Should bloggers be writing about their relationships?

NO! (Caps intended).

It only took me six months to figure that one out. Duh.

For those of you who've wondered whether I've disappeared and gone fishin, the answer is yes. Except in a different pond.

I pulled the rod (no, not that kind) out of the online NYC dating pool, and by doing so I unconsciously hooked a very big fish. From the ex-boyfriend pool. And yes, he happens to be very big indeed (As in tall. Please get your heads out of the gutter).

My ex-boyfriend (call him Mr. Big II) reemerged on the heels of my last short-lived relationship. At the time, I thought it was merely a sign meant to spotlight the obvious things that weren't working in the other relationship. I was skeptical to get back together with him, as most are.

I've heard divergent thoughts about getting back with the ex. Some people have said, "Your ex is an ex for a reason." Others testify to the fact that a former ex can have future potential, specifically because they were your ex first. Not only because you already know eachother well when you rekindle and don't have to go through the stressful (and perspective skewing) process of courtship, but because the act of breaking up itself fans the flames of the heart and reaffirms what it is you actually want - or had. Also, I believe that the experience of missing one another post break-up is a bonding experience in itself.

When Mr. Big II and I dated one year ago, I blogged for the duration of our relationship. I didn't blog about him per se, but I frequently found it impossible to omit mentioning him or an incident when applicable to the post's topic. People used to ask me (including the guy I was in the short term relationship with) how I could even reference him at all - a legitimate question. And "Short Term Guy," after reading my blog before our second date, asked me not to even mention that I was dating him. He is a private guy, and while initially it was a jolt for me, I respected it. And so I didnt blog for the two months we dated.

I also considered that my posts over the last two years, specifically the early ones, were divorce-centric. I was still processing my divorce and in it's aftermath, I had plenty to say (and consequently work out). Was the need to blog tied to those raw feelings I was digging through, and now that most of the pain has been mined and the learnings activated, am I officially over the divorce and therefore blogging about it?

So when Mr. Big II and I began dating again, I didn't have the urge to blog anymore. I had also started a new book, and was pouring my creative energy into that, but I realized that was just an excuse. Taking a break made me realize the obvious (which was obvious to everyone but me):

Do I really want "the world" to be reading about my private life on a weekly basis?

If I did, I'd be writing a memoir - instead of fiction.

That said, I decided to write today because simply, frankly, I miss it. And oddly I miss my readers, invisible as you may be.

And I know Mr. Big II wouldn't mind if I chose to blog again. He encourages me to write honestly, first and foremost, and trusts that I will respect his privacy in the process. But perhaps it's time for a change in course. Perhaps this is an opportunity for my blog to evolve.

But into what?

I welcome your suggestions. And hope you hang with me in the process.

Can we make emotional plans for the future?

When I was in my twenties and getting married, I believed I could control what was to come. I thought I could attempt to apply for insurance against loss, geographical or career changes and divorce  – by marrying “right.”

What does that even mean? I’ve written about the checklist before, and while the items on the list might vary for each of us based on our backgrounds, religion, culture, and the age (or timing in which) we “fall in love” – we all try to find certain qualities in our mate that we hope can inure us against certain hurdles.

They tend to be the kind of descriptors that show up on a dating profile, such as: “Successful as a muther fucker!! Loves travel! And dogs too! Cinema buff. Dinner parties rule! Will be patient while shopping with you!!” 

While these qualities may be attractive on the surface, they have nothing to do with the real person (and by the way, beware of those who lean too long on the exclamation mark key).

I've fallen for these qualities before, encouraged by witnessing friends getting married, having children, and seemingly on the path to happiness.  Why would anyone not pursue the same?

I’ve had a few conversations lately about this topic with friends who questioned why my recent relationship didn’t work out, although I’m hesitant to call it that, as the relationship was quite brief (and why you all didn't hear about it). I wonder if it even lasted as long as it did because of the checklist; because of the on-paper qualities this man possessed that papered the flimsy walls of my hopes and expectations, and the expectations of my friends and family.

