GIGI GOES GAGA

MEN AND WOMEN: FRIENDS ONLY?

I have a girlfriend who can't name all the men she's slept with. She can remember vividly, however, a handful from early on as well as the few who came along the last couple of years (she's slowed down her pace considerably). But all the others in the middle -- more than 50 men, she reckons, although she's not quite sure of the exact number -- are nameless; some are even faceless to her now.

"How can you forget their names?" I demanded. "Not even a first name?" She shook her head.

"Haven't you ever slept with anyone you didn't know?" It was her turn to ask me a question. I shook my head this time.

"Oh yeah," she muttered. "You only hook up with friends."

I leaned back, eyes widened...and then my shoulders dropped. I had nothing to say. Except.

"I'm afraid of cooties," I said cooly. "And with guys you don't know, well, you just don't know."

After When Harry Met Sally hit the theaters in 1989, it seemed like everyone was asking the same question: can men and women just be friends? Harry didn't think so; he said the sex always got in the way. Sally disagreed -- and then fell in the sack with him during a terribly vulnerable moment. And just when it seemed that the friendship was ruined for good, they got back together when they realized they loved each other, and we all knew that Harry was right after all. At least in the movie.

What screenwriter Nora Ephron didn't get to say is that sometimes, sex doesn't so much get in the way but is along the way between two friends. It doesn't have to be a zero-sum game, where you can be only friends or lovers, and it doesn't always mean that just because a line has been crossed that you can't shuffle your feet backward across the line again. Of course, nothing's ever quite the same as it once was but I say that if the friendship was strong enough in the first place then it will survive the forward-and-back crossing eventually, if both wish it so.

That being said, I still believe that men and women can enjoy close friendships without ever crossing the line. Sure, in my life there were times I've had to hold up a bright red stop sign when a randy friend had tried to send a few signals of his own, but more often than not many of my guyfriends considered me just one of the guys (albeit nicer smelling and with soft towels and better furniture).

The other day I conducted my own (most-unscientific) survey on Facebook: I asked my friends who were online whether or not they thought men and women can remain just friends. All of them said yes; many with the caveat, though, "it depends."

My friend J, who is both a guy's guy and a girl's guy, said succinctly, "Of course men and women can be friends." He added that throughout his life many of his close friends were female and there wasn't any sex involved, only "the pleasure of hanging out together." My girlfriend M concurred, explaining that one of her best friends is a guy she's known since 8th grade: "We tell each other our secrets and troubles and get the opposite sex's point of view. We also have the same humor and tons of inside jokes... tons of history there!"

My sister J, who will never call a spade anything but, said it's possible -- but only if there's no sexual attraction between the two. Which was echoed by my friend A, who explained that once she gets closer to a guyfriend it's difficult not to become attracted to him. Thus, she maintains close friendships with men who are not her type physically or who aren't her ideal in any other way.

I also asked the same question to a couple of guys who had crossed the line from friend to lover in my life at some point. G, who has always had several female friends, had an interesting point of view: he said that once someone gets married, the extent of how close a friendship one can maintain with someone of the opposite sex depends on one's spouse, even when the marital bond is strong. And when you factor in demands of work and home, he added, the friendship invariably grows distant.

Which echoes what one of my best college guyfriends S explained to me more than a decade ago when I asked him why he didn't call me like he used to: "I don't think your husband would like it if I did." And after he himself had gotten married and had children, we never talked on the phone again.

I'm not sure what to make of R's response to my question: "I think so, we were friends first, right? Friendship only makes the love affair sweeter later on." Which is lovely to think about, but doesn't quite address whether men and women can be friends only.

And yet, his reply touches on why I've often chosen to get involved with men I was already friends with -- and sometimes, really good friends -- to begin with. You cut down the time it gets to know each other, there are usually no unpleasant surprises to deal with, and there's a high level of trust established. And what if it doesn't work out?

In my experience, at least, I become the one they talk to when they enter into their next relationship. After all, I can call them out on their shit before their new girlfriend does. Which makes perfect sense if you think of it -- because no one else knows what the women in their lives have to put up with quite like I do. And why waste a perfectly good friendship?

 

 

A HEAVY LOAD

At this moment I'm having an interesting -- quite revealing, actually -- conversation on Facebook. I updated my status with what I thought was an unabashedly romantic statement the librettist and theatrical producer  Oscar Hammerstein II made to then-Dorothy Blanchard Jacobson shortly after he'd met her:

"If I were a little boy in school and you were a little girl in school I'd carry your books home for you."

