It’s been a few months now that I’ve been wrestling with the “c” word. Every now and then it surfaces in my mind and I shudder. Such an awful word. Such horrible images.
To avoid ambiguity (or innuendo), I am not referring to anything that rhymes with “hunt” . . . The “c” word rhymes with “dancer.”
No sooner had a friend’s father passed away from cancer than my friend Priscilla Worthington* announced she too had cancer. I wish she had given me a heads up—I was somewhat hung over from a Saturday outing when she confided the news at Sunday brunch. I can understand why she was taken aback when I asked if it was malignant (in my muddled state, I had insensitively confused the concepts of “tumor” and “cancer,” which really are profoundly different).
Fortunately, by the end of brunch, like truly hardened NYers, we managed to laugh—hard—about the “c” word. First, most obviously, was the fact that the whole process would lead to weight loss, the obvious goal of any NYC woman. I was envious. Then we analyzed other angles, including the time I would have to take off from work to care for her post-surgery (translate: go to kick-ass resorts in the South or on the West Coast to ensure an optimal climate and maximum pampering for her recuperation).
Of course, I was assuming that (a) anyone in corporate America would give a damn that a colleague’s friend had cancer and (b) she didn’t really have cancer. Wrong on both accounts.
Last week I tried hard to escape the office to visit her in the hospital only to remain trapped in a partner’s office running in circles over something he was too lazy to think through on his own for what must be the firm’s tiniest and most clueless client.
Trapped again the next day, I announced that I had a hard stop, because I was visiting a friend in the hospital who had cancer. He must’ve thought I was playing the “c” card because he immediately countered with the sympathy card (or was that empathy he was aiming for?). He digressed for all of 10 seconds about a family friend who had had cancer before trapping me for another few hours so he could resolve a matter before he left for vacation, thereby eliminating any possibility of my going to the hospital.
He may be a chump who earns little respect at the firm but he’s still senior to me so even the least valuable of his clients and his vacation will always be a priority over any friend or relative of mine with cancer. Ah, the warmth and support of corporate America.
Corporate America cares. It throws money at the problem, buying tables at benefits. It doesn’t matter if it’s solely because of the competitive instinct it incites,* companies support these efforts and they are to be lauded, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a shame that so few support giving time rather than money, which not everyone has to give in the first place.
It’s not until you spend some time up close that you begin to have a sense of what the “c” word is about anyway. You have no idea how fragile and complicated our carcasses can be until you see one that’s wounded and ailing. For example, I thought laughter might help, but post-op, even a slight giggle might upset the flesh that’s been torn apart and sewn back together. Laughter, like many other things, will have to wait.
What shouldn’t have to wait, however, is making the time to sit still and talk, which despite this being one of the most social cities in the world, is something we don’t do as well as we think.
And so, after Priscilla had left the hospital, I spent one evening at her beside. Fortunately, not even nine hours of surgery and a bottle of percocet could make her forget the importance of a glass of pinot grigio—there was a glass of wine in my hands within minutes of my arrival.
To pass the time and distract her, together with her family who were visiting, we reviewed and analyzed exhaustively the most noteworthy dating episodes and incidents from the past six months of our lives, inevitably concluding that NYC-based men are truly a troubled and troublesome breed.
By the time I left Priscilla’s, it was late, past dinnertime. So I slipped into a neighborhood pub on my way home to grab a bite and review the draft of a short story a friend was writing before heading to bed.
I wound up sitting at the bar, stuck between Duane, who kept telling me he loved me because I had agreed to edit a friend’s story (with such a low emotional threshold, I imagine he falls in love at least 4 times a week—how exhausting) and George, who was desperate to tell me about how he’d recently been dissed by a potential suitor. Was he looking for sympathy or did he think this was the best way to recommend himself? I kept my mouth full so I would be excused from any obligation to respond.
Although the sight of Priscilla’s fragility and the signs of the obvious pain she was in (before she slipped another valium) made me flinch, I’d take an evening chatting with her and her family, completely isolated from the hustle and bustle and general chaos outside, over the company of NYC men anytime.
Notes
*Some of you will remember Priscilla from an earlier post: http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2010/11/case-of-priscilla-worthington.html
*If you’ve ever attended a benefit with a corporate group, you know the first thing every one does when they sit down at their $15-20,000 table is open the program and figure out which organizations gave more.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Of Mice and Men . . . and Invisible Suitcases
As I wait for winter to end and for life to begin, I keep returning to the same topic: Why am I still single?
As a girlfriend observed, until I’ve bagged a man, I’ll have no one to kill mice in my apartment. Hmm, not my immediate concern (nor necessarily my measure of a man), but I do appreciate her unusual perspective.
I’m not deluded enough to believe winter would be less depressing if I had someone special. Chances are someone “special” would exacerbate my cabin fever, compete for the remote control, and desecrate the toothpaste tube. Yet these aggravations seem like inconveniences I should be experiencing at this point in life.
Did I miss a turn? Am I wandering along the wrong life path? It’s fine if my path is “less traveled,” but what if my path is deserted and leads to a dark cave inhabited exclusively by trolls and other social pariah?
Despite many promising starts in 2010 (remember: 2.25 boyfriends!), 2011 has disappointed so far. As I approach the end of Q1, I am at a loss to explain Penelope’s poor results. The company’s fundamentals are still quite solid: reasonable looks; athletic; sense of humor; employed, etc. I’ve seen companies with far weaker fundamentals attract strategic partners and double their growth in just a two year period. But I guess I'm not a company listed on the NY Stock Exchange.
There was that one promising encounter in mid-January . . . I was approached by a handsome young man (yes, I still think 45 is “young”) at my local pub. Five minutes of conversation yielded an unprecedented number of coincidences: a former member of my golf club; friends with my college squash buddies; and resident in an apartment across the street from me.
Before long, I was basking in his attention. The late night emails following our impromptu drink didn’t hurt either (“That’s the best time I’ve had in a long time;” “I think you’re beautiful and sweet;” and, “Can I take you to dinner?”).
At last, I had incontrovertible proof that a man was interested in me. And he was a scratch golfer. It seemed too good to be true. And so it was . . .
There was no follow up, despite my accepting his dinner invitation. The acceptance hung out there awkwardly as a testament to our uneven expectations: his, a diversion to perk up his nightcap; and mine, an exciting new beginning to something/anything, which might even culminate in the first real date of 2011.