Although, one very wise person surprised me by posing the opposite: “The most important question to ask yourself is, do you want to be around this personality in five or twenty years?”

Personality = key word.

I wonder if we have to experience these kind of relationships in order to appreciate what matters most: the intangible. The moment to moment interchanges that feed and sustain - chemistry that noone can see from the outside.

I do think it takes time to come around to what you need and want. My ex-boyfriend emerged in my life a year after we broke up, without ultimatums, pressure, or a promise of what might be. He’s the same person he was a year ago, and isn’t pretending to be anyone else. He didn’t show up at my door with a big poster-board itemizing a new checklist of accomplishments. But he is able to say so. He has the capacity to not make false guarantees about the future. If he did, I wouldn’t believe him (as I might once have). Because how could he?

Today, a close friend asked me what is going on with my ex-boyfriend:  "What's going to happen if you ex out the ex part?"

My response: “At this point in my life...and this isn’t cynicism or resignation...I can’t overfocus on the negative checklist, or the potential hurdles, because those things are mutable.”  (I probably didn’t say it with those pretentious words, but you get the gist).  Point is, a guy can lose his job, his money, or move cities. Falling in love with a checklist, or rejecting someone because of them (and hanging on to them for the same reasons), I believe is foolish, since they have nothing to do with the make-up of that person – the person they are today and will most likely still be in the future.

As I approach the big 40 (to those of you who don’t know me, I’m not admitting how many years more I have), something has changed. Instead of feeling this immense pressure to get it right, whatever that might mean, and tie together some illusory loose ends, instead, for the first time, I feel the relieving absence of that.  Maybe it has something to do with the elimination of too many perceived options (like you have when you're in your twenties) when what you can do or think you should have, overwhelms and paralyzes you. Or propels you into making a decision ie. the wrong relationship, so that you can get some false assurance.

There is also something to be said for being okay without the assurance. For being okay with accepting and embracing where you are. For having faith in what is to come, which is beyond your control. And having faith in how you feel, and what you want. 

Today.

Because do we really know how we are going to feel, or what is going to happen, two years from now? Or tomorrow?

If you do, please message me.

A Single Divorcee at a Wedding: Part Two.

The last time I went to a wedding, I wrote about what it feels like to be the only single gal in attendance (It was fun, but self absorbed displacement was the theme). http://www.huffingtonpost.com/oritte-bendory/how-does-it-feel-to-be-a-_1_b_959085.html

Tonight I went to a wedding too. I didn’t have a date with me, but I didn’t fret. I had a lot on my mind so I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I finished the first draft of my book last night (yeah!) and had a loss in my family that trumped self-pity and over-preparation.

I didn’t fret over what I was going to wear, or whether I was going to meet someone. All that mattered to me was being there for my friend on her momentous day. We had gone to high school together and she had endured some hefty challenges that led her to this moment.

She’s Jewish, from an observant family, and the love of her life wasn’t when they met. But he converted. Like, full on.  When you sit at a wedding and see two people make vows to be together for the rest of their lives, it means a lot when you know they’ve gone through a religious obstacle course to get there.

I got married in my twenties. Most of my friends did. For me and my ex-husband, our checklist fit. We were age appropriate, our families meshed, and we had the same backgrounds and religion.

There’s nothing wrong with that. Having similar backgrounds- where it feels second nature- is beneficial. It eliminates the barriers to entry. But when you have barriers, and your commitment to one another - your love - overcomes those barriers...Well, you could say that I might have shed a few more tears at this wedding than I did at my own.

When I walked into the lobby full of people mingling pre-ceremony, I wished I had arrived later. I moved around, pretending I had somewhere to go. I sat down on the couch and checked my phone with purpose. I didn’t know who I knew, and how the night was going to go.

