The Dating Dad

Unwed, part 2: November 2011

There’s another reason I worry about whether I’m marriage material (not being able to imagine getting married again, but not being able to imagine NOT getting married again)... and it’s not so much a dirty little secret as it is something that I just don’t talk much about. When it comes up, though, I always give an honest answer, so it’s not like I’m trying to hide anything.

Usually, the conversation goes something like this:
Her: How old were you when you got married?
Me: Um...which time?
Her: Uh..what?

When I was a junior in college, I went home for winter break and attended a party a couple of my high school pals were throwing. When I met C there, we sort of had this funny, almost uncomfortable connection. And because no one else at the party was older than 21, we decided we’d celebrate New Year’s Eve together. We had one good date before the big night, and fell pretty hard for each other by the time I went back to school after break. 

That spring, I left the US to spend a semester in southern France. C and I kept in touch. She sent me mixtapes and magazines, and even a cassette recording of her with my youngest sister raising hell at a miniature golf course. She was just the sort of quirky, hilarious, slightly unbalanced smart girl I needed in my life. She also had a year of college on me, so when she graduated that spring, she flew out to meet me and we traveled along the Côte d'Azur for a couple of weeks. It was an amazing trip for two 21-year-olds to be on together, and it sealed something special between us.

By the time I made it home from living abroad, she’d already convinced her parents that she was going to move to Santa Cruz for my senior year of college. We wouldn’t live together, but we’d at least be in the same city. Nobody thought to ask my parents if they believed this to be a good idea (they didn’t), and I was too enamored to second-guess the wisdom of her decision.

That year was a tumultuous one for us, with me attempting to finish school, work as a cook in a surf diner, and manage a serious relationship. And though it wasn’t always perfect (we both had been raised in homes where short tempers were a normal part of the relationship experience), we found ourselves fully enmeshed together. Some might even say co-dependent.

So as my own graduation approached, we started talking about marriage, and I started to fantasize about how I’d eventually propose. 

I was 22.

When I called my parents with the exciting news that C had said yes, there was a long silence at the other end of the phone.

“So what do you think?” I asked my father.

“I’m not so happy about it,” he said. I was furious. I was crushed. And, of course, the more my family pushed back against the wisdom of getting married so young, the more resolved I became to prove them wrong.

My best friends were aghast, but put on their game faces and tried to be supportive. When we moved back to Colorado to prepare for the wedding late that summer, my parents’ only move was to support my decision.

Both sets of parents had their reasons for feeling the way they did about the situation. My mom and dad had been married at 21 and 22, and had me just a few months later. They struggled as young parents, and faced deep, abiding challenges that would affect us all for years to come. In fact, their 25-year marriage was on the ropes at the time...but none of us knew that yet. The last thing they wanted was for me to trap myself into a similar situation. They also knew I was not a particularly mature young man; that I had a lot of growing up to do before I could handle a serious relationship. They asked if we could just live together first, and put off marriage for a little while. But of course the train had already left the station.

My fiancée’s parents had been disowned by their parents when they chose to get married very young, and they ended up having to leave their small town and their families behind. For them, interfering with our plan was unthinkable — there was no way they’d do anything to alienate their daughter by being unsupportive of her decision. If they had doubts about our ability to maintain a healthy marriage over the longterm, we were never privy to them. Instead, they helped plan a lavish, over-the-top wedding and reception at the nicest private club in the city. 

When I picked up my best man from the airport the night before the wedding, he said, “Nobody else is going to say this, but you don’t have to go through with it. We can head back to the airport right now, and go to Vegas, have some fun, and leave this idea behind you.”

But the momentum wasn’t in our favor, and even though my doubts had finally started to surface, I couldn’t imagine disappointing C and everyone who’d come to celebrate. I was too callow to realize that I could have saved C and myself, and our families (sisters, nephews, parents), years of pain by being just a little smarter about what I was getting myself into.

The wedding was beautiful, of course. But within minutes of saying “I do,” I realized the impact of my decision. I didn’t freak out, but I did feel a shiver of doubt and regret. I buried it deep inside, where it wouldn’t get in the way of our relationship.

C and I were little kids playing house, and it didn’t take long to see the folly of our decision. Neither of us was ready for what we’d promised to each other, and though we fought gamely to keep things happy and whole, I gave into temptations and excuses to be less than a model husband after just a couple of years. 

By the time I was 27, after almost four years of marriage, I was miserable, lost, and struggling. I’d floated from career to career, working my ass off to make enough money for us to live on, and feeling like I’d squandered my twenties — a time when I should have been having fun, hanging with friends, and traveling like crazy. I’d been a scientist, a chef in several kitchens, a corporate trainer, and was finally on the road toward becoming a teacher, experiencing successes in grad school like I’d never encountered before. I woke up one morning realizing I’d spent my life making decisions to please others, and rarely doing what I needed for my own mental health and overall wellbeing. 

I remember asking my father if I’d always been that way, and he said, “Yes, always. Except for some rough times when you were a teenager, you’d go out of your way to make sure the people around you were happy. You’d do anything to avoid conflict, even if it was at your own expense.” 

And so, with the catalyst of a new career ahead of me, some women in my life who showed genuine interest in my growth as a human being (as opposed to my poor, sweet, misguided wife, who felt so threatened by it all — and was right too feel that way), I moved out. 

Although it was right thing to do, I will always regret the way I did it. I left precipitately, with almost no warning. I blindsided the most important person in my life, because I was too immature and messed up to end things properly. 

I left her feeling devastated, angry, and abandoned, and it wasn’t until just a couple years ago that we were able to reconnect via email and work on forgiveness. I was finally in a place where I could fully disclose my transgressions and regrets, and she was finally able to communicate her sense of responsibility in how things had been between us. We both made a four-year mistake that had wide-ranging effects on our development and on the emotions of those who were closest to us. 

I call it my starter marriage.

It took a long, long time before I was willing to suspend disbelief and get married again. It took sessions of couples counseling, lots of patience on Simone’s mom’s part, and deep soul-searching for me to come around to the idea that I could, or should, make another life-long commitment.

