.

The Bad:

-Embellished variations of "Have a Nice Day."

Most of the days of the week had an alliterative well wish from T. There was, "Have a Magnificent Monday," followed by "Have a Terrific Tuesday!," Not to be outdone, Wednesday was always wonderful, and warranted a mention of hump day, accompanied by a camel emoji. Thursday, like Tuesday, was also "terrific," Friday was "Fantastic" with the occasional mention of "TGIF," Saturday and Sunday were usually wildcards that could range from good, great, and sometimes even superb. There was even a holiday version of this, T wishing me a "Happy Memorial Day" with a string of emojis accompanying the message, which I found odd coming from a military veteran with three decades of service. There were other times when T would send a meme or gif for a little razzle dazzle. He sent an image of Mickey Mouse on a Wednesday in early June and I distinctly remember thinking, I can't do this.

I can't do this

These messages from T were simultaneously well meaning and meaningless. There was no real inquiry about how I was doing, or what was going on that day. "Hope you're doing well!" and "TGIF!" leave no room for a response, and also seem to say: if you're not doing well, save it for someone else. These messages felt automated, formulaic, a way to ensure "Message Giselle today" could be checked off of the daily Dumb Things I Gotta Do list.

-His views about gay people. I broached this topic with T on a phone call because I didn't want to get too involved without checking if we had the same beliefs where it mattered. He said he thought gay people should have the same rights as anyone else. I also eventually learned some of his coworkers were gay, and one in particular wasn't discreet about sharing more graphic details. "I don't want to hear about that," T said in a rare moment when he complained about the coworker. I validated him by saying certain things were inappropriate to bring into the office, and that we don't want to hear a graphic rundown of someone's escapades whether they are gay or straight. On another occasion, I brought up a book I was reading, titled "The Tragedy of Heterosexuality," which seemed to alarm T, and cause him to share that he knew what he believed. "It's not a book to convert straight people," I said, "It's more of an observation from the queer community with advice on how to improve things between straight men and women." "Oh," T replied, "In that case, I need all the help I can get." Despite saying that, he never asked to borrow the book, or expressed curiosity about the key takeaways.

-No bids. There was no "Hey, I read this article and thought you'd like it," with an accompanying link, or shared podcasts, or songs. I shared a few things, but eventually realized there would be no sharing back.

-The mask. It's understandable to want to impress someone on a date, especially if you think you like them! It becomes burdensome when you want to maintain this impressiveness for weeks and months at a time. It meant T wouldn't admit his vulnerabilities and kept me perpetually at arm's length, preventing any real or meaningful connection. Whenever I asked T how he was doing, he would say: Good, great, tired or busy. When I told him he could be honest, because no one is "good" or "great" all the time, he said, "I'm generally a positive person." He admitted to sometimes not always sharing how he really felt because he was a "proud black man." "You don't have to wear a mask with me," I said. I got a glimpse into some real talk when he voiced some frustrations about people at work, but it was rare.

-Lack of follow through. T had all sorts of things he would have liked to do with a romantic partner. On one date he said it was so nice to go out to dinner and not be seated alone. I wondered if this was meant to say he was glad to look at a pretty face on the other side of the table or if he was glad it was me. His laundry list of date ideas included hiking, museums, live music events, winery tours -- all things that were happening around us. He mentioned wanting to walk through the monuments in D.C. at night, pausing to add, with you. As we got to know each other, he also mentioned I would eventually visit his home, and he would visit mine, too. We checked off live music as well as me visiting his house and the rest of it remained on the list. This wasn't only about me -- I noticed T didn't do things he wanted for himself. When we met, he shared that he wanted to visit Germany. He had fond memories of the time he was stationed there and wished to make a return trip in the fall, which then shifted to Christmastime, and eventually the following summer. Time kept slipping away like sand through his fingers and instead of marking dates, buying plane tickets and making reservations, he kept moving this trip to a more distant target on the calendar.