“It’s time to go upstairs for the ceremony!” I realized with relief. I slipped into a seat on the end. And then someone waved to me: a friend from high school I hadn’t seen in twenty years. I jumped up, grateful to have a plus one, or a plus three (she was with some other high school pals of ours).  We immediately began talking about our mutual grievances from that time – how our high school experience was unlike the people we’d since met who went to public school, who didn’t have Rabbis as their teachers. I’m not bashing this form of education, because I know many for whom it’s been fruitful. But for me, it wasn’t.

You could say the evening was a collision of my upbringing, my marriage, and where I am today. When the bride circled the groom seven times, I remembered circling my husband in the same manner, and sensing my sisters’ and mother's presence behind me. When the Rabbi talked about the union of these two people, I vaguely recalled a Rabbi talking to me over ten years ago.

When I was the first to rush to lift the chair that the bride was seated on, and carried her to greet her new husband floating atop the sea of people in his, I remembered myself being lifted up on my wedding day.

When the bride was lowered back down, she spotted me and hugged me. “Did you get the necklace?” she asked. I shook my head no, feeling confused and remiss in my guest of the bride duties, before she was whisked away.

We have the opportunity to be there for others - to connect. And at the same time reconnect with ourselves.  I was seated at a table with a woman I hadn’t seen in years, who used to be a close friend in high school whose house I’d slept over twice a week. I kept a toothbrush there, and knew what shelf the peanut butter was on in anticipation of our late night pig-outs. And now, we were catching up on our lives, in our late thirties. She married with children, and me- not. But I wasn’t sad. We talked about loss, and love, and life, as the bride - our mutual friend - was preparing to give her speech.

We talked about what matters in relationships, day to day. How the inked boxes on the checklist blur and evaporate over time.  We agreed that you aren’t taught those things in high school...or in any school. You learn it through living.

Later, when I came back from the bathroom, my friend was talking to a woman I didn’t know.  “Who's this?” the woman asked my friend. When I told her my name, her face lit up. “I have something for you! I couldn’t find you before!” she said, pulling something out of her bag and then opening her palm. It was an amulet - part of a necklace. I realized it was a diamond studded “Chai,” which in the Jewish tradition, means “Life” (“18”).  She looked at me and said, “The bride wanted you to have this, but I couldn’t find you. She wants you to find peace and happiness, as her single friend here who deserves it.”

I thought I was emotional during the ceremony, but this gesture took the cake (as the waiter deposited a slice of wedding cake in front of me…).

I guess the bottom line is that in friendship, as in love, the unconventional and the unexpected means a whole lot more. And (hopefully) lasts for a long time too.

“Groupthink”: At what point does collaboration intrude on the self?

First off, hello! And Merry New Year! To those of you who actually noticed my hiatus, I thank you. I meant to leave a “gone skiing” sign before I disappeared, but some of you already knew where I'd gone. And my apologies to those who would like to know what went on behind that sign, but believe it or not, I do try to keep at least some of my life private.

What I will say, is that without realizing it from the get-go, I embarked on a Solo-cation. I got out of town for two weeks, away from my normal routine and my reliable network of friends and confidantes – to get in touch with myself.

When I got home, I noticed an interesting article in the NYT about “The Rise of the New GroupThink,” http://nyti.ms/ydO6ho  which discusses how solitude is out of fashion, and how our companies, schools and culture are in thrall with the notion that creativity and achievement sprout from gregarious collaboration. Lone geniuses are out.

Hmm. This idea conflicts with one of my favorite quotes (etched onto the cover of my journal): “Solitude breeds innovation.”

Picasso said it best: “Without great solitude, no serious work is possible.”

Picasso meant “work” as the process of creation that breeds a tangible creative outcome. 

But it made me consider the term “work” on different terms: working in solitude emotionally - on oneself. The process of shutting out all distractions, including the voices of those closest to us, in order to see oneself clearly.

