25 Ways You Know You Are Dating a Student Affairs Professional* | Dances with Dissonance
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In summertwo years into divorce proceedings, with no end in sight and legal fees mounting, I met a businessman named Nigel through a neighbour who described him as "good-looking" and intelligent. Consider "good-looking" a subjective adjective. We met at a lovely Italian restaurant. I thought, he has a sense of humour — this might work out. It was the last funny thing he said or did for two months. I decided to have sex with him. Maybe he would redeem himself. And I was not thinking clearly.
Luckily, sex turned out to be the clincher. After removing his shirt, I got the distinct impression that Nigel had not bathed. This turns some women on. I am not one of them. After Nigel, I decided to try match.
There were so many issues I did not want to deal with. I did not want to face the fact that Ruthann would soon go to university, leaving me to live alone for the first time in my life. I did not want to consider why I'd stayed married for 20 years to a man I did not like. And now here I was, dating men I found unappealing, hoping they would like me.
Once again thinking that the right relationship could fix my life. It never occurred to me to ask myself, how do I fix this? In late September, I received a match.
He told me about himself in a way that was articulate, funny. We met in early October. Still we managed to laugh. I'd finally found someone I liked. I wish I had. Alex had disaster written all over him. It had been six months since his wife died; for complex reasons, he had only begun to grieve.
He treated me as a temporary player in his life, introducing me as his "date" after we'd been together for five months. When I objected, he withdrew behind a wall.
After six months, I asked if he would be available to have dinner for my birthday. I heard the sound exactly as he intended it. In August, at the age of 88, Mum fell into a creek while playing golf.
We felt quite lucky she did not lose consciousness and drown. I had her transferred to my hospital, where surgeons operated to stabilise her neck. My sisters and I decided to move her into a retirement home. We needed to get her used to the idea, but the surgery had left her demented.
My normally sweet mother had transformed into a harridan. I thought, if this is the future, the future looks grim indeed. I slid into a depression that held on to me tight. My despair felt interminable. I knew something had to change. I told work that I wanted back into the partnership track, to be full time. I made plans to travel. I became comfortable staying home on Saturday nights by myself. Responsibilities accumulated, friendships multiplied; the lack of a relationship in my life seemed almost unnoticeable.
After four or five months, several friends offered to fix me up. It's not cheap, she said, but when people have to go through an interview and shell out money, they're more likely to be serious about wanting a relationship. Charles was the fifth man I met through Dating Alliance. I felt unaccountably nervous — doubtful that I'd like him, afraid that I would. I'd met so many weird men by that point.
He was originally from the Netherlands and owned a manufacturing company. He spoke several languages. He was tall, maybe 6ft 5in, bald, with a skinny, white, handlebar moustache, and he looked every day of He asked if I'd join him for dinner. I almost felt sorry for him. When we left the restaurant, a homeless man walked up to Charles, who took out his wallet and handed him some money. I heard him murmur, "You're not going to drink all this, are you?
I wasn't attracted to him. He was controlling, probably narcissistic, one more of the same old same old. Then again, I just wanted to date. So I said OK. He asked me out that Friday night. We walked to a sushi place. Conversation felt like work, and I'd already spent 12 hours in the operating room. After, we walked back to my apartment. We were discussing the upcoming election, standing in the kitchen, then wandered into the living room.
We sat on the sofa, facing each other. Suddenly he yanked me towards him, put his mouth on mine, roughly, holding my neck tightly. I wanted to get a breath that didn't include him, didn't include his scent, but for that moment, I must have relaxed and the tension must have lessened imperceptibly.
He flipped on top of me and yanked my trousers down. I said again, "Stop. I thought, if I fought him, he might hurt me more, so I said, enunciating clearly, as if to a child, "Charles, if you do this, I will never see you again. Is that what you want? He shoved himself inside me. Afterwards, I opened the door, he walked out, and I quickly locked it behind him.
I felt the numbness of shock. Rape can make a person catatonic. It did that to me, initially. I lay in bed without sleeping. I repressed every thought, every feeling. I did not answer Charles's calls. Rape stays with you — the violence and the fear — it stays with you, in small and large ways, and it screws up your life and your relationships for years. Peter Hoffman for the Guardian The only relief I found was in riding my bike, the constant motion of it.
I rode every day I could — along the lake front, in Michigan on day trips, in the suburbs when I visited my mum. I had a week of holiday in October and decided to take a bike trip.
Although I'd done these cycling vacations before, this one marked my first time alone. A younger woman, in her late 30s, thin and very fit, stuck out her hand. A dark-haired man walked up to us, in biking gear and a jacket. The roads, that first day, were empty, the sky blue. The group quickly spread itself out.
I had no interest in hurrying and I planned to bike alone, at my own pace. Henry cycled with me, or behind me, all day.