Most who have analyzed the incident have concluded that Scratch Golfer was not ambivalent about his level of interest in me but was probably married. Married? Only a dog would send emails like that if he had a wife at home! I’m not fool enough to believe men stop being dogs when they marry, but I thought they respected the borders of their marital kennels with a bit more subtlety. Apparently not . . .
With my one lead for 2011 gone, I pondered how I would avoid another decade of eating alone.
At this point in life (long in the tooth but not totally out for the count), people tend to form bonds based on their baggage. I don’t mean by whining over what’s flawed in their past, but by tactfully comparing select life-transforming experiences that felt gut-wrenchingly awful while being experienced.
By way of illustration . . . : a few years ago I invited a girlfriend to join me for drinks with a handsome Swede I’d been spending time with recently. Within three sips, I morphed from the object of his focus to an unnecessary third wheel, as he and my girlfriend swapped notes over their respective divorces. As they discussed the division of marital assets, their eyes lit up in shared understanding. I knew by the way they regaled each other with tales of ceding furniture to their ex-spouses that they were already imagining sharing certain assets with each other. I had nothing to contribute to this exchange. My baggage looked nothing like theirs and was clearly not worthy of discussion.
But what is Penelope’s baggage anyway? I see obtuse career decisions and some low grade anxieties, but that's the stuff of petite French handbags and silk evening purses, nothing like the large suitcases most of my contemporaries are carrying. No divorces, no ex-spouses, no stints in rehab, not even a stalker in my past. Have I been living under a rock?
The thing about baggage is that while we can easily identify others’, our own remains invisible to us. How can I make sure my baggage is neatly tucked underneath the seat (as baggage should be) if I don't even know what mine is?
Whether I like it or not, 20+ years living solitary—while others married, divorced, remarried, became felons or joined a cult—has probably left some scars that others can see and that I’ve never noticed.
Maybe my baggage is not as grand as it should be, but with some luck, maybe I have just enough baggage to meet a kind-hearted man with a large invisible suitcase and a good golf swing.
As a girlfriend observed, until I’ve bagged a man, I’ll have no one to kill mice in my apartment. Hmm, not my immediate concern (nor necessarily my measure of a man), but I do appreciate her unusual perspective.
I’m not deluded enough to believe winter would be less depressing if I had someone special. Chances are someone “special” would exacerbate my cabin fever, compete for the remote control, and desecrate the toothpaste tube. Yet these aggravations seem like inconveniences I should be experiencing at this point in life.
Did I miss a turn? Am I wandering along the wrong life path? It’s fine if my path is “less traveled,” but what if my path is deserted and leads to a dark cave inhabited exclusively by trolls and other social pariah?
Despite many promising starts in 2010 (remember: 2.25 boyfriends!), 2011 has disappointed so far. As I approach the end of Q1, I am at a loss to explain Penelope’s poor results. The company’s fundamentals are still quite solid: reasonable looks; athletic; sense of humor; employed, etc. I’ve seen companies with far weaker fundamentals attract strategic partners and double their growth in just a two year period. But I guess I'm not a company listed on the NY Stock Exchange.
There was that one promising encounter in mid-January . . . I was approached by a handsome young man (yes, I still think 45 is “young”) at my local pub. Five minutes of conversation yielded an unprecedented number of coincidences: a former member of my golf club; friends with my college squash buddies; and resident in an apartment across the street from me.
Before long, I was basking in his attention. The late night emails following our impromptu drink didn’t hurt either (“That’s the best time I’ve had in a long time;” “I think you’re beautiful and sweet;” and, “Can I take you to dinner?”).
At last, I had incontrovertible proof that a man was interested in me. And he was a scratch golfer. It seemed too good to be true. And so it was . . .
There was no follow up, despite my accepting his dinner invitation. The acceptance hung out there awkwardly as a testament to our uneven expectations: his, a diversion to perk up his nightcap; and mine, an exciting new beginning to something/anything, which might even culminate in the first real date of 2011.
Most who have analyzed the incident have concluded that Scratch Golfer was not ambivalent about his level of interest in me but was probably married. Married? Only a dog would send emails like that if he had a wife at home! I’m not fool enough to believe men stop being dogs when they marry, but I thought they respected the borders of their marital kennels with a bit more subtlety. Apparently not . . .
With my one lead for 2011 gone, I pondered how I would avoid another decade of eating alone.
At this point in life (long in the tooth but not totally out for the count), people tend to form bonds based on their baggage. I don’t mean by whining over what’s flawed in their past, but by tactfully comparing select life-transforming experiences that felt gut-wrenchingly awful while being experienced.
By way of illustration . . . : a few years ago I invited a girlfriend to join me for drinks with a handsome Swede I’d been spending time with recently. Within three sips, I morphed from the object of his focus to an unnecessary third wheel, as he and my girlfriend swapped notes over their respective divorces. As they discussed the division of marital assets, their eyes lit up in shared understanding. I knew by the way they regaled each other with tales of ceding furniture to their ex-spouses that they were already imagining sharing certain assets with each other. I had nothing to contribute to this exchange. My baggage looked nothing like theirs and was clearly not worthy of discussion.
But what is Penelope’s baggage anyway? I see obtuse career decisions and some low grade anxieties, but that's the stuff of petite French handbags and silk evening purses, nothing like the large suitcases most of my contemporaries are carrying. No divorces, no ex-spouses, no stints in rehab, not even a stalker in my past. Have I been living under a rock?
The thing about baggage is that while we can easily identify others’, our own remains invisible to us. How can I make sure my baggage is neatly tucked underneath the seat (as baggage should be) if I don't even know what mine is?
Whether I like it or not, 20+ years living solitary—while others married, divorced, remarried, became felons or joined a cult—has probably left some scars that others can see and that I’ve never noticed.
Maybe my baggage is not as grand as it should be, but with some luck, maybe I have just enough baggage to meet a kind-hearted man with a large invisible suitcase and a good golf swing.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Being Dumped, On Television
I looked out my window last Saturday and decided it was get-in-touch-with-ex-boyfriends season. I’m not sure whether it was the cloud cover or the temperature that tipped me off, but somehow I just knew.
So, I started to work my way down the list alphabetically. I was striking out. All of the ones in A through C were married with children so getting in touch would be awkward, and probably highly inappropriate from their wives’ perspective. I needed to respect the cardinal rule of intergender friendship for single female adults of this age: thou shalt not remain friends with ex-boyfriends unless they are also single and/or gay (which leads to interpretive challenges when they are heterosexually married AND gay).
