The Walenta Household

I believe in life after love.

2009-06-08T10:10:00.000-07:00

The last six months I lived in Tokyo were some of the most lonely months of my life. And then there was Mr. Pretentious. He was in Japanese language school, and he’d just graduated from college, where he’d learned to smoke a pipe. We were both bitter about love and spent our evenings drinking, reminiscing about the past, and checking out the exciting Tokyo nightlife, which meant clubbing in Roppongi and checking out bars. At least we could be lonely together.

Mr. Pretentious was a writer, or a blogger, to be more exact. He kept a blog about his misadventures as a foreigner in Japan, and his family and friends would make comments. I read his blog often, too, and not just because I was in the pictures he posted and a partner in crime for some of the stories. He was witty and sarcastic, which was thoroughly entertaining.

When I left Japan, I was sad to leave my friend, Mr. Pretentious, since I thought he would probably get so depressed without me that he’d give in to his melancholy and become an alcoholic or stop functioning. I tried to keep in touch with him, and I kept reading his blog. Then a few months after I left, he met a girl, and suddenly things were great for him. So great, apparently, that he stopped writing on his blog. He even memorialized the moment by writing a post about finding a girlfriend.

To this day, there hasn’t been an update, even though three years have passed, he left Japan, and he married that girl. Did a relationship kill his creativity? Or was he posing from the very beginning?

I’ve noticed that some of the people who claim to be most bitter and jaded, who claim to “not believe in love,” are the same people who will dive into love fastest when given the chance. Mr. Pretentious clearly belonged to that group, and I am no exception, either. I went eleven months without a first date, which is the longest first-date hiatus I’ve had since 2005. I would be proud of that, except that somehow my creativity dried up. I suspected my life was less interesting inside of a relationship. Or I just wasn’t ready to blog about it. Or I got lazy. Or maybe it’s true that dating the same person makes one boring. Or all of the above. I’ve never asked Mr. Pretentious-Now-Happily-Married what happened to him, but it seems happiness covers over sarcasm and creativity. Yawn.

For a while, I’ve been thinking I should write a book about my experiences as a single woman and how I’ve grown into myself. Being in a relationship was making me feel boxed in, like I couldn’t write with integrity about single-ness when I was seriously dating someone. I thought perhaps the story of my single life was ending, and it made me kind of sad. But now I see the real story might be just beginning.

I no longer have such a good excuse for writer’s block. Here’s to a fruitful time of creativity, and more first dates to look forward to. And here’s hoping for strength for such a journey.

The last first date.*

2008-11-01T13:18:00.000-07:00

God knows, I've been on a million first dates. I'd gotten so good at it that it surprised me how nervous I was for the last first date. (*Last, as in, most recent.) The guy is a friend of a friend, and I knew this friend-of-a-friend only casually as a well-respected professional in his field. He didn't live in the same town, so I would have to drive two hours to meet up with him for a date, which he planned and told me only to bring my swimsuit and a pair of crummy shorts and to be ready for "everything."

I feel like I'm generally well-prepared for events in my life, but what does it mean to be prepared for "everything" on a first date? Bring a passport? A shovel? A Taser? I didn't know where we were going or what we'd be doing, although I had some guesses since I was told to bring a swimsuit, but the crummy shorts suggestion was throwing me off. I hate not being in control.

My experience with first dates has taught me to show up, first of all, with myself, and beyond that, I shouldn't try too hard, because it's just too much work. I also know better than to reveal personal information on a first date, and I would never go to a man's house on a first date. But respecting this man as a professional and feeling like the background checks had already been done, I decided to ignore the nagging concerns.

So I showed up at the guy's door, and he told me to put on the swimsuit and crummy shorts. "Where are we going?" I asked. "It's a surprise," he said. So I dressed in my swimsuit, but upon seeing my crummy shorts, my date decided they weren't crummy enough, so he loaned me a pair of his own crummy khaki shorts. Excellent. So within moments of entering his house, I'd gotten in his pants. A good start, I'd say.

We hop into his car and head down the road, to a destination still unknown to me. He drives beyond the area I'm familiar with in the town, and as the houses and businesses grow fewer and fewer, and as the forest grows thicker, I wonder if I shouldn't worry. Why didn't I bring the Taser?! I scold myself.