And even though things didn’t work out between Simone’s mom and me, I don’t regret my decision to ask her to marry me. Without that leap of faith, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to learn how to work on a relationship, and how to build a foundation of love and respect. Sure, it didn’t last forever, but the early years were good for both of us, and we have the gift of our daughter to show for it. 

I’ve grown so much in the nine years since our divorce — I’m a better, happier, wiser person, more equipped than ever to build and maintain a healthy, honest, respectful relationship. I still make massive gaffes, poor decisions, and stupid remarks; but I’m also aware of my mistakes even as they happen, and have the humility to admit to my own dumbassness. 

But...even so...I can’t imagine why anyone would want to take a chance with me, after two failed marriages. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to be my third wife. It just sounds so awful, and it leaves me feeling hopeless in spite of the optimism that fills my soul when I realize how much I’ve learned and how much I could contribute.

So that leaves me only to do what I do best — enjoy my life in this very moment, with all of the fun and adventure and heartache, make the most of each day, each date, each romantic possibility, and devote myself to being the best father I can be. 

The rest will happen as it happens. I’m happy now...and I’ll be happier soon.

Unwed: October 2011

The text came just as I'd finished my second cocktail of the evening, ensconced in my usual spot at my favorite bar. 

It was one of the rare non-Simone weekends when I didn’t have any plans or commitments, mostly by design. My best pals were out of town, I’d been working/playing/planning non-stop for the past several weeks, and I’d made a point of not agreeing to any activities in advance. I figured the fun stuff would happen or it wouldn’t, but either way I’d get some time to decompress. 

My couch at home is magical — it’s an upholstered tar baby; the more I fight it, the more stuck I get, until, finally, I surrender to its loving embrace and leave the outside world behind me. I'd worked late into the afternoon on Friday, promptly stepped out of my pants as I'd walked through the door of my house, and spent the evening in pjs, turning down all invitations to leave home. I'd eaten dinner in front of the TV, watching guilty pleasure DVR gems and a good movie before wandering to bed.

But by Saturday night, of course, I had cabin fever. So I toddled over to my corner bar, a brilliant and warm French bistro where the bartenders never have to ask what I’m drinking (Silvertree martini with Lillet Blanc), where the staff and owner always go in for the big hug, and where I can sit by myself for an hour (or two), sipping at a cocktail (or two), and never feel alone. 

The text that buzzed on my phone was simple, lacking any punctuation, but that didn’t limit its effect on me:

He put a ring on it

That’s all it said, and all that needed to be said, because it came from the Bombshell (take a moment and read — I’ll wait).

To be clear, I wasn’t devastated or heartbroken, but I was definitely rattled. The Bombshell and I have had a long time to settle into our friendship — if there’s any sort of “could have been” tension, it’s more of a wistful sweetness that we just weren’t right for each other. There’s still plenty of love between us, but it’s not that acute, wrenching one-that-got-away sensation. So I wasn’t upset or disappointed. In fact, I’m happy for her, because she’s been wanting to be married for just about as long as I’ve known her. We probably would have been together longer if she hadn’t been so focused on looking for a future husband.

Instead of asking for the check, I ordered a third martini and drank a silent toast to our past pleasures and her future joys. Then I did what I do best...which is get all inside my head. 

Because sometimes I wonder if people are getting on with their lives and leaving me behind. 

Not my best guy friends, to be sure, because most of them are still very, very single, and (for the most part) content to enjoy the lives they have.

But with every new “in a relationship” status change, or wedding photo, or new baby announcement that a former flame eagerly posts to Facebook, I can’t help wondering if I’m missing out — if I’ve somehow placed myself in suspended animation, locked in amber, not evolving or committing or moving out of my comfort zone. Did I meet that one right girl and let her go because I wasn’t ready? Or has it been more a matter of timing and chemistry and meant-to-be-ness? 

In other words, is it me?

This summer, I was the reluctant plus-1 at a wedding, which meant suiting up, smiling a lot, and turning up the charm meter. When you’re a bridesmaid’s date (more on that story when the time is right), you’re there to represent. I’m not a big fan of weddings — they’re fraught and optimistic and touchingly romantic, but they also have a grim undercurrent. You know...at least for me.

So I sat in the audience, not knowing anything about the betrothed, taking in the gorgeous bridesmaid I was lucky enough to be dating. My mind shifted back and forth between opposing sentiments:

1. Ugh. I could never do that again.
2. But if I did get married, our wedding would happen this way...
3. But, damn, I wouldn’t want to be up there again, in front of everybody like that, lost in the idea of forever while some part of me understood the pitfalls ahead.
4. But if I did ask a woman to marry me, I’d do it like this...

It was a steady oscillation between hopeless pragmatism and abject romanticism. I’ll never get married again...but if I did get married....

When my date and I were able to sit down over food the next day and talk about the night before, it was largely positive for both of us. We’d already had a talk about the limitations of our courtship (my doing, my fault, bigger story for another day), so she was quite relieved (but not surprised) at the grace with which I handled comments like, “Your wife is beautiful!” and “This must be your boyfriend?” 

The truth was that I liked being her supposed boyfriend, at least for the night. I'd settled into the role easily — smiling, shaking hands, even dancing with her mother. Instead of worrying about the implications or suppositions, I kept my mind and heart firmly in the present moment.

Of course, if I'm going to be honest with myself, it didn't hurt that I didn't know anyone at the reception, and that both my date and I knew that we were not a long-term possibility (as much as we like each other). So I actually wasn't risking anything (except maybe a bit of my soul) in playing the attentive suitor. 

Anyway. Being at a wedding, any wedding, is always exquisite torture because my heart vacillates between the joys of being unfettered and the dream of a lasting love.  Weddings spark my cynical view that marriage is for suckers while stirring up my chthonic hope that I'll find a girl for whom I'll suspend that dark belief. It's the dream that I'll recognize my doubts and fears as the immature, vestigial defense system I needed in order to keep myself from making the same mistakes again and again. And that, somehow, I'll muster the strength to reject them someday.

I can't imagine getting married again. But I can't imagine not getting married again.

Or, more specifically, I can't work out the process that would result in me, voluntarily and without reservation, expressing the belief that we have the chemistry and components and communication to make a public promise to stay together. Forever. 

