This story starts out boring, but it gets better.

Today I went to the dentist (yawn). I had two cavities filled, was informed by the receptionist that I owed them $300 from a previous visit that I didn't realize I owed, and was facing a 8 block walk to the metro in the dreary, rainy cold. Also, I was hungry, and at this point, having had cavities filled in both sides of my mouth, and having extra novacaine because previous experience had taught this dentist to front-load me with painkiller due to my extra-sensitive teeth, I was still numb ear-to-ear and was having trouble locating my upper lip and cheeks with my tongue, which I kept manically pushing around the inside of my mouth. I looked frazzled. I tried to fix myself by putting on lipstick in my handheld mirror. If you're picturing Heath Ledger's Joker, smeared lipstick and tongue-jabbing-in-cheek included, you're not far off.
So where am I? Oh, yes, cold, numb, wet, headache from novacaine overdose setting in, miffed about the unexpected $300. And so I decided to foresake my spendthriftiness and walk a few extra blocks to Whole Foods for soup, which surely could be consumed with a straw.

The last time I was at the Whole Foods in Clarendon, I hadn't intended to go grocery shopping and so hadn't brought a reusable bag with me. Where I normally shop (Safeway, HT), you can get such a bag for $.99 at the counter, which I figured would be twice as much at Whole Foods. When I got to the check-out, I grabbed a reusable bag, but didn't see a price tag. I asked the cashier how much.
Him: "$25"
Me: "What? I'm sorry. I thought you said $25..."
Him: "Yes, it's $25. The proceeds go to feeding children in Africa."
Indeed, the side of the bag says "FEED" on it in big letters, which is a cutesie way of both looking like a horse's feed bag and also expressing what you did when you bought it (i.e., feed African children).
Me: "I'll just take a paper bag."
GASPS!!!! GASPS from the cashier! GASPS behind me in line! What? Is she... Is she going to give the finger to African schoolchildren and the environment?
Yeah, because I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person who just can't go around spending $25 on a reusable grocery bag. And isn't it JUST LIKE Whole Foods, and Clarendon, and the likes of those that like the likes of those to have a $25 reusable bag? Give me a break. You know what that bag should say on the side? GUILT. Because people who buy those $25 bags do it so they'll feel less guilty about spending $15 on acai juice-boxes, among other things.
OK, no one really gasped... but the check-out guy did double back with me and asked me if I was SURE that I didn't want to get a bag, since it would provide 250 meals to children. Yes, yes, we already covered, this, sir. I'd like to use the disposable bag made of virgin timber. I promise you, this is hurting me more than it's hurting you...

Anyway, I had bitter feelings about the Clarendon Whole Foods. Today, the universe took advantage of my broken-resolve trip to Whole Foods to teach me a lesson. It's important to know, before going forward, that I'm exceedingly spacy-brained. I keep hoping that my absent-mindedness is a sign of inner genius, i.e., my brain is so advanced it cannot be bothered with mundanities, and that some masterwork of art or scientific breakthrough is on my horizon. I'd so, so much rather be an absent-minded professor than just ditzy. In the meantime, today I left my cell phone at work. And when I got to the dentist, I realized I'd forgotten to charge my i-pod, which meant I had to listen to the sweet melodies of DRILL for an hour. And when I got through the check-out at Whole Foods, I realized I'd left my wallet... somewhere. (Moments ago I found it in the pocket of my bathrobe. This is likely a part of my genius revealing itself). So the cashier is tapping her foot at me, and I'm pulling everything out of my clown-car of a purse, and eventually accept that I have no wallet. I offer her a check - but I only have my gov't ID (no wallet, no license). So I'm comfortable with my fate, that after picking out the most luxurious handful of items to soothe my drill-rattled soul (cookies, soup, organic vanilla-bean body wash), I'm going to have to leave the groceries there. This is - all of this, with the bag, and the foot-tapping-cashier, and the check - embarassing. But whatever. It sure takes the cake over trying to use a credit card that keeps getting declined. As I'm repacking my bag and turning to go, the lady in line behind me says, "I'll pay for her groceries."