-Busy-ness. If you guessed part of the blame for not going on all of those potential dates was because T was too busy, you guessed correctly. I left him alone on Sundays because I knew he often attended both scheduled services. Saturdays seemed to be a mixed bag of church events with different groups. He also attended funerals and memorial services, fraternity events, or activities related to his alma mater, Hampton University. He had every other Friday off but he usually used that time to tend to his 91 year old mother, who lived an hour away from him. He would do her grocery shopping, tackle a few home repairs, and make sure she had what she needed before heading back home. And weekdays? In addition to a full time, and (according to him) demanding day job, his evenings usually included one or multiple Zoom calls for church. During a dinner date, T shared that "The pastor likes us to have our cameras on." "Ugh," I said, "that would drain my soul." On that same date, in a moment of self awareness, T acknowledged his busy-ness might be a sign of avoidance. More than once, usually following a funeral or memorial service, he would claim he was going to "take stock" and make more time for himself, but saying something is not the same as doing it.

-Invalidating himself. T was an "It could always be worse" person. If something impacted him negatively, that was his go to phrase, which I suspected would eventually be used on me. There's nothing wrong with admitting something in life sucks without downplaying it by reminding yourself it's not as bad as it could be.

-Lack of regularity. Dates could range from being one week apart to over a month, and initially I became overaccommodating, trying to find a place to make my mark on his calendar. This got old quickly.

-Treating me like a task on the list. More than once T would call and reveal that I was one in a series of his nightly calls. I knew he had many friends and family members in his circle, but as time went on I felt like an obligation -- a chore -- not a person he actually wanted to call.

-Lack of inclusion. There was never any integrating me into his real life. That's a sign for sure, right -- when you're excited about someone, when things settle in after a few months you're excited to introduce them to your friends and family, your trusted circle. The closest I got was when I was headed to Dulles to drop off my best friend and her family at the airport. I inquired if we could meet for dinner, since I was going to be on his side of the river. His daughter was visiting and he was open to including me in their dinner plans. I declined; it was one of her last nights in town before she had to return to dental school and I didn't want to intrude. Besides, T had mentioned she was very protective, and based on my Facebook profile snooping internet sleuthing, she was his "Ride or Die." I wasn't ready to mess with that. Aside from that example, there were no invitations to events surrounding his college, fraternity or family, which is understandable in the beginning and increasingly questionable as time goes on.

-The ambiguity. Whenever I do these post relationship autopsies, I try to identify the alarm call. Where was the breaking point? There usually isn't one. If things were vague from the start, they would have ended quickly. In the beginning we had clear communication about when T would call and when we would see each other next. It all felt intentional and considerate. By the end? T would end his phone calls with "We'll talk soon," and I didn't press for specifics, I just thought, When is "soon?" Was it tomorrow? In a few days? In two weeks? Texting waned, with fewer emojis and fewer "heart" reactions to my replies. The relationship itself remained undefined. We went out on dates but were we "dating?" I'd ask T if he wanted a companion or a connection and I'd be met with confused silence. We never had the "What are we?" conversation, and pursuing the answer felt like one of those cliched discussions of people desperate to have someone to call their own. At one point I said, "I don't have any sense of how you feel about me," and got "I care deeply for you," as a response, which seemed more like proclamation of someone who cared deeply about not appearing heartless than someone who cared deeply for me. T's shift from being intentional and impressive to being dodgy and obscure was a gradual slide that spanned months.

The "Odds and Ends"

These are not good, bad or ugly things, but observations that struck me as strange but harmless.

-We never connected on social media. Maybe we each knew even if it was "just Facebook" we were sparing ourselves from the inevitable unfriending.

-T had two vehicles. He drove a sleek silver sedan to our breakfast. Over the course of months, that was the last time he brought it out on one of our dates. I never got to ride in it. Yes, I have feelings and opinions about what that might have meant, but we'll keep it in this category.