He pulls the car to the side of the road next to a field which contains a 2/3 size replica of Stonehenge. We walk around the "stones" (composed of concrete and rebar), amazed at this display of kitschy Texas crap at its best. Visiting Stonehenge didn't necessitate a swimsuit, of course, but he said it was just an interesting thing to see. We return to the car and head back down the road, and I still don't know where we're going. Alright.

He pulls the car into a parking lot of a shopping center, across the street from where the Guadalupe River is rushing past. We get out of the car and begin walking toward the river. I see kids playing in the water, some young adults holding longnecks and smoking cigarettes. Water is rushing over a concrete dam, down a slope about 20 feet long. This is when my date, J. (of course I'm not going to publish his real name, so I'll just call him by his first initial), announces, "We're going to slide down the dam."

"No, we're not," I said, "but you have a good time." He insisted I'd be sliding down this concrete slope, but I thought simply swimming in the water was a fine compromise. So we jumped into the deep water, safely away from where the water was spilling over the side. "Look how beautiful it is!" I said. "Like swimming in an infinity-edge pool! There's no need to slide down the dam!" J. maintained that sliding was imminent. I continued to disagree. So we swam and chatted and watched the kids playing.

Finally, J. decided it was time, so we walked across the dam. I asked him to slide first, so I could at least watch and see how it's done. He refused, saying that he was afraid I'd take his car keys and leave him there (which I hadn't actually considered, but suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea). He told me where to sit on the edge, in the slick mossy path, where I'd slide really fast. Speed frightens me, and since I hadn't seen anyone do this, I couldn't be sure how fast I'd go. A kid waltzed past me, perched on the edge of the dam, then scooted himself into the sliding pathway and shot down the slope and into the water. The water was shallow at the bottom, so he walked over to where a knotted rope lay, which he grabbed to help him walk up the dry part of the slope back to the top of the dam. Watching me as I stood paralyzed, the kid brushed past me, saying, "If a ten-year old can do it, so can you." I wasn't gonna get told by a ten-year old, so I sat on the edge of the dam and prepared to slide. Suddenly it looked scarier than I anticipated, so I asked J. to go with me. He sat next to me, and we both slide at the same time. I immediately understood the need for crummy shorts. I shot ahead, but J. got hung up on some rough concrete. I'm pretty sure I screamed as I reached the water, and J., who'd scooted himself into the same path I'd just traveled, landed almost on top of me, and then another really large man landed almost on top of him.

In the confusion at the bottom of the dam, I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. Mascara everywhere, covered in smelly river water...all my preparation, all my hopes of looking cute on this first date, well, it was no longer an option. Standing in the shallow water, I looked up at J., who was also laughing, but also kind of frowning at the same time. It was a strange expression he wore as he looked down at me...and it was then that I noticed my bathing suit top had come down, revealing at least half of my nipple. Fantastic. First-date wardrobe malfunction. There's no recovering from that.

Walking back to the car, I commended J. for his creativity and his patience with the dam-sliding activity. "Nice work on finding a way to see my boobs on a first date," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "That worked out even better than I thought!"

Folks, it doesn't get any better than this. It's all downhill from here.

Estancia.

2008-08-19T09:04:00.000-07:00

I don't usually remember such small details, but Estancia was the name of the wine he ordered on the first date, and he recommended it to me. He was dazzling and handsome, with a bright smile. He had a real job that made real money, and he drove a nice car and had his own place. He was faithful and involved in his church community, and he was supportive of my calling in ministry as well. He asked deep questions about life, and we had great conversations. Waiting after work, surrounded by tall silver buildings downtown, in my cute silver shoes, the wind swirling around me until I was practically dizzy, I watched for him to pick me up in his shiny silver car. I thought that made me matter, even though I had a suspiciion that there might be more to me than merely my identity as "girlfriend."

He was refreshingly down-to-earth, with a great sense of humor, but I idolized him and put him So High Above Me. I could never measure up to Mr. So High Above Me: he and his friends were too interesting, too smart, too successful. I tried desperately to make myself good enough, to earn his affection, and I found myself doing weird domestic crap. He took a nap one afternoon, and as he slept, I cleaned his entire bathroom. Disgusting, in so many ways that have nothing to do with the bits of beard trimmings and soap scum.