The entire cast (me, cashier, bag boy) turns to see what's entered the stage: a lovely, classy woman, who is ready to pay for my groceries, no questions asked.
Me: Thank you, that's very kind, but I can't accept that. I'll just go find my wallet and come back later.
Her: It's no trouble at all. (To the cashier) Please add her total to mine.
Me: [insert a thousand more protests]
Her: Please, please just take the groceries. Just, pay it forward.
And for some reason, at this point, the collision of embarassment/annoyance/inconvenience/awe was too great for me to handle, and I gave in. It was embarassing to let her pay for the groceries, but it almost seemed rude to continue to protest when she was so insistent.
Me: Can I write you a check?
Her: No. no. Just take them.
Me: Can you tell me a charity that you particularly like? Somewhere I can make a donation?
Her: (chuckle) You can do something nice for someone else. Or you can do something for me by letting me do this. Ok?

The gentleman bagging the groceries, who reminds me spookily of Mr. Ecko from LOST, shakes his head. "What is happening here, this I will never forget. This is rare. This, I think, is extinct in this world, and I see it with my own eyes. I will never forget this kindness."

So I took the groceries. It was pretty emotional, that $26 gift. Why would someone do something like that?
(1) She mistook my sagging jowls and inability to form words (thank you, extra novacaine) as a sign of something gone awry, and took pity on me.
(2) She was in a hurry, and my whole "I know it's in here somewhere!" routine was taking too long.
OR
(3) She wanted to do something nice. And not just because she felt guilty for buying arugula and goji berries.

Let's go with (3), shall we?

I'm kind of excited now about how I'm going to 'pay it forward.' I already give money to charities each month, charities that are used to receiving charity, that ask for charity. It needs to be something really spontaneous to "pay it forward" properly, right? I'm going to start carrying $30 cash (that's right! I'm raising the stakes!) in an envelope labeled "RAK" (for Random Act of Kindness, since Pay it Forward was a rubbish movie) so I'm armed and ready for the universe to put a $30-sized need before me.

My 12th grade English teacher once told me that you know you're a writer when you tend to perceive the world through metaphors. Needless to say, I was pretty tickled with this assessment. I may as well have been on my knees before her, looking humbly up at her, donned in her PhD regalia, as she lowered her sword (or pen – mightier?) on each of my shoulders, 'I dub you, Heather, Sir Writer.' Oh, the self-satisfaction. The indomitable pride…

Enter, years later, the exiest man alive. (Not to be mistaken with a rhyming word beginning with "s". Ex-y, as in, just the sort you ought to break up with straightaway). There we were, gazing out at the (otherwise romantic) sunset ---
Me: It's almost like a painting it's so surreally beautiful.
Him: (in his exiest voice) What is wrong with you? It's right in front of you! A painting is a depiction of this. There's nothing surreal about reality.

Alright. He had a point. Maybe seeing the world through metaphors (and similes) all the time isn't the greatest thing if it means that you're always at least one step away from reality. It wouldn't be good to, say, only look at things in a mirror, rather than straight on. Is the world I see every day a copy of a copy?

Clever or idiotic, this is just how I make sense of my existence, by drawing comparisons between two otherwise unrelated things. Why be realistic when you can be so synaptically bonkers?

For example: I've been dealing with a lot of legal questions recently regarding Web 2.0. In case you haven't noticed, the Information Superhighway has gone a bit autobahn. Awesome, but, sort of scary, and I feel like my client is in potential danger playing about out there. My perception: a man, standing on the edge of a steep cliff with lots of snapping, snarling things hungrily pacing below. I've got a hammer, nails, and all the boards I need, and with these tools my inclination is to build a wall to keep him from falling off. This basically boils down to my saying 'No' to almost everything my client wants to do with Web 2.0.