When they met in the 1920s they were both already in their 30s -- and married to other people, with children. Not the best of circumstances certainly, and even today there would be a lot of tsk-tsk'ing about the way they got together. But even Dorothy's daughter acknowledges that they probably fell for each other instantaneously, and by several accounts they remained in love to the very end.

My niece C -- an intelligent, thoughtful, highly independent young woman I'm quite proud of -- however, disagrees with my romantic take on this story. She thinks that if a boy had offered to carry her books home it would be a reflection on his belief that she's not strong or capable enough to do it herself. Plus, she says, the idea of a grown man thinking of her as a little girl is pretty creepy.

I know where she's coming from; at her age I wrestled with my views on old-fashioned chivalry versus my burgeoning feminist ideals. At her age I was living on my own, supporting myself, figuring how to do things that I'd never learned how to do. I was coming to terms with falling in love, getting into relationships, and trying not to lose my identity in the process. Surely a man didn't have to open the door for me or pull out my chair during a dinner date at a restaurant; I could easily do them for myself, thank you very much.

But as I've gotten older I've learned to live with the blurry lines and interpret male-female dynamics in terms other than power and control. But of course I know when I'm being demeaned or underestimated because of my sex -- that's something I can spot instinctively and react accordingly. For instance, if a guy sees me holding a power drill and jokes about what damage I might do with it, I may just show him how I could if I wanted to (like right then and there). Or if it's suggested that I can't replace my car's automatic transmission simply because I'm a girl I might reply that I know quite a few men, including my own father, who can't do so either. Besides, I'm not too thrilled with the idea of the monstrous thing crashing down onto my chest and pinning me under the car, where no one might find me for weeks.

So I do appreciate it when a man offers to carry something heavy for me, the same way I would offer to help anyone else I were with. The way I see it these days, it's about kindness and empathy, regardless of the sex of the person who was trying to help me. Some days I might accept the assistance, other days I may not because I'm good, really -- but I'd never take it against the guy who offered to ease my load.

I've been in relationships with men who were raised to show modern acts of chivalry with the women they're with, and I've been with those who had never met a door they liked. The truth is that I know which breed I prefer -- as long as they didn't make such a huge show of doing something nice for me and expecting something in return. When a man offers to hold my heavy bag of groceries I'd like to think it means he's thinking of me kindly, period. And it's always nice to know you're being thought of in that way.

But going back to Hammerstein's quote, I suppose it knocked me off my feet in the first place because it made me reflect on meeting the right one at the right time, before life got so darn complicated. When you fall in love when you shouldn't, with someone you shouldn't fall for, then the thing you hope for the most is that you can go back in time when everything was as easy as carrying a girl's books home from school.

 

11 of 30: TOO MUCH REALITY, AND NOT NEARLY ENOUGH

I keep wishing reality shows would just go away, that people would lose their appetite for them the way we all wish we could lose our jones for crunchy, fatty food and sugar. Unfortunately, both are guilty pleasures that many refuse to give up, and so they're here for good.

I can't keep track of all the reality shows that come and go. I try so very hard to pretend they don't exist but they keep interrupting my regular viewing pleasure with teaser ads, often showing the latest catfight (question: why is it always the women fighting?) or couples making out in hot tubs while jealous girls in bikinis shoot killer looks their way.

By now we all know there's nothing real about reality shows; we know they're scripted in varying degrees and what we see is a thin version of of these people's lives the producers want us to see. After all, if we all squabbled and argued and fought and brawled and cried and yelled as much as these "actors" do in our own world, we would be too tired, way too exhausted, to get anything productive done.

If reality shows were real I'd lose all faith in humanity. In reality world (as opposed to the real world) the one who causes the most trouble is the de facto hero who gets the most air time; the most narcissistic, manipulative sociopath always wins. This is not the place for people who don't want to cause trouble: here, troublemakers rule. In a very real sense, we're rewarding people for exhibiting behavior that normally they'd be punished for.

I have no idea what kind of long-term effects reality shows will have on society. I would certainly hope that real-life dating is unlike anything in reality-world dating, where a bunch of women fight each other tooth-and-nail over one man they barely know, whose attention and affection they would do anything for. Besides, is this dating or harem survival?