I have a vibrant and extensive support system of friends and advisors, whom I am grateful for and love dearly. Most of them are women. Some are men. Not to mention my two sisters and my mother. That’s a lot of opinions. Or GroupThinking (and Feeling).

During all of my past relationships (marriage not included), I courted and embraced the GroupThink, even while cognizant of its potential to obfuscate my own true feelings or gut. It was a choice I made. Don’t share with those close to you and risk losing that closeness, or share and discuss, knowing that the advice is not always aligned with what’s best for you.

So when I went on my holiday abroad, on the threshold of a new relationship that comes with the challenges of any new beginning, I didn’t purchase an international phone. I didn’t have BBM. I didn’t have easy access to Internet. I was forced to shut off the wireless friendship network.

At first, it felt as if I was in rehab. In a moment of confusion or difficulty, my instinct was to reach out to this network. And when I realized that I could not – that I had to sit in and sift through the gray on my own – I felt an unsettling reprogramming of my thinking.  I was out of the zone, thousands of miles out of my comfort zone, with no access to collaborative feelings.

Most of resist the discomfort zone. Our instinct is to flee at all costs. But when we can recognize it as a signal, as an opportunity for learning and change, and force ourselves to hang out in that place, the outcome is rewarding, if not empowering.

When I landed in JFK and turned on my Blackberry, the flashing red light of incoming messages induced a thrilling sensation, akin to a drug offering to an addict.  “How was it? I want to hear everything!” or, “I’m sure you’re exhausted but call me this week so we can talk.”

I felt a combination of both gratitude for the loving concern, and conflict over the revelation that the growth I had experienced had been earned in the absence of such inquiries.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t return to feeding those connective channels. I genuinely missed my friends, especially my sisters and mother. I was more grateful for them than I had been before I left.  

But I took a chance and tried on something new: “It was great. But it’s a long story, and I don’t have the energy, or the need, to talk about it….”

A few of my confidantes replied with: “I understand. But call me, give me a brief recap?” 

But to my surprise, and relief, many of them said, “I understand. I’m here if you feel like talking.”

A few days later, when I did feel the need to talk, I took out my journal (and my novel in progress), and talked to them instead.

Get Busy Living.

I haven’t blogged in a while. Perhaps it is because I’m writing a new book which now serves as my catchall, my canvas, for newborn thoughts, instead of this blog.

I’m sorry. Although I don’t know who I’m apologizing to. My mom hasn’t noticed. Some friends have, but I talk to them weekly and fill them in on my life anyway. To those of you who don’t know me and wonder where I’ve been, well, I’ve been busy living (if “Shawshank Redemption” comes to mind, that’s not a bad thing.)

I felt compelled to write again because this week, “get busy living” is on top of mind. If you live in NYC, or work in the advertising industry, you may have heard of the tragic unexplained death of someone I didn’t know - but feel like I did - in my industry. She was living her life. Going through the mundane of walking into an elevator on a Wednesday to grab coffee or go to another floor for a meeting, and the cruel and unexplained happened that brought her life to a sudden end.

And then the “whys” ensue. We grasp for answers. Why did something so random and horrific happen to someone we know and love? To anyone, for that matter? I’m not going to attempt a dialogue, let alone propose an answer to such a mysterious and fatalistic perplexity. All I know is that I continued to go through the motions of my day, but with a somber heaviness in my stomach. The only question I can ask, is not what does this mean, but what does this mean for me, in my little life. What am I doing, or not doing, to experience this life and inhabit the nano seconds of my day to day, and to appreciate and love those that matter most?

Did I hear my mother’s voice today? No. Am I pushing the boundaries of my own life, exploring the things that scare me, jumping into situations today, that I’ve been putting off until tomorrow? If the answer is still no, then I’m not getting busy living.