But this won't do at all. I've got a client with a lot to offer the world, and what good are they going to do hovering and shivering on the edge of a cliff? Safe, but, useless! So I've started to perceive my job as using the tools to build strong, reliable bridges (with handrails, natch), stairs, and pathways – a veritable Swiss Family Robinson assortment of tree-top decking. Now, every time they ask if they can do something, I immediately picture a man standing on the edge of the cliff, scratching his head, bored and useless, and I think to myself, "If I'm a good lawyer, I will be able to build him a strong bridge." And seeing things this way actually inspires me to try harder.

Dear Me at 17,
You tend to see the world through metaphors. Cool! Now, learn to rein that cuckoo brain in, because (SPOILER ALERT) when you do eventually get paid to write, your options will be: legalese or (yawn) "plain language." Enjoy.
Love,
Me at 28

Dear Me at 28,
I will never be that old. I'm going to go watch Party of Five, now.
Love,
Me at 17

Neck-deep in the era of e-bay, I remain faithful to the yard sale. Yay, though it may bring me a measly $75 after 4 hours of sitting in the hot sun, it is my preferred venue for the conversion of my trash to your treasure. And so it was, this Saturday, that Los and I were sitting in chairs in front of my house, barely shaded, boiling like crawfish, fruitlessly attempting to pawn off that extra Brita filter and about a thousand sweaters that aren't long enough for my freakishly stretched torso. (I sold exactly zero sweaters. I literally tried to GIVE them away around 1 pm - no takers). While sitting in the DC summer stew, I acknowledged that, in truth, the steamy, sauna-esque weather is my favorite. So long as I'm not in any itchy or uncomfortable fabric, and there's no particular need for me to appear collected (read: do not love wearing full black suit standing in line outside Reyburn building, blechh), I otherwise adore the let-it-all-hang-outedness of the humidity. This is the sort of weather that inspired dozens upon dozens of toddlers to strip down to their skinnies and run squealing with joy through the fountain in Chicago last weekend. This is also the sort of weather that makes people go insane. But I sort of like that, in my own weird way. It's akin, I suppose, to the electrifying feeling in the air of the calm before the storm. Pre-revolution weather. Awesome. Los is reading Homicide right now, which is based in Baltimore, and he confirmed that, indeed, the grizzly creepiness of behavior in DC and Baltimore in the summer is an ongoing phenomenon. When the temperature goes up, so do the number of bizarre murders (no apparent motive, bizarre methods... CSI sorts of stuff, you know). Because I'm usually safely shielded from all of that, I associate the heat with the same sense of faux-danger you might feel with, well, a thunderstorm, as previously mentioned.

With one glaring exception.

The first DC citizen, her most unstable citizen, cannot tolerate the strains of summer, and has recurring horrible, monstrous, life-disrupting, emotional, and televised breakdowns as soon as the first stress of the season sets down. I speak, of course, of our goddess of the underground: Metro. It's the influx of the tourons, yes. But it's also the pure lunacy of an overheated citizenry.

Yesterday, when descending into metro center, I came upon, for the first time, the horror of a blocked entry ramp. The blue/orange platform was so clogged with people that you couldn't get off of the escalator, and people were actually walking backward, up the down escalator, to avoid slamming against the platform mob. A train was broken, and when it eventually, 10 minutes later, chugged into the station, the swell of people nearly spilling over the platform immediately started to push towards the train. It was if they hadn't heard the mantra seventeen gajillion times to please allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. I was getting pushed from all directions. Do. Not. Like.

And then, ah, witness the brilliance: The train doors were malfunctioning, so while the train idled in the station, and passengers were poised with panic and nausea-stricken faces to shove their way out of the cars, the doors would open for about 3 seconds and then clap shut. And people tried to get off the train and onto the train in those teeny 3 second hiccups. You may wonder: didn't people get caught in the doors? Why yes! They did! And did people continue to try to jump ON to the already packed trains? As a matter of fact - yes! I heard people down the platform screaming. It was nothing short of terrifying.

