The Eleventh Wheel

Another weekend is coming to an end, dear readers, and I thought I’d wrap it all up with a blog. Overall it was a pretty mellow weekend. I had to work part of the day yesterday and for a couple of hours today, but other than that I enjoyed the 4th annual cookie party with my former roommates, catching up on Netflix (Waitress and Superbad), reading (I am halfway through Saving Fish from Drowning) and, of course, my firm’s holiday party.

The holiday party was very nice–beautiful location, nice cocktail hour and appetizers, a meal, dancing. I love my co-workers, and the speeches were good (in particular one partner who had the crowd roaring with laughter – I literally had tears streaming down my face, I was laughing so hard). But still, I admit I didn’t exactly have fun. And I hate to say this, because I don’t want to be “that” whiny single person, but, well…frankly, it sort of sucks being a single in a sea of couples. For part of the night I was able to ignore the fact and even enjoy being a solo agent. During cocktail hour I wandered around and chatted with people, and felt sort of relieved to just be able to do my own thing. One funny thing about the night was that I was driving, so I only had 1/2 a glass of wine over the course of the whole night. My co-workers, on the other hand…not so much. Even my boss, when I was chatting with him toward the end of the night, was noticeably slurring his speech. People were getting very confessional with me, and I was just sort of nodding and humoring them.

Anyway, when my singleness became really noticeable was when we moved into the ballroom for the sit-down portion of the evening. There was no assigned seating, so people started grabbing up spots. Each table had 10 seats at it. Some of the girls I really like in my department encouraged me to come sit with them…but there were 10 seats, 5 couples already sitting there. One of my co-workers’ boyfriends went and stole a chair from another table so I could join them. This, of course, meant that I ended up stealing someone else’s napkin and fork, too. And at one point as I was eating my bloody prime rib and I looked around at everyone whispering conversation with ther spouse or boyfriend, I thought, Dear God, I’m the ELEVENTH WHEEL! (Actually, in the party as a whole I was probably the hundred-and-eleventh wheel, but who’s counting?)

After dinner I was literally dragged up on the dance floor by the arm, by my friend’s fiance. I danced while it was a group, but after a while, nobody was dancing in groups, just in couples, and I found myself weaving around on the dance floor among all the oblivious couples. If it had been a movie, everything would have been slow motion and there certainly would have been some sad song playing in the background. Soon afterward, I decided to leave, over the protests of my (tipsy) co-workers. One of my friends actually came running after me and was like, “Stay! You can drink, we can take a cab back later!” I begged off — it was sweet of her, but I was tired and done with the evening. I think maybe she was worried about me, and it would have taken too much effort to explain, “This isn’t fun, but it’s not the end of the world — I’d just rather be home in my PJs right now.”

I was talking to my college friend K. on the phone today — she is recently single after a long time on-again-off-again relationship with a guy who, in my opinion, sounded like no good. K. is one of the most spirited and outgoing, fun-loving people I know, so I think she’s a good single role model. I was talking to her about the fact that I love my girlfriends, but that most of them are married or pseudo-married and therefore not often available for or interested in girls’ nights or girls’ vacations. On Saturday night, after working a good chunk of the day, I felt like I wanted to go out. But I knew that my friends would be otherwise occupied with their men, so I opted for Netflix. To give a larger-scale example, I love to travel and would love to plan some little trips out of town, or bigger trips. But I can’t get anyone to go with me, either because they are saving time/money to travel with their BFs/spouses, or are saving money in general. Sometimes I feel like, what’s the use in working hard and making money if I don’t get to do the things I want to do? I was thinking about just saying screw it and taking a solo weekend trip in January, but I know myself and I’d probably just end up feeling sad and annoyed that I spent money to be in a different city alone – I can do that here!

Anyway, K. told me that when she was single a while ago, she started affirmatively trying to meet other single girls when she went out. I think maybe cultivating some new friendships would be a good thing for me…but then again, if I’m too busy at work to go out and meet new men, how am I going to meet new women? I guess it would be an interesting experiment to see which would be easier – finding a new guy, or finding a new girlfriend? Hmmm.