I'm not an expert on reality shows. I've viewed a few episodes here and there along the way, and always felt silly, even guilty, for watching. I couldn't say I was being entertained and I didn't learn anything either. I'd come away not liking anyone on the show enough to want to root for any of them, no matter how evil the others were in comparison. The worst part, however, was that most of these folks make more money than the rest of us simply by being the kind of people we warn our children about.

Aaron Sorkin explains best what I both hate and fear most about reality shows in tonight's episode of Newsroom. Will McAvoy (Jeff Daniels) tells his date, who's a fan of The Real Housewives of New Jersey : "Human cockfighting makes us mean and desensitizes us."

And just like real cockfighting, the human version makes so much money for the winners that we probably won't ever see the end of it. Even if it makes losers out of the rest of us.

10 THINGS I WON'T DO FOR LOVE

I've done many crazy things for love, but there are quite a few things I just would not, could not, do. I'm listing a few that I've actually been asked to do. A girl's got to have her limits, you know.

1. Do anything illegal - Some people say love is a prison, but I'm guessing this experience is nothing compared to being in an actual prison. Now I like being proven correct, but I'm not willing to find out if I'm right in this instance.
2. Sleep in a warm room - If he likes it tropical and I prefer it arctic (which I do) then we're sleeping in separate rooms. I have a hard time falling asleep as it is.
3. Go camping where there's no decent bathroom - I've never gone camping and the only thing I've had any experience digging into is my own soul. Somewhere in-between camping and glamping is my happy place. Some folks might call it an outdoor day spa but I won't bother with semantics.
4. Go to a theme park or Chuck E. Cheese - Disneyland is NOT the happiest place in the world for me (once, in 1983, was way more than enough) and I would rather attend traffic school than spend the day at any theme park, period. One of the worst times I've ever had was at the other place I mention, where a kid can be a kid. Well, I'm not a kid. Corollary to #4: Clowns, mimes, and Santa Claus freak me out, too.
5. Reveal my number - I learned this lesson the hard way a long time ago. If you do you're opening another whole can of worms, and next thing you know you're defriending a whole bunch of people on Facebook against your own will. And that's just for starters.
6. Destroy personal items - I won't destroy or throw away diaries, photographs, and letters just because someone else wants to remove all evidence of my past life. I'll respect the man I love and keep everything out of his sight and reach but I'm not about to wipe out my history so that it becomes all about HIS story.
7. Make me give up a beloved pet - When I had Boo I didn't date (or continue to date) anyone who didn't like cats. If there's anyone reading this who thinks I'm odd, substitute "children" for "cats" and ask yourself again if I'm being unreasonable. The same goes for dogs, by the way.
8. Turn my back on family and friends - I've learned that anyone who tries to get in between me and my family and/or friends is a selfish, manipulative bastard who wants to separate me from my support system so that he can control me completely. Never again.
9. Wear a thong, like, for reals - I work at a lingerie store so I get men and thongs, I really do. I'll gladly wear one for a few minutes to mix it up and spice up the evening, but any man who expects me to switch out my boyshorts for buttfloss all day had better be willing to do the same.
10. Eat durian - Yes, I know I might be missing out on one of life's greatest pleasures -- but I simply can't get past the smell. And I've tried, I've really tried. But when a man I love once told me, "If you really love me you'll eat [durian]" I told him that if it were a test then I'd already failed. After all these years I haven't figured out the "that" Meatloaf was referring to when he sung about what he wouldn't do for love, but in my head it's probably this.

ABOUT BEING SINGLE

I remember a time when I thought it was awful to be single. I was 14 years old and my bestfriend and I had made a pact to send each other roses for Valentine's Day so we wouldn't feel like losers. Before the day came, however, a cute boy came calling for my friend, they fell in love, and she received a beautiful bouquet of flowers that February 14th. But not from me. And I suppose since her new attachment threw a wrench into our youthful pact, there were none from her, too.

Being single sucked. Big time.

Since then I've never thought being single was a negative. I got to live on my own, do my own thing, hang around with whomever I wanted to, and do all the weird things I like to do with no apologies to anyone.

The truth is, however, that perhaps I really wouldn't know much about being single, at least for any extended period of time. For the roughly 30 years that have transpired between my first and last relationships, there have been narrow windows, few and far between, when I was wholly unattached. I've even suspected that all the times I thought being single was the best thing ever was when I was not.