A few letters later in the alphabet, I stumbled on the Evil Englishman. We had dated sometime in the 1870s, or so it seems, and he remains single, so he is safe (possibly too safe). Some of you will recall that I had an unremarkable lunch with him a year ago, a lunch that surprised me by how little we had to say to each other.* But, a year later, maybe he had become more interesting, or I had become far less interesting so he would seem more interesting in comparison.
So, I lobbed over a short email to his work address politely asking how 2011 was treating him so far. I immediately received a “Mailer Daemon” message. I scrutinized the error message for signs of obvious falsification. Truth be known, I have drafted false email error messages in the past rather than respond to someone with whom I no longer wished to be in contact. Cowardly? Yes, yet surprisingly effective.
The error message appeared legitimate. But how could he have left the bank he’d been at for 20 years? That bank was his life and he loved those trading screens like they were his next of kin (if he could have married an algorithm, he would have, but I suspect he would’ve been disappointed with their sex life). Only an assassination could explain this, although I recognize that fixed income derivatives traders are so rarely the subject of assassination attempts these days.
I launched a formal investigation and reached out to a friend with a Bloomberg account so she could sleuth discreetly on my behalf. Bloomberg is like Facebook for traders, except that it’s essentially mandatory for those living in “real time,” like traders (lawyers tend to live in “unreal time” where they tell a client they will send a document “shortly,” only to produce it days later . . .).
If the Evil Englishman weren’t on Bloomberg then clearly the assassination theory, no matter how far-fetched, was valid. My friend typed, searched, and found . . . some odd news. Within minutes she was able to pull up a story, which had appeared just 20 minutes earlier, confirming not only that he had left his senior post but that he had learned of his own departure the day prior thereto while listening to a “breaking news” segment on CNBC. Ouch!
We’ve all heard friends’ horror stories about being dumped by voicemail or email, which stings, but being dumped on public television must be devastating, not to mention uncivilized. As far as I know, only Matt Damon has dumped someone on national television (Minnie Driver).
Guys can break up in any medium because, well, they can. They incur no legal liability in doing so. There are no laws that govern these types of transactions. It’s generally a bit tougher for banks to do this, even if an employee is “at will,” because there are reputational concerns at stake as well as potential liabilities to address.
His bank was walking away from a 20 year commitment and couldn’t even muster the decency to alert him in advance. Isn’t this something HR could have done? Maybe that’s why guys tend to break up over email and voicemail nowadays—they have no HR department to do the “in-person” job for them.
Later in the day, a spokesperson for the bank denied the story, but “Business Insider” explained that it would keep the story posted because it had been communicated to them by a “friend from work” of the Evil Englishman, which introduced a new level of indecency. Which is worse, the fact that your employer allows your termination to leak to public television through its own sloppiness before telling you, or the fact that your “work buddy” (who has inevitably been described as “collegial” and a “team player” in his 360 degree review) chose to share this delightful anecdote with the press ? What a swell friend. Left me wondering about my good friends in the corporate world, or is there such a thing . . .
How implausible that a white shoe firm that prided itself on its elitist standards for over 75 years should discard of top talent in such a crass manner. Then I recalled the Evil Englishman confiding in me a decade ago that he thought his bank was “headed to the shitter” (which sounds far less vulgar with a British accent). Had culture in corporate America, even in white shoe firms, decayed so dramatically in just a decade? Were their white shoes now muddied by greed for a quick profit, or had their shoes always been filthy but it was easier to hide a decade ago, when the Internet was still in its infancy and Wall Street press was easier to control?
Notes
* http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/11/lunch-report-x-lunch.html
So, I started to work my way down the list alphabetically. I was striking out. All of the ones in A through C were married with children so getting in touch would be awkward, and probably highly inappropriate from their wives’ perspective. I needed to respect the cardinal rule of intergender friendship for single female adults of this age: thou shalt not remain friends with ex-boyfriends unless they are also single and/or gay (which leads to interpretive challenges when they are heterosexually married AND gay).
A few letters later in the alphabet, I stumbled on the Evil Englishman. We had dated sometime in the 1870s, or so it seems, and he remains single, so he is safe (possibly too safe). Some of you will recall that I had an unremarkable lunch with him a year ago, a lunch that surprised me by how little we had to say to each other.* But, a year later, maybe he had become more interesting, or I had become far less interesting so he would seem more interesting in comparison.
So, I lobbed over a short email to his work address politely asking how 2011 was treating him so far. I immediately received a “Mailer Daemon” message. I scrutinized the error message for signs of obvious falsification. Truth be known, I have drafted false email error messages in the past rather than respond to someone with whom I no longer wished to be in contact. Cowardly? Yes, yet surprisingly effective.
The error message appeared legitimate. But how could he have left the bank he’d been at for 20 years? That bank was his life and he loved those trading screens like they were his next of kin (if he could have married an algorithm, he would have, but I suspect he would’ve been disappointed with their sex life). Only an assassination could explain this, although I recognize that fixed income derivatives traders are so rarely the subject of assassination attempts these days.
I launched a formal investigation and reached out to a friend with a Bloomberg account so she could sleuth discreetly on my behalf. Bloomberg is like Facebook for traders, except that it’s essentially mandatory for those living in “real time,” like traders (lawyers tend to live in “unreal time” where they tell a client they will send a document “shortly,” only to produce it days later . . .).
If the Evil Englishman weren’t on Bloomberg then clearly the assassination theory, no matter how far-fetched, was valid. My friend typed, searched, and found . . . some odd news. Within minutes she was able to pull up a story, which had appeared just 20 minutes earlier, confirming not only that he had left his senior post but that he had learned of his own departure the day prior thereto while listening to a “breaking news” segment on CNBC. Ouch!
We’ve all heard friends’ horror stories about being dumped by voicemail or email, which stings, but being dumped on public television must be devastating, not to mention uncivilized. As far as I know, only Matt Damon has dumped someone on national television (Minnie Driver).
Guys can break up in any medium because, well, they can. They incur no legal liability in doing so. There are no laws that govern these types of transactions. It’s generally a bit tougher for banks to do this, even if an employee is “at will,” because there are reputational concerns at stake as well as potential liabilities to address.
His bank was walking away from a 20 year commitment and couldn’t even muster the decency to alert him in advance. Isn’t this something HR could have done? Maybe that’s why guys tend to break up over email and voicemail nowadays—they have no HR department to do the “in-person” job for them.