-Religion. For someone who didn't miss a Sunday in church, I found it odd that T was open to dating someone who was not religious. On our third date, I asked, and he admitted there were women who expressed interest, but he was "picky." There was nothing wrong with having standards; I had asked the question to protect myself. I'm not a church goer and don't see that changing as I get older and wiser about the world around me. If his religion was so important to him, why didn't he seek someone who valued it the same way he did?

-A house that was not a home. T had lived in his house for five years, but it looked like he had just moved in, or was getting ready to move out. There was enough furniture to be comfortable, but I noticed folding tables in lieu of desks, an outdoor patio set in the dining nook, and metal folding chairs, yes that kind, in his bedroom and bathroom. I noticed the light fixture in his entry way had a flickering bulb, which had apparently looked like a distress signal to a neighbor who messaged him out of concern. He never changed it. There were stacks of framed photos and art on his bedroom floor. T's house felt like a place where he slept and kept his things, but it didn't feel like a home.

-This crippling indictment from my sister: "He sounds boring." That was at the end of May, and she wasn't wrong. There's nothing wrong with being boring but "boring" was not a guarantee of clarity, stability, or safety.

The Ugly

-The sex. I am not talking about the act. I never got the feeling this man cared much about what I was experiencing, or understood that penetration isn't what makes sex enjoyable or meaningful, for those reasons, it is not something I miss.

-Unavailability. "Single" is not the same as "available." This on the list because I don't know why someone who knows they are unavailable would volunteer to meet the friend of a friend unless there's a...

-Fear of disappointing others. This was something T openly admitted, which served to explain some of his other behavior. Fear of disappointing others can result in people pleasing, which is dishonest and controlling behavior. Instead of knowing you are getting true and honest answers from someone, they are gaming the conversation to get you to produce the response that spares them from being disappointing. There were many times when I wondered if T was being sincere, or if he was just saying what made him sound good.

-Associating sacrifice with love. The last morning I saw T in person, I initiated a conversational card game with T. I thought it would be helpful for both of us to discuss topics that would give us deeper glimpses into each other. One question from the card asked what our parents taught us about love. "Sacrifice," was T's answer. He'd alluded to how he had sacrificed to stay in his marriage so his children could grow up with parents who stayed together. I suspect he shared this to provide insight, and it did. My thought was, if you sacrificed years of your life so your kids could have married parents, what are you teaching your kids to accept? I didn't think the same way, and in my own marriage I had done the calculation to figure out how long I would have had to stay until my youngest child reached adulthood. I judged T for his choice, and I also understood how being raised a certain way can bake in values that we adopt without question.

-Insisting that he was a "good man." Inexplicably, T said this to me twice on the last morning we spent together: "I'm a good man." I had no reply, though I thought, if you have to tell me, it's probably not true. Wanting to maintain the image of being a "good man" can become an obstacle preventing a person from actually being one. I had no concept of what T considered to be a "good man," and I didn't think to ask.

-Attempting Jedi mind tricks. A few months in, T promised to call one night, and didn't. The problem was, he didn't let me know he wasn't able to call, and didn't acknowledge that he didn't call. When the other person is the one suggesting the idea, failing to follow through and then *poof* moving on without another word -- it's a denial of my experience. The first time it happened -- T promised to call on a Wednesday night, didn't call, and we rolled right into Thursday without any acknowledgement -- I almost let it slide. I even texted niceties back before deciding, nope, I need to say something.

What followed was a lengthy paragraph with a play by play of his hectic evening, which included an uber ride to his car on a rainy evening commute, and a church call. My sister described this as, "the dog ate my homework." She went on to explain that this is a tell of dealing with a perfectionist who feels shame when their shortcomings are revealed. It felt unnecessary; all I wanted was a simple acknowledgement that he promised to call (ensuring I wasn't crazy, or imagining things), and an apology that he couldn't.

The rest of the committee weighed in.