And I'm really good at envisioning scenarios — in fact, I probably have two or three proposal fantasies floating around in my head at every wedding I attend. I'm great at making the most of any given moment, authentically open-hearted and loving and warm...right up until the long-term implications infiltrate my consciousness and the walls come up. 

The women in my life who have been capable of keeping me out of my head, even for a little while, are the ones who've made a lasting impression on my heart. 

And, as the Bombshell's text came in, I couldn't help wondering if I'd been missing out on something important — because I shouldn't depend on someone else to make sure that I'm invested and optimistic and committed. 

It's a question I explore almost every time I sit on the couch across from my therapist — am I single because I keep messing up, or have I just not met the right woman? 

Or is it a little of both, with a sprinkling of bad timing and missed opportunity?

You know what the optimistic part of me says.

Rabbit Stew: September 2011

Simone and I have had pretty much the same bedtime routine for most of her life. It goes something like this: 

1. She gets ready for bed (“brush face, wash teeth, jammies on”) while I make her some Yogi Bedtime Tea
2. She crawls into bed and I lay beside her, bedside lamp on, and I read a chapter of some epic novel to her (voices and all), while she drinks her tea out of a sippy cup
3. I find a place to stop reading, she grouses about “one more page,” and then I turn out the light
4. She sings the sh’ma, a very important Jewish prayer, and then we snuggle for a few minutes before I kiss her head and leave her to her slumbers

Many, many months ago, I decided it was time for us to read “The Hobbit” together. It took at least a month or two to get through. But we both loved it so much, we went right into the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy without even taking a break. After we’d finish each book, we’d watch Peter Jackson’s movie version.

Little did I know that this foray into Middle Earth would turn from a nighttime routine into a lifestyle decision for my daughter.

I wrote recently about the nascent geek goddess living in my house, but I didn’t explain just how deeply Simone loves the world created by Tolkien — not just the film versions, which were so well-wrought, but the books themselves. She re-read “Fellowship of the Rings” at least three times this summer, crafted her own hobbit tunic from a large T-shirt and fabric markers, and has even taken to reading the many pages of the appendix at the end of our collection — pages and pages of Middle Earth minutiae that she can recall at will. This includes the pronunciation guide, the backstories of several characters, and even some of the history of regions in the fictional world. 

So it was Simone who brought it to my attention that September 22 was mentioned as both Frodo and Bilbo the hobbits’ birthdays in the novels. And she was the one who figured out the crazy coincidence that we would most likely finish the last book in the trilogy on that exact date! In fact, Simone had some specific ideas about how she wanted to celebrate her favorite characters’ birthdays.

And, once she told me what she had in mind, I knew I really had no choice but to make it happen. I mean, how could I deny a real-life celebration of the end of our literary adventure, especially when the date was so propitious? 

So, the week before the big day, I started researching recipes. The day before, in spite of an unreal amount of work on my to-do list AND a speaking engagement at a local Tedx gathering (video to be posted soon), I found myself driving across the city to find the special ingredients I needed. Exhausted from a full day, after we read the penultimate chapter in the novel and Simone was settled in bed, I stayed up late making Lembas cakes (the elven food our heroes ate on their long journey).

After I woke Simone up early the next morning (and she opened the little elf leaf clasp I ordered for her, to wear to school that day), I made her an omelet with three kinds of mushrooms (she loves, loves, loves mushrooms, and so do the characters), and packed the Lembas in her lunch, wrapped in paper towel “leaves.” Once I dropped her off at school, I came home and taught myself how to make rabbit stew with ‘taters (another staple of Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins). 

We walked through the door that evening, a comfortable rustic scent of sage and thyme filling the house. 

We filled our hobbit bellies with savory rabbit stew and fresh bread before starting our bedtime routine. And we finished “Return of the King” that night...the last chapter takes place on September 22, so it was all very lovely and poetic. For Simone, it was the perfect culmination of our time reading the book together. For me, it was a gesture of devotion; creating happy, memorable experiences for my little girl.

Friends and Twitter peeps who learned of my efforts were generous with their kudos — they saw me as a wonderful father who was creating lifelong memories of dad/daughter experiences for my little girl. And I appreciated those words of support. But I also couldn’t help wondering if I’d gone overboard; if I had taken on too much, more than I should have, considering how over-committed my life is right now, with work and my community organization and obligations and everything else. Was I spoiling my girl at the expense of my own well-being?

No. I don’t think so. Because making Simone smile, and feeding her passions (whether it’s dinosaurs or monotremes or geek lit) is good for her development and supremely satisfying for me. 

Which got me thinking about something else...I’m just might make a kick-ass boyfriend someday.

Because being the kind of dad I am  — one who goes to great lengths to identify and create opportunities for growth and joy for my daughter — comes from being a good listener. I know how to do fun stuff with and/or for Simone because I pay attention. 

I’m betting that I’ll be able to do the same thing for a grown woman, too — I’m already in the habit of listening and scheming and coming up with little details and big surprises, so why wouldn’t that translate to a grownup relationship? 

Actually, I know I have it in me already, because as early as the first date with someone I like, I’m listening for preferences and passions. Before the first kiss good night, I’m already thinking about gestures both grand and goofy that would make her smile. If it’s one of the rare occasions when I’m being smart, I’ll keep these ideas to myself until a later time when it would be appropriate to share. But...well...I think it’s established that "appropriate" is not an adjective that resonates for me very often.

But it’s interesting to wonder if being a father is also preparing me to be a better partner. Some women I’ve dated over the years have opted to not stick around because they wanted to be the number one person in my life. They didn’t relish the idea of sharing me, or knowing that I put Simone first. But there have been many more who saw my dedication to my daughter as a positive thing — a promise of something good that ran deep in me. 

But what if it’s even more than that? What if my daily challenges and struggles (internal and external) to become a better father are actually strengthening my ability to sustain an adult relationship? What if my intention around raising Simone could make me a better spouse some day? 

That’s some exciting stuff to think about. 

I also learned this summer that having someone around who pays attention to me and the things I love and am interested in is pretty fulfilling, too. But that’s a story for another time.