Mr. So High Above Me possessed himself in a way that I admired greatly, but my insecurity despised him for it. I still trusted his wisdom, and I knew he wanted to take care of me. In a crucial moment of decision in my life, his was the voice that spoke truth to me when he saw me in the depths of discontent and asked, "Why are you doing this to yourself?" I didn't have a good answer, but that question was the one that pointed me home. The relationship was broken soon after that, but something in me at the time let me know that I was in the process of becoming more whole. And I took my first steps on the road home.

A month later, my host mother in Mexico was expressing her gratitude to my roommate and me for the friendship we'd shared in her home during the weeks of our stay, which was beautiful. I didn't understand everything she said, but I heard the word estancia, and I remembered that sweet wine. Turns out, the word means "stay," as in, a safe place to stay on a journey. Her home had been a safe place for me, and as my eyes grew teary, I thanked God for the temporary safe place I'd been granted with that former boyfriend, that man with a beautiful heart, something like Moses who led me through the wilderness to my own Promised Land, but couldn't go there with me.

Last weekend I enjoyed a lovely evening and an exquisite dinner at a restaurant called Estancia, with friends new and old. That word doesn't pain me like it used to; now it makes me smile. For a while, I thought an estancia, a safe place to stay, was my only hope at being safe on the perceived perilous journey home. These days, however, home comes with me wherever I go, and the journey itself, like fine wine, is something to be savored along the way.

Single folks need good news.

2008-08-18T08:28:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine ended an engagement, and I wrote this sermon for her:

There is not enough support in our society for women who are alone. Everywhere we turn--and I'm including myself here, of course--there's another reminder that we're supposed to be in a relationship with a man. It's in the recipes that come into my e-mail inbox with ideas about "Meals for Two," or on web pages with relationship advice, or in advertising for almost anything--wear pretty underwear and please your man! Make yourself beautiful with this lipstick and impress your man! Or any ad that begins with the premise "guys love it when..." And every song on the radio is about love (or at least sex) between a man and a woman. But those are just the public examples--there is plenty of anecdotal evidence within a person's own life to support a fully-developed psychosis. Are your friends getting married? Talking about their weddings, their registries, their marriages, their relationships, their kids, etc.? Is single life every affirmed? EVER?

Is anyone allowed to be okay on their own? Is there a sanctuary from all this crap?

I'd like to say there IS a sanctuary, and it ought to be no farther away than the nearest church, but unfortunately, the church doesn't know what to do with single people, either. There are couples groups, support for families, and while these things are important and worthwhile, how often are there groups for single people? And when pastors are preaching, how often are they using their own marriages and families as illustrations of some eternal truth? That truth may well exist, but when are people valued just for being children of God? Salvation doesn't come through marriage or having a family--salvation comes through Jesus Christ. We come into the world naked and alone, and we die alone (maybe not naked, but who knows). We come into Christian community as individuals in baptism, but with the support of a whole community. We celebrate the sacrament of Holy Communion, the very presence of Christ in our gathering, with a whole group of people. At no point are people more valuable when they are coupled--we have value as individuals, and as individuals within a community. Why doesn't anyone ever bring up that Jesus said so little to married couples, seemed to do very little ministry among the married people? But you know who Jesus goes straight toward, almost all the time? It's the people who are vulnerable: the sick, the children, the demon-possessed, the elderly, the ones who have been cast away. I think single people can be included in this group--widows and orphans are mentioned a lot in Scripture, and it makes sense, but these days, any single people could be included.

Here's what I'm saying: Jesus came for us, too. Let's not pretend like marriages or relationships are the ticket to salvation, to happiness, to fulfillment. This is simply one way to live. But living alone? That's a legitimate way, too: as beloved children of God.

Dating tip: Don’t bring your dog

2008-08-12T07:48:00.000-07:00

I had nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon, and I know myself: if I don’t have a plan to leave the house at some point during the day, inertia sets in, and following that, I get really bummed out. So when Mr. Good Time called in the morning to set up a date for that afternoon, even though I’d learned through hard experience not to accept last-minute dates, I decided this was fine. It probably wasn’t going to go well, anyway, but at least I’d get out of the house.