I've always admired single independent women. For those of you who are currently in relationships, think of all the things that are more difficult to do when you're a party of one. Like bringing your car to get serviced, for instance. If you're married we can safely assume that your spouse would simply drive to the shop separately and then bring you to wherever you need to be after you've dropped your car off. If you're single you'd need to call in a favor from a friend who's not too busy, hail a cab, or take public transportation to get around.

Nothing's impossible, of course, even when you're alone. I have a group of girlfriends, all single, who gather every weekend at someone's house on a rotating basis to help out with chores that would be too difficult for only one person to accomplish. Their system works out so much better than that of a few married couples I know, where neither one does much to help the other out. These people make me wonder what the point is in being married at all.

I just read this post today, which is making me examine how I really think and feel about being single. When I am, do I see myself as being merely between relationships? Do I let it affect my relationships with my (usually married, with children) friends? Or how does it affect others interacting with me?

The author, Thomas Rogers, wonders.

I don’t think we even know what being single is. We live in such a couples-obsessed society that there really are no “singles” out there — everyone is pre- or post-coupled. They’re either in the wings waiting or they’re past their prime and are no longer allowed to be part of this central way people not only organize their intimate lives but attain social legitimacy. People use relationships to bind themselves to social, political and cultural realities.

So many questions, and yet this is probably the best time in history for single people everywhere, especially for women. When I was a child the stereotype of a single woman in her 30s was the "old maid" in dowdy clothes, her hair tightly wound in a bun, peering through her glasses with pursed lips, with a cat waiting for her at home. No longer. Usually the only tight thing we think of about her are her buns (yoga-perfected, of course). Whether you loved or hated Sex and the City when it first aired, you have to admit that it changed many of the pictures in our heads.

One thing I have to set straight before I go, though. Despite all the relationships I've been in, I've never stayed because I couldn't find the strength to go. Whenever being with someone made me feel more alone than I do when I'm the only person in the room, it was a signal that something had to change. Something had to be tweaked, mended, fixed, or overhauled -- and if nothing worked, ended. Perhaps in a way, there is a single gal inside me always, one who chooses to be with someone for reasons other than being afraid of being single, of being alone.

 

 

IF IT'S WRONG THEN WRITE ABOUT IT

The other day I was on the phone with a friend who was complaining of boy troubles (I should probably say "man" instead, given that he's in his 40s, but he hasn't proven himself in that regard so far). Neither one of us could come up with a definitive answer regarding whether she should see him again or not. You see, my brain says that when someone goes in and out of your life more times than you wear the same pair of shoes, you ought to just toss out that person permanently and get on with it.

There's another part of me, however -- and I don't know which silly organ is the culprit here -- which whispers, "If you really must see this person again, and won't rest until you do, then go ahead and do it until you're finally too exhausted to ever do it again." Listening to this muddle-headed muttering always gets me in trouble, as you can imagine. And what I said to her next might explain my astonishing lack of prudence and common sense: "Well, if seeing him again backfires on you, at least you can write about it one day."

There, that just about sums up the reason for most of the bad decisions I've made in my life. Nothing's ever wasted, not even regret.

I realize I haven't been writing regularly these past couple of years. It's not because life has been uneventful or that I have had nothing to write about. Far from that. I suppose the simple though overstated truth is that I've been lazy, which can explain why I don't exercise regularly or eat veggies daily as well.

Thus, for the month of July I'm tackling my own 30-in-30: 30 blog posts in 30 days. I've decided to ignore the slightly inconvenient truth that July has 31 days, and simply give in to sloth for one of them (hopefully, sometime later in the month rather than earlier). Maybe this might be the start of all good habits from here on, although what I'm really hoping for that if I persevere and complete this I can finally call myself a writer, i.e. one who writes.

Postscript. In case you were wondering what happened to my friend, she decided to spare herself any potential headaches and heartaches and has resolved not to see the boy. Good decision, I say, although I suspect she believed that giving him another go just so she'd have something to write about wasn't worth all the aggravation. Have I mentioned she doesn't have a blog?