NOTE: You’ll notice the pretty pink tile at the top of this page — I have until Oct. 15 to be voted one of the best daddy blogs at Parents Magazine. It’s a serious pain in the ass to register, and the system is all wonky, but if you wouldn’t mind taking the effort to vote for me, I would be grateful.  It would be cool to get some recognition!

Solo: August, 2011

I wasn't able to give much thought to my own vacation until Simone was on the bus to summer camp, headed into two-and-a-half weeks of adventures. Adventures I'd only learn about via the occasional letter and by scrolling through hundreds of photos on the camp's web portal, looking for hints that she was enjoying herself.

The days before she left were fraught with preparations — gathering up the needed clothing and equipment for the session; coordinating with her mom to make sure we'd made the right purchases and had collected sufficient underwear from both houses; pre-addressing and stamping envelopes to make it easier for her to write to me, her grandparents, her aunts and friends. There really wasn't time for me to start compiling my own pre-vacation to-do list.

But after she was finally on the bus, both of us waving nervously to each other, with me suppressing tears until I was walking through the emptying parking lot, I pointed my car to Target, and spent the next half-hour gathering up travel supplies. By the time I got home, I finally got to work building out a list of stuff that had to happen before I hit the road. It was extensive.

The plan for my trip stemmed from a conversation I'd had with the Peach in late spring, actually. We hadn't spoken for several months, and decided we were past-due for a catchup. The Peach and I are still friends, and we enjoy meeting up every once in awhile to share the latest stories and developments. This time, the plan was to meet for tea at one of my favorite spots, then go to a yoga class with her favorite teacher.

I was thrilled to see her as she came into the shop, and I jumped up to give her a hug. After the usual pleasantries and updates, we got to talking about Simone's latest exploits, and I mentioned her upcoming trip to overnight camp. 

"What are you going to do with yourself while she's gone?" The Peach asked. 

I told her I hadn't come up with anything satisfactory yet. I knew I wanted to run away somewhere, but the thought of another solo trip didn't really appeal to me, and I'd been stalling. I told her that I didn't mind traveling alone, but I wasn't the kind of guy who makes small talk in some bar with a group of like-minded travelers. So that meant, no matter where I went, I'd share a lot of meals with a book and beer. 

The Peach smiled, not really believing that I'd be very long without making new friends, but made a suggestion — to attend a yoga retreat center in Costa Rica. She and her sister had been there a couple years ago, and she thought it would be perfect for me.

"The meals are communal, so you'd be able to eat with people and get to know them if you wanted to, but you could also have your alone time. You'd get to do yoga everyday, and really have some time to unwind!" 

My email inquiry was answered within an hour of sending it, and I was presented with a package that was truly irresistible — a yoga and surfing vacation, with three vegetarian meals per day, and a daily shuttle into the seaside village of Puerto Viejo. I paid my deposit and used miles to book my ticket before I had time to over-think it and talk myself out of the trip. 

So there I was, two days away from an 11-night solo getaway, and I hadn't done crap to get ready. I was only interrupted from my flurry of activity (finalize work stuff and take care of requisite deadline deliverables, shop for a raincoat and wicking clothing, arrange pet care, do laundry, pack, get recommendations for the couple of days after my time at Samasati ended) when I took a moment to browse through the aforementioned web portal and found a photo of Simone, smiling with her new bunkmates. I broke down, the sob escaping my chest involuntarily, and I couldn't stop weeping for a good twenty minutes. By the time the heaving and sobbing tapered off, I was sitting on a dining room chair with my head in my hands. I was so relieved to see that smile, and so heartbroken to miss her so much already. It took me a few more minutes to launch myself out of the chair and get back to it.

And, damn, the trip was a stunner. I'm still processing the time I spent in Central America — I've returned with the sort of existential questions that only an extended period away from the familiar and mundane can bring. 

I spent the first week at the retreat center, in the jungle above the Caribbean. Samasati is both rustic and refined; although my bungalow was elegant and beautiful, there were still geckos running along the ceiling and the occasional prehistoric-looking insect crawling on the wall. Where there wasn't wood paneling was open air, except for screens instead of glass.

So basically the whole little hut was a giant screen from waist level on up.

It took me longer than I would have liked to fall asleep that first night. I was super-conscious of the sounds of the jungle, and laying there in the darkness, I couldn't get comfortable. The loud buzzing of insects and spooky calls of night birds was louder than pleasant white noise. 

Every once in a while a faint breeze would just barely cool what little exposed skin I allowed out from under the white sheets of the bed, and a thin film of perspiration made the pillow stick to my face. A couple times in the night, I'd wake up with a start and pull the flashlight from under my pillow, flipping it on and shining it around the cabin. But waking up early that first morning, to the lion's roar of howler monkeys in the trees above me and the smell of rain and leaves and earth washing through the screens, I was filled with a sense of contentment. 

Of course I made friends the very first day — it felt almost like I was at my own grownup summer camp. I shared meals with a fun, diverse crew of travelers, went to sunset yoga every night, and did some decent surfing. I didn't go on most of the excursions with the group of guests that fell in together (except for one night of carousing in the little beach town), and though I felt like I was a bit of an outsider for that, I also knew I'd made the conscious choice to do my own thing. Some mornings, I'd write my next novel for hours at a time, watching the rain fall in sheets all the way down to the ocean.

On one of my surfing days, I met a French woman and a Spanish guy, and ended up drinking beers over a delicious fish taco lunch with them. The Spanish dude and I even spent a day hanging out; the morning chilling in the courtyard of his hotel in town and then riding bikes down the coast to spent the afternoon on a pristine white sand beach, splashing around in the waves.

When my time at Samasati was over, I took a shuttle back to San Jose, then navigated the gritty Coca Cola bus station to purchase a bus ticket to the Pacific Coast. I'd expected a painful, sweaty 4.5-hour ride to the beach city of Quepos, and when my assigned seat turned out to be next to a mother with her wiggly toddler on her lap, I sighed, took out my book, and hoped for the best. But the trip was easy, and a mere three hours, and of course the little boy and I got along great. By the time I hit Quepos, I was feeling pretty happy with my decision.