We met at an outdoor patio of a coffee shop by the lake. Lovely scenery, lots of people lounging around outside—perfect for a first meeting with a stranger. I was surprised when I saw he’d brought his dog along, a big Golden Retriever. I don’t normally like dogs, but this one was surprisingly chilled out and lounged happily under the table while Mr. Good Time and I proceeded to have the most boring and painfully awkward conversation possible. This exchange actually took place, and remember, I’m meeting a stranger here:
Me: Since you’re not from here, what made you move to Austin?
Him: You.
Me: What? You just met me!
Him: I just had a feeling.
Me: Um, no, for real…

The best part of the whole date was when he left the table to get us some coffee, leaving behind his dog, who was plenty nice. He’d also left behind his Wall Street Journal, which I don’t usually read, but was glad for an opportunity to check it out and pick up some investing tips along the way. Unfortunately, he returned to the table and the conversation had to continue. Meeting strangers has made me a pro at small talk.

I had plans later that evening to attend a birthday party, and the birthday boy wasn’t even really my friend, so if this date had gone well, I would’ve blown off the party completely. But as this date was on a speeding train to Nowhere, the party was looking better and better. So I began the polite “I need to be going” dance, and Mr. Good Time invited me to the dog park with him and his dog. I had to decline, but thanks for a lovely afternoon, nice meeting you, blah blah blah. As we were standing up to shake hands, I looked down and noticed the dog was standing, too, under the table. The dog seemed to be having a problem; its sides were heaving. To my horror, the dog started puking right there on the wooden deck of the coffee shop, entirely too close to my feet, ill-protected from dog puke since I was wearing flip-flops. It looked like diarrhea. Of course, Mr. Good Time was horrified—properly so, as far as I’m concerned—and since I didn’t know what to do for the dog or for the situation and I was completely grossed out and I REALLY NEEDED TO GET GOING TO THIS VERY IMPORTANT PARTY, I just walked off. I wished them both the best.

I thought, I live in a city. There’s no way I’m going to see this guy again. Wrong. I was with another date, walking around the lake downtown, when I saw Mr. Good Time there, too, walking his dog. He actually stopped to say hello. “How’s your dog?” I asked. Good, good. Mr. Good Time said he was moving to Canada the next day. Have a nice life! I said. But a few months later, I was on another date when I saw Mr. Good Time again, downtown. Did he move to Canada after all? I don’t really care. But I do know that either I have been on too many dates, or this town is way too small.

Clearly, I’ve gotta get out of here.

UPDATE: The Best First Date Ever was recently eclipsed by The Best AND FUNNIEST First Date Ever...more later...

Best First Date EVER!!!!!!!

2008-07-16T10:00:00.001-07:00

So I'd been doing the online dating thing for a while when I set up a date with Best First Date Ever. He had a great sense of humor and didn't seem to mind that my cousins kept disturbing me while I was on the phone with him. We met on a Sunday afternoon at a cute restaurant near the church where I was working at the time. I recognized him in his car as soon as he drove up, so we shook hands in the parking lot. I had to apologize because I'd just put lotion on my hands, so he thanked me for sharing it with him. See what I mean? Great sense of humor!

We go inside the sunny restaurant and proceed to enjoy hours of great conversation, talking about architecture, philosophy, religion, and family. We both laughed a lot, and he was definitely attractive. After we just couldn't sit at the table anymore, he asked if I wanted to grab a coffee at the shop across the street. Absolutely! So off we went, for more discussion and more laughing. I had to meet some friends for dinner that night, so I kept checking the clock because I didn't want to keep them waiting. "You have to leave?" he said. I said yeah, unfortunately, but I'd mentioned a museum exhibit I thought he'd enjoy, and he seemed open to the idea of getting together later in the week, so he said he'd call me. Perfect! We'd just spent four and a half hours together, laughing and having a great time. I was pumped about seeing him again.

When he didn't call by Wednesday, I decided to send a short message to him, via the online dating service. I decided to opt for non-threatening and wrote something like, "It was great meeting you last week. I haven't laughed so much with someone I'd only just met!" It was true without condemning. I thought. He wrote back and said he wasn't sure about meeting up on Friday because he might have a "work thing," but he'd call me that day. I'm not a fan of setting up dates mere hours before getting together, but I thought, well, "work things" happen.

But then I found out about a concert that Friday night, which I attended with a friend, and Best First Date Ever texted me to say he'd call when his "work thing" was done. So, LIKE AN IDIOT, I kept my cell phone right next to me on vibrate the whole time. Guess who never ever called me again.

