Love is not...

So, I am mildly obsessed with this song called "Hallejuah" by Jeff Buckley. In it, he says, "Love is not a victory march."

Having little to no experience with romantic love, I have to believe that this means that love isn't easy. Love isn't something you should lord over other people. Love is not something that happens only when the sun is shining.

A friend of mine is going through some fertility issues, and she's tired and scared and sad a lot of the time. And her husband, though he might not seem like the exact match for my friend, is incredibly supportive. We went, along with another friend, to Point Reyes this weekend. She came to my house so that we could ride together to Berkeley to pick up our other friend, and when she got here, she was on the phone with him. He was checking in on her, not because he's possessive and scary, but because she's been having a rough time of it lately. Love for them, is certainly no victory march.

Looks aside, it's the ability to weather the storm, the fact that two people can get through incredibly painful times together that makes love something I want.

I've felt lately that getting married, or otherwise being in a relationship, might bring more problems. I've got all my debt paid off, do I want to inherit debt? I've got hobbies and friends and a full life. Do I want to change any of that? But, here's the thing, hobbies will come and go. Friendships will change shape as people get married, have kids move away, and what matters is not the fact that I can sit and edit photos in peace or that I get to watch Gray's Anatomy without anyone making fun of me. What matters is that life is going to throw me a lot of challenges, and though some of those challenges might be different if they involve two people, I wouldn't trade love for anything. So, I still believe in love, but I'm coming to understand a bit more about what it really means.

The Accidental Dater

I read this article on serial dating on Match.com's Happen Magazine, and it got me wondering about my own dating style.

Granted, the woman who wrote the article made it a point to go on 50 dates with 50 different guys, but still, am I an accidental serial dater?

I claim to hate first dates that mean less and less as time goes on. I claim to want to find some special guy and settle down for a happy life together, but when that gets even remotely close, I tend to get over a guy with a quickness.

My mom reminds me that I have good instincts and that if I feel the need to not be with someone, then I should probably follow that need. She also reminds me that my second and third dates have gotten better over time, that I have made good choices when it comes to not moving past the first date with some guys.

But, let's face it. Since April, I have been on six first dates. That may not seem like a lot, but it's more than one a month, when you average it. Should I go on fewer first dates when I have a feeling things won't work?

What do you all think? Am I serial dater? Can I ever commit?

Conflicted

On Saturday, B (aka The Intellectual) arrived to pick me up for a date in San Francisco.

He arrived at 11:33 a.m. He was supposed to arrive at 11 a.m.

Amazingly enough, I wasn't all that upset at his arriving late for two reasons:

1) I got a chance to start reading a book I need to read for work but, for whatever reason, have been avoiding

2) He doesn't have a cell phone, so it's not like he was late and just not calling to tell me.

Still, he WAS over 30 minutes late...he mentioned later that he expected my dad to be there, chewing him out, telling him what for...

Okay, so rocky start aside, we head to SF. We had a fairly decent conversation going, covering a lot of territory, learning that we have a lot in common as far as politics are concerned. I was grateful to learn this, and he didn't seem to care either way. Then, the bomb dropped, and so did my heart...into my stomach.

He wants to go back to school.

For a Ph.D. in Philosophy.

Anyone who knows anything about my dating history, knows that as soon as the word "Philosophy" crossed his lips, I cringed. At the least, I cringed on the inside, if not visibly.

The first problem, is the specific degree, itself. This would make for the THIRD potential boyfriend who feels the need to explore philosophy as a profession, and that, in my experience, means a life of doing not much and feeling good about it.

The second part is what going for a Ph.D. means in light of a new relationship. Giving up a good job to go study PHILOSOPHY for 4-6 years? Uhm, yeah, dude's not looking to get married anytime soon. I was, or at least pretended to be, gung ho at the thought of living through my ex-boyfriend's Ph.D. experience, but this time, I can't even pretend to think it's a good idea.

I could go on. I could tell you each detail about the rest of the date.

But right now, I don't want to.

I'm conflicted, you see.

The Princess and the Tree

Thursday night.

Midnight.

SCCRRRAAATTTCCCHHH

WHIP

BANG

SOUNDS LIKE MICE SCURRYING THROUGH THE WALLS AND/OR A BURGLAR TRYING TO SCALE THE SIDE OF THE HOUSE

Me: Shut UP!

A tree whips around, improbably, to hit the front of the house.

Me: Daddy! Someone is trying to break in to my room!

My mom: Are there mice in the walls?

My dad: I'll go take care of this.

Half an hour later...

My dad: I cut down some branches.