"You don't need someone who offers scraps. Hopefully he'll change this after you talk to him."

"See what the patterns are."

M seemed the most disappointed of all; as someone who also maintained a very active schedule, she knew it didn't take long to send a text. She dissected T's response to me and identified pockets of time when he could have let me know he would be unable to call. Even though our conversations occured entirely via texting, I could hear her saying:It's not that hard, G.

-Communication. Topics that should have been discussions just... weren't. The first night we slept together, when certain, uh, "events" did not occur as anticipated, T rolled over to his side, with his back to me, and said, "It's not you. I'm still healing." I let a few silent minutes pass before I finally asked, "What did you mean when you said 'you're still healing?'" T was a prostate cancer survivor and was two years out from his diagnosis and subsequent treatment. He acted like he had already told me (reference "attempting Jedi mind tricks," above) when this was the first I had heard of it. Sure, it's a difficult topic, but things could have been far less awkward if he had shared this information earlier on.

How it Ended.

I'd describe the ending as a slow collapse that occured over months. The last time I saw T in person was in October, and I had stayed overnight. That last night we spent sleeping together wasn't a euphemism for sexy times. He went to bed in a t-shirt and pajama pants and I figured he was tired and signaling that he needed to rest. It wasn't until the morning that he shared that he wanted to abstain from sex. His epiphany occured when he had to record a video for his church's cancer ministry encouraging everyone to go in for their necessary follow up appointments. He felt he wasn't showing gratitude to God for sparing his life and abstinence was his chosen sacrifice. T said he didn't want to have sex without being married, and acknowledged that he hadn't followed that. He said he hoped to get married again someday. Based on the six months of dating that started off strong and morphed into something sporadic and confusing, I had no illusions that I had any place in this marriage fantasy.

I felt duped, and foolish, not because of his decision, but because T didn't bring any of this up in conversation until the following morning. All of that time he had been harboring knowledge that he had made this choice without saying anything about it to me.

"What are the rules of engagement?" I said, "What is your definition of sex?"

"Well," T started, "Penetration..."

I refrained from pointing out that given his definition, we never actually had sex. Had I been bolder, I would have asked him to explain the logic of abstaining from sex that he was technically unable to have, by his own definition.

When I got up to take my shower, T lingered by the threshold of the bathroom, asking if I wanted him to join me. "I wouldn't want to tempt you," I said.

"Temptation is okay, as long as you don't act on it." T said.

I gently shut the door, leaving him on the other side. I didn't need any more confusion.

When I got home, I typed T a short letter highlighting my feelings about the entire conversation, to include the level of confusion I felt. T replied that he would follow up and proceeded to not text or call until the end of the week, until I prompted him by texting "How are you?"

This resulted in a "dog ate my homework" reply. I'm okay, it's been an extra busy week and I'm trying to complete my responses to your questions. I wasn't avoiding you but was thinking you're expecting my responses. People tell on themselves if you sit back and let them explain. We finally talked over the phone about his failure to communicate important information, and in a moment of self awareness, T admitted he was "stunted," and "had some work to do."

In the next few months, I invited T to a book signing, which he couldn't make. I also invited him to a movie screening for a film by one of my college classmates, an extension of an invitation from M, who was coming to D.C. for the occasion. I paid attention to his language when I asked. "I'd love to attend the screening with you," was the initial response. That's not a yes, I thought. Days later, when M was purchasing tickets, I pressed for a definitive answer, and he not only said he was going, but he offered to buy "refreshments." Even his solid answer felt shaky, which was why I wasn't terribly surprised when he called and shared that he wouldn't be able to make it after all, and asked, "How can I make it up to you?"

There wasn't any "making it up." This was a one night movie screening with a live and in-person question and answer session that included my classmate and some of the guys featured in the documentary he directed. This wasn't like buying another ice cream cone to make up for the one that had fallen on the ground.