K. also told me something last time we talked that I really identify with. She said that she would be more fine with being single if she knew that she would eventually meet the right person. She wouldn’t need to know how or when – but just that she would meet him at some point. That’s sort of how I feel now. It’s not that being on my own is that bad day to day. But what bothers me is thinking that this could be how it is…indefinitely. I can bear being a little lonely now. I don’t know if I can bear this being the norm. I guess it’s all about attitude. Maybe I just need to buck up.

At any rate, dear readers, I hadn’t intended to write such a whiny post tonight! More sunny things next time, I swear…

Feeling Thankful

It’s Sunday evening, dear readers, I am back in my apartment after spending the Thanksgiving weekend up in Oregon, and I hope you all had as lovely of a weekend as I did. It was very relaxing, save the few hours of work I did on Saturday — lots of eating, watching football (somehow, despite having a college-football-player father, I never understood football, much less actually liked it, but now, 27 years later, I genuinely enjoy watching it), shopping, and more eating. I even got to play mini golf with my 92 year old grandpa, which is something we used to do together all the time when I was growing up. (I beat him, but he demanded a rematch over Christmas.) And I got to meet the guy that my mom has been wanting to set me up with (in a group, and he has no idea). I’ll give her this – he was actually quite cute and outgoing. One small hitch, though: he lives in Oregon. I know I haven’t had much luck with L.A. guys of late, but I think it’s a little soon to start dating out-of-state.

As the plane began its descent into L.A. this evening, I was overcome with this intense sense of well-being and contentment. I felt happy and excited, but not about anything in particular — getting back to my apartment, to Noodles, to the week ahead. And that’s when it struck me: I am not just fine with my life as it is, I am affirmatively joyful. And not because some guy called me or emailed me or asked me out (which was so much my focus for the past year), but because I am so incredibly blessed. I have an amazing family, wonderful friends, a great apartment, a good job. I’m really so lucky.

More to come, dear readers, but for now, I must get some shut eye. Have a happy Monday!

Friends Don’t Let Friends Wear Boleros

This has been a fantastic weekend so far, dear readers, and I feel extremely content as I sit on the couch with my laptop, comfy in my favorite old college sweatshirt, Noodles on his new-favorite perch in the window looking out at the partly-sunny day. Friday night J. and I went to see American Gangster, which I highly recommend. Russell Crowe, who normally bugs me a little because of his offscreen, hot-shit persona (ok, women of America, scream in horror that I don’t adore him), plays a Jersey cop who is flawed and yet impossible not to root for. They definitely uglied him up for the role, too, with some pudge and clothes that included a blue Hawaiian shirt. And Denzel, as Frank Lucas was perfectly terrifying. Two thumbs up.

Then on Saturday night I went to see Wicked, which I thought was incredible. I had no idea till I got there that Knittikins had bought seats in the second row, but we were right in the action, and the singing and costuming were fantastic.

But the real highlight of the weekend was round 2 of wedding gown shopping with Knittikins. After round 1, in which she tried on some gorgeous gowns, she decided that a floor length gown with a train was just too– well, gowny for a backyard wedding whose menu will include ribs (I see her point), and she began suggesting that instead she might wear a “sundress.”

While I am ever the obedient, supportive friend/bridesmaid when the situation calls for it, Knittikins has admonished us that we have to use tough love with her and that, as she told her younger sister Adorable yesterday, we are charged with the responsibility of making sure she doesn’t wind up looking ugly on her wedding day. Now, I have no doubt in my mind that she will look beautiful, whether in a gown or a sundress or anything in between. (Knittikins — note that a T-shirt and khakis are NOT on the list of options. Ahem.) But in my mind, when one is hiring a professional photographer to capture the event for time immemorial, one wants to look as perfect as possible. And wedding gowns, beasts that the are, are structured in such a way that no matter how much you move and breathe and eat and laugh and dance and greet people, the dress supports you. So, to that end, I suggested to Knittikins that she try on some more casual and/or tea length gowns, rather than moving away from gowns entirely.

