Les Affaires de Coeur: July 2008 Archives

A friend advised me recently to think about what it is that I really want in the boy department, so that I know, going in, what I am looking for and not looking for. It was good advice, but I am finding it hard to follow.

Perhaps in a similar vein, I am finding it hard to decide what to do this week. I have given myself the week off, and perhaps because it's been so long since I did such a thing, I am at a bit of a loss when I get up in the morning (or afternoon).

As I was saying to one of the boys yesterday, I like to get up and ride first thing in the morning; I just prefer that morning comes a little later in the day.

But here's the thing: for a woman who thinks so much about everything in life, I don't seem to have a very good handle on what I am looking for when I get involved (even slightly involved, as in a date or two) with men.

I have no idea.

I get sad sometimes, from being rather lonely most days, and watching anything that smacks of romance (a romantic comedy, or even Wall-e, for heaven's sake) tends to pull the tears right out of my eyeballs.

But on the other hand, I just can't picture being in some heavy relationship that made me feel all tied down. I am not certain I have that in me anymore, or at least not yet. And yet - I also want lots and lots of the kind of sex that one simply cannot have unless it's with someone one knows well and trusts and likes. Or maybe loves.

It's a conundrum, make no mistake. A puzzle and a riddle, and I have no obvious solution to it, and not much hope of finding my way out of it - at least, not with anyone I'd meet through the usual channels.

And now there's a Sherlock Holmes episode on TV, in which a young woman is forced to cut her hair in order to gain a lucrative job, and she cries and cries about it.

Whereas, I had a dream the other day in which I woke up to discover that my hair had grown past my waist, and the first thing I did was rush to my mom and have her cut it all off.

When I really woke up, and ran my hand over my shorn head, I was relieved. Though I remember thinking, in the dream, that I ought to have had my mother leave enough hair to make into those two little knots that I used to like to wear.

A rambling and illogical post, to sure, but there's something about hair dreams that always pulls at my unconscious, as if there's a symbolic meaning.

I suppose the short hair means freedom to me, which I treasure above all else and of which I have carved more and more for myself over the years.

I wonder, though, if there's a way to be just as free, but less lonely.

Note on pics: These were taken with the pocketcam, by the waterfront in Williamsburg. Click to enlarge.

Ahhhh. I hardly know where to begin. I had a great day today, but it was not without its bizarre moments. To begin with, I spent the entire day on the bike, or as close as is possible for a girl with cranky knees. I got up and ate and showered and rode out to the bike shop to meet my two cycling companions (beautiful boys, one very young and one a bit older than me). We then proceeded to ride out to Prospect Park in Brooklyn, the eldest of our posse dropping me easily on the bridge (the young one very nicely hung back to keep me company).

There, we met up with two other cyclists and rode some laps around the park, which was leafy and gorgeous, and generally hung around being lazy the rest of the time. Just so you have the full picture, it's now me and four men (two of them being the glorious redheads).

Here's where it starts to get weird. My phone would not stop ringing the whole time I was there. Everyone I know or ever speak to seemed to be trying to get hold of me today. First I had a client call. Then I heard back from the boy whom Special J has dubbed bird-boy (because of his resemblance to an ibis). I'd called him over the weekend and asked him to just call me and tell me yea or nay, because I happen to prefer to be turned down clearly rather than having them simply drift away, as many boys are wont to do.

Anyway, this was the call back, and it was a perfectly fine conversation. I wasn't surprised to hear that he just wants to be friends, and if in fact he wants to do that and isn't just making polite noises, I think I might be able to swing it. I mean, one can never have too many cycling buddies. In any case, I am relieved to have a clear answer.

But. It was funny as hell to be having that conversation while I was out cycling with several hot (hotter than bird-boy, if we are being honest) boys. And the one who overheard the conversation pointed out that I really ought to have told the guy I was out with three hot boys (we hadn't met up with the fourth yet). And he was right. I should have.