Later in the day, a spokesperson for the bank denied the story, but “Business Insider” explained that it would keep the story posted because it had been communicated to them by a “friend from work” of the Evil Englishman, which introduced a new level of indecency. Which is worse, the fact that your employer allows your termination to leak to public television through its own sloppiness before telling you, or the fact that your “work buddy” (who has inevitably been described as “collegial” and a “team player” in his 360 degree review) chose to share this delightful anecdote with the press ? What a swell friend. Left me wondering about my good friends in the corporate world, or is there such a thing . . .
How implausible that a white shoe firm that prided itself on its elitist standards for over 75 years should discard of top talent in such a crass manner. Then I recalled the Evil Englishman confiding in me a decade ago that he thought his bank was “headed to the shitter” (which sounds far less vulgar with a British accent). Had culture in corporate America, even in white shoe firms, decayed so dramatically in just a decade? Were their white shoes now muddied by greed for a quick profit, or had their shoes always been filthy but it was easier to hide a decade ago, when the Internet was still in its infancy and Wall Street press was easier to control?
Notes
* http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/11/lunch-report-x-lunch.html
Friday, January 21, 2011
Survey of Winter Blues Management Techniques
Penelope has been somewhat reticent lately (hence the infrequent Lunch Reports)* as she struggles with the increasingly groundhog-day-esque feel of her day-to-day existence. Wake up, dress (yet who cares what wear this time of year), work, lunch (always within the $3 limit), sunset (gone already? Geez), 5 mile run, more work, feed cats, dinner, inhale glass of wine (or several), watch Golf Channel, sleep . . .
Every year, about this time of year, winter stands tall before me, a menacing presence that promises to impose itself for an unbearably long time. It doesn’t matter whether it's 60 degrees out or -6 degrees, because there's still over 8 weeks to go and during that time the weather is sure to fluctuate and frustrate beyond all reason.
And each year I explore new ways to push back the winter and maintain a convincing smile in the dead of winter.*
One year I ran through the winter, in complete denial of the cold and its effects on me. I wound up with walking bronchitis, but, thanks to all those endorphins sloshing around and working themselves into a happy lather, I also got through the winter with cheer and was absurdly fit when spring arrived.
I’ve never understood folks who extol the change of the seasons. I don’t need winter to appreciate summer. The contrast does nothing for me. Summer could last all year long, although I don’t mind the fall and spring stuff that nature tosses in like an annual bonus.
There was the year I golfed my way through winter, booking a trip south every other weekend. My handicap went from a 24 to a 12 but my savings were cut in half as well. By March 1st, I realized I could no longer afford Seasonal Affective Disorder, or my means of coping with it.
The very next year, I dated my way through winter, with the assistance of the Internet, of course (who has a deep enough bench of friends that they can field a new set-up once a week without some cyber assistance??). This was the winter of my real discontent. It produced myriad enduring stories but not a single male who endured beyond a first date.
Yet another year I entertained a scientific approach, enhancing my daily exposure to natural light by leaving my bedroom curtain open.* It helped, until the open curtain introduced my feline roommate to the pigeons perching outside my window at dawn each morning, in turn prompting him to hurl himself at the pigeons to kill them and protect his master from the wicked birds defecating indiscriminately.
No matter how many times he repeated the exercise, sadly, he couldn’t understand that a double window separated him from his prey. Convinced he might suffer brain damage as a result of blunt windowpane trauma, I eventually closed the curtain and returned to the dark.
I continue to explore new techniques for blues management but what should Winter 2011’s project be? What can I entertain, or what can entertain me, so that I forget winter has arrived and won't loosen its grip on me anytime soon?
I’ve already solicited advice from select friends, whose suggestions range from becoming a Christian Scientist (it may make more sense to attend my own church more frequently before switching religions altogether) to rekindling my stale passion for skiing (why pay to be cold when I can stay in NYC and freeze for free?). Now I’d like to put the question to a broader audience.
What can I do to confront those recalcitrant moods and make them yield more gracefully, if not effortlessly? Even the treadmill has become tired of the unrealistic expectations I invest in it each time I step on for another run.
And how will I know if I am successful? Each day I fight harder, but am less certain of any discernible progress. Perhaps my standards are too high, because when I asked a close friend whether I was winning the fight against the blues, she assured me that if I was alive and still able to ask the question, I was winning . . .
So, Penelope is inviting her readers to write in with suggestions for managing the winter blues and to share success stories of overcoming the demons that rule many of our winters.
Penelope
Notes
*For those new to The Lunch Report, please see http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com for back issues.
*See “Happy Meals for Sad People,” http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/10/lunch-report-happy-meals-for-sad-people.html
*Exposure to natural light is just one of many techniques recommended for managing Seasonal Affective Disorder. See, Avery, DH; Kizer, D; Bolte, MA; Hellekson, C, “Bright Light Therapy of Subsyndromal Seasonal Affective Disorder in the Workplace: Morning vs Afternoon Exposure,” Acta Psychiatrica Scandinavica (2001)
Every year, about this time of year, winter stands tall before me, a menacing presence that promises to impose itself for an unbearably long time. It doesn’t matter whether it's 60 degrees out or -6 degrees, because there's still over 8 weeks to go and during that time the weather is sure to fluctuate and frustrate beyond all reason.
And each year I explore new ways to push back the winter and maintain a convincing smile in the dead of winter.*
One year I ran through the winter, in complete denial of the cold and its effects on me. I wound up with walking bronchitis, but, thanks to all those endorphins sloshing around and working themselves into a happy lather, I also got through the winter with cheer and was absurdly fit when spring arrived.
I’ve never understood folks who extol the change of the seasons. I don’t need winter to appreciate summer. The contrast does nothing for me. Summer could last all year long, although I don’t mind the fall and spring stuff that nature tosses in like an annual bonus.
There was the year I golfed my way through winter, booking a trip south every other weekend. My handicap went from a 24 to a 12 but my savings were cut in half as well. By March 1st, I realized I could no longer afford Seasonal Affective Disorder, or my means of coping with it.
The very next year, I dated my way through winter, with the assistance of the Internet, of course (who has a deep enough bench of friends that they can field a new set-up once a week without some cyber assistance??). This was the winter of my real discontent. It produced myriad enduring stories but not a single male who endured beyond a first date.
Yet another year I entertained a scientific approach, enhancing my daily exposure to natural light by leaving my bedroom curtain open.* It helped, until the open curtain introduced my feline roommate to the pigeons perching outside my window at dawn each morning, in turn prompting him to hurl himself at the pigeons to kill them and protect his master from the wicked birds defecating indiscriminately.
No matter how many times he repeated the exercise, sadly, he couldn’t understand that a double window separated him from his prey. Convinced he might suffer brain damage as a result of blunt windowpane trauma, I eventually closed the curtain and returned to the dark.