I ended up letting three trains go by before I got on. I'm never one to hate on Metro too badly. She's a fickle beast, to be sure, but the only one we have, and I prefer to be grateful for any cheap, green transportation than to frown upon our only option.

ATTACK OF THE KILLER SIDEWALKS (orig. published on myspace, April 6, 2006)

It's 11 am. Do you know where your hip professional shoes are?

Yesterday I noticed a coworker wearing some hiiiiigh platform gold sandals with a strap studded with rhinestones running down the middle of her foot. I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she was having an 'Amelia Bedelia at the Office' moment; perhaps the first time she wore them, some construction worker yelled at her, "WORK IT, GIRL!" and she took his advice to mean, Oh, I should wear these to work... Anyway, I was staring at the shoes, so I obviously had to say something. I did the natural thing and made up some wild story about how I had a very similar pair of shoes in white, but I hadn't worn them yet because my feet would be killing me by the time I got to work. Suddenly, she comes alive. She leans her head in to me, squints one eye expressively, and with punctuated emphasis warns me that THIS CITY WILL KILL YOUR SHOES!!! Another coworker pipes up: "It's true! It just isn't safe to wear your shoes out on the sidewalks." They're both nodding ferociously, knowingly.

I admit to fabricating the possession of the white twins to my coworker's shoes, but I am serious about how serious these women were about the death of my shoes. We could easily have been talking about snipers, muggers, peeping toms, or rapists. I mean, whats more important in life? the integrity of your virtuous body or the safety of your wedges, peep-toes, and sling-backs? I think we all know the answer to that one. Bullet wounds heal, but when the wedge of your 9 West Mystic white sandal (no longer in production) splits, theres nothing for it. Its gone.

Well, I know that city streets are no place for young heels, thus, rather than navigating the grates on the way to the metro and back, I keep them tucked into my cushiony bag for safe travel and wear comfy flats to and from the office. Early in my DC career I read somewhere an off-hand comment about 'those tacky women who still wear sneakers on the metro when there are so many other fashionable options.' Ever since, I've felt self-conscious about donning my New Balances for the journey and have sought out the perfect cute, comfy flats. Last summer I accomplished this feat. They were Pink Studio Cuties that I bought at Berks in Rhode Island. (Thank you, LLM). They were yellow with little blue flowers and a yellow leather strap across the bridge. I wore the heck out of those shoes. I loved them to death. I loved them so much I revived them twice with the help of prayer and miniature airplane glue. I wore them months after they should have been thrown away. The base of the shoe was flapping open so much that my friend said to me, "Hev, your shoes are talking to me." I bet they were. I bet they were just sucking in their last breath and yelling out, "FREEEEEEEDOM!!!!!" a la William Wallace. And I did finally retire them, but they set a very high bar for future comfy flats. Tragically, PS stopped the cutie line and I couldnt replace them. Then, last week, I got a surprise package in the mail. My sister Sarah had found a pair of P.S. Cuties in pink in my size and had sent them to me. I have been happily sporting them to and from the metro all week. We're in love.

So today I took forever getting dressed because I am meeting Los's coworkers for the first time at a happy hour. It is very important that I look: (1) smart; (2) laid-back; and (3) beautiful. Soliciting Los's assistance was... well.... he tries. I just get a lot of dismissive "looks great!"s. Later we're walking to the metro and Los looks down and sees my PS Cuties and - I swear - gasps, horrified, "You decided to wear THOSE???"
Me: No, the other shoes are in my bag.
Him: (sigh of relief)
(But, um, wait a minute whats wrong with the new loves of my life?) He says, Oh, nothing, they're fine.
Me: (accusatorily) You hate them.
Him: (guilty look) I dont hate them, I just...
Me: You just dont like them.
Him: Ummmmm, no.
Me: WHY?!?!
Him: I dunno.
Me: Is it because theyre pink?
Him: Maybe.
Me: So did you like the yellow ones?
Him: ugh those shoes were so ratty. Please tell me you've thrown them away.
(And no, I will not tell him I've thrown them away because, in fact, their shoe corpses are still in my personal drawer at work).
Me: Next you're going to say you hate my green moccasins, too. (my faithful weekend companions)
Him: (guilty look) Yes.
To punish him for being honest, I spent the entire 10 minute walk to the metro listing every pair of shoes I own or have owned since I've been dating him and making him tell me whether he likes them or not.