So I didn't text, didn't call, didn't send a message to him, either. A month--ONE FULL MONTH--later, he sends me a message saying he remembered what a great time we had when we met, and maybe we could get together sometime. I was skeptical, but I thought, alright, it WAS the Best First Date Ever, and maybe he's just had other things going on in his life. Understandable. So I wrote him back and said sure. We e-mailed and called back-and-forth for weeks, trying to figure out a time to meet, between him being out of town, then me being out of town. Finally, we had a date for drinks on a Friday night and said he'd call to make further plans. Great! So I kept my Friday night cleared for him, which was a bad idea because he called to say something came up and he wouldn't be able to meet that night. "SHOCKING," I said, right into the phone. But then he said, "Would you like to see U23D tomorrow night instead?" "Sure!" I said, happily regaining my voice. He said he'd call the next day to make definite plans.

So again, I spend Saturday carrying around my phone, waiting for him to call. Waiting and waiting. By 5:00, I decide that this isn't going to happen. So I've lost yet another night of fun. I checked my Facebook mail, and Best First Date Ever had sent a message. Apparently, his BROTHER had shown up unexpectedly, needed some help, wouldn't be able to take me out, but let's do it some other time! I didn't fall for that story one more time.

So that's the story of the Best First Date Ever and the two months that followed. At some point after the lame Facebook message, he quietly un-friended me. As it should be.

I hear you never get a second chance to make a first impression. In this case, thank GOD.

PDA

2008-06-11T16:55:00.000-07:00

Many times I’ve sat alone, watching happy couples snuggling together, laughing and holding hands. I don’t need to spell this out—everybody has seen something like this while sitting alone. It stinks. Everything I see that’s shared between two other people adds up to all the things I’m missing out on: shoulder-rubbing, hair-tousling, cheek-pinching, eyes-gazing. I pretend like I don’t want it, but of course I do. On my worst days, I’ve wondered if other people’s happiness juxtaposed with my loneliness means I’ll be alone forever. (As if strangers’ lives have anything to do with mine.) You know what I’m talking about: this is the beginning of the bad plot line in every bad romantic comedy (and I think all romantic comedies are bad). I’ve bitched and moaned and lamented my singlehood until even I am sick of myself.

What doesn’t happen often enough is the PDA I enjoyed this afternoon while sitting near a large window at a casual restaurant. Here, however, PDA would stand for Public Display of Anger. When I sat down, I noticed a couple sitting at a table outside, talking. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the conversation was punctuated by pointing, which developed into grandiose arm gestures, then standing askance behind their chairs. By the time I left the restaurant, where there weren’t many people, they’d moved to another space outside and were still obviously having a heated conversation.

I’d been dining alone, enjoying my own company and the pleasant, sunny day from a comfortable, air-conditioned space. I don’t wish ill on anyone, of course, but I wanted to thank this hapless couple for reminding me, in their own way, how happy I am that I’m not sharing such a heated conversation. Free to go my own way, free to do whatever I want, completely free. On my next less-confident day, when I’m feeling less free, I might wonder where they are and wonder whether they’re still arguing…and then I’ll take a moment to be thankful for the things I’m missing out on.

Here’s to you, Angry Couple. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go lay out in the sunshine. With myself. Try not to be annoyed by the smile on my face.

Not my type.

2008-06-09T10:42:00.000-07:00

When I lived in Tokyo, it was the little old Japanese ladies at church who used to ask me what type of guy I was interested in. This question puzzled me. It didn’t seem beneficial to restrict myself to only certain types of guys. I thought it better to cast a wide net of interest. It made sense numerically: the more guys I could be potentially interested in, the larger the pool from which I could find the right one. Besides, there seemed to be plenty of love stories about people who never imagined they’d end up with the person they were with. Or people attracted to someone who is their “opposite,” whatever that means. Or fixed up on a blind date by someone else—it’s as if they didn’t even choose their mate at all! How could I possibly settle on mere categories to determine the love of my life?

This vagueness wasn’t acceptable to the Japanese ladies. Isn’t there a particular phenotype or ethnicity that interests me? Did I need a man who is a Christian? The very thought of narrowing down my options seemed crass and unfair. All men are special in their own way! Any man who crossed my path was a potential suitor; I thought it was my business to discover what was special about him. “I don’t like his shoes, but how important are shoes, anyway?” “He has tattoos on his face, but he’s probably nice to his mother.” “He looks kinda old/kinda young, but I can overcome that.” “He has great hair, even if he has terrible taste in clothing.”