So there was that. Anyway, I had a great time and cycled my legs into jelly, and one of the boys showed me the way home, and it turned out to be super-easy and quick, and I got home and ate and ate and ate and showered again, and so on and took this (I think) very cute pic of the feline sacked out between two fans. Hey, if I had fur, I'd be there too.

But what I wanted to talk to you about is beauty, and the fact that there's a certain amount of relativity involved in it.

As I was looking through some old pics (Mermaid Parade again - yes, I am going to take the camera out more; I just didn't want to carry it today), I was struck by how a photo of someone - a person I'd normally think of as odd-looking, quirky, or maybe even homely (I love that word, and the fact that it has both positive and negative meanings) - can make me see that they have their own beauty.

This woman in the flowered dress struck me that way. It's something about the strong character in her face, and the fact that she seems so unabashedly herself. I like that in people - usually in people I know, because I have come to love them for who they are, and every time I look at their faces I see who they are written there. No, I am not talking about boys here. I am thinking of friends. My beautiful, unique friends. Love you guys, and boy are you beautiful.

Heh. When the going gets tough, the tough put on their sexiest $15 Target sundress, hop on the cycle, have a 40-minute ferocious yelling brawl with a vicious bastard of a headwind, arrive five minutes early for brunch all lathered up and invigorated, and buy a very large new dildo (on sale!).

Then they (or I) go flirt shamelessly for hours with the very prettiest redhead they can find (looking at him for that long made me high), pet the cute doggie, and ride home laughing maniacally. Bwahahaha.

But now I have to work.

Beautiful sunset on the way home tonight (unfortunately I had no camera), but it didn't make much of a dent in the sense that this has been what Boywich would call a craptacular week. Lowlights include being shaken awake every morning by Richter-scale vibrations from the pile-drivers operating a mere 10 ft. or so below my windows. Not to mention having yet another tube blow its bitty little cork just as I was pumping the last tire preparatory to leaving on a ride.

So my ride ended up being to the bike shop, to buy more tubes (and complain about them having weak-ass valve stem connections). And to top that off, my favorite redheads were not even there, nor was the nice girl I usually talk to, nor was her cute puppy. Drat.

Ugh. I am exhausted, sick at heart, sleep-deprived (construction starts early, and I keep having to work all night because I can't focus all day with that horrible, horrible noise and the whole building shuddering to bits around my ears), and generally demoralized.

I couldn't even get it up to think that the friend of a friend's invitation to go for a bike ride (he just bought a new bike) might have an ulterior motive in it, even though I had at one time found him to be very cute. It all seemed very likely that a bike ride is just a bike ride, and even if it's not, he's probably not a good person to date, being, by all accounts, something of a solitary reclusive type. Interesting, but maybe best appreciated from a safe distance.

Which I am beginning to think is true of all men.

I'll tell you something about me (so unusual, on my incredibly self-centered blog, no?):
I used to be very, very shy.

Hiding in the corner, climbing onto the roof at parties kind of shy. Of course, I avoided going to a party last night because I knew it would be that sort, so it's not like I've completely lost that aspect of myself.

But I've gotten friendlier over the years, more able to approach strangers and ask questions and do things like invite people I don't know well to come play with me. Or just offer to share my large table with a fellow diner who needed to be near the powerstrip on the floor, too, and who was trying to balance his drink and his laptop on his lap at the same time while sitting in one of those overstuffed chairs that seem comfortable but are really quite unsuited to working with a laptop.

I'll tell you another thing about me: I have been accused of favoring longish sentences.

Anyway. I got to talking with this young boy at the café, since we were sitting elbow to elbow, the edges of our laptops touching. And he showed me what he was working on (animation), and I described what I was working on (words, and not even interesting ones at that), and it was pleasant and companionable. And I thought, why, exactly, was it that I was so shy all those years?

Well, it was a combination, I think.