Because that was a big takeaway for me — traveling alone can be a blessing and a curse, when it comes to making decisions.  Sure, you get all of the autonomy you want; which means the freedom to just do the things that appeal to you. You don't have to answer to anyone else's needs or travel quirks, which can be extensive sometimes.

But you also don't have anyone helping you decide what you want to do. And, as a classic Libra, I can be pretty indecisive, over-thinking my options, and second-guessing my final decision. When a group of my new friends at Samasati invited me to join them on a horseback riding excursion, it just sounded sweaty and buggy, and I declined. But they came back that evening with hilarious stories and a sense of camaraderie that I missed out on. I don't regret taking that day to write another chapter of my next novel, but I do wonder what I missed. 

The other thing about having a travel companion is that you're less likely to make stupid or unsafe decisions, like wandering through a large city late at night trying to hunt down some dinner. Or leaving your raincoat on the bed of the hotel before heading into a national park and getting drenched through, underwear and all, when the torrential downpour comes out of nowhere.

Overall, the trip was good for me, mostly because of the things I was missing — someone to enjoy and share the trip with, hugs and the human touch, meat, vodka, a steady flow of data and communication via phone and computer. I came home wondering how I could take some of the healthy living that I’d been forced into and build it into my daily life. 

I’m struggling, because it was too easy to fall back into pre-vacation patterns. But I’m awake and aware, and though the changes may not come all at once, I can still strive to regain elements of that zen contentment and lifestyle, and to integrate them into our lives. 

Simone starts middle school in a week. We’ll both need all the help we can get.

Local: July 2011

My friend and I had decided to play hooky and caught an afternoon flick — typical for Colorado, we enjoyed a cloudless sky and the friendly, dry warmth of a summer day as we walked to the theater, then found ourselves dodging the first raindrops of an evening thunderstorm leaving the movie. We hurried to the shelter of a new restaurant in my neighborhood.

I’d been wanting to try the place in the weeks since it had opened, but due to the vagaries of logistics, scheduling, and commitments, this was my first foray. We wiped our soggy feet at the door and hightailed it upstairs to the bar, settling into a cozy booth for two. The view was cause for exclamation; we watched through gigantic, open picture windows as the Denver skyline was slowly overtaken by the squall that we’d just barely avoided. The lights in the many windows of the skyscrapers had just begun to glow as the city disappeared behind a curtain of rain, glass-vibrating timpani thunder shaking the room a mere breath after flashes of spectacular cloud-to-cloud lighting. 

We’d just begun digging into some particularly delicious small plates of delectables when a sturdy guy in a chef’s uniform came hustling to our little table.

“Hey, are you Eric Elkins?” he asked.

“Uh...yeah...” I responded, a little tentative, not knowing what sort of trouble I might be in.

But I wasn’t busted — I was recognized. This talented chef of two beloved Denver restaurants had seen that I’d checked in via Foursquare and Twitter, and wanted to come up from the kitchen to meet me in person. He thanked me for finally getting over to the restaurant, and then asked how we’d liked our food so far. After humbly receiving the accolades, he informed us that he’d be sending along some more dishes to try, lovingly recounting the provenance of the ingredients before shaking my hand and disappearing.

One of the plates, a deconstructed Moroccan tagine, served with two flawlessly decadent slices of lamb belly, was so sublime I almost started crying at the table. I’m not joking. But, as we nibbled at the brilliance on offer, I couldn’t help but be humbled and gratified by such kind treatment. It’s good to be known in my town.

I’ve said before how I’ve been offered amazing jobs in brilliant parts of the country (and in other parts of the world), but that I’ve always turned them down because I’m committed to being an integral part of Simone’s everyday life. Until she’s off to college, I’ll be where she is. It hasn’t always been easy to decline an opportunity to make a real difference for a forward-thinking company, but it has always been the right decision.

When I talk to friends about the next few years of my life, I tend to refer to my ‘X’-year plan. When we were first divorced, it was my 15-year plan. Then it became my 10-year plan. And now, with an empty nest a mere seven years away, well...you do the math.

And my plan has always been pretty simple — I’m in no rush for her to grow up, but when Simone goes away to college, that’ll be my cue to pack up and leave Colorado. Maybe finally move to the Bay Area, where I can surf and eat well and spend long weekends in Santa Cruz; or maybe I’ll put everything in storage and just hit the road — make my way to Asia or South America, and wander. Whatever — the story has always been that I’m out of here as soon as Simone leaves.

Growing up, we moved every few years, and I became accustomed to packing up and making friends in a new, very different city from the one I’d just left (from Denver to LA was shocking; but from LA to Colorado Springs provided its own challenges...I still remember my first friend introducing me to chewing tobacco, and just how sick I got). Moving after a few years in one place was normal for me, and it became part of my internal rhythm. So imagine how unsettling it feels for me to have lived in Denver for 21 years this month! I do get wiggly, and the urge to pick up and go is almost irresistible at times, but, other than a 9-month stint in Omaha, Denver has been my home my entire adult life.

The wanderlust that was imprinted into my heart — that need for a big change every so often — has made me feel stuck here ever since the divorce more than eight years ago. Sure, there are worse places to be beholden to, but the knowledge that I have no (real) choice but to stay in Denver has felt like a lodestone at times.
But, lately, I haven’t been so sure it would be an easy thing to leave this city behind when Simone comes of age and heads off for college.

I’ve grown into Denver, and Denver has grown into me — it’s more than a collection of great local chefs, talented bartenders, major league sports teams (six of them!), and heartbreaking sunsets. Denver is more than a gateway to mountain-hosted sports and outdoor adventures. More metropolitan than cosmopolitan, Denver has a feel and a personality all its own, with a subversive arts culture that has blossomed in just the last ten years; with a cadre of DJs who could stand up against whatever LA has to offer; art galleries as mystifying and unsettling as anything you’ll find in Soho; theaters, both large and small, that host an array of new and established plays and spectacles; live music, street performers, food trucks...they’re all here, acquitting themselves with panache. 