I continue to explore new techniques for blues management but what should Winter 2011’s project be? What can I entertain, or what can entertain me, so that I forget winter has arrived and won't loosen its grip on me anytime soon?
I’ve already solicited advice from select friends, whose suggestions range from becoming a Christian Scientist (it may make more sense to attend my own church more frequently before switching religions altogether) to rekindling my stale passion for skiing (why pay to be cold when I can stay in NYC and freeze for free?). Now I’d like to put the question to a broader audience.
What can I do to confront those recalcitrant moods and make them yield more gracefully, if not effortlessly? Even the treadmill has become tired of the unrealistic expectations I invest in it each time I step on for another run.
And how will I know if I am successful? Each day I fight harder, but am less certain of any discernible progress. Perhaps my standards are too high, because when I asked a close friend whether I was winning the fight against the blues, she assured me that if I was alive and still able to ask the question, I was winning . . .
So, Penelope is inviting her readers to write in with suggestions for managing the winter blues and to share success stories of overcoming the demons that rule many of our winters.
Penelope
Notes
*For those new to The Lunch Report, please see http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com for back issues.
*See “Happy Meals for Sad People,” http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/10/lunch-report-happy-meals-for-sad-people.html
*Exposure to natural light is just one of many techniques recommended for managing Seasonal Affective Disorder. See, Avery, DH; Kizer, D; Bolte, MA; Hellekson, C, “Bright Light Therapy of Subsyndromal Seasonal Affective Disorder in the Workplace: Morning vs Afternoon Exposure,” Acta Psychiatrica Scandinavica (2001)
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Christmas at Canyon Ranch
As a result of a variety of recent stresses, including a bout of bronchitis, I opted for a solo Christmas this year at Canyon Ranch in Miami Beach, Florida.
I was so excited at the heightened sense of well being waiting for me in Miami that on the day of my departure I moved my flight up from 7pm to 4pm.
Upon arrival I couldn't ignore my disappointment. The other Ranchers looked suspiciously like me, average and aging. I was anticipating spectacularly fit folks who would shame me into taking better care of myself. Determined to make this a life-altering experience, however, I pushed the negative thoughts away. Tomorrow I would attend all sorts of soul-transforming classes, including yoga, pilates and something called Buff Ballet Booty.
I woke up the next day eager to start my new life. I sauntered down to breakfast and ordered some banana bread. The micro-serving was quickly obscured by a sugar (organic) wrapper I'd discarded, so I politely summoned my waiter to ask when my bread would arrive. He pointed out that my bread was in fact there, all 160 calories of it. Wow, that's breakfast? No time to fuss-mustn't be late for pilates.
Having taken a pilates class only once before, I am no expert but it certainly didn't leave me with any hope that I was firming the amorphous zone of flesh that had gathered around my midriff in the last few years.
As I left my pilates class and passed the pool, I overheard a teenager asking an instructor whether he knew any Burdenko* instructors in St. Louis. A light went off. This is a paradise for those who aren't already spoiled by NYC, which has one of the most diverse proliferation of "fusion" classes in the world. You want Yogilates with a Capoeira* influence taught in an Bikram* temperature studio? You can find it in NYC.
After pilates, I tried Vinyhasa yoga. I've long been fascinated with the tyrannical influence of yoga in America, forcing shame on anyone who can't touch their right toe to their left ear. I wasn't sure I saw the point but I dutifully did my warrior pose, the downward facing dog and the half moon. I disobeyed my instructor's command to heighten my sense of self-awareness, instead staring at the ocean, wondering with which children the Dr. Seuss books I had donated had wound up (would Green Eggs and Ham change their life as it had changed mine?).
We closed with "namaste".* I was supposed to feel enlightened but I was depressed I could no longer wrap my left leg around my right ear like I one could.
After I stopped in the grill room for a "proper lunch" of seared scallops and salad. According to the menu, which meticulously lists calorie and protein content for each dish, this was a 170 calorie lunch, roughly 10 calories per dollar.
I was so satisfied that I put my fork down, fled the compound to the nearest grocers and bought some cheddar cheese, rice krispy treats and diet coke. Finally, I was beginning to feel that rush of "elevation" yoga was meant to evoke. With a blissful buzz from the diet coke working its toxins into my body, I cuddled up in a chair under the sun with Andre Agassi. I had picked up his autobiography (finally available in paperback for non-Kindle folk), "Open," in the airport and we'd been inseparable since JFK.
Slowly, I was changing my Type A game plan. I had planned a spiritual boot camp for myself only to realize I could do this in NYC even more easily. What I could not do in NYC was read on the beach or run up a tab at The Delano Hotel.
And so, on Christmas day, I implemented Plan B. It was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas . . .
I spent the entire morning in bed with Agassi, rapt and inspired. When I was too hungry to read about the dissolution of Andre's marriage to Brooke Shields, I headed straight for the nearest Cuban restaurant and ordered something called "Sazon Ruedas de Serruco," fried filet of kingfish. Calories? Too many to count. Cost? About one third of what I was paying for lettuce leaves back at the Ranch.
Later I went for a run. What a change of scenery. The endless blue and green Ocean. Feral cats darting in front of me, breaking my stride. Carts of empty soda cans being pushed by cheery homeless men who, strangely, looked more fulfilled than most of my fellow Ranchers. It was welcome chaos after the excessive order of The Ranch.
By 8pm, I was ready for The Delano. Off with the spa pants and on with the Levis . . . It was time to really "be present."
Each person shapes his or her own path to spiritual satisfaction. As it turns out, my path does not involve denial, counting calories or focusing on my self. It involves festive Cuban restaurants dripping with grease and cheer, making small talk with strangers at The Delano, downing oversized gin and tonics poolside and making drunken calls to friends and family.
Merry Christmas and Happy Boxing Day
Penelope
Notes
*Burdenko is a water workout designed by Igor Burdenko that emphasizes balance, coordination, flexibility, endurance, speed and strength. What happened to just jumping in and splashing around?
*Capoeira is an Afro-Brazilian art form that combines elements of martial arts, music and dance.
*Bikram is a style of yoga practiced in a heated studio.
*Namaste, typically said while bowing, derives from the Hindi for "let there be a salutation to you." It is typically pronounced by both the instructor and student at the end of a yoga session, often to the complete befuddlement of a yoga neophyte.
I was so excited at the heightened sense of well being waiting for me in Miami that on the day of my departure I moved my flight up from 7pm to 4pm.
