X Marks the Spot

At Laurelhurst Park the other day with A. sniffing up a storm and who do I see? A past date? This was PB (pre-blog) about two years ago. A time when I felt a large amount of optimism regarding suitors, my romantic future, and life in general, shortly after the end of a long-term relationship with, oh a person shall we name X?

At the time I was dating a friend's son. Yes, the crop of singletons is small here, but who could resist? My friend, still a wonderful friend today, I met through grad school. Her son was 22 at the time with a mop of curly blonde hair and wooed me. Scandalous! Mon dieu! The flurry of dating - believe me - was short lived. I get a dull headache from multi-tasking office projects let alone men. So, there was the lovely 22 year old, former college football star, prom king, who adored Russian literature and was (clear throat) just finishing up school, yes undergrad, at U of O. He was the guy i never got in high school and pretended I did not want either. He was sweet, adoring, smart, and made me a mix CD with such contemporary artists! this generation! Suddenly I was driving around listening to Arcade Fire, look at me. Anyway. Just a month or two. It's obvious what transpired, I think, so no need to go into much detail, but the guy I bumped into was someone who I had been chatting with at the dog park at around the same time. We'll call him Dog Park Guy, who may be reading this.

But I promised myself not to edit because of audience, still, I like him as a person, so I will try to be gracious.

The story: basically, after many flirtatious conversations, Dog Park Guy asks me out for a beer. Now this may not appear amazing on the surface, but for Portland? This may well be urban legend. So we went for a beer near Belmont and 33rd, Side Street?, I cannot remember - so many dates, so little time, and we had a nice time. DPG is a genuine nice guy from the Midwest. As I recall, there was one kiss. All fine. But my mind was some place else. Maybe with the 22 year old I had seen naked that morning?

Then, I ran into him at the park maybe three months later, I cannot remember. And guess what? He's walking two dogs now. My fling has ended. He's met a girl, she's moved in, and there's dog love. Already. I remember thinking: wow, that was fast. The musical chairs of dating, and the music is slowing down and shit - there are no decent chairs left.

So, now fast forward to another year (another year!?) and i see him where else? And we're walking our dogs and he only has one. I had ruled him out before, in part, because his dog is spastic, though sweet, and enjoys mauling or "punching people on the stomach" as he described. A. thinks the dog is so bizarre that she walks about 20 feet away while we walk. So, we head around the lake, down leafy paths, Laurelhurst is a like an incredibly mini-Central Park and anyone who lives here will be quick to brag that it was designed by the same set of brothers. And they are right to brag: it is overgrown, yet lovely, peaceful, lush.

So my point - damn, I know there is one in here - oh, is that I tell him about my moving plan (aug/sept) and we discuss the blog and dating. He tells me, "I don't know how to date." In my twenties I may have lamented the same and thought it sweet. But now? I find this unacceptable. Plus, he actually does know how to date, so he deserves a crapload more credit than he's giving himself. So this rant is not directed at him but to others with this issue:

1) In your 30s you must learn how to date or you look sad. You look like a guy who cannot get the job done and that quite unsexy. Be capable.
2) It is simple.
3) Meet a woman, smile, flirt, within 3 meetings ask for her number.
4) Put thought into a bar or restaurant. Be early.
5) Look nice, smell good. Again, not hard. A button down or retro tee-shirt and jeans, fine.
6) Make eye contact, ask questions, feign interest.
7)Pay for said drinks or meal.
8) If interested, a kiss, even if a peck.
9) Follow up with a phone call. That's right. NOT an email. NOT, I repeat, NOT a wimp-ass text. A PHONE CALL. Very retro, I know.

Whew, I'm exhausted.

So, the next day I get a call from X. Sometime during our relationship I nicknamed him Stinky (not because of a smell at all, but because of an inside joke, some quirk), that morphed into El Stinko, Stinky-la-roo and my favorite: Stinkles. Now, I call my dog by these names too so it is really an uber-compliment. When my phone rings it says: Stinkles.

Just the other day, with N. on the porch, drinking wine, spying the new potentially gay neighbor - who he refers to as a hanging pair - N., who knew X got tipsy and asked, "Do you ever see yourself with him, like getting back together with him. I mean all I'm saying is that he was so great when he came to Christmas that time and helped my mom cook, clean, and everything. Plus, I think he's cute."

Ah N.

Of course I do. Does anyone not lament on past X people? And wonder and imagine and consider it? But I quickly launched into the misery that was the end of our relationship, and then told him what I believe to be true: I am an unreliable narrator. Even of my own story. I don't know what is true anymore. Did we abhor each other that much? Were we really in love? One day the answer is as clear as the night sky and another day it's cloudier than the Sandy River.

Then my phone rings: Stinkles. Who is also probably reading this. And we talk for one hour and twenty minutes. My phone has the proof. And it's a fun phone call beginning with him saying, "I'm on Percoset for a migraine so I hope I don't say anything I'll regret." And we banter, and it's just fun, he is someone who knows me well, seen me at my worst, best, and in between and hasn't run off into the hills. He has a deep voice that lures women and girls of all ages and he's funny, bright, and a wonderful listener. Even when we get off the phone I feel a little high, like he's passed the Percoset through the phone line.

But of course, it could never work, could it? No, there is too much history, much of it painful. And another small detail: he is moving in with his girlfriend in one month.