And Denver is more than its climate, with the kind of weather the rest of the country only dreams of — our warm, dry summers (with those sudden outbursts of rain and thunder) are the stuff of legend, and our mild winters (with the occasional blizzard) are a well-kept secret. If you haven’t been privy to the scent of spring on the heels of an April snowstorm, or experienced the bittersweet joy of donning a light jacket for the first time in September, you don’t know what you’re missing.

But what makes Denver the city that keeps surprising me — what renews my love for this town at the very moments when I just want to get the hell out — is the people who bring a richness of creativity, culture, and kindness to our daily lives around here. 

Having lived in Denver so long, and having been so active in the community, means that I rarely leave my house without running into someone I know. It can be a blessing or a curse, without a doubt, depending on my state of mind, how late I am for the next thing, and whether I have the girl in tow. At least I’m on good terms with just about everyone in my past, and I’m incapable of holding a grudge, so the awkward situation is rare. 

But I wouldn’t have been treated with such deference and casual kindness by a chef in San Francisco or LA or Chicago — that moment of grace was a direct result of the relationships and name that I’ve managed to build in the 20+ years I’ve made this city my home; there are Denver restaurants and bars where I tend to be cared for, and Simone seems to think it’s normal to have owners and waitstaff welcome her by name. We are locals in every sense of the word — except the provincial one — we know the best places to eat, the fun parts of the city, and where you should take your out-of-town guests. We know how to dress for a day on foot, how to pack for a night in the mountains, and how to make the most of the rare rainy day. 

Being on the move with my best pals on an off-duty Saturday night means surrendering to the flow of the evening, and enjoying the surprises and dustups that result — free shots from a well-loved bartender, dirty looks from someone’s ex-girlfriend, a crew that grows and ebbs as we wander from one venue to the next, sometimes taking on a jumble of old friends or new strangers for the ramble, or shedding the ones who have plans for an early morning hike or yoga class the next day. It means a late-night solo walk home across the three bridges that take me back to my neighborhood, enjoying, in season, the embrace of the vestiges of radiant heat still rising from the pathways, the scent of the trees locking themselves down for the cooler months, or a bracing flurry of fresh snow that sneaks in between my coat and scarf.  

And one of the most satisfying aspects of living and working in this city for as long as I have is the honor of connecting the people who ought to know each other; whether it’s a talented UI person looking for the next great gig, or an employer who needs to bring in someone with a particular type of expertise, or two artists with similar goals and perspectives. Last week, I dropped in at one of my favorite new restaurants because the owner had put word out via Twitter that happy hour had indeed begun. When he went to introduce me to two guys who are doing some project work for him, they were the ones who reminded us all that I’d connected them to him in the first place. Back slaps and smiles all around. 

Facebook, LinkedIn, Foursquare, and Twitter have brought my disparate local and national circles together in some unexpected ways, and the constantly evolving result has been a rich and complex tapestry of connections and synergies, of creative pursuits, startup successes, and longterm relationships. But it’s my Denver connection that gives the network its warmth and joy.

Seven years is still a healthy chunk of time; who knows what adventures lie ahead for Simone and me, or what my priorities will be by the time she’s ready to make her own name somewhere? I don’t have to think too hard about it, and I can still dream of a house looking over Monterey Bay. Maybe it’ll just be my second home, rather than my primary.

But it’s good to know that, even though I didn’t grow up in any one place, I can recognize that I have a home. A family of friends has grown around Simone and me — we’re part of a neighborhood and a community and a network of love and support. Simone has the locational stability I never experienced, and, through her own force of personality and charm, has built her own fan base in this city.   

I grew up all over, but Denver is our hometown. 

Text Girlfriend: June 2010

Not long after our divorce early in 2003, my best buddy and I were drinking cheap beers at the dining room table of his downtown Victorian. It was still winter, and since the departure of his longtime, live-in girlfriend, he’d had a propensity for keeping the thermostat set low. I don’t think I was wearing my winter coat in the house, but I’m pretty sure I was bundled in layers of long-sleeve shirts and a sweater. He probably had a ratty blanket wrapped around him. We were a pathetic sight.

We were both going through fundamental changes in our lives — newly single, untutored, generally clueless about how/why/if we could get out there and start dating again. 

I look back at us now, and shake my head; at that moment, bereft and shivering, terrified about the future, we had no idea of the wonders ahead of us and no clue that our struggles together would provide the foundation for a friendship that would be even stronger almost decade later,  even though we’re now separated by a few thousand miles of mountain and prairie. 

But this story is about something that happened that night, when my pal said, “Hey, come here, take a look at this.”

He’d moved to his desk, which was also in the dining room, and had a window open on his computer. I could tell as I went to stand behind him that he was at an online dating site.

“Oh no,” I said. “I could never do online dating. It just sounds so...contrived.”

“I know,” he said, logging into Nerve Personals, his fingers clacking on the keyboard. “I thought that, too. But take a look.”

He rolled his chair back a little bit so I could peer at the screen; an array of photos of women with a snippet of information about each one. 10% were gorgeous, 15% percent were frightening, but the vast majority were just interesting enough to warrant further investigation.

We read through some of the profiles — Nerve asked funny, insightful questions that made just about anyone look witty at some level, so the reading was entertaining in its own right. My pal pointed out a few women he’d been emailing with, but we didn’t come across anyone I thought would be worth the humiliation of admitting I needed an online yenta. 

And then...there she was. Sultry but approachable, a cute Jewish girl with dark features and warm eyes, whose answers to the various and sundry questions demonstrated a quirky intelligence. I was spellbound. My friend let me write to her via his account (since he’d paid for the service), and I wrote a florid email, explaining I wasn’t the account-holder but that I couldn’t resist reaching out. 

She emailed me the next day, a few hours after I’d shelled out the cash to set up my own profile. Although we never actually went on a date, we did end up becoming friends, and we’re still in touch here and there. 

But the Nerve Personals experience, with its emphasis on the intelligent creative target audience, was like a gateway drug into online dating for me. Suddenly, I had an answer to my fears of dating — my lack of game and mediocre small talk skills were irrelevant when I could write a funny, smart and self-deprecating online profile, and send out an email that was at once charming and compelling. 

Suddenly, I had dates planned for most nights when I didn’t have Simone. Occasionally, I’d stack up several dates on the same day (I still get traffic for an early post — Rules for Online Dating).