Any guy could be fixed up to be the right guy for me; in the same way, I could adapt to fit any guy. This made the possibilities endless! Is it possible to quantify love? I could fall in love with anybody, just as anybody could fall in love with me. Is he a business-type who wears nice suits? Well, I also like to dress nice and be a professional. Is he casual and laid back? I like that, too. Does he like music? That’s the kind I like, as well!

I actually prided myself on my ability to see romantic possibilities even in men who weren’t interesting to me. It made me feel holy and egalitarian. Maybe this is how Jesus would date, if Jesus were to do such a thing. Being open to wherever God would lead me, I thought my attitude was entirely laudable. Surely this is the kind of faithful behavior God would reward—I would be obedient, and I would get the life I wanted, with the perfect man, whoever he is.

So every step in public was a step into my destiny, I thought. The man of my dreams could be anywhere: walking down the street, waiting in line at the airport, shopping at the supermarket, behind the counter at the convenience store. I was perpetually readying myself, constantly posing and trying to look great so I could catch his eye, whoever he is. I was still old-fashioned, after all—I wanted to be chased down by this amazing man. And I had to be ready to fit him, since he could be anybody—he could be right under my nose and I didn’t even know it. This love could change my life immediately, so I couldn’t really commit to long-term future plans, since I’d need to be ready to get married, to whoever he is.

Looking around to find him, my head swiveling around and around like a woman desperately in need of an exorcist, I was dizzy. And exhausted. The possibilities were endless, but my patience was not. “Where is he? Why hasn’t he showed up yet?” I wondered.

Not having a "type" was the least of my problems.

You never know.

2008-06-06T12:20:00.000-07:00

“I’m getting married next year,” I said. It was 2005, and I was leaving Tokyo, where I’d been living for the past two and a half years, where I’d been—as far as I could tell—wasting my time since I hadn’t dated anyone while all of my closest friends had gotten married or engaged. I was not going to be left out of this rite of passage. Marriage is something grown-ups are supposed to do; I needed to prove that I’d grown up. It was time to collect the gifts bestowed upon those who grow up and get married: the nice towels, the real plates, the fancy bedding, the beautiful china, the strong spoons that don’t bend in half when you go to scoop the ice cream. Besides, upon returning to the States, I would enter a four-year seminary program and eventually become a Lutheran pastor, and I didn’t think I was called to serve the church by myself; I needed a partner. It’s right there in the creation story: God created man and woman to work together. I was prepared to receive what I rightfully deserved. I mean, society ordains it and God made it that way, right? My only goal was to be faithful, and God would provide the right man. Bible stories proved me right, romantic comedies proved me right, everyone else’s experiences proved me right. My two best friends had married each other the year before; we’d all been friends for a long time before a romance developed rather quickly between the two of them. “A lot can happen in a year,” my friend told me. “You never know.”

Darn right, you never know, I thought. Which is why I told everyone I would be married in a year; no one could tell me for certain that it wouldn’t happen, because they didn’t know. So as I left Tokyo, I told my English students and fellow church members that we’d see each other soon, at my wedding the following year. The inevitable following question, “To who?” never threw me off. The “who” or the way I would meet him was of little importance to me; I just knew it would happen, because I had faith that God would provide. “I’m getting married next year,” I told people I met when I started seminary. I told my family. I told my friends, and I continued developing the standard wedding narrative with the delightful courtship, the perfect proposal, and the glorious marriage ceremony with the beautiful wedding gown, the dramatic march down the aisle, the bridesmaid dresses, the triumphant exit of the bride and groom. Then, afterwards, the reception with the meaningful song and the teary first dance between Mr. and Mrs.--whoever, it didn't matter, I was ready to surrender myself to a new name, a different identity. I prayed and told God, over and over, “I’m getting married next year.” I made a great case for myself, and everywhere I looked, no one disagreed with me. Why shouldn’t a young, beautiful, faithful, intelligent, well-traveled woman be getting married and living happily ever after?

The moral of so many stories is that if you really believe in your dreams, if you really believe and work hard for your dreams, they’ll come true.

That is also the moral of this story.

Although the casualty in this story is that dream. It had to die. A long, slow, spectacularly painful, embarrassingly ugly death.

But don’t be misled. The heroine still lives happily ever after.