From there ensued a morning at Alfred Angelo, which is much more user-friendly and down-to-earth than the environment at Renee Strauss the prior weekend. While the Renee Strauss lady had seemed borderline-horrfied that we all wanted to sit around in the giant dressing area together, the AA lady had no qualms about letting Knittikins, Adorable and I squeeze into the tiny dressing room together with her. I was also allowed to wander around at my leisure, choosing out gowns for Knittikins to try on, which was fun. And best of all, unlike most bridal shops, AA lets you take pictures, so I was able to be the paparazzi (paparazzo? hmm) I love to be. Knittikins’ other sister, my best college friend/former roommate C., had to work, so we were able to take lots of photos to show her in anticipation of her going back with Knittikins soon. (C. informed Knittikins that, understandably, she would never forgive her if she bought a gown without C.)

There were some good choices — the best, in my opinion and Adorable’s, was a tea length strapless dress that gave Knittikins a tiny little waist and was just, for lack of a better word, so damn CUTE. We’ll see what she ultimately decides to do. But the biggest fashion disaster of the day, that took some definite tough love to steer Knittkins away from, was her inexplicable desire to ruin the gorgeous, simple strapless dress by wearing a bolero. I wish I could locate a photo of this, but you’ll just have to take my word for it. Long sleeved, heavy satin-y material (can we remind you that the wedding will be in June in the Valley?)…just unnecessary. Knittikins exclaimed, “But it’s so comfy! I feel like I’m wearing a T-shirt!” (Wearing a T-shirt on her wedding day is her deep-seated desire, that we will absolutely not allow.) As Adorable asked, “Why in the world would you want to Pretty In Pink your dress?” Aka, why take a pretty dress and mess it up? Well put.

Anyway, dear readers, I really want nothing more than for Knittikins to have her wedding exactly the way she always imagined it. And I will support her and help her do anything to achieve that vision.

Unless, of course, that vision includes a bolero…

Little Miss Law Does Dublin

My apologies, dear readers, for the radio silence on the blog for the past week. I took a much-needed long weekend and flew to Dublin, Ohio, land of real autumn, lots of quaint looking brick buildings (even McDonalds, which was an adorable house, missing the famous golden arches) and loads of football fans, but most importantly, the hometown and now-current town of my friend JV, who got married this weekend. I did myself the favor of staying as far away from computers as possible (except for a minor dalliance into email checking in the Marriott Business Center on Saturday — just couldn’t resist), and it made this weekend one of the most (mentally, at least) relaxing times I’ve had in recent memory.

The wedding was very nice, the bride was gorgeous and had an amazing dress, and even the first dance (which she was nervous about) went off without a hitch. The highlights of the weekend, though, went beyond those fundamental wedding things. Here are some tidbits, in no particular order:

First, one of the groom’s friends was a former stripper. Yes, a male stripper. All the girls were talking about it before we met him on the night of the rehearsal dinner, so we were prepared. After the rehearsal dinner, we all went to a local bar and I ended up talking to the stripper (disguised as a normal guy in a button down shirt and purposely-ripped jeans). Remembering that the groom had warned us not to ask him about his previous career, I asked him innocently, “So D. says you’re a DJ?” “Yeah,” he replied, “I DJ at a strip club.” All righty then!

Anyway, Stripper ended up being fun to talk to. And what does Little Miss Law find to chat about with a stripper, you ask? That’s right . . . our cats. (No, I’m not kidding. His is named Mayhem.) Still, the following night when Stripper and I were chatting again (he was seated at our table), the groom’s brother came over and was hovering around us looking concerned. He apparently later pulled my friend J. aside and told her to “look out” for me. What? A guy who stripped for EIGHT YEARS isn’t the most wholesome, dateable guy? Shocker, and here I was planning our wedding. Thanks for the concern, though, guys!