Prittyprittyprittypritty peggy sue.... (orig. published on myspace, April 5, 2006)


Well, today I left work about 2 hours early to scoot (literally, one-tiny-shuffle-forward-at-a-time, in traffic for 30 minutes both ways) out to Annandale to meet my new "friend." I have volunteered to teach a brain injured woman how to ride horses. At first I thought this was going to be totally easy: show up at the stables, ride for free because I'm a volunteer, make small-talk with brain injured woman. Then it got more complicated. And more complicated. And more expensive. And then I managed to completely blank on my criminal history check meeting with the sponsoring organization - TWICE. The third time, I was 30 minutes late (shocker) and they nearly gave up on me. But not today! Today I was early. I've made up my mind I'm doing this: screw the traffic, the cost, the aggravating small print, the fact that the sponsoring organization thinks I'm a bad person, the fact that they can only meet with me during prime working hours so that I have to use up my annual leave for the meetings, the fact that my "friend" is older than my mom... screw it all. I like horses, I like volunteering, and if I had a major brain injury, I'd love it if some young'un with a car would take me out on a Saturday for a ride in the country. I'm doing my part!!
Turns out, she's adorable. I mean, she is SO cute. (I've got to come up with a new word. I can't keep saying "cute" all the time as if I have no other means of expressing my affection for something... like I have the vocabulary of a 13 year old valley girl). Her name is Peggy. She's in her mid-50's. She was all gussied up for the visit: matching silk capris and jacket, Hepburn-worthy scarf tied around her neck, hair rolled and bouncy curly. She had set out a spread for her guests: three bottles of pink lemonade, three miniature cans of ginger ale, three cups with ice, three coasters - all lined up perfectly like snack-time soldiers). Peggy used to sell computers, she tells me straightaway, while she's still shaking my hand. But then she got in a horrible accident at her sister's wedding in 1982, involving an assailant, a knife, and unforgiving oncoming traffic. Her family thought she'd die. "And I can prove it!" she says, eyes widening, as if I would think she was making that up. She let go of my hand and with both hands pulled her shirt out of her tidy blue silk capris and lifted it nearly over her head to reveal a long, deep, hideous scar that stretched the length of her torso. I knew the story already (I was prepped); the flashing was a bonus. The scar wasn't cute. Not.At.All. But I thought her need to take her shirt off in the first 3 minutes of our introduction kind of was. That she trusted me. That she wanted me to know her story.
Another thing about Peggy: she curses like a sailor. She has a sweet voice, she says one nice thing after another, gushing like a kid ("Oh, I LOVE horses! I'm SO excited! Thank you SO much!") and then the next minute she'll bring up some grievance she has with society and the curse words start flowing ("MetroAccess vans are s--t! What a piss-poor operation! They made me wait 45 minutes at CostCo when I had to pick up my medicines! They're a g-- d--- disaster!". Ha. Then she has all kinds of old lady things she says, like, "I don't like to do things early in the morning cuz it takes me a while to get my rear in gear!" Gotta love that. Peggy, it takes me a while to get my rear in gear, too. All day long, a perpetual effort to get my rear out of neutral.
We're going riding on April 29 in Rock Creek Park. Peggy has requested that she get a horse with a little "spunk" and "get up and go!"

FREE PEOPLE (orig. published on myspace, April 3, 2006).