Upon arrival I couldn't ignore my disappointment. The other Ranchers looked suspiciously like me, average and aging. I was anticipating spectacularly fit folks who would shame me into taking better care of myself. Determined to make this a life-altering experience, however, I pushed the negative thoughts away. Tomorrow I would attend all sorts of soul-transforming classes, including yoga, pilates and something called Buff Ballet Booty.
I woke up the next day eager to start my new life. I sauntered down to breakfast and ordered some banana bread. The micro-serving was quickly obscured by a sugar (organic) wrapper I'd discarded, so I politely summoned my waiter to ask when my bread would arrive. He pointed out that my bread was in fact there, all 160 calories of it. Wow, that's breakfast? No time to fuss-mustn't be late for pilates.
Having taken a pilates class only once before, I am no expert but it certainly didn't leave me with any hope that I was firming the amorphous zone of flesh that had gathered around my midriff in the last few years.
As I left my pilates class and passed the pool, I overheard a teenager asking an instructor whether he knew any Burdenko* instructors in St. Louis. A light went off. This is a paradise for those who aren't already spoiled by NYC, which has one of the most diverse proliferation of "fusion" classes in the world. You want Yogilates with a Capoeira* influence taught in an Bikram* temperature studio? You can find it in NYC.
After pilates, I tried Vinyhasa yoga. I've long been fascinated with the tyrannical influence of yoga in America, forcing shame on anyone who can't touch their right toe to their left ear. I wasn't sure I saw the point but I dutifully did my warrior pose, the downward facing dog and the half moon. I disobeyed my instructor's command to heighten my sense of self-awareness, instead staring at the ocean, wondering with which children the Dr. Seuss books I had donated had wound up (would Green Eggs and Ham change their life as it had changed mine?).
We closed with "namaste".* I was supposed to feel enlightened but I was depressed I could no longer wrap my left leg around my right ear like I one could.
After I stopped in the grill room for a "proper lunch" of seared scallops and salad. According to the menu, which meticulously lists calorie and protein content for each dish, this was a 170 calorie lunch, roughly 10 calories per dollar.
I was so satisfied that I put my fork down, fled the compound to the nearest grocers and bought some cheddar cheese, rice krispy treats and diet coke. Finally, I was beginning to feel that rush of "elevation" yoga was meant to evoke. With a blissful buzz from the diet coke working its toxins into my body, I cuddled up in a chair under the sun with Andre Agassi. I had picked up his autobiography (finally available in paperback for non-Kindle folk), "Open," in the airport and we'd been inseparable since JFK.
Slowly, I was changing my Type A game plan. I had planned a spiritual boot camp for myself only to realize I could do this in NYC even more easily. What I could not do in NYC was read on the beach or run up a tab at The Delano Hotel.
And so, on Christmas day, I implemented Plan B. It was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas . . .
I spent the entire morning in bed with Agassi, rapt and inspired. When I was too hungry to read about the dissolution of Andre's marriage to Brooke Shields, I headed straight for the nearest Cuban restaurant and ordered something called "Sazon Ruedas de Serruco," fried filet of kingfish. Calories? Too many to count. Cost? About one third of what I was paying for lettuce leaves back at the Ranch.
Later I went for a run. What a change of scenery. The endless blue and green Ocean. Feral cats darting in front of me, breaking my stride. Carts of empty soda cans being pushed by cheery homeless men who, strangely, looked more fulfilled than most of my fellow Ranchers. It was welcome chaos after the excessive order of The Ranch.
By 8pm, I was ready for The Delano. Off with the spa pants and on with the Levis . . . It was time to really "be present."
Each person shapes his or her own path to spiritual satisfaction. As it turns out, my path does not involve denial, counting calories or focusing on my self. It involves festive Cuban restaurants dripping with grease and cheer, making small talk with strangers at The Delano, downing oversized gin and tonics poolside and making drunken calls to friends and family.
Merry Christmas and Happy Boxing Day
Penelope
Notes
*Burdenko is a water workout designed by Igor Burdenko that emphasizes balance, coordination, flexibility, endurance, speed and strength. What happened to just jumping in and splashing around?
*Capoeira is an Afro-Brazilian art form that combines elements of martial arts, music and dance.
*Bikram is a style of yoga practiced in a heated studio.
*Namaste, typically said while bowing, derives from the Hindi for "let there be a salutation to you." It is typically pronounced by both the instructor and student at the end of a yoga session, often to the complete befuddlement of a yoga neophyte.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The Joy of Being Dumped
It’s not winter yet but, for single people, socially, winter is already here. Winter for a single person has nothing to do with temperature and snow, although the lack of sun light can certainly aggravate the harsh climate.
Winter is that hopelessly long stretch of weeks (which feels like 70+ weeks, even if the calendar claims it’s shorter) when the days end early, drinking begins early and the absence of a significant other is felt so much more acutely.
No one with whom to share the burden of social “opportunity”—the endless string of holiday parties at which you pretend to be upbeat (must be polite, for the sake of your hosts) as it becomes painfully obvious that you will spend another New Year’s eve, another Martin Luther King weekend, and another Presidents’ Day weekend by yourself.
My readers may have noticed that this time last week I was not single. That’s right, Penelope was dumped, just in time for the holiday season. Excellent timing.
The phases of recovery from a break up generally parallel those following a death, although I would never pretend it is a loss of the same dimension. Based on what I’ve read, the stages involve denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
This is a daunting agenda, and based on past experiences I recognize I excel at depression but fall short when it comes to anger and/or acceptance. But I guess I better get to it unless I want to spend the rest of my life with a leopardcat who can’t stop urinating on the couch.
I once read The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale so am hoping that if I manage the process effectively, there could even be significant benefits, including:
*Workaholism. An excessive focus on work is a common outlet for someone experiencing a romantic rupture. Having just experienced my lowest billable year ever, this sounds like a win-win for me. Let us just pray there is enough work to feed the sense of workaholism I hope to nurture in the coming months. I do notice that drafting documents and handling conference calls have seemed much more rewarding than sleeping or eating in the last 24 hours, so this is promising.
*Weight Loss. Clearly this is the season of weight gain. Yet, by timing my being dumped as judicially as I have, hopefully I will have created the perfect counterforce to weight gain—if I can just milk it long enough so I remain as depressed and uninterested in food as I have been in the last 36 hours. Based on my estimates, I should be able to lose all the weight I gained hanging out drinking and eating with the Naked Man, and maybe even more by New Year’s, which I will obviously be spending with the leopardcat dreaming of a different life.