Factor A: moved around so much as a kid that I suffered from perpetual new-kid-in-school-itis.
Factor B: too brainy to blend in well with the popular crowd (this was back in the days before Geek Chic, mind you).
Factor C: early experiences did not, in fact, suggest that the world is a lovely and welcoming and hopeful kind of place. Even though I still, in my heart of hearts, have a dogged grasp on the possibility that it might someday turn out to be like that.
Factor D: The combination of the first three (plus some other X factor or two) meant that I lacked self-confidence and therefore went into social situations with a substantial amount of fear, or at least trepidation.

What's changed?

Damned if I know, except that that's a bit of a lie. I've actually been working really hard at a number of things which seem to have self-confidence as a side effect.

On the other hand, I think that's backfired on me a bit. I won't go into the details, but let's just say there may be a reason why I was blindsided by the liked-boy's sudden disappearance. Doesn't mean I want to have to go back to being afraid of people or being self-effacing or anything, but, well, there's that worry in the back of my mind...nibbling away at the corners. Damn.

Hello me lovelies. Here are your bridge pictures! I must apologize for their workmanlike quality; I had only the pocketcam in my bike bag, because it's what fits easily and lightly into the bike bag. (I need a bigger bike bag.)

I took the on-the-bridge pics yesterday, and the of-the-bridge-from-far-away pics today. I had this grandiose plan of getting right on the bike in the morning to travel to an appointment I had uptown. I got all dressed and geared up, and had my bike shoes on and everything, and decided to pump that extra 10 lbs. of air into the tires so they'd be all perky and smooth-rolling, and then as I pulled the pump nose off the rear tire valve, shhhhhhwshhhhhhhhhhh!!!! God damn it.

I tried pumping it up again, hoping against hope that I'd somehow unscrewed the presta valve without noticing or something. Nope. Another valve bites the dust.

Which means I have to change the tire before I can leave. Which means I have to take the goddamned subway. Again. Which I have (mostly) sworn off. And increasingly hate doing. The more time I spend getting myself from place to place under my own steam (and that of my beloved, wonderful bicycle), the lower my tolerance for the cramped, claustrophobic, smelly indignity of mass transit. Not that I'm not grateful to have that to fall back on, but really, there are far better ways to spend my $4.

Lately I am spending it all on tubes, of course.

And coffees for the adorable, simply adorable bike mechanics. I'd much rather buy them coffee, and me Clif Bars and hummus and other assorted fuels than support the MTA, and if that makes me a bad New Yorker, well, so be it. Y'all can suck my you-know-what.

Okay, wait a minute, I'm getting rude, and it's really just an avoidance tactic because I don't want to have to tell you that that boy I liked, you know, the one I really liked? Has disappeared. Ceased communication. No phone, no email, no text, nada. No explanation, no polite, "hey, you're a nice person and all but I'm kinda not interested anymore." Nothing. No manners, apparently.

So there's that. All I can say is I have been feeling thankful for the following:

a) friends
b) bowling
c) brunch
d) bike boys (the better to flirt with and talk bike parts, which always sounds like one is talking about sex. mmmmmm, bottom brackets.....)

And most of all, I am thankful for my bicycle himself, without which I would not be here today spilling beans and posting photos and all that jazz.

Really, he's sanity on two skinny tires, and I love him more than I can adequately express. We went and hung out at the waterfront together tonight just before sundown, the two of us lying on the grass, my head on his saddle, his cranks sprawled on the ground.

I looked up at the sky and out at the skyline and over at that little girl's giraffe hat, and thought luscious thoughts about what it might be like to have two beautiful young boys in my arms at once, and sighed a sad little sigh and thought how stupid that one boy must be, and then thought some more about redheads. It was nice.

PS. The bridge in question is the Willie B (aka. Williamsburg Bridge), which connects the hipsters of the LES with their even-hipper cousins in Williamsburg. Despite that, it is a swell bridge for cycling, with a nice two-lane bike path and a great view.