Second, dear readers, I had a realization. Not that I was planning on it, but I am definitely not moving to the Midwest. In fact, even though I have recently been picturing myself in my flannel shirt, writing books on my small town porch, I think I can scratch out anything that’s not a city. Yes, Dublin had something of a storybook feel to it, with all the brilliant fall leaves, the pine trees, and all the brick. But let’s just say that our encounters with the locals left something to be desired. Two reasons: 1) The most common thing said to me (with a slight accent) was “You’re from L.A.?? No shit!” and 2) In Dublin there appears to be nothing to do but drink beer and watch Buckeye football. Now, I can certainly watch football and drink a cold one on the weekend. Fine. Do I want to do this at the local bar from 8 am to midnight, wearing my Ohio State sweatshirt? Um … I think I might pass on that. And indeed, when J. and I went to the much-hyped “Dub Pub” after the wedding, we encountered nothing but die-hard Buckeye fans, all crammed into a packed sports bar in a strip mall, right next to the dry cleaner. One guy, who from afar we dubbed “Varsity Blues,” was sporting a Buckeye jersey and a Chris Carmack-esque jock look. J. asked him whether he was a current student at Ohio State, or whether he was an alum. “Neither,” he replied. (This phenomenon is summed up perfectly by the poster we saw at the airport, advertising the Ohio State merchandise store: “If you wear the sweatshirt, they’ll think you graduated.” Yeeeeah.)

Third, did you know that Dublin has a whole field of human-sized corn ears? K., my friend T.’s boyfriend, wanted to stop because he didn’t believe, looking at the corn from the road, that it was really human-sized. (We vetoed him because we were cold and tired.) He joked that perhaps it was T.-sized, (who is 5’3″) but certainly not his height (6’4″). Well, K., I’ll have you know that the corn is indeed 6 feet tall — perhaps not as tall as you, but I think it can safely be called “human-size.”

Finally, I lived one of my dreams and visited White Castle, which I have wanted to do ever since watching Harold & Kumar. Sadly, I had just eaten lunch and so I couldn’t bring myself to eat even one tiny burger, so K. took one for the team and ordered it. But I have to say, the food smelled disgusting. It was bad in the restaurant and then it filled the entire rental car with its smell. So I guess my fantasies can end and I’ll stick to In-N-Out.

Dear readers, I have more stories but I am somewhat jetlagged (after all, it’s 2 a.m. in Dublin).

To be continued…

It’s My Job, And I’ll Whine if I Want To

After my panic attack at work a couple of weeks ago, I have still been incredibly busy, but somewhat more calm. (Perhaps it’s just that I’m too busy to do more than just try to keep my head above water? Hmm.) I am still considering all my life options, but since I know I’m not going to be moving jobs or cities in the immediate future, I can relax and just keep my mind and eyes open.

One thing keeping my feet planted is that a case I’m on is going to jury trial in March, and I’m excited about that, so I know I need to stick around till then. Perhaps the fact that I am so excited about the prospect of choosing a jury, using a jury consultant, etc means I should stay Little Miss Law after all?…

In any event, at times when I’m feeling very burnt out and uninspired, it helps to know that I’m not alone. In that vein, I was amused by an article in my favorite blawg today about a poll taken that revealed that associates at big law firms are actually happy, and the follow-up comments on the truthiness or not of this finding. I can’t try to do the article justice, but the comments to it are particularly entertaining (and, as is always the case on this particular blawg, very snarky. And we wonder why us lawyers aren’t more beloved).

The commenters, among other things, say that law firm associates who complain about their jobs are basically big ol’ whining babies, since they are getting paid outrageously to do a cushy job. One commenter said that associates who went straight from college into law school are the biggest whiners of all.

Sure, call me a whiner. That’s fine. At least I’m not alone.