I got my "Free People" catalog in the mail tonight. It was as apropos a catalog as I could have gotten. The women in each shot are standing alone in some artistic setting. Their faces are unexpressive in artistic ways. The message: these women are probably thinking something terribly interesting. How could they not? Dressed in their cruelty-free, victorian-era-floozy-rosy-cheeked-prarie-girl-inspired duds... These are the clothes, the settings, for interesting thoughts. I don't know what the message is suposed to be (other than buy, buy, buy), but the one that struck me was how comical it is that the women in the "Free People" catalog all look remarkably like inmates at the Andersonville Women's Penitentiary. Things have been rough on the prarie this year; the rosy-cheeked maidens have gone without milk, bread, and meat for months...
Anyway, minus the super-skinny and trendy clothes part, I, too, am sitting by myself in a completely artistic setting tonight. It's a Monday (that's a day with a mood and a feeling; tuesday and wednesday aren't nearly as evocative). There's a tornado threat sweeping through and it's pouring rain, lightening, thundering (interesting weather). My roommate moved out this morning and the apartment is so empty it echoes. Because there aren't overhead lights in some of the rooms, you can see the shine of the wooden floor and the dustballs illuminated whenever the lightening strikes. The kitchen light conveniently burned out as soon as I walked in the door. My cat keeps trying to eat from my bowl of honey nut cheerios (the only meal I can cook from the light of the refridgerator) and every time I push her away you can hear her meow of protest three floors down, reverberating off the front door. This place is EMPTY, and in so being, is completely ripe with artistry. But I've got nothing. All I can do tonight is look, flip pages, acknowledge the pathetic fallacy, turn on "Nanny 911," weakly permit the night's narrative to come from prime time TV instead...

(WARNING – The following has been dramatized severely for entertainment purposes. I’m fine, really. Nothing a daiquiri and a little shopping can’t fix.)

Some people confuse sadness with depression - some lucky people. People who have actually suffered true depression know that it is much more than that. It’s debilitating. You can’t cry. You can’t think of anywhere you’d like to be, or anyone you’d like to be with, or anything you’d like to be doing. Depending upon your body type, you either can’t eat at all (a physical manifestation of the emptiness inside of you) or you can’t stop eating (nothing can fill the emptiness) and you either sleep all the time, or you become an insomniac. Essentially, you can only function at activities not requiring frontal lobe participation.

I suppose I have no good reason to be depressed. In fact, I am ashamed of myself for entertaining these feelings. So many people are truly suffering in the world right now, and here I am drowning in my own pity puddle - for what? One job opportunity? But as Maslow theorized with his hierarchy of needs pyramid, because the shelter/food/air/water areas of my life are satisfied, I am just suffering at a very high level. Fantastic.

Why am I feeling so low (and hungry and tired?)? Because they didn’t call. Today was two weeks exactly from the interview. I called yesterday morning, heart pounding in my throat, to see what the progress was, and the kindly recruiter told me that they would be making their decisions today. I waited by the phone all day. My cell phone doesn’t get coverage at my apartment or in the school, so I hovered close to the interstate so I would be sure to get their call, if they called. I can only assume that no news is bad news. They don’t call you with a rejection – it just wouldn’t be very diplomatic.

And yet, I don’t think I would be quite this depressed if I knew for sure that they didn’t want me. In the tradition of females everywhere, I want closure. I have imagined a billion reasons as to why they haven’t called. Perhaps their meeting ran over and they won’t be calling people until Monday. Maybe they tried to call and it didn’t get through (unlikely, as I’ve checked my voicemail repeatedly just in case). Maybe the bookshelves in the conference room toppled over and the hiring partners are all trapped beneath a ton of Federal Registers and pocket parts, coughing from the dust, ‘Must.get.to.phone.to.call.candidates….*gasp*.’ The other associates, weakened by years of sitting on their tooshes at their computer desks, are unable to lift the heavy material with their dilapidated arms and carpal-tunnelled-wrists, and have been sitting around for hours debating the best course of action. Yeah, right. But still, I entertain these notions and am unable to move on because I still think there’s a chance.