BIG GIRL

I don't think I'll ever forget the moment that night, after I stood up from his bed in my chambray nightshirt to walk across the room and grab my bag on top of the chair beside the TV stand and then back again. I remember feeling his eyes watch my every step intently as I pretended not to notice. As I plopped back on the mattress and sat beside him, my eyes now searching the vast caverns of the leather satchel on my lap for a tiny lip balm tube, he said, a matter-of-factly and without breaking his glance, "For a big girl, you're pretty lithe."

I was tempted at that moment to mention which parts of his body were not so big and what he couldn't do with them, but I'm never cruel even when I'm decidedly annoyed. So I looked up at him instead and asked pointedly though not quite indignantly, "I'm a big girl?" He then fumbled with his words, realizing that his backhanded compliment was about to slap him in his face, and stammered, "Well, what I meant was that you're not petite -- you know, you're not bony or skinny, like..." Like the other women he normally dated, he meant but couldn't say.

The truth is that while I've never considered myself thin (even during that blip in history when I was 5'4" and 100 lbs.), I've never thought I was at the other extreme either. I suppose I've always been somewhere in the middle, with the exact location completely dependent on who I happen to be standing next to or even where I'm at. In other words, it's always been relative. For instance, when I'm sipping my latte inside a hipster coffee spot, I feel like a linebacker in leggings next to the picture-perfect natives who look like they subsist only on caffeine. But when I enter a McDonald's situated beside a truck stop in the middle of "Next stop: gas, food, and lodging," I can't help but notice that I take up less space at the counter.

Yes, my doctor prefers that I lose a bit of weight for health reasons, and I'm working on it. In the meantime I take comfort in the fact that I can still fit into clothes sold at trendy boutiques where women with sharp cheekbones and protruding clavicles are the dominant species (although if truth be told, I often wear the largest size there, which to no surprise is usually available). Recently, I felt a simultaneous swelling of pride and guilt when a trainer said during my physical evaluation that I looked athletic (my muscular calves fool everybody else but me). But then again, I have to admit that I dread stepping up onto a weighing scale, especially in public, and I refuse to allow anyone to carry me even if it means possibly saving my life.

So maybe I am a big girl. Or at least I'm big enough so there's no way I can disappear into the background or pretend to be invisible. It's not easy to push me aside and I can't fit into a small box. When I walk my steps have substance and when I'm on the move others may have to move out of the way. See, the one thing about being a big girl is that no one can possibly call me little.

I regret that on that night I didn't have the perfect retort -- which incidentally I only found tonight. As one of the female stars of a new reality show swaggered on camera: "Once you go big, you'll never go twig."

Oh, and another regret: That I allowed him to make me feel so small.

 

 

 

THE NICE GUY

"So how'd everything go last night?" my friend phoned me way too early one morning, about 20 years ago.

"Um, OK. I think we're together now. I think I agreed to us seeing each other exclusively," I explained, a wee bit hesitantly. I knew how the rest of the conversation was about to go down and I wasn't ready to defend myself just yet, not when I could barely keep my eyes open.

"What do you mean by 'you think'? You either are or you aren't," she sounded irritated. "Which is it?"

"OK...we are then," I answered.

"How did this happen?" she demanded to know. "You haven't been going out with him for very long! I've never even met him. And don't you have a date next Saturday with some other guy?"

"Oh shit," I suddenly remembered. "I do, huh." Then...

"Well I was really tired and sleepy, and we were making out in the car when he took me home. I think I even dozed off a couple of times -- I was that exhausted. But I can't wait for you to meet him -- cute face, and you should see his abs and biceps too, oh man! Well anyway, he seems like he's really into me and you know, this guy, he's just...so nice. I didn't have the heart to hurt his feelings. We'll just see how this one goes."

"You be careful still," she said. "Remember how you finally started going out with J because you thought he was too nice to hurt you -- and then look what happened."

Her words were going to haunt me barely a month later. People often say that girls finally go for nice guys when they're ready for a real commitment. But not me, at least not back then. I'd go for the nice guy whenever I was tired of trying too hard to make things work and wanted to sit back for a bit. The problem is: when you pick someone just because you think he's "nice" or "safe," barring any of his other attributes or anything else you may possibly have in common, and especially when you're not quite ready for another commitment just yet -- then you're just as screwed as if you had chosen a bad boy to fall in love with. The problem with nice guys is that when the "nice" is gone, then they're just guys.