*Financial Savings. One of the upsides of the depression that ensues from being dumped is that you’re far less likely to exceed your budget. This is because (1) you have no desire to go out and socialize, hence the restaurant and taxi bills goes way down and (2) you feel crappy about yourself so the last thing you’re going to do is go out and buy clothing—better to hide behind the frumpy look of your existing rags.
*Kitty Litter Replacement. One of the first tasks that seems to fall by the wayside when Penelope is happy and frivolous is changing the kitty litter. Now that there is no wind left in her sails, Penelope will have all the time in the world to focus on changing the kitty litter. In fact, maybe if she can combine this activity with the spirit of the first item above, she will become obsessive enough that she’ll arrive at work by 7am (having changed the kitty litter once already) and then run home at lunch to change the kitty litter again.
*Lower Golf Handicap. You may have discerned a thread in Penelope’s earlier communications, maybe not. She would very much like to be a better golfer but certain frivolities have distracted her from a greater calling. Now that the same question has been asked and answered for the umpteen millionth time (Question: Can I meet a guy interested in having a long term relationship with me? Answer: No), there’s not much sense in wasting time asking the question again. Time would be better spent focusing on things for which Penelope demonstrates less incompetence, not competence mind you, but less incompetence than in the interpersonal sphere. Far more rewarding would be an hour spent chipping than an hour spent showing kindness to someone who is likely to slap you in the face.
As I reassess the various net benefits of being dumped, I can’t understand why not everyone is writing Santa begging to be dumped for Christmas.
Happy Holidays.
Penelope
Winter is that hopelessly long stretch of weeks (which feels like 70+ weeks, even if the calendar claims it’s shorter) when the days end early, drinking begins early and the absence of a significant other is felt so much more acutely.
No one with whom to share the burden of social “opportunity”—the endless string of holiday parties at which you pretend to be upbeat (must be polite, for the sake of your hosts) as it becomes painfully obvious that you will spend another New Year’s eve, another Martin Luther King weekend, and another Presidents’ Day weekend by yourself.
My readers may have noticed that this time last week I was not single. That’s right, Penelope was dumped, just in time for the holiday season. Excellent timing.
The phases of recovery from a break up generally parallel those following a death, although I would never pretend it is a loss of the same dimension. Based on what I’ve read, the stages involve denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
This is a daunting agenda, and based on past experiences I recognize I excel at depression but fall short when it comes to anger and/or acceptance. But I guess I better get to it unless I want to spend the rest of my life with a leopardcat who can’t stop urinating on the couch.
I once read The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale so am hoping that if I manage the process effectively, there could even be significant benefits, including:
*Workaholism. An excessive focus on work is a common outlet for someone experiencing a romantic rupture. Having just experienced my lowest billable year ever, this sounds like a win-win for me. Let us just pray there is enough work to feed the sense of workaholism I hope to nurture in the coming months. I do notice that drafting documents and handling conference calls have seemed much more rewarding than sleeping or eating in the last 24 hours, so this is promising.
*Weight Loss. Clearly this is the season of weight gain. Yet, by timing my being dumped as judicially as I have, hopefully I will have created the perfect counterforce to weight gain—if I can just milk it long enough so I remain as depressed and uninterested in food as I have been in the last 36 hours. Based on my estimates, I should be able to lose all the weight I gained hanging out drinking and eating with the Naked Man, and maybe even more by New Year’s, which I will obviously be spending with the leopardcat dreaming of a different life.
*Financial Savings. One of the upsides of the depression that ensues from being dumped is that you’re far less likely to exceed your budget. This is because (1) you have no desire to go out and socialize, hence the restaurant and taxi bills goes way down and (2) you feel crappy about yourself so the last thing you’re going to do is go out and buy clothing—better to hide behind the frumpy look of your existing rags.
*Kitty Litter Replacement. One of the first tasks that seems to fall by the wayside when Penelope is happy and frivolous is changing the kitty litter. Now that there is no wind left in her sails, Penelope will have all the time in the world to focus on changing the kitty litter. In fact, maybe if she can combine this activity with the spirit of the first item above, she will become obsessive enough that she’ll arrive at work by 7am (having changed the kitty litter once already) and then run home at lunch to change the kitty litter again.
*Lower Golf Handicap. You may have discerned a thread in Penelope’s earlier communications, maybe not. She would very much like to be a better golfer but certain frivolities have distracted her from a greater calling. Now that the same question has been asked and answered for the umpteen millionth time (Question: Can I meet a guy interested in having a long term relationship with me? Answer: No), there’s not much sense in wasting time asking the question again. Time would be better spent focusing on things for which Penelope demonstrates less incompetence, not competence mind you, but less incompetence than in the interpersonal sphere. Far more rewarding would be an hour spent chipping than an hour spent showing kindness to someone who is likely to slap you in the face.
As I reassess the various net benefits of being dumped, I can’t understand why not everyone is writing Santa begging to be dumped for Christmas.
Happy Holidays.
Penelope
Saturday, November 27, 2010
The Case of Priscilla Worthington
I would like to share with you a recent NYC-based dating episode involving a good friend of Penelope’s (not a disguise for Penelope, I swear). This case study is based on the last five months in the dating life of Priscilla Worthington, a good friend of Penelope’s.
I met Priscilla’s new “man” (just wait, you'll see why I question his manhood) a couple of months into their relationship. Let’s call him Mr. Private Equity. He hails from a posh ‘hood in Newport, Rhode Island and collected a degree from HBS along the way (the mention of which, ten years ago, would have impressed me, but now comes across like an admission of HIV+ status).
So, I met Mr. Private Equity randomly when he showed up to collect Priscilla from an impromptu soiree we were enjoying with the Naked Man and another friend at Smith & Wollensky’s, the capitol of steak and testosterone in NYC. Private Equity seemed ill at ease in the environment and hid a bit behind Priscilla’s skirt. I didn’t want to tell her my initial impressions but I suspected Private Equity would have to break up with himself first before he could date anyone seriously, much less Priscilla, a tall Eastern European head turner with a wicked long drive on the golf course.
I held my tongue, recognizing that Penelope is not exactly a role model for healthy or long-term relationships (unless two months counts as “long term,” which sadly it may in NYC, the city of transient emotions and commitments).
I watched and I listened. The courtship progressed. Although he did not golf, he was an avid runner so he was at least health-oriented. Plus, they shared a love of the theater and they had already booked a New Year’s vacation to the Dominican Republic (before any incidence of cholera had been reported).