I can’t help but tie this post into a neat bow (since we can’t do that in life), by saying that my new novel which has been focusing my thoughts away from this blog, is about living the roads less traveled. It’s about the what-ifs. What if this amazing woman got detained and didn’t get into the elevator at that moment? What if she had chosen to take the day off, but instead she crossed the street at the wrong time? What is the “wrong time” anyway, or the “right time”? Is there even such a thing?

The more people we meet and the older we get, the more we are touched by loss. I guess we can pretend to have some control. We can trick ourselves into thinking that if we stay home, if we curl up and hide from contact with others, and from adventure - that we are protecting ourselves. If we do nothing more than stick to our mundane routines, we believe we might insure ourselves against risk, its potential losses, and the ups and downs of life. Even if that includes getting into an elevator in the middle of our work day.

But at the end of the day, at the end of the twenty-four hour increment of our short life, all that matters is that we make an effort to get out of our comfort zone, and hold onto what - and who - matters most.

Do we see what we want to see?

I’m guessing that only my mother noticed that I skipped last week’s post, but I have a good reason.

I’m in the middle of my second book, thanks to NanoWrimo, November book writing month, which forces you to write 50,000 words in 30 days (that’s about 170 pages double-spaced, fyi). As of an hour ago, I’m at 44,000 words, but with the work week coming back with a vengeance tomorrow after the bubble of a holiday, I’m hoping I will knock out another 6,000 before Thursday. I won’t be done with this draft though, but I’m on my way.

A few months ago I wrote a post, entitled “How do we know what we need?,” and this month, I knew I needed a solitary vacation in order to write my book. A friend of mine graciously offered me her house in the Hamptons, and instead of going away with friends to a sunny locale for my first week off in a year, I rented a car and took my dog to a writing vacation.

My dog grew up in LA. She loves the slippery leather of cars, and she loves the outdoors. If only she could have helped me with directions. I couldn’t find the house at first, and it was getting dark. I circled the poorly marked streets several times, only to discover that the house was at the end of a narrow dirt road, resembling a windy hiking trail.

It was beautiful, two stories, and all glass, the large yard encircled by a chicken wire fence (which my dog promptly slammed into, before taking a retarded skate across the covered pool). After taking my bags upstairs and turning on all the lights, I realized how silent it was; just the wind rustling the trees. My stomach sank, and I had a jolt of apprehension thinking of whether I would fall asleep that night. “This is the setting for a horror movie,” I thought. “Who does this? I’m weird.” My dog licked my face and grunted. She didn’t care that I was scared, but I was glad she was there anyway.

I woke up the following morning to shrieks. I sat up. “An animal is getting eaten right now!” was my first thought. When I looked out the window, my breath caught. A formation of twenty massive black birds, the size of chairs, were standing in the leave littered front yard. I’d post a picture of it but I couldn’t get the sliding doors open in time and my Blackberry got the flash of the glass door instead, just as the birds moved off. I tried googling “big black birds..Hamptons” afterwards, but I’m a bad googler, and later I wondered if I had imagined the whole thing. I’m guessing they were a “murder” (apropos?) of crows, but I preferred they be ravens, as my first book is littered with raven imagery. I wanted to believe this was a positive omen - supporting my writing.

The next three days proved to be heavenly. My dog and I went to the beach, and as she ran around like a psycho, eating random dried up wood and sand, I came up with the structure for my book. I wrote for four hours that afternoon, and then took a good book with me to a restaurant so I could read in peace at the bar. Silly me. Some twice divorced real estate guy in his fifties with OCD (he told me so) chewed my ear off instead of his steak, and an old man (a regular) ate my French Fries.  When I asked them why there was a painting of a crow (or a raven) on the wall next to me, whether that bird was common in the Hamptons, they looked at me like I was the crazy one. But they couldn’t convince me that it wasn’t another sign, of some kind.

So I meant to talk about this last Sunday, but I was busy living my life I guess. For Thanksgiving, I went to my sister’s house and as she was putting the turkey in the oven, I showed my father the shitty picture of the birds on the lawn, and asked him what he thought they were.