So a week later I introduced my new guy to another girlfriend, who took him out to dinner while I was out on my previously scheduled date. I gave my date the option of taking someone else to his formal affair instead but it was too late, he said. Our mutual friends, who set the thing up, thought we'd make a good pair and so I felt a slight pang of regret by the unfortunate timing of events. Anyway, the next morning, over the phone:

"Nice guy G," my friend said about my new boyfriend. "All he talked about was you last night. You think this one's going to last though? He doesn't seem like the other guys you normally go out with. He's a little...quiet."

Oh no, she's confirmed it. This dude's not a good conversationalist at all. OK, if I were to be completely honest, he's not really that interesting either -- unless he takes his shirt off, of course. "But you agree he's nice, right?" I asked, suddenly feeling the need for reassurance.

The following week, I introduced him to my closest girlfriend, the one who helped me get over my last relationship which had left me completely heartbroken and utterly devastated. She didn't ever want to deal with that kind of mess all over again and so I was confident she'd let me know if she saw any warning signs.

"G, he seems like he's really crazy about you and so I'm happy." There was a giant "BUT" hanging over us like a hot air balloon about to explode."The thing is, do you really believe you both have enough to talk about? I mean, do you think he's actually intellectually stimulating enough for you?"

Oh geez, she noticed that he had a bit too much air between his ears, too. "Well, maybe I don't know him that well, yet," I replied. "But what do you think -- he's such a nice guy 'no? It just seems like he couldn't possibly hurt me or even want to."

So far so good, I thought. The next week I introduced him to a couple of my guy friends, just to see what they thought of him. It's always good to get the male perspective of things after all.

D: "I don't know about this one G, seems a little too clingy for me -- like he needs to develop a spine or something."

R: "Yeah, I'm going to have to agree. He was just hanging all over you and couldn't stop looking at you, it was sick. It was like: Dude, c'mon, is there anything you can talk to US about besides her?"

But yes, they both agreed he was a nice guy. Too nice though, they both said.

The following weekend I took my nice boyfriend to a party and introduced him to my girlfriend, the one who phoned me that early morning way back in the beginning of this story, the first friend to find out about him. Suddenly, while hanging out with her in the kitchen he seemed like he was more animated than usual, laughing louder and talking a bit more than I'd seen him with any of my other friends. Wait, could he possibly be flirting with her? Nah, it couldn't be, he wasn't that kind of guy. I think he might have had a bit too much to drink, that's all.

Back at my place, he said, "Your friend reminds me of my first girlfriend."

A week later it was over. My new boyfriend came up with some stupid sob story (complete with tears streaming down his face) about why he wasn't ready for a relationship just yet. He didn't tell me the real reason: that he wanted to go out with my friend, the one who reminded him of his ex. Maybe he was too nice to tell me that and hurt my feelings?

As for my friend, she said that she wasn't attracted to my now-ex because he was boring and talked too slowly, even as she continued to hang out with him (was he possibly too nice for her to stay away from as well?). She couldn't tell him why they couldn't be more than friends and repeatedly lied that it was only because she and I were friends (even if I kept telling her that it was OK because the only pain I felt after he dumped me was a bit of wounded pride). But it turns out she, too, was too nice to be truthful, and she soon ended up going out with a friend of his instead.

Obviously one problem with nice is when no one really is, but instead is merely selfish. The other is that when nice doesn't have any place in a story, then it's just another four-letter word. It certainly didn't belong in this one, and I made sure it never had a place in any of my other ones ever again. Even if it was accompanied by a cute face and a six-pack.

LOST IN TRANSLATION

Just recently, thanks to the amazing reach of Facebook, an old friend and I found each other. I don't know if he remembers but the last time I saw him wasn't a good moment for us. One sunny afternoon about 25 years ago, he had put his hand on my knee and I quickly brushed it off, and we couldn't look at each other afterward. Yet the last time we were together before this, which was months and months before, we'd kissed and said goodbye, promising to keep in touch. We didn't, or at least not continuously until the next time we were together again, like we said we would.

But that wasn't the reason for my brush-off: it was because by now I was seeing someone else who didn't like other guys touching me at all. And, like the idiot I was then, I thought that obeying my boyfriend's wishes was only the right thing to do. I don't know what my friend had thought of my rebuff; after all, earlier that year he had touched me much more intimately than he had tried to do so that afternoon. And it wasn't inside a stark campus organization office like we were sitting inside now either -- we had been on his bed, in his darkened room, inside the campus apartment he shared with another student instead.