At midnight. He went outside and cut down branches.

Cut to 3 a.m.

Me: Oh my GOD! Will this wind never stop? That's IT, I'm putting in earplugs!

Friday morning, 9 a.m.

A co-worker: Hey, where's your smile?

Me: I'll TELL you where my smile is.

Where I Live

These thoughts have been wandering around my mind for a few days, but it was actually Bon Jovi who put it all into perspective for me.

I was listening to what I think is the newest Bon Jovi CD, and on this CD is the song with the catch phrase, "Who says you can't go home?" Basically, the song is an ode to New Jersey, but it got me thinking about my home.

I live in the Bay Area. This is my home. I know San Francisco, apparently well enough for someone to fall asleep in the backseat when I'm driving (during the daytime!), a fact that is strangely comforting to me. I drive once a week forty minutes from my house for Bible study. Most weekends find me somewhere in the Bay Area. I don't just live here, I have a life here!

Then, there's living in my hometown. As much as I sometimes want to leave, and understanding that there may come a time when I do, I have come home, and I'm okay with that. I'm okay with returning to the person I was as a child, the person who appreciated her community and what it had to offer. At the very least, it feels wonderful to be one of those people who offers something to the community.

I'm old enough to be able to leave my city to visit friends, go to a museum or Giants game, have a tasty Indian lunch in Berkeley, or any and all of the above, but, suddenly, I'm grown-up enough to appreciate coming home to where I live.

About a Boy

On Wednesday, I went on my first second date in almost a year. Well, actually, my first second date in over a year. Wow. I'm picky...like you didn't know that already!

And the date went well. The boy, well, let's face it, he's a man. He's not a man-child. He's a grown-up man, but not in that scary way that I worry about. He's not a grown up who will expect me to put away childish things. No, he's a man who's comfortable in his own skin, and that is oh so important.

He's still cute. He's still funny. He's still smart. And he has a great smile, and it's an even better smile when he's laughing at the same time.

Plus, when he saw me walking up the ramp leading to the restaurant, he had this kind of half-smile, smirk on his face, like he liked how I was looking (it's the acceptable white guy version of, "Dang baby, you look good.") On that particular day, I felt that my looks actually held and that I had pulled myself together nicely, so it was pleasant to feel appreciated. I'm a feminist, in my way, but I'm also still a woman, and I like to be appreciated for looking good. I know that I'm judged when I don't look my best, so it's nice for the opposite to be true as well.

So, yes, I like him. I think I like his smile best...

Oh, and we're going out again next weekend (no comments about why not this weekend - he's camping with his brothers, thank you very much).

So, I met a boy who is a man. I met a man who likes to smile. And I like him enough to see him again. That's all so rare.

Another Reason Why I'm a Librarian

To answer questions like these:

"Scuse me....where are the books?"

Asked by a four year old making an inquiry at the Children's Reference Desk.

Pants

In the past month or so, my body has decided that it would very much like to return to how it was when I was in high school. I'm okay with that, to an extent. I'm okay with losing a little bit of weight (especially if it's because I'm not eating pure and utter junk and/or because I'm actually exercising), but I don't want to lose all of my curves.

I'm built a lot like my dad (tallish, with long limbs and a sometimes ghetto booty), so my curves tend to be somewhat limited...not that I'm really complaining. What I do mind, however, is the waistband gap. You know what I'm talking about if you have anything even remotely beyond a flat butt. And you know that it ain't pretty. My body, as it did in high school, is taking to not fitting well in pants. This would explain why, for my entire Sophomore year of high school, I wore one of the two hideous uniform skirts instead of comfy Dockers. The legs usually fit, and the butt usually looks okay, but at the waist, the pants just gape and look as though they are threatening to fall off. The same thing happens with skirts, but I can pull skirts down to fit at my hips...with pants that's not as easy.

I am probably one of the few people who really-really likes low-rise jeans (not the scary, coin slot ones, but the tasteful ones), because for the first time in a lot of years, jeans actually fit. And with the addition of long t-shirts to the realm of women's fashion, for a short breadth of time, I had a wardrobe that didn't show my belly unless I wanted it to. Now, even my low-rise jeans are rebelling, the long-ish t-shirts are shrinking in the wash and I'm back to being an awkward teen with ill-fitting pants. Luckily, skirts and dresses worn with tights are staying in style for the fall and winter, so at least I won't have to freeze my toosh off in a plaid skirt and ankle socks like I did in high school. Because, really, I don't want my toosh to go anywhere.

p.s. The Intellectual did call (on Saturday...the same day as my impatience e-mail). We're going out again tonight...this time to an actual restaurant.

p.p.s. The Intellectual is not the one whom I called by the wrong name in an e-mail...that's The Nurse, and he and I have now talked a few times on the phone, but he hasn't asked me out.