If I were one of my friends counseling me, I would bring up a number of salient points: (1) I barely know this firm – How can I be sure it was The One?; (2) There are plenty of other firms out there! I’ll find one that’s right for me!; (3) Why would I want to work at a place that didn’t want me back? I deserve to be appreciated!; (4) The on-campus interviewer had to lobby to get me a space to come up for a call-back, and it might have been because he felt guilty about stressing me out. I should think of this as an all-expenses paid trip to a city I’d never been to before. I only gained from this experience; and so on.

But it is a fool who thinks that aligning one’s brain and heart is that simplistic.

If this were a guy I were getting over, I might pack his pictures up in a box and stuff them in the back of my closet, rent a sappy sad romantic movie to induce tears, and bulk up on my collection of Anti-Male literature. What for this? Tack the firm's brochures up on my bedroom wall and throw darts at them? Rent movies about unemployment? Way back in the day (and I mean way back like four whole years ago), I might have gone to a bar or a party to get attention from some stranger red-faced slobbery-drunk but obviously-intelligent-or-how-else-would-he-have-gotten-into-UVA guy. Is there any such place where a bunch of easy recruiters hang out? (“They’re crazy! I’d hire you in a heartbeat. Wanna come back to the office with me right now?”) No – this is totally different. This is not a place where you spend a lot of time recovering. This is where you get back out there immediately, and more importantly, (standing up, one fist in the air…) not let one somewhat seemingly significant setback lead you into sacrificing your integrity for any position or lowering your standards!!!