This past weekend I spent time with my best friend M. for the last time before she moves to England! We had a fantastic time — went to the movies (is there anyone hotter than Clive Owen, particularly as a pirate?), she made me some of her organic cooking, we dressed up for Halloween and went out, and we went to Santa Barbara for the day. When we were in SB, we stopped at a cute coffee shop to get some chai and ask for directions since we went the wrong way on State Street. I looked around at the people on their laptops and I thought how much I would love to be a free lance writer, and have my laptop be my only office. Of course, I know what an uphill battle that would be, but it’s fun to imagine myself as the next Carrie Bradshaw. Dear readers, do you know anyone who has actually lived a seemingly farfetched dream?

And, to top this off before I head to bed, something to make me and my compatriots feel better about our jobs, a quote from a reader of the above article:

“As a Naval Officer I worked twice as hard and earned one third as much money as I do as a 1st year associate in BigLaw. They actually let me sit down here when I am doing my work at 2 in the morning. That makes me happy.”

Yes…it could definitely be worse. Hold on a moment while I scratch “Naval Officer” off my wish list.

Have a Happy Halloween, dear readers!

“My Cats Are My Babies.”

It’s the end of another long and hectic week, dear readers, and I am very glad for it. Tomorrow my friend M. arrives for a visit — from New Mexico to Los Angeles for the first leg of her West Coast goodbye tour, and then on to her new home in England. M. and I have been friends since we were 7, and there is something so amazing about having someone in my life who has known me for two decades, and who I can pick back up with like we never left off every time we see each other, even though for the past decade we haven’t lived in the same city. She’s visited me in LA before, but never in my current apartment and not since I’ve been single, so I’m looking forward to some good quality time.

So yesterday I discovered that indeed, there can be too much of a good thing. You would think that being the cat-owning, cat-loving, aspiring crazy cat lady that I am, I would want to meet a cat-loving guy. After dating a guy who was deathly allergic to cats, and then a guy who didn’t mind cats (but since Noodles’ vicious attacks on me began when we started dating and ended when we broke up, I suspect Noodles had it in for him/us), I vowed that my next boyfriend would have to live in peaceful harmony with Noodles. “Love me, love my cat.”

Upon further reflection, though, I decided that “Love me, like/tolerate my cat” might be a better motto. Yesterday, while out with J., I ended up chatting with a group of people and the topic of relationship dealbreakers came up. One guy mentioned that a dealbreaker for him would be a girl who doesn’t like cats. Naturally, my ears perked up. I didn’t find him attractive, but I found it inspiring that a guy could actually like cats. Then he uttered the least-hot phrase I have ever heard: “My cats are my babies.”

Whoa there, tiger. That’s just a whole new level.

And it got even worse. He shared that his cats’ names were Antigone and Oedipus — “Tiggie” and “Eddie” for short. He also mentioned that he had paid $4000 in vet bills for one of the cats.

Now, I know it’s stereotypical, but in my view it’s perfectly normal for a guy to be really into dogs. A guy who loves his dogs is all at once cute, endearing, masculine and sensitive. It’s like the man’s man way to show he can be emotional and have a soft spot for something. Did anyone not cry when reading Marley and Me? (I read the screenplay, not the book, but I assume the book is equally tear-jerking.)

Also, a coupled man who has cat(s) with his girlfriend or wife is perfectly acceptable.

A single man who looooooovvvves cats, on the other hand? Maybe it’s just me, dear readers, but (don’t tell Noodles I said so) I just find it to be creepy.

Speaking of Noodles, he is sleeping peacefully and I should be doing the same…

Have a fabulous weekend!

That’s the thing about needs.

Sometimes when you get them met, you don’t need them anymore.

That’s one of my favorite Sex and the City quotes — from the episode where Carrie and Aidan have moved in together, she is feeling crowded and she tells him that she needs to shut the sheer curtain that separates the “bedroom” from the sitting area and have an hour to herself. He says ok, she shuts the curtain, and then five mintes later, just knowing that she could have that space if she needed it, she feels better and comes out to snuggle with him.