I can't remember now if he had considered me his girlfriend, nor do I recall if he ever said he loved me even if there was certainly much affection between us. See, although he spoke English well enough to study in the US, he thought in his own language and oftentimes what he said and what I'd tell him would get completely lost in translation. There were times we'd argue stubbornly without being close to any kind of resolution until I'd realize we were fighting because of how we had defined a single word that one of us had used casually. Many words -- like love, for instance -- are defined and understood according to one's experience and world view. Now think of two people who learned how to speak English in two different foreign countries and you realize how a straightforward sentence can get so utterly complicated.

Still overall, language notwithstanding, we got along fine. I'd met all his friends, he took me to their dinners and parties, and we spent a lot of time together. He was a good guy -- kind, well-liked by everyone, down-to-earth, and solid. He had an inner strength that I lacked at that time, which is probably what drew me to him in the first place.

Going back to that night in his room. Before I showed up at his door I had just been with the boy who had recently broken my heart, which I had then foolishly handed back so he could promptly squish it this time around. I called my friend to see if I could come over; I never told him that I was completely in pieces, that I didn't want to be alone and I needed his strength. And so I wasn't alone that night, just like I'd hoped, but not how I'd planned. Inside my friend's bathroom, right after I pulled myself away from him, I sat there as if I never wanted to come out again. Underneath the harsh fluorescent glare, sitting on the toilet, I cried my broken and squished heart out, hoping he wouldn't hear me. For many years I pointed to this night as the lowest moment of my life -- not because of my friend, not because he was there, but because on his bed and in his room I wasn't quite there. I had lost myself completely, I had absolutely no self-esteem.

I often wondered what happened to him. He told me that he went back to his country a few years later and suffered a few major setbacks along the way. He said he'd lost his love, but added that he's fine now though still single. I was really sad when he spoke of his loss; I always thought a guy like him deserved so much love and care, the kind I couldn't possibly give him.

Then he mentioned that I'd put on a bit of weight since he last saw me (had he realized that we were barely out of our teenage years back then and that we were now -- gasp -- middle-aged?). "I want to see my Gigi back to the way she was before," he teased. My Gigi. He still knew how to be sweet right after pushing my buttons.

"I'll never be that thin again," I replied. "But I've been losing weight steadily and will be looking good again soon, don't you worry."

"You weren't thin, just sexy." he insisted. I blushed, realizing that he was doing some remembering of his own now.

I reckon that my friend and I are still lost in translation; this time, our definition of the simple word "thin" is separated by some 20 pounds. But no matter, now that we've found each other, now that I've found myself, and now that we have time on our side, I think we'll figure out a way to create our own dictionary -- and define the word "friend" again for ourselves, one that works this time around.

LIKE WE USED TO

Just wondering -- and I may need to ask my other guy friends what they think because I have no idea if this particular fellow would give me a truthful answer today, even after all these many years.

When he and I were "seeing" each other (I use this term loosely because we agreed we couldn't possibly be in any kind of committed relationship at the time), he told me that once he'd been intimate with a woman, he would forever see her as someone he once had sex with. He even recreated the scenario for me on one of the many times we'd hang out in the living room of his post-war apartment (I can still visualize myself sprawled out on his brown leather couch, enjoying the feel of the cool, thick wood floors under my feet). The way it would go, he said, was he'd bump into her unexpectedly, they'd end up making small talk, and all the time he'd be thinking in the back of his mind as she spoke: "We slept together."

So I saw him recently, maybe somewhat unexpectedly (but only because seeing him always gives me a bit of a shock for some reason). It's been more than 15 years since I last left his apartment barely after sunrise like I used to. That early morning he, as always, walked me to my car wearing a rumpled university sweatshirt and a crooked smile and then kissed me goodbye, as I watched him slowly walk back across the courtyard to climb the stairs to his apartment while I waited for my windshield to defrost. Now understand that I have no actual idea what our final close encounter was really like because when it happened I had no inkling that it would be our last; for me it probably was just another morning goodbye. Anyway, we've seen each other perhaps a handful of times since then; each time I wondered if he was thinking what he said he would unfailingly -- just because he said he always would.