The process was generally similar from target to target — I’d impress her with a well-written email, we’d chat online for a week or so, and then we’d meet. 

And then I found May. Her photos of a small, curvy, and immensely pretty blondie were why I clicked on her profile, but it was the writing inside — clever, winking, salty, hilarious — that I fell for right away. We connected immediately, both picking up on our love of words, and began one-upping each other with funny and smart responses to each other’s questions.

We set up a time to meet, but May came down with a cold and had to cancel. By the time she was feeling better, I was traveling out of town, and it wasn’t until a couple more weeks of daily emails (dozens and dozens of long, flowing conversations) and late night IMs (lasting hours and hours) that we finally could set up a time to see each other. By then, I was certain I’d found an amazing woman, and I was giddy with the excitement of finally seeing her. 

But she cancelled again — this time, because she’d decided to get back together with her ex-boyfriend. Truly, I was devastated. Sure, I’d been going on other dates, and had some other online stuff working, but nobody fed my intellectual appetites like she did. 

I wrote her a kind, understanding response, nursed my sorrows over a big-ass martini (not daring to admit the source of my sadness to anyone), and did my best to let her go.

It was just a week later when I received an email from her again. I was out of town on a press junket. I just looked back into my email and found my response:

“I'm sitting at the Four Seasons, the french doors open to the balcony that overlooks the city — I can see the Hollywood sign, and an almost imperceptible breeze is blowing into the room, stirring the detritus from my pockets left on the desk — cab receipts, notes to myself, a gum wrapper. There are amazing fresh apples in the fruit bowl, and Fiji water on the nightstand. I can smell hints of ocean and eucalyptus and even that dryer smell you get when you're near an industrial laundry facility. And I saw your name in the Inbox, and my face got hot, and I felt a little dizzy, and I forgot where I was.”

And then we were writing again. Email after email. She was still dating the other guy, but she was writing to me, I thought, for the intelligent conversation she wasn’t getting. Looking at the emails I have saved, we did this for another couple of weeks, our mutual affection evident in every word we wrote.

Late, late one Saturday night, after we’d been emailing for hours, she asked me to wait for an email she was writing.

 The email that arrived 30 minutes later had a subject line that read, “The Truth about Cats and Dogs.” I didn’t open it before taking a full few breaths, because I knew what that meant, and wanted to keep our fantasy love affair alive for just a few more moments. 

I didn’t read the text first, no. I jumped straight down to the attachments. I suddenly realized I’d opened my heart to...well...it could be anyone. I nearly puked right there at my desk, my fingers shaking as I opened the first of the photos. 

“Please let it be a woman,” I said to myself. “I don’t care about anything else. Please let her be a woman.”

And she was. Not small. Not blond. And her name wasn’t May. The pictures showed a pretty face on a large woman, and though I was still feeling heartbroken by the deception, at least she wasn’t some creepy guy leading me on and on. The story was that she’d written May’s profile for Nerve, and had responded to my initial email on May’s behalf because she wasn’t able to answer from work that day.

By the time May was ready to take over, she was already intimidated by the level of writing and rapport between us. So she asked her friend to keep writing on her behalf. And she did. And she did some more. Then May decided to get back together with her boyfriend, but her friend was in love with me. So May insisted she sever ties, which her friend did.

For a little while.

When she started back up, writing to me while I was in LA, it was without May’s knowledge; but our text-only relationship was exciting and loving, and she could be the woman she really wanted to be, at least via email. 

After reading the email, I swore out loud. I rubbed at my face. I took three deep breaths. I didn’t know what to do.

So I called my baby sister, and when I read aloud the whole email, she laughed. She laughed loudly and at length. I wanted to throttle her through the phone.

“This is the best thing that has ever happened to me,” she said. “And it happened to you!” She made me tell her the whole story again, and then laughed some more that something so intense and funny and stupid happened to me “fresh out of the gate.” By the time we got off the phone, I was laughing, too.

So I replied to the email, giving this woman a choice: meet me for brunch the next day, or never speak to me again.

I recognized her by her chastened, embarrassed expression when she walked into the restaurant, and stood up when she approached the table. She wasn’t sure what to do, and I could see that she was shaking, so I gave her a hug. It may not have been the hug that I’d been looking forward to for so long, but it was one we both needed. It broke the ice, and then we spent the next two hours alternating between sheepish and laughing. My jaw hurt from the smiling. 

The friendship that began that day gave me great pleasure over the years, and though we always talked about repurposing our hundreds of emails into book form, we never got to it. 

In the years since, I’ve backed into the occasional text-only relationship. Some have turned into something real, if only for a short time, while others gradually ended, the intervals between texts and emails growing longer, from days to weeks to years. Facebook has taken some of the mystery out of the text-based love affair, and it has generally allowed for a more realistic understanding of who we are and what we’re about. 

But some of those romances felt as emotionally palpable as a real-world dating experience. And even if I opened my heart to some degree, my early Cyrano moment gave me the strength to take pleasure in the nature of the thing, while not investing my heart completely. Even the most amazing, lovable, and perfect text girlfriend is only a theoretical construct until she makes an appearance in my physical world. 

Until then, I may play along for a little while. But I won’t believe it’s really real until that first hug.

Behind the blog: interview by Allana Pratt

When family and relationship explorer Allana Pratt first pinged me on Twitter to connect, I wasn't sure what to think. But her profile photo was super hot, and the video on her home page made me squirm and blush, so I agreed to scheduling a conference call. We ended up having a deep talk about our respective projects, our dreams, and our challenges in the dating and single parenting world. So when she asked if she could interview me for her website, I couldn't say no.

The interview itself was fun and interesting for both of us, and I came away feeling like I knew a little more about myself, had some new insights into my journey ahead (Allana is a wise woman), and had made a new friend who would be a fun conversation partner in the years ahead.

Listen for yourself right here, if you're so inclined!

Rock: May 2011

Even before I was a father, I daydreamed about sharing the things I loved with my kids. I mean, what could be better than introducing your child to the joys of your life? I reveled in the idea of sharing amazing foods, books, music and other experiences with my offspring. And when Simone was barely a mass of cells, I’d sing to her mother’s belly whenever I had the opportunity — kid-friendly songs, ballads, and the Sh’ma; a prayer that Simone has known by heart her entire life. 