That is a bit how I feel today–having given myself permission to dream and percolate about changing jobs, moving cities, changing my life, I somehow feel more peaceful with my life as it is. I’m going to keep dreaming and planning and thinking about a change, but I know there’s no urgency–I can make those changes however and whenever I want, so I can live my life calmly in the meantime as I figure out my next step. Whew.

This weekend was exactly what the doctor ordered. On Friday night, I joined Knittkins, the sisters and the Baron for pizza, ice cream cake and a marathon game of Monopoly. That has always been one of my favorite games, but as an only child I was hard pressed to get my parents to play with me, and now I know why — it takes absolutely forever. We played until 12:30 am when all of us but Knittikins and The Baron had lost all our money and property, and then left them to play head-to-head.

Last night was my friend D.’s big gala, and I was very impressed by him and by the event. He stood up and gave some remarks, and he is so poised and well-spoken — practically presidential. He has done so much in the year that he’s been at his job. It’s interesting because we went to law school together and he has had his moments of feeling wistful that he’s not at a firm — but as I told him when I called him tonight, he is making a real difference in the community, and I think he should be so proud of himself. (Meanwhile, as I like to say, I’m saving the world…one real estate developer at a time.)

To wind down the weekend, Knittikins and I went to get massages today. It was fantastic. I carry a ridiculous amount of tension in my shoulders and upper back, and so massages are normally not so relaxing for me, since I spend the better part of them wincing in pain. The woman today, though, used a great technique where she stretched and pulled on my arms and legs…it was like lazy girl’s yoga. I could get used to that!

Tomorrow begins another week … I am reciting a mantra to try to keep from sliding back into panic mode. Onward and upward, dear readers!

Bloggity Bloggity

Apropos of nothing: is there a cuter TV couple than Jim and Pam on The Office? Yes, I know, how very 2 years ago. And yes, I know that in real life, John Krasinski is rumored to be somewhat of an ass. (Stop breaking my heart!) But I was just watching them quip with each other and laugh together in that sweet way and it made me smile. Shmoop, shmoop.

After a rough night last night in which I had the worst stomach pain I’ve ever had (once the pain eased up, I pulled the classic and ill-advised move of Googling my own symptoms, and I even called Knittikins and asked her what her appendicitis felt like), and a rough day in which I had to shlep up to court in Glendale still feeling icky, I am now feeling more like myself. I have almost survived to the end of the week and, more importantly, I am beginning to put things into perspective. It’s easy to get bogged down with the details of my job and forget to see the overall picture of my life and all the choices I have, so getting to step back is a very nice thing.

A couple of words on my court appearance in Glendale. First of all, Glendale might as well be Egypt for as long as it took to get back from there. Coming up on the 405 interchange from the 101, I saw a hideous lineup of cars, and thought, Ah ha! I’ll beat all these suckers by getting off the freeway, making my way down to Ventura, cutting back to Beverly Glen and taking that over the hill and right back to the office. Of course, everyone else had the same genius idea….

Anyway, what really struck me about my time in Glendale is how much power judges really have over their cases. By way of background, in L.A. there is a mediation program in the superior court system. Mediators volunteer ther time, parties don’t have to pay for it, and mediation is all but mandatory. This case I appeared for today isn’t one I have worked on, but both the partner and the associate were on international vacations (lucky ducks) so I got to take one for the team. It went something like this:

Judge: How do the parties feel about mediation?
Little Miss Law: Well, your Honor, we have explained all of the ADR options to our client, and she isn’t interested in pursuing mediation at this time.
Judge: Ok.
(pause; Little Miss Law breathes an internal sigh of relief.)
Judge: But, that really isn’t up to her. I’m referring the case to mediation. So go downstairs and pick a mediator.

Al righty then!

This weekend promises to be fun and relaxing — a mellow birthday celebration with Knittikins, the sisters and the Baron tomorrow; my friend D.’s big gala on Saturday night (finally, another chance to wear the gorgeous dress I bought for my firm’s holiday party last year!) and on Sunday, a wind-down with Knittikins at Burke Williams. Exactly what I need…ahhh.

