Starting Over

Some big news. I’m starting over.

Just when I thought I’d be winding down my (not so illustrious) career in advertising, I find myself taking a “real job” in my late forties. Hard to believe I was actually crazy enough to imagine middle-age would be a time to be cashing in and kicking back.

Right smack in the middle of my 27th (failed) get-rich quick scheme, life went and surprised us all with things like economic collapses, the ruination of property values, and double digit unemployment rates. All of which led me to wake up in a sweaty panic one memorable morning transfixed by the realization that (a) I was too broke to retire and (b) too old to marry rich.

It was a terrible predicament. I spent the rest of the week rewriting my resume (which I hadn’t looked at in five years) and composing professional-sounding “cover letters” (even though I had no idea what “professional” sounded like anymore).

In what could only be described as a miracle (given the economy, for sure, and my “advanced” age most definitely), I eventually landed a senior position in an ad agency. In San Francisco, arguably among the best cities in the country. They even offered to pay my relocation. It was like falling into a crystal clear oasis after wandering aimlessly through a desert.

Within a month, I went:

• From heat (Arizona summer) to fog (San Francisco summer).
• From wearing as little as possible to wearing “layers” (the key to dressing for San Fran weather, I was told by many).
• From a daily circuit that went pool—bed—fridge, to walking everywhere by foot (since I can’t figure out how the public transport works), knapsack firmly strapped to back just in case I want to do some shopping along the way (since I was warned not to bring my car).
• From always whining about being bored and/or my loss of muscle tone, to talking to any stranger who entered my path, usually starting the conversation with: “Hey there, I’m new here. What’s good to eat around here?”
• From having my own bedroom and private bathroom, to sharing a flat with a twenty-something private school teacher in Victorian mansion having eight rooms, one tiny bathroom, roughly 3,000 antique books, an eccentric collection of Asian antiques, and 400 pair of men’s shoes (smelling of course like men’s feet).

I quickly discovered my coping skills had dulled considerably while wandering in the desert, and regularly found myself on the edge of a teary breakdown. Too much change, even if it was positive, was freaking me out.

Upon admitting my fragile state to others, I heard the following bits of sympathy and support:
“Shut up, you got a job!”
“Stop whining, you’re in San Fran!”
“Get over yourself. It’s a new beginning.”

I’m sure I’ll come round in time.

Once I stop crying.

Boo Hoo.

The Last (Loon-inspired) Red Flag

I started the “red flags” series recently to help alert older women (ie, women over forty, like me) spot male duds masquerading as eligible dudes. I’m finding I can’t do it anymore, so I’m making this my last red flag.

My reasons for stopping are not what you might guess. I mean, I could probably go on forever talking about red flags in men. I can’t do it anymore because I’m sick of all the relationship rules–the tips, warnings, does and don’ts. By calling out the red flags, it occurred to me  I was just adding to all the relationship hogwash out there.

I came to this conclusion recently while watching loons in Wisconsin.

Loons, they say, mate for life. I guess it’s true since you always see them in pairs. It suddenly dawned on me: I have never seen a loon reading a how-to-find-your-soul-mate type of book–I mean, never. So why the heck should we read them?

Most of the relationship books I’ve looked at complicate the dating and mating thing, anyway. Ladies, we’ere dealing with men here–they’re straightforward and simple. Unless you’re super high, men could never be confused with mysterious creatures who dwell in caves recharging their superhuman powers while we blow dry our hair and trim our bushes into cute heart-shapes.

The other thing that annoys me is how these books make coupledom sound like some wildly exotic country we all must visit before we die. They entice you with wanderlust and then warn that it’s best to follow their (usually bulleted and/or numbered) advice lest you get eaten alive in the piranha-infested moats and razor-topped barricades surrounding the land of love.

More advice is provided for those who make it into the “honeymoon suite.” This typically takes the form of silly communication tips (like never say, “you…” and always repeat back what he said because he’s probably not even listening to what he says)–all of which are guaranteed to help both sides clarify  their endless and impossible-to-satisfy demands.

Ever hear a loon arguing about getting more “us time?” I rest my case.

Still, I can’t part without a final red flag. It’s simply this: you find yourself saying, “…but he’s…” a lot.

Some examples:

“He’s so angry and argumentative…but his family has a villa in Italy.”
Or,
“He’s so emotionally repressed…but his blueberry waffles are to die for.”
Or,
“He’s so amazing in bed…but he’s prone to get drunk and pull out his dick at parties.”
Or,
“He’s so witty and smart…but he plays computer games with 12-year-olds until 3AM.”

You get the picture.

Now let’s say, you keep repeating the same “but he” to yourself until there’s no room left in your head to think another thought. That’s a sure signal that even though you like the stuff before the “but he,” you can’t accept what comes after. Which is about when you might thinking about moving on. Because the truth is, the “but” is really an “and”–and you can’t have one without the other.

Red flag #4: His True Friend is a True Jerk

Typically it takes a few weeks of dating before you get to meet the new boyfriend’s best friend. When you do, pay careful attention lest you experience my fate. Years later, I still cringe at the thought of it.

Here’s what happened.

I met Robert online and after a rapid fire exchange of witticisms (mine) and entertaining retorts (his), we decided to meet for a drink. A big bear of a man (a description which I later changed to, “he’s fat as a house”), I immediately put him in the safe and cuddly box. This assessment turned out to be half wrong.

I moved in with Robert after a month of dating. (I had my reasons–they were all insane.) To any outsider, Robert, an attorney, appeared to lead a pleasant and orderly life. He got up at 6:30 AM every day; seemed enthralled by me; got excited about trying new recipes and wines; and took the whole corporate attorney thing in stride–upon arriving home, the first words out of his mouth were, “I’ve got to get out of this monkey suit.”