“They’re wild turkeys,” he said, matter of factly.

“No… are you sure they’re not ravens?” I asked, hopeful.

“Definitely turkeys,” he said, and patted me on the head.

Leave it to my practical father to burst my convenient little fantasy, I thought. But as I sat around the table with my parents, my sisters and their children shoveling turkey into their mouths, I was filled with gratitude. 

Just like I felt when twenty turkeys woke me on that beautiful fall morning with the promise of good things to come.

Return of the Cougar

When I started this blog, some readers took issue with the term “Cougar.”

“You’re too young to be a Cougar,” and “Cougars are trampy women in their fifties who hunt young guys and just use them for sex,” are some comments I received early on.

My rebuttal was:

1- Cougarism has less to do with age and more to do with having an affinity for younger men whom tend to have less baggage, and are more emotionally available (not to mention, not married.)

2- Hunting is in the eye of the hunter (and huntee). Just because a woman happens to fall for a younger guy, that doesn’t make it some strategic conquest.  They might actually be good together.

3- While I may have had several young boyfriends, I surely never planned it that way. I liked those guys for their personalities (and other things), not their ages.

4- I’m a Cougel anyway, the sweet and mushy kind with old-fashioned Jewish origins.

OK, so none of those relationships worked out so well, and lesson learned, I made a pact to start opening myself up to more age appropriate men. My Jdate profile specifies my ideal match as “34-52.”

But that doesn’t stop the cubs from knockin, or change the fact that some men simply prefer older women. I’d like to believe that those that do are more mature. Women their own age don’t challenge them, or have enough going on in their lives to keep the relationship eventful (drama?) and rich (unstable?).

I guess it is inevitable that after a potential relationship with an older man imploded, I’d start idealizing the appeal of my ex-cubs and consider reaching back out to them. It’s impossible not to compare, or to come off one relationship and react to it by thinking your previous ones had more to them than you realized.

Coincidentally, the young finance cub (“YFC”) I met last month must have sensed where my head was going, because he started texting me again (I was not responsive to his earlier requests).  He didn’t play games or bother with passive aggressive subtexts. He simply wrote: “YFC seeking fit Cougar for libation.” Followed by: “When can I take you out? Let’s make this happen.”

That kind of stuff (humor and candor) goes a long way at any age. But especially for someone ten years my junior….

…who looks fifteen years my junior, I realized when I met him for a drink.  Was it in my head, or was the bartender looking at us funny? And then I saw some colleagues I know having drinks at the other end of the bar, and I considered hiding.

Conversation flowed. Great guy, I thought. The kind of guy with promise for the long term.

I’d go out with him again, but I should I? How many times do you have to burn your hand on the little stove, I thought, before you stop touching it? (I might have even said this to him after our second mai tai).

But “we’ll see,” “you never know,” etc. are my new mantras. Read: openness.

For example, the other night I went to a Jewish Fundraiser (I was invited last minute) at a Greenwhich Village club. I’m normally reluctant to attend such functions because the women there tend to look like they spent days getting ready, hair perfectly curled, and I usually feel like the odd tomboy out. But I was open. You never know, right?

I ended up hanging out with the cool girls at the coat check. And then an employee at the club started chatting me up. He was moving garbage pails around so I’m guessing he wasn’t the manager of the establishment. He was stocky and bespectacled, and in his early thirties.

“I like Cougars,” he said to me.

Really.

He proceeded to explain why he loves older women (I happened to agree), that he had been in the military, and has a wife and four children.

“What are you doing here?” he asked me. “You don’t seem like the other girls in there.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“Listen. Go out with me. Winter is coming up. I can keep you warm at night,” he said.

Luckily I could cut to the front of the coat check line without any problems.

So is the Cougar back?

Well I’m definitely not hunting young cubs, but seems to me they couldn’t care less.