I’m also planning on ordering one of the many books about legal and nonlegal career options for lawyers, and I welcome any inspiring ideas from you, dear readers!

Know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away

It is a Saturday night in Los Angeles, dear readers, so why is Little Miss Law at her computer writing a blog instead of out on the town? Excellent question, my friends. This weekend my parents are visiting, but they like to head to bed at about 9 pm, so after dropping them at the hotel I returned to Noodles and my quiet apartment. I’m sure I could have found something fun to do tonight, but frankly it’s been a long tiring week and I am content to sit here in scrubby clothes and glasses instead of getting dolled up to go out. Also, tomorrow night I’m going to the annual soiree for my favorite nonprofit, so I’m relishing my mellow weekend night today instead of Sunday.

Anyway, enough excuses about my social life. Tonight, I’ve decided that it’s finally time to write about my last relationship. I have avoided doing so up till now in part out of respect for my ex, and partly, I admit, because I was still relishing a small ounce of hope that we would have a reunion tour (as my friend D. puts it). Now that I know it is truly over, I feel it’s time for the catharsis of writing about it. Sort of a blog Feng Shui … removing all the dust bunnies and old photos from under the bed, so to speak.

My ex and I met online, which in itself could be its own blog. (Los Angeles Magazine did a hilarious article about online dating in LA in the September issue – a must-read. Did you know that The Onion had an online dating site? Me neither!) Anyway, that is beside the point– after the first few weeks (when he insisted on telling his friends that we met at a cheezy Sunset Strip bar, while I was upfront with mine) I often forgot how we met because it was unimportant.

I will save anecdotes of the relationship for a different time if at all. But the bottom line is that this guy really got under my skin in an unusual way. Usually for me, when my relationships end it is fairly cut-and-dried. One person breaks it off, the other person is hurt, we don’t talk for a while, eventually we become friends or else we just forget about it and move on. For example — my ex-fiance was very clear when we broke up that we couldn’t talk, which we didn’t for a long time and we are out of touch again. With A., we didn’t talk for a few months and didn’t start really talking again and hanging out until recently.

Not so with this one. I was resolved not to talk to him until I was over it, but then he would send me a chatty email or a funny article and I would give in. Or even worse, I would demand that he stop contacting me and then, days or weeks later I would miss him and initiate contact. (I know, I know — mixed messages much?)

I told myself all sorts of different things about why I was doing this, but I realized recently that, at the heart of it, I thought I could get a different outcome. Sort of “Choose Your Own Adventure” style. Except that 1) I didn’t choose for us to break up in the first place and, even more importantly, 2) I knew intellectually (and still know) that nevertheless, breaking up was, in the end, the right outcome.

The problem has just been getting myself to feel that. I kept feeling that there was something there that was really strong — call it chemistry — and I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to replicate it. Now I’m not saying that I was or am afraid that I’d never find someone. I’ve never believed that; Little Miss Law is, above all else, an optimist. But I was afraid that I wouldn’t find that particular sort of inexplicable connection, at least not quickly.

I think I was also frustrated because it wasn’t something I could fix. It’s a weird blow to the ego — I may recognize all the ways in which we’re not compatible, but how could he not want to be with me?

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him or think about him. I do. L.A. can be a lonely city, and I do wonder what he’s doing, who he’s meeting and whether he thinks about me, too.

But I know from experience that every day without someone it gets easier to be without them, and I know this will be the same. Simultaneously sad and reassuring. And, as I finally told him, not being with him when he doesn’t have those feelings for me can only bring me closer to finding someone who does.