And more than that: a life abundant.

I’ll call you.

2008-05-16T10:50:00.000-07:00

“I’ll call you.” I’ve heard this many times, usually at the close of a nice evening with a gentleman. Sometimes it means, “I’ll be calling you later tonight to make sure you got home safely.” Other times, it means a phone call a few days afterward. Sometimes it means, “I’m never going to call you again.”

Derivatives have similar meanings. After a few dates, one guy closed a phone conversation by saying, “I’ll talk to you soon.” Soon can mean a lot of things, I guess. Considering that the history of the earth stretches back millions of years, I guess two years is just a tiny speck of time. From that perspective, two years could qualify as “soon.” Of course, those were the last words I ever heard from him. Another guy closed a good-enough first date with, “Maybe I’ll call you sometime.” At least he was honest, since that leaves open the possibility that he’ll never call. He never did, and that’s really fine with me.

“I’ll call you,” the gorgeous man said as he was walking away. I beamed. “Yeah!” Now THIS is how first dates should go!, I thought to myself, basking in the warmth of the sunshine and the sweet embrace I’d just received. A lunch full of conversation about musical tastes, social justice, and a common appreciation for a sense of adventure. After all, we were meeting for lunch because the gorgeous man caught my eye from across a bookstore, and I was so intrigued that I inquired about him to the cashier who’d been chatting with him. He didn’t see me before he walked out of the bookstore, but I wrote my name and number on a piece of paper and gave it to the cashier, certain that the gorgeous man would never use it. But I thought, hey, what’s the worst that could happen? I compliment a total stranger and it makes him smile? Everybody wins! To my great surprise, she did pass along my number, and he did call. E-mails were exchanged, photos sent, and out of this was produced a pleasant lunch date. He mentioned somewhere along the way that he’d been playing the guitar for eleven years, which is equal to half his life. Hmm. He threw out some great ideas for fun things to do—touring the local wineries west of Austin, musical acts around town. He seemed like a lot of fun. “I’ll call you.” That was two months ago. The phone’s been silent. He’s probably busy graduating from college. It’s easy to tell myself I’m not missing out on much.

I could probably attend a winery tour by myself—what’s not to love about sipping wine with strangers? I also don’t mind catching live music on my own: a large, anonymous event where it’s easy to simply be a face in the crowd, enjoying the music. Attractive ideas, yes—but the more I consider, I recognize it would take an awful lot of energy. Smiling, I say to myself with confidence, “I’ll call you.” I know full well I never will.

The Walenta Household.

2008-05-14T08:12:00.000-07:00

I received a piece of mail addressed to “The Walenta Household.” This came to my apartment, where I live alone, where I have been living alone since I moved in almost a year and a half ago. Mindy Montford and her campaign, who sent this postcard, may not know this. She’s running for some kind of political office in Austin. I don’t know what office, but I’ll probably vote for her based on this: she and her campaign regard me as a household. (You can see how sophisticated is my selection process for candidates for public office.)

I never thought of myself as a household before. Maybe it’s because I haven’t done my taxes yet and haven’t been asked to make a decision like that. Or maybe it’s because I’m still a student, essentially being supported by my mother, even though she lives in another house in a different town. Maybe I never thought a household could be just one person. The word household conjures up an image of a house overrun with kids, a couple of overworked parents, living in a free-standing structure that has a yard. That’s not my life. My household is an apartment, and it's very quiet. I go to sleep when I want, wake up when I want, and eat when I want. I can take my time getting ready in the morning because I don’t have to share my bathroom with anybody. I listen to music of my own choosing, and no one says anything about it. (Except, sometimes, my upstairs neighbor: “What WAS that this morning? Tribal drumming?!” I don’t listen to tribal drumming, but I do have a surprisingly powerful bass speaker, and as my friend Chris says, “Every song has bass when you’ve got this much power!”)

My house is quiet when I want quiet, although it’s also quiet even when I don’t want it. I almost never argue with or pick fights with myself. I rarely get on my own nerves. I guess, as households go, this one isn’t bad at all. I think I’ll take it.

“The Walenta Household.” As head of this household, I’m going to decree the mandatory presence of fresh flowers every week, multiple lamps for indirect lighting, and ice cream for dinner, monthly at minimum. No phone calls after 10 PM unless it’s an emergency (or previously negotiated). Done.

I’m going to like it here.