You're Not The Man You Were by:Sandra Prior
For the modern man getting back into dating after a divorce
, I'd heartily recommend teaming up with your sister, a platonic female friend or a pal's wife. Women can provide you with a look behind the curtain and will give you excellent scouting reports, most of which you will ignore at your own peril. And, if you're lucky, they can help you relocate your long-lost mojo.
Playing this role for me was my good friend Eileen. Shortly after becoming single, I emailed her, moaning about a woman I had a crush on but never thought would go out with me. Eileen emailed back, 'I don't want your sizeable ego to get any bigger, but you don't get it: you're one of the cool kids now.' And I guess she was right. My self-image was formed in high school. Since then, I had made some progress but never bothered to sync up my self-esteem with my reality. I had traded a dorky wardrobe and a Caesar bowl cut for artfully distressed jeans and overpriced tousled hair. I had a job. So it made sense that the same women who once would have adopted me as a mascot and bought me sandwiches would actually have sex with me.
There were some other changes. A decade ago, I lived in a flat off the garbage room of a Warsaw Pact-era building. The only view out my bedroom window was of the massive calves of the upstairs neighbor as her poodle shot amber squirts at me. Now I had the top floor on a tree-lined street.
I quickly found out that having an interesting career is an aphrodisiac. I'd met Sarah two months after splitting from my wife. She was a 26-year-old architect with a shy, delicate face and a gymnast's body. I called her and we had dinner. A second date ended at my place.
Things were going pretty well, but it wasn't until she saw a photograph of me in a military helicopter in the Angolan bush that she seemed, well, truly interested. 'Can I have that picture?' She asked, batting her giant brown eyes for maximum effect. 'Sure,' I said. Then I conjured up my man-of-mystery voice and said cryptically, 'That was a tough trip.' Of course, I didn't mention it was my one and only trip into a quasi war zone and that my fixer was probably on the police payroll, ensuring my safety.
Maybe it was a coincidence? Maybe it was cause and effect? All I know is 20 minutes later I was peeling off her jeans, gawking at the tattoo on her thigh and remembering what a friend told me: 'There's nothing quite like seeing a beautiful woman naked for the first time.' That first time lasted only slightly longer than it takes to say 'Luanda', but what an eight seconds.
Sex Does Not Equal Happiness
For the first time in my life, the world of women felt full of infinite possibility. There was the elegant woman who said after our first date, 'I hope you don't think it's too forward, but I've reserved a room at the Southern Sun.' Upstairs, she asked me, 'Do you mind if I leave my panties on and just move them to the side? I'm shy.' Then she proceeded to show me all the creative things you can do with your panties on. Another night I found myself at a mansion drinking way too much sake with a quirky semi-famous singer. I was too drunk to drive, so she made up a daybed for me in the room where she kept the drums.
As she brought me a cup of tea, she kissed me on the forehead, which led to a fairly clumsy kissing session. It didn't last a minute - not that I was counting - but afterward I was left feeling: That was cool and weird, not I can't believe this is happening to me.
I was back in the game, but sometimes I wasn't sure I should be playing. After my first Christmas alone and the finalizing of an amicable divorce, I became a nihilist and carried an 'all we are is dust in the wind' philosophy into my dating forays. I'd never really been single since I was 17, swinging from vine to vine in four monogamous relationships. Now I was unattached and high on a lethal combination of making up for lost time, not giving a crap and knowing that women found me attractive.
When I told a couple of colleagues that a very engaged beauty had shot me a couple of come-hither looks, they laughed. Sufficiently challenged, I embarked on Operation Remove the Ring. There were candlelit dinners where she told me, 'Mathematically, you have a beautiful face,' and some torrid make-out sessions. The last one took place in front of the home of her very tall, very large fianc. I didn't close the deal, but I also managed not to get my jaw broken, so let's call it a draw.
Sure, there were the nights of champagne and lingerie in luxury hotels, but there were also Bible-black ones when introspection came calling. The deeper I got into my life as a 're-single', the more I realized that there was self-destructive behavior going on here. It was one thing to get my mojo back; it was another to distance myself from the good women I met so I could chase after the ones who were guaranteed to make me miserable.
For a few months, I dated Laura, a 35-year-old sweet and kind marketing executive. However, the sex was ordinary - it's never a good sign when, in week two, you look away as she gets out of bed - and I sabotaged it by obsessing over her tragic wardrobe. This was followed by systematic belittlement, a long-standing character flaw that often left my ex-wife searching for a carving knife. On a summer night, Laura organized a charity boat cruise featuring performances by some comedian friends. She slaved for hours on the event and, at the end of the night, asked me what I thought. In my most bored voice, I quipped, 'The funniest thing was when two of your comics missed the boat.'
Don't worry, I paid for my callowness: I then met Melissa, a 27 year old who had done lots of acid, attended four universities and forwarded my introductory email to all our colleagues as her idea of hilarity. With Melissa, whom my guy friends eventually dubbed 'crazy girl', there were moments of happiness, but they were always followed by behavior that left me believing she'd have burnt my house down were it not made of brick. Once, I received an out-of-nowhere email announcing, 'Hi, I'm in Mozambique. I didn't want you to worry. I love you and miss you.' Only later did I find out that she was there with one of my best friends, whom she had been seeing off and on behind my back. Eventually, Melissa showed up on my doorstep, begging forgiveness. She told me she wanted to move in with me and buy a dog. 'I want us to be a team,' she insisted. In reality, she just wanted to turn the emotional terrorism up to 11. A week later, she changed her mind again. I was left feeling that if I'd broken up with her six months earlier, I'd be five years younger.
Every newly divorced man eventually reaches a similar fork in the road. After a few months of getting laid, he can shut out the little self-critical voice in his head, crank up Duran Duran's 'Girls on Film' and skate through years of weekends with girls whose names are instantly forgotten until he's the creepy old guy at the party. Or he can embark on a more difficult path and examine why he's alone.
About the author
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