But then there was the evening we met for a shopping session at Bergdorf’s so she could shop for a “break up dress.” Some of you may be unfamiliar with the term, but a break up dress is the classy yet sexy dress one wears when one suspects one may be on the precipice of a break up. The theory is that he will see what he thinks he is about to discard, begin to drool, lose all sense of reason, be overwhelmed with torrid images of removing the dress and invite her away for a romantic weekend instead of breaking up with her. The ability of a female to cloud a man’s judgment has long been one of the most significant factors in the perpetuation of the human species, trust me.
Then there were more troubling signs: the weekend he disappeared to Alaska for a funeral, followed a few days later by another trip out West for a memorial service during which he remained incommunicado throughout; and his inability to hold his liquor (actually, any liquor). What was emerging was a stark pattern of incompatibility.
Yet it was still a surprise when at the tail end of a girls’ weekend in Palm Beach Mr. Private Equity and Priscilla broke up.
First there was the abrupt email. He sent her a scathingly critical email as we sat at a bar waiting to board our flight back to NYC. I was so stunned when she relayed the contents that I forgot to pay the bill. Fortunately, ten minutes after boarding, JetBlue re-opened the closed gate, delayed our departure and encouraged me to deplane so I could pay the bill (I really hope that $12 in revenue keeps that bar afloat).
One of the many complaints Private Equity leveled was that Priscilla had not given sufficient prior notice of our intended plans to grab a burger at our favorite burger joint upon returning from FL that evening. Not only was he horrified and appalled by the blatant spontaneity of the burger scheme, but he was truly disgusted by her suggestion that she would then meet up with him post-burger and post-wine. “Priscilla,” he responded “that sounds like a booty call.”
Wait, isn’t every American guy’s dream to have some chick call him up for a booty call? Am I missing something?
Despite his behavior, Ms. Worthington remained open-minded and agreed to meet up with Private Equity for dinner the following evening to sort out their misunderstandings. She planned her outfit carefully. Having worn the break up dress one too many times, she deliberately wore pants for this meeting—the denial of calves and flesh, the ultimate insult. I didn’t want to tell her, but she had been wearing the pants all the time, and had been the only one wearing pants.
It’s awful to be dumped, but to be dumped by a guy who is likely gay and constantly has relatives dying in Alaska is particularly harsh.
In retrospect the compromises Ms. Worthington made were too great, but when do we know where to draw the line between acceptable and unacceptable compromises? How do we navigate the grey area? None of us want to grow old alone so compromise seems like an obvious path forward, no? Maybe the fact he did not play golf was not grounds for immediate romantic dismissal, but short of non-negotiable behavior, like physical violence, how does one decide what is grounds for dismissal?
Penelope
I met Priscilla’s new “man” (just wait, you'll see why I question his manhood) a couple of months into their relationship. Let’s call him Mr. Private Equity. He hails from a posh ‘hood in Newport, Rhode Island and collected a degree from HBS along the way (the mention of which, ten years ago, would have impressed me, but now comes across like an admission of HIV+ status).
So, I met Mr. Private Equity randomly when he showed up to collect Priscilla from an impromptu soiree we were enjoying with the Naked Man and another friend at Smith & Wollensky’s, the capitol of steak and testosterone in NYC. Private Equity seemed ill at ease in the environment and hid a bit behind Priscilla’s skirt. I didn’t want to tell her my initial impressions but I suspected Private Equity would have to break up with himself first before he could date anyone seriously, much less Priscilla, a tall Eastern European head turner with a wicked long drive on the golf course.
I held my tongue, recognizing that Penelope is not exactly a role model for healthy or long-term relationships (unless two months counts as “long term,” which sadly it may in NYC, the city of transient emotions and commitments).
I watched and I listened. The courtship progressed. Although he did not golf, he was an avid runner so he was at least health-oriented. Plus, they shared a love of the theater and they had already booked a New Year’s vacation to the Dominican Republic (before any incidence of cholera had been reported).
But then there was the evening we met for a shopping session at Bergdorf’s so she could shop for a “break up dress.” Some of you may be unfamiliar with the term, but a break up dress is the classy yet sexy dress one wears when one suspects one may be on the precipice of a break up. The theory is that he will see what he thinks he is about to discard, begin to drool, lose all sense of reason, be overwhelmed with torrid images of removing the dress and invite her away for a romantic weekend instead of breaking up with her. The ability of a female to cloud a man’s judgment has long been one of the most significant factors in the perpetuation of the human species, trust me.
Then there were more troubling signs: the weekend he disappeared to Alaska for a funeral, followed a few days later by another trip out West for a memorial service during which he remained incommunicado throughout; and his inability to hold his liquor (actually, any liquor). What was emerging was a stark pattern of incompatibility.
Yet it was still a surprise when at the tail end of a girls’ weekend in Palm Beach Mr. Private Equity and Priscilla broke up.
First there was the abrupt email. He sent her a scathingly critical email as we sat at a bar waiting to board our flight back to NYC. I was so stunned when she relayed the contents that I forgot to pay the bill. Fortunately, ten minutes after boarding, JetBlue re-opened the closed gate, delayed our departure and encouraged me to deplane so I could pay the bill (I really hope that $12 in revenue keeps that bar afloat).
One of the many complaints Private Equity leveled was that Priscilla had not given sufficient prior notice of our intended plans to grab a burger at our favorite burger joint upon returning from FL that evening. Not only was he horrified and appalled by the blatant spontaneity of the burger scheme, but he was truly disgusted by her suggestion that she would then meet up with him post-burger and post-wine. “Priscilla,” he responded “that sounds like a booty call.”
Wait, isn’t every American guy’s dream to have some chick call him up for a booty call? Am I missing something?
Despite his behavior, Ms. Worthington remained open-minded and agreed to meet up with Private Equity for dinner the following evening to sort out their misunderstandings. She planned her outfit carefully. Having worn the break up dress one too many times, she deliberately wore pants for this meeting—the denial of calves and flesh, the ultimate insult. I didn’t want to tell her, but she had been wearing the pants all the time, and had been the only one wearing pants.
It’s awful to be dumped, but to be dumped by a guy who is likely gay and constantly has relatives dying in Alaska is particularly harsh.
In retrospect the compromises Ms. Worthington made were too great, but when do we know where to draw the line between acceptable and unacceptable compromises? How do we navigate the grey area? None of us want to grow old alone so compromise seems like an obvious path forward, no? Maybe the fact he did not play golf was not grounds for immediate romantic dismissal, but short of non-negotiable behavior, like physical violence, how does one decide what is grounds for dismissal?
Penelope
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