Of course, this means that when I see him I end up thinking just that -- even if it's not what I'd like to be thinking of because then I get embarrassed to look straight into his eyes when we say hello and my hug's just slightly bit tentative though still warm, because I'm always happy to see him. He's almost exactly where I thought he would be at this point in his life (perhaps because he used to tell me all about his plans and dreams back then) and I'm nowhere close to where I once expected I'd be at, though we're both in good places in our lives now. But still, only because of that dumb thing he once said a long time ago, he'll always be someone I once slept with -- even if he's really much more than that.

Perhaps it would be better if he told me he'd always be thinking: "We loved each other once." Yes, I suppose I'd much prefer that, even now when we both love other people and especially when everything else that we used to do is slowly fading away from my memory. Then at least there'd be nothing for me to feel embarrassed about.

DATING 101

I have a friend who's now completely lost in the dating world, as in hopelessly confused and clueless. He pretty much married his first love, they had three children, and then she left him for another man (of course, this is oversimplifying a bit -- no one can possibly summarize an entire relationship in a terse sentence with two commas). So now he's approaching his mid-40s and merely the thought of asking a woman out scares him shitless.

I've never asked a guy out; back in my day (geez, I feel absolutely Victorian here now) girls just didn't do that unless they were desperate. Sure, we sat by the phone and waited and pined away -- but we didn't take charge and make the first move -- ever. I suppose if I found myself today wondering if I should call a man and ask him out to dinner I'd be petrified and possibly even make a fool of myself. Me, who's been on enough dates to last a couple of lifetimes.

Truth is I've been on my share of bad dates. That tends to happen when you've been on so many. The good thing about this is I can now look back and laugh, even if none of them seemed remotely funny then. The only thing I've never done is get drunk, and I have my bestfriend to thank for that.

On one of her earliest dates, back when we were in high school, this boy took her out for a fancy dinner. Now I can't remember how he ended up with a bottle of (cheap) wine but she drank a glass or two and halfway through the evening, she asked him to take her back to my place so her parents wouldn't see her so sloshed. I'm convinced he wanted to loosen her up and free her inhibitions so he could have his way with her a bit, but Rosanna was too much of a good girl. When she'd drink, she'd belt out show tunes and make googly eyes a lot. She's still the same way now.

But I wasn't as good -- and I knew it. So I've never been chemically altered on a date, unless you count antihistamines or the Pill. This doesn't mean that I didn't act like I was crazy -- heck, I can still kick myself for saying or doing certain things when I clearly knew better. See, when I'm bored or sleepy anything can happen. And usually does.

I've never kissed on a first date and at times I've actually extended my hand out to shake the dude's hand as he leaned in for a quick smooch. See, I love first kisses -- I remember them all -- and so it's important to me that when they happen, they actually mean something. But I've also achieved REM state while making out; unfortunately I was a working college student with an active extracurricular schedule so I'd fall asleep at all the inopportune times. Still, I give myself credit for simply letting the guys think that their kisses and embraces sent me straight to Dreamland -- though not literally, which was really the case.

The only time a cop ever knocked on the car window while I was inside with a guy, we were just talking. Really. The fact that we were parked at a notorious makeout spot on campus should have told me that the boy had intentions that evening -- but thankfully all of them flew out the window as soon as campus police waved that flashlight in front of his eyeballs. The next time I saw that light was a few years later, when my date had too much to drink and we had to make an unexpected stop inside a peaceful, well-manicured neighborhood so he could throw up. Needless to say, we frightened the nice folks and I had my first taste of what it's probably like to be on a Cops episode.

On one of the worst dates I was on (and this is saying quite a lot), I actually ended up with a different guy by the end of the evening. My friends had set me up with someone I'd see at parties but had never gotten past hello with; they said he thought I was cute but was too shy to actually talk to me. He was a talented, accomplished musician with amazing, languid hazel eyes. Little did I know that the reason his peepers always looked so relaxed, even flirty, was because he was perpetually stoned; I simply thought he was the cool, quiet, laidback type. Our group ended up at a hip LA club after dinner -- where we were joined by one of his new-in-town friends who simply decided he wanted to stay by my side for the rest of the night. By the time my date was flying on whatever he'd brought with him, I was in a corner getting to know this other guy a little bit better. But that's a different story, for another day.

My point is no matter how bad it gets, it also gets better. Trust me on this: get out there, don't expect too much, but pay attention so if the date's a disaster you have a good story for the next time you're out with friends. Or in my case, when you need something to write about. And you can be sure I have lots.