I was flipping through the airline’s magazine last week on my way back from New York City when I noticed the unusual prevalence of ads for dating services. Well, maybe it isn’t unusual – being the serial monogamist that I am, I probably would have paid no mind to it in the past. But this time, the words were catching my eye. Every other page the messages hit me – “Are you lonesome?”; “Still looking for that special something?”; “Waiting by the phone?” Yes, actually. Yes, yes and yes.
But I’m not single. I’m really very attached. No, this wasn’t about Mr. Right; it was about my career. Exhausted and exasperated on the flight back, I was experiencing something much like what it feels like to be “out there” in the dating world.
Back in August, with the aid of the OCS match-making service, I started playing the field. People look at your information from a distance, decide whether or not they want to meet you, and then, if they are interested, a date is set up. You dress up, you try to look as desirable as possible, and you play the careful balance between pleasing this particular person and being yourself. Smiling, you pretend that you are only interested in the one you are with, for reasons x & y, the exact same reasons you gave the guy before him, that you will give another guy tomorrow.
There is a tremendous pleasure that comes with possibility. It felt so good that so many different people were interested in me. Sometimes, when I walk into a date I know immediately that it will not work out. Maybe he’s too stuffy, or too boring, or too politically malaligned. Other times, I nod to myself, ‘This just might work. I’d consider going out with him again.’ And on the rare occasion there’s electricity, chemistry, a spark, whatever, and the unstoppable thought: This might be The One.
Then comes the waiting. There is an industry Swingers-esque standard of how many days before the interviewers will call you. After a while, I have to assume they aren’t interested (eventually sealed with a form letter saying as much). At first, because there were so many other people who wanted to meet me, I kept up an attitude of, “their loss.” But when the “not that interested” letters began to pile up, and I didn’t have many offers for second dates, I couldn’t help but start to think, “It’s not them; it’s me.”
I went on a few second dates. In the grand tradition of second dates, I was completely spoiled. They showed off how much money they have, treated me like a princess, made me feel wanted (all the while measuring how well I was showing my mutual interest in them), and tried to give off the impression that if I were with them, life would always be so good. And maybe it would– for a brief honeymoon period (a.k.a. summer internship).
However, much like many other rich, successful men I’ve met, they tend to be egocentric. Whether or not they will take you out again may hinge on how well you project extreme interest while being detached (i.e., you are so great that you don’t need them, but they are so fabulous you can’t help but be devastatingly curious about them). One of the greatest challenges of the second dates has been keeping conversation going when it is obvious they want the focus to be on them. I had to keep coming up with new inquiries each of the thousand times I was asked, “Do you have any more questions about Blah, blah, & blah, LLP?” After a while, I would just ask for their card so I could email them my questions later. Yeah right. Law students are research geniuses. We have the in-ter-net. Anything we want to know about a firm we can find out on our own.
Except, that is, their personality. This requires contact one-on-one.
I had to start figuring out what’s important to me in a relationship. Age? Wealth? Popularity? Ambition? Progressiveness? Ethics? Is this the type of place I want to spend the rest of my life with? Sure, it’s hard to think on such a longterm scale with so little information to work with – particularly when they put up a facade I know isn’t going to last forever. Summers do eventually turn into careers after graduation, and at this point in the dating process, I’m tired of the superficiality, the internal turmoil over where I want to be and with whom, and I just can’t wait for it to be over. I really don’t want to go through this all over again next fall.
Of course, there was one place that I am particularly interested in. I got an interview with them by accident. Quite predictably, I fell hard for this place. It sounded exactly like everything I’d ever hoped for. I started picturing the business cards in my head with our names together. Oh, it would be so dreamy!
Unfortunately, I admitted to the interviewer early on that I had not intended on interviewing for their city, but perhaps he could give my name to the recruiting manager in one of their other offices. Foolish, foolish girl. Twenty minutes later, swept off of my feet, I told him I’d changed my mind, and to consider me for his office. For this firm, I'd relocate. He made some sort of dismissive comment, and I walked out of the room feeling like such an idiot. I couldn’t believe how lame my answers were, how many opportunities I’d had to win him over that I had not taken advantage of, and for the first time after a bad interview, I felt regret.
It was probably just not meant to be, right? But then, at the unusual hour of 7 pm, he called. He, HE, of the dream-boat law firm. He was calling from the airport. He was making last minute decisions. Could I answer just one more question? (no pressure).
We were worried, he said, that you weren’t committed to coming to our city. Would I mind quickly explaining to him why I’d want to come there? Heart pounding, I launched into an impassioned speech about my dedication to a city I’d never been to. (you’d be surprised what a good liar you become after a few weeks of intense dating). It soon occurred to me that he wasn’t making any sounds.I pulled the cell phone away from my ear, looked at the face, and saw the time and a picture of puffy clouds staring back at me. We’d been disconnected. AGHHHH!!!
Repeated attempts to return his call were fruitless.
A few days later, there was a lengthy message from him on my voice mail. A call-back. Praise Jesus. But no, this was a sincere apology, a wish-he-could-take-just-one-more, a “you're so wonderful you’ll find someone, don’t worry.”
Then he called again, the next day. He’d talked to the hiring partners, he’d pulled a few strings, if I’d still have them, they’d like to bring me in for a second date. This must be the career equivalent of playing hard to get. So I went, I had a fantastic time, everyone was awesome. I would make a serious commitment to this firm in a heartbeat. Please please please like me back!!
But they haven’t called. Why haven’t they called? Why don’t they like me? What’s wrong with me? Every time the phone rings I dive for it. It doesn’t matter how much I like the person at the other end of the line, I’m disappointed. I’ve gone on other dates, even other second dates, but it isn’t the same; I’m in love with someone else.
I can’t help but believe in the element of destiny. I tell myself that everything will fall into place, and I will end up where I am supposed to end up. However, this is only a salve for the agony. This is not a case of they are great, I am great, we are just not great together… If they don’t call, it can only be because I wasn’t good enough. *sigh*
Ninety percent of people get married. An even larger percentage of W&M law graduates find jobs. Of course, there is a high divorce/attrition rate in both scenarios. The hope is to get it right the first time so you’ll never have to be out there again, and not to sacrifice too much of yourself out of the fear of being alone. No worries, just like mama always said, you can’t hurry love, you just have to wait.