With that, I’ll leave you, dear readers, with yet another song I have been listening to on repeat these days:

The Reason Why (Rachael Yamagata)

I think about how
it might have been
We’d spend our days
travelin’
It’s not that I don’t understand you
It’s not that I don’t want to be with you
but you only wanted me
The way you wanted me

So I will head out alone,
and hope for the best
We can hang our heads down
as we skip the goodbyes
and you can tell the world what you want them to hear
I’ve got nothing left to lose, my dear
So, I’m up for the little white lies
But you and I
know the reason why
I’m gone, and you’re still there
I’m gone, and you’re still there
I’m gone, and you’re still there

I’ll buy a magazine searching for your face
From coast to coast, or whatever I find my place
I’ll track you on the radio
and I’ll sign your list in a different name
But as close as I get to you
It’s not the same

So, I will head out alone
and hope for the best
We can pat ourselves on the back
and say that we tried
And if one of us makes it big
we can spill our regrets
And talk about how the love never dies
But you and I
know the reason why
I’m gone, and you’re still there
I’m gone, and you’re still there
I’m gone, and you’re still there

So, steal the show, and do your best
to cover the tracks that I have left
I wish you well,
and hope you find
whatever you’re looking for
The way I might’ve changed my mind
but you only showed me the door

so I will, head out alone
hope for the best
We can pat ourselves on the back
and say that we tried
And if one of us makes it big
we can spill our regrets
And talk about how the love never dies
But you and I
You and I…
You and I…
know the reason why

The age-old question

First of all, dear readers, I am proud to announce that I am the new owner of a laptop, so you can expect more regular blogs from me from now on…without interruption of the billable hours. Yay.

And now for the topic of the day, a question that my girlfriends love to debate with me: can men and women really be friends? Harry and Sally of course had this infamous discussion, and my friends like to emphatically opine that no, they can’t be. I have long argued that of course they can. I’ve always enjoyed being friends with guys. Then again, recently I have discovered that the guys I’m friends with all fall into a handful of categories that could, I suppose, be deemed exceptions to the general rule that men and women can’t be friends, as opposed to proof that they can. These categories include: 1) guys I grew up with; 2) guys I’ve dated in the past; 3) my friends’ significant others; 4) work colleagues; and 5) gay men. Until recently, almost ALL of my guy friends fell into these simple categories.

Then recently I met a guy who doesn’t fall within any of these categories. I met him through a Spanish conversation group I joined, in my effort to return to those things I love to do. He is fun, outgoing, easy to talk to, a sweetheart and fairly cute to boot. But he is also a few years younger than I am, (which could be the subject of a post in and of itself) so combined with the mancation, this caused me not to think of him as a potential date from the outset. Still, this week we ended up having a phone conversation the likes of which rivaled my marathon phone calls in middle school, and made plans to go to the movies.

Now, we had made the movie plans almost as soon as we met (a long story, involving a scavenger hunt and movie tickets as the prize). So I didn’t feel strange about going to a movie with him. I thought it would just be friendly. However, all of my friends started nagging me that I was stringing the poor guy along and that if I didn’t want this to be a “real” date, I needed to tell him. Though I was too chicken to call him and tell him this on the phone (oh, the horror), I did muster up the courage to email him and tell him that I was taking a break from dating and that I didn’t want to be presumptuous but I also didn’t want to be misleading, but that I was still happy to hang out as friends.

I was relieved when I received a return email that said he was happy I brought it up, that he was worried about the same thing, and was glad we were on the same page.

Whew! So we went on what he dubbed our “platonic date.” Still, there was definitely a tinge of awkwardness that made me wonder if perhaps he wasn’t completely honest about us being on the same page. (For the record, if I was in his position, I would have said exactly what he did regardless of how I actually felt.)

At the end of the night, Mr. Platonic told me he had a present for me, and extracted from his pocket a CD he had made at work of various songs from bands/artists that his company represents. The label of the CD said, “Songs for Little Miss Law.” (I listened to the CD twice already–he has excellent musical taste.) It was such a sweet thought, but was it just a friendly gesture? As a girl who likes to make new friends, I’d like to think so. But the skeptic in me (spurred on by my friends) is…well, skeptical.

So there you have it. Can men and women be just friends, dear readers?

To be continued…