I have recently discovered texting via the mic on my mobile phone.
Yeah. Snickers aside, please. I know it’s 2015.
It is a true time saver but the mic has a mind of its own. Some of the things it thinks I say are a little off base. And off color.
Take this morning, for instance. I was texting my friend Beth, trying to tell her I wholeheartedly agreed with her text message to me. I spoke into the mic with an enthusiastic, “I agree” and then tried to spit out “exclamation point” so Siri would place the right punctuation for emphasis. I may have stumbled a bit on the world “exclamation.”
Siri has an attitude. In case you had not noticed. I often call her a dumb blonde and I think she takes it personally.
So, instead of “I agree!” what appeared was “I agree Excrement.”
Which is not a term of endearment and something I’m sure my friend Beth has never been called.
But, given my new zen-like outlook on life, I just laughed and moved on. Mistakes will be made. Oh, and I caught it before I pushed “send.” Which helped keep me zen-like.
Quite a few of you have asked, over the past several weeks, about my foray into online dating. Rather than make a big deal of an update, I thought I’d slip it into this post that is seemingly about making mistakes.
Because mistakes will be made. Have been made.
Here’s the headline: I’m dating someone. Yes, exclusively.
One step at a time, people. Don’t get ahead of me. Or I’ll freak.
I am happy. He is thoughtful, kind, handsome—all good things.
Leading up to this man was a string of mishaps and near misses.
The genuine, nice widower who had lost his wife and son in a car accident many years ago. But he and I having a drink could have been a business meeting. No sparks.
The man who stood me up because he could not keep track of our date versus when he had his kids for the weekend.
The nice guy with young kids whose weekends with them were in direct opposition to mine with my kids. And our jobs made weeknights a bit tough. It’s hard to figure out if you’re made for each other when scheduling a Wednesday night coffee is akin to logistics for the World Economic Summit.
The man who seemed so great—until I realized he was in financial trading, like my ex. He may have been a great guy, but I balked. Call it a mild form of PTSD but I worried about the lifestyle that would come with his profession. I need solid. Dependable. With an edge. I knew the edge came with trading but solid and dependable are sometimes iffy. It’s hard to find that mix.
The salesman who had some unresolved anger issues with females, namely his ex. Who thought he wanted a woman who could hold her own but really wanted a cheerleader whose career could play second fiddle to his. That wasn’t part of my vision—particularly when his career was shaky. I want a true partner. Best me in some arenas. Defer to me in others. That’s life and a modern relationship.
And don’t forget our Greek friend who shared tomato parables. If you missed that story, you can read it here. A male friend texted me during the date and asked if my date was cause for Run Like Hell to the Bathroom and Make a Quick Exit. He was.
There were men I did not meet. The younger ones who thought I did not look my age but were half of it. I’m no Mrs. Robinson. The 24-year-old with cancer who felt women his age could not hold their own in conversations about life. The 30-something whose age range was 20s and 30s but thought he and I would have a connection. These men surprised me. I guess I think of myself as so far beyond that stage of life that men who don’t see an age difference catch me off guard. The nice bit for me was that these men felt I was beautiful. In a world where middle-aged women sometimes become invisible, that was a nice compliment.
And the crazies, of course. Or the offbeat. The man whose sole first communication to me via email was, “What flavor gelato did you last have and where?” I might have answered him if his communique had started with a “hello”, at least.
Here’s the beauty of these stories.
I spent Valentine’s Day afternoon with a sweet widower. I was disappointed in the lack of sparks but it was reassuring to know nice guys are out there.
I ordered myself a lovely glass of wine when stood up. And then met my cousin for a phenom steak dinner. And was ok. Truly. Not just pretending to be ok. Really ok. Wow. That’s progress, people.
I walked away early from the angry salesman. Really early. Despite the fact that he was handsome and charming. Score one for the mature me. There was no changing him, pity for a bad childhood, hope for an about-face. I saw who he was, accepted it and got out fast.
I am still far from perfect. Always will be. But more accepting of the mistakes and mishaps life offers up, after the past few hellish and wonderful years.
Mistakes will be made, yes. Many of them by me. Accepting this has helped me accept myself on more realistic terms. And will help me, I’m sure, as I navigate a new relationship that I just want to take one step at a time. Whether six months, six years or an eternity, I am finding joy as I go. Knowing the ultimate outcome will play out as it should.
You can text me if you agree with this wholeheartedly. Just be careful if any exclamation points are involved.
Mistakes are so easily made, after all.