One night after dinner, just as we were wondering what was on TIVO, the doorbell rang. I gave Robert a startled look as this had never happened before.

“It’s Bullwinkle,” Robert said as he went for the door.

“The cartoon character?” I asked incredulous. “He’s alive?”

“No, numnuts,” he said, “My buddy, Adam.”

That was the first bad sign—his friend was named after a moose.

The second was Adam himself. Six-five and on the hefty side, everything about Adam was super-sized. He talked too loudly, smelled like a gas station, and dressed like a slob. He charged through the door and lumbered over to the couch where I was sitting.

“She’s hot,” he said staring at my chest. What’s her name?” I crunched up my nose and tried not to breathe.

“Knock it off, Bull,” Robert said indulgently. “That’s Pam.”

Bullwinkle pounded his feet on the floor and yelled, “Oh yeah!” holding up the third bad sign: a gallon of vodka.

The fourth bad sign I would not have predicted as the eighties were a long, long time ago. Robert reached deep into a cupboard and pulled out what turned out to be a bag of Coke. They cut lines, bowed, and snorted deeply. It was like watching two jet airplanes fire up and get ready for take-off.

It was horrible.

I watched them taxi out to the backyard–two monster-sized idiots, carrying jumbo-sized vodka-and-tonics, having just lost their pea-sized brains. Then I went to bed, locking the door behind me and jamming a chair under the knob.

A loud thud woke me around 4 AM. I found Robert teetering in the hallway like a life-size punching clown. I punched him and went back to bed.

I’m embarrassed to admit, I had a codependent streak in those days: I stuck around thinking I could make him stay the nice, normal Robert I’d met on our first date–not the binge-drinking-and-snorting guy he turned into every weekend. When I tried to talk to him about it, he’d complain, “You just don’t like my friends.” Couldn’t argue with that, I thought to myself. It soon dawned on me, I didn’t like Robert either.

I guess the point of the story is, if you suspect a guy you just started seeing has a dark or secret side, ask to meet his best friend. Then step back and watch them do their thing together. If you’re right, you’ll have to decide if there’s enough room in the relationship for you, Dr Jekyll, Mr Hyde, and all their buddies. Here, let me save you the trouble: there’s not.

Luna Beads & the Orgasm of My Life

I’ve taken a break from the Red Flags of Dating Over Forty (see Red Flag #1, #2, #3)  series to talk about another matter: my vagina.

Most women don’t worry about their vagina until after giving birth. I, however, have worried about my beaver ever since a guy I dated in my twenties told me it felt “kinda loose.” I told him the problem was his too-small dick, but still, I couldn’t shake the comment. Oh sure, I’d tried doing Kegels over the years–those exercises where you squeeze and release your vaginal muscles to tighten them. But I’d quickly get distracted, lose count, and start eating.

Fast forward to recently when I started really obsessing about the “beave” going soft on me. That got me thinking about Ben Wa balls, which eventually led to Luna Beads by LELO. I’ll get back to the Luna Beads in a minute. First a bit about Ben Wa balls.

I’m walking through San Francisco’s Chinatown when a couple of shiny chrome balls nestled in a red silk-lined box catch my eye.

“What are those?” I ask the sleepy clerk as I pick up the oversized marbles, enjoying their cool, shiny smoothness.

“Ben Waaaa balls,” she hollers like a wailing infant.

“Ben What?” I ask sharply, my head snapping around to give her a raised eyebrow.

“Make sex better.” She yawns and walks away.

Call me slow but I could not fathom how a pair of balls could do anything except contribute to a juggling act. So I looked up Ben Wa balls on Wikipedia when I got home as I clearly needed some educating.

Also known as Burmese bells or Geisha balls, Ben Wa balls go back eons. They were originally placed in the vagina to enhance intercourse (some prefer the anus—just reporting facts). They’ve also been used to increase the strength of the pelvic floor, in much the way Kegel exercises do, increasing vaginal elasticity and bladder control.

Because I could imagine getting the Ben Wa balls in but not out, I kept on with my research. Eventually I found Luna Beads, designed by the Swedish sex toy company, LELO. The Luna Beads are securely housed in a girdle, which is attached to a very strong string, so you can easily pull them out. That’s appealing.

I contacted LELO and requested a pair in exchange for a write-up without a promise of any editorial control on their part. They agreed and sent me the Luna Bead “kit,” which includes one light pair (2 x 28 grams) and another heavier pair (2 x 37 grams).

Here’s what happened.

I inserted the lighter balls and the beaver swallowed them whole. I panicked thinking they’d migrated somewhere they weren’t supposed to be (though that’s not anatomically possible as the vagina is “land locked”). I pulled them out, inserted the heavier balls, and went grocery shopping. As I stood in the produce aisle squeezing a largish cucumber for firmness, I could feel my vaginal muscles holding tight to stop from giving birth to a pair of bouncing beads. It was a good feeling–at least one part of me was defying gravity.

Since that day several months ago, I’ve been using the Luna beads for about half an hour every other day. Sometimes I’ll find myself “clenching” around them, sort of like doing a Luna Kegel. Most of the time though, I forget they’re in there, which I’m guessing is an indicator of how taut things are getting down there. But if you want to know the real benefit of doing your Luna Kegels, you’ve got to have an orgasm. I’m talking intense, like, wow, where’d-that-come-from intense. Of course, I did research on that too and discovered there’s a real connection between stronger vaginal muscles and stronger orgasms.

Looks like I’m going to be doing my Luna Kegels for a long, long time.

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