It took several months for the wheels to fall off. On a Friday night phone call in late January, T offered to take me out to "take (my) mind off of all of the 'court stuff.'" By then I had backed off completely from pushing to see him. I noticed the phone calls spread further and further apart, and he didn't text me every day. My backing off was on purpose; I wanted to observe what happened when I took my efforts out of the picture. T promised to call me on Saturday to check schedules.

For someone who was so "busy" T didn't seem to have a handle on what he was doing from day to day. In a way that was disappointing, yet somehow didn't disappoint, T never called me on Saturday, like he'd promised. Based on previous actions, if you guessed he didn't acknowledge that he didn't call, congratulations for understanding past behavior predicts future behavior. As someone with a bachelor's degree in individual psychology, I should understand that too, but sometimes you make yourself stick around to collect enough data to be sure. My conclusion: Gaslighting by omission was T's schtick.

I received texts on Sunday, Tuesday and Friday, none of which acknowledged that we were supposed to discuss schedules, and didn't, or any other talk about taking my mind off the "court stuff."

Jedi mind trick, anyone?

I finally texted back, saying I felt rude not responding to his texts, adding that his good morning texts seemed well meaning but not acknowledging that he didn't reach out as promised felt unkind. He was "so sorry for disappointing" me and not sharing that he "got busy dealing with snow and ice." Also included in the message: Please forgive me.

When people ask for forgiveness, it feels like adding insult to injury. Forgiveness happens on the schedule of the person who was harmed, and they shouldn't be burdened with this kind of plea. I wasn't trying to punish T; I hated being pushed to forgive when he wouldn't even properly acknowledge the offense. Being busy shoveling had nothing to do with not saying, "Hey, I know I said I'd call and I'm sorry I didn't."

T left two voicemail messages, a week apart, and then ceased texting and calling. This was not a person who "cared how I experienced him," this was a person who cared how I saw him. Maybe he gave up when he realized I had stopped believing he was a good man and I was perpetually at the bottom of his list not because he purposely kept me there but because he was just so busy. This was a person who knew how to say "Sorry," and push for forgiveness so he didn't feel bad, but did nothing to change his actual patterns.

When you stop hoping for someone to show up, and care, and be consistent, there's a sense of relief in sparing yourself from giving them a chance. There's no more subjecting yourself to a fool's errand after so many iterations of similar disappointments. By the end, I hated receiving the dressed up "Have a Nice Day" text messages, I hated wondering if he was going to call, and I hated feeling like I was imposing for wanting basic courtesy and consideration, a standard this very person had shown me when I was a stranger to him.

My mistakes? Patterns that bothered me in the beginning kept showing up; walking away as soon as I noticed these issues would have spared me from months of confusion. I didn't ask enough questions, and I stuck with giving the benefit of the doubt in the beginning when in truth, that advice should be followed after someone has done the work to build trust over time. I learned that I can like someone without feeling the need to try to turn it into love. I learned that someone who seems stable and even (to use my sister's indictment) "boring" doesn't make them someone who is safe; a well dressed, well spoken, seems-to-have-his-shit-together guy can also be an agent of chaos.

By the end, I had a visceral feeling that T actually hated me. This is the type of accusation the other party would never admit because it makes them look like a terrible person. Someone who wanted to see me would have shared that he couldn't follow through on his promise, and he would have gone through his calendar to suggest a time when he was available. He wouldn't casually let me know I might be bumped by a zoom call or tell me, after I pressed him to share a week later, that he was so busy shoveling snow that he couldn't spare a minute to call or text. He wouldn't bypass acknowledging his failure to follow through on a promise with a series of meaningless text messages. His decision to abstain from sex felt like a passive aggressive ploy to get rid of me, and another accusation I'll never be able to prove. I wondered about T's marriage, and what his ex-wife must have endured. I thought about the saying that women don't divorce good men. I thought about how often women have to do the dirty work of ending things with men who care more about looking like a good man than actually being one.