Where Were You?

Five years ago, where were you? What were you doing when you found out the news? Were you, like me, asleep? On the West Coast, it was still early enough to be asleep without feeling guilty. And when one of the more hyper and hysterical girls ran down the hallway banging on doors, telling people that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center, it meant nothing to me, and I went back to sleep.

Well, first I told my roommate, who had asked me groggily, "Who was that, and what did she want at this hour?"

We both didn't understand what the news meant at 7:44 in the morning and didn't consider turning on our television to find out. We just went back to sleep. The whole world was changing, and we slept through it.

But then, not ten minutes later, my mom called. All she said was, "Turn on the news."

And then we knew, and nothing was the same after that. After that, people were united in a way they had never been before. After that, my inordinate fascination with New York continued to grow. After that, the whole atmosphere on campus changed. And then it changed back.

How soon we forgot.

How long we will remember.

Oh How She Hates the Waiting Game

Yes, I did just refer to myself in the third person. Sarah hates the waiting game. Sarah hates the part after a good date when she tries not to care whether the guy calls or not.

Honestly, I'm not ridiculously upset at The Intellectual not having called immediately. After all, this was a two hour coffee date, not one of those misleading, meandering six hour first dates that leaves everyone with a mixture of feeling like we're going to get married next week and that we never, ever, ever could possibly fathom spending another minute together.

But still, I don't like this part. I like it better when they (meaning the guys I actually like) call. I also like it better when it's five or six or seven days later, and I know for certain that no call is coming my way.

The middle of the waiting game is not a middle I like.

Believing

Sometimes, I think that it's a good thing that it's taking longer than I anticipated for me to find a good boyfriend, a good man to eventually marry.

I've stopped believing in the magical love that Romantic Comedies insist exist. As far as movies are concerned, I believe in the love portrayed in quirky films. Mostly, I believe in love songs. I believe that one person can feel what James Blunt feels in "Goodbye My Lover" and that Damien Rice has it right in "Cannonball" (courage teach me to be shy). I think it's possible for one person to feel so strongly about another, for people to be so in love that they are overcome with the kind of emotions that go into poetry and songwriting.

I don't feel that I've lost anything by moving beyond the Romantic Comedy. Instead, I've gained something. I've gained the belief in a love that can grow out of normal life, that extraordinary circumstances are not a pre-requisite for love.

That said, I had a very good date this evening. The guy...hmm what should his nickname be...let's just call him "The Intellectual." There. So, the Intellectual (though that's not an entirely accurate description, but in comparison to other guys...okay, yeah, let's go with that). So, the Intellectual and I had a coffee date. I got there earlier than he did, after a somewhat hectic and mildly traumatic day, and was happy to buy my little chai tea and sit down to relax. Buying my own drink also took away the inevitable awkwardness over who would pay for my beverage. He got there just on the cusp of my preparing to leave, but he got there. He didn't even say hi, he just started talking to me, like we know each other already, but not in a creepy way, no, in a really comfortable way. And then, we just stayed in the coffee shop and talked. We talked about religion and politics, which, they say, you're never supposed to do. I, however, prefer to talk about politics and religion early on, because they're important to me. And we had a good discussion, where we agreed more than disagreed.

He's smart. He's good looking. I felt comfortable and like he could protect me if he had to.

A good coffee date...and I hope that the Intellectual calls me again.

I didn't kill it

So, my making one of the ultimate in online dating faux pas did not, in fact, kill the conversation with the guy I like. He's supposed to call me tonight...hmm.

In other news, I was trying to slowly disentangle from the one I think is more of a friend, but I think he might really like me. There's nothing worrying me about him, so I will go ahead and keep talking to him and eventually see him again...

And...dun dun dun...I have a date on Wednesday. It's a coffee date. But it's in my hometown (not with someone from my hometown, thank goodness), so that will make the evening easier for me. It seems that I almost always ending up having to drive a far distance to meet with someone for just a little while, so it's a nice change to have someone drive all the way to me. Plus, and this is the kicker, I said where we would meet and and asked if he wanted me to give me directions.

"Is it the only one in town?" He asked

"Yes." I said.

"I'll find it."

For any of you who have heard me rant and rave about the boy who got lost, I think that you will understand that this is a very big deal. He'll find it?! Awesome. He'll come to my town, AND I don't have to give him directions. Yippee!!!