I’ve written about the ways having my girl with me has enhanced my life, and if you’ve been paying attention, you probably noticed that one of my greatest joys is sharing experiences with her — watching and learning as she interacts with new things in her world. Sure, there’s the innate pleasure in watching her face as her brain processes new inputs, whether it’s foreign currency or duck fat fries — the moments when she first saw Big Ben and then the Eiffel Tower, her eyes wide, mouth open, iconic clichés suddenly real and wondrous, are treasured memories for me.

But the larger satisfaction that comes from sharing new things with Simone is in her appreciation of the things I love. I’ve never pressured her to like what I like, but she is the child of two geeky, sci-fi-loving, pop culture-addicted parents, so she’s kind of wired to appreciate the cerebral, the outlandish, the edgy.  

Simone never asked to listen to Justin Bieber or Hannah Montana. But she will request some Arcade Fire, maybe a little Decemberists, and always They Might Be Giants.  In our house, there’s plenty of Dave Brubeck, and at the age of three, Simone would ask to hear Ella Fitzgerald in the car. When she was six or seven, I took her to an off-the-radar Flogging Molly concert (another favorite, for both of us), and she danced with abandon backstage to their Irish-infused punk raucousness.

So when I bought two tickets to see U2 in Denver a full 18 months ago, I always knew Simone would be my preferred date at the stadium spectacle. We were disappointed early last summer when it looked like we’d need to sell off the tickets because of our trip to London, but then Bono threw out his back and the tour was postponed (sad for him, good for us). The rescheduled date is almost a year after the original one, but it’s coming up this weekend. Simone’s never seen an effects-heavy rock show. She has no idea what she’s in for. I feel so very lucky that I get to be there when the giant stage explodes with music and energy and she gets swept up in the majesty of it all.

I am starting to feel a little uneasy, though, about shaping Simone into an unabashed geek wonder.

See, sometime last year, I found out from a friend that the hoary old TV series SeaQuest DSV was available on Netflix Instant, and I thought it would be fun to watch with Simone. I had no idea that she’d be immediately enthralled, and would want to watch one episode after another. But the more we watched, the more I would laugh and say, “This is just Star Trek under the sea.” 

Simone became very curious about this Star Trek of which I spoke, so we started out by checking out random episodes of the original series and The Next Generation (aka TNG) that I’d sweep up on the DVR. The old show was a bit too dark and cheesy for her tastes (though she did laugh through a few episodes), but, damn, she took to TNG right away, immediately loving the characters and story lines. That enthusiasm gave me the impetus to break into the DVD sets I’d been hoarding for years — when I used to write movie, book, and video game reviews, companies would send me tons of products. In that time, I managed to collect boxed sets of every season of the original show and its late ‘80s reboot. I’d been reluctant to break through the shrink wrap and desecrate what could be a small eBay fortune, but the thought of making our way through the mythology together season by season was much more exciting than maybe selling the set off for a few hundred bucks some years down the road.

For a time, Simone didn’t want to watch anything else except for the next episode of Star Trek. She abandoned Top Chef All-Stars, lost interest in reruns of Phineas & Ferb. It was Star Trek or...

...well...this is where I have started to feel a little guilty...

...because if we weren’t watching Star Trek on TV, Simone would beg for us to read J.R.R. Tolkien together. I know. I know.

Although Simone plows through massive novels on her own, we have a special ritual of reading together every night at bedtime. When I introduced her to “The Hobbit” (which her mother told her was boring) I wasn’t sure how she would take to it. But the story is so exciting, the writing so descriptive and rich, and the characters so lovable that Simone couldn’t get enough of the book. We didn’t even stop to breathe before we dove into the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy, immersing ourselves into the warm glow of Middle Earth and embracing “Fellowship of the Ring,” reading it aloud together at every opportunity; less TV, more curling up on the couch or in a sunny patch on the carpet digging into chapter after chapter. I’d read, different voices and accents for different characters, until my voice was ragged.

And, oh, when we finally finished the first book and I decided she was ready for Peter Jackson’s epic film version, we were both giddy with excitement. For me, it was all about experiencing Simone’s wonder at the loving manifestation of the novels — to be with her when she saw Ian McKellen’s Gandalf for the first time, or the meticulous creation of The Shire, the home of her beloved hobbits. Or — and this was so incredible to see with her — the appearance of the fire-winged balrog in the depths of the Mines of Moria. By the time the credits were rolling, Simone was a sweaty bundle of exuberance. In the same breath, she said it was the best movie she’d ever seen and could we get reading the next book in the trilogy.

At school these days, she and her pals play “Lord of the Rings.” Simone walks through the world with a Frodo name tag, a homemade necklace with a yellow clay One Ring, and...um...a sword wrought of pipe cleaners.  

Oh crap. What have I done? 

Simone is her own person, and I would never want her to feel obligated to like something because I do. I want her to develop her own tastes and preferences. Did it break my heart when I realized she may never love roller-coasters? Sure, a little bit. But I’d rather she became a media-savvy consumer of art and culture — of the stuff that appeals to her at a cellular level — than a clone of her father. And I don’t want her to become so geeked out that she can’t communicate with the normals.

So her enthusiasm for Star Trek and Lord of the Rings gives me pause. In the midst of the deep satisfaction and pleasure I have when she asks me to re-read a beautifully crafted description in “The Two Towers,” I feel just the slightest pang of apprehension. I realize I need to give her the tools to feed her passions (as I’ve always done), but maybe to step back, too, a little more often now, as she navigates her tween years, and see what happens without my steady curating. 

The good news is that, next school year, she’ll be surrounded by her tribe — creative, quirky students and teachers who will fill her receptive mind and heart with a diversity of perspectives. And music. And books. And movies. She’s headed into a fecund time of exploration, and I’m thrilled to see what new passions she brings home to share.

Who knows...maybe she’ll feel a surge of pride and excitement when she introduces me to some treasure for the first time, and I’m the one with a giant smile on my face.

Parents: April 2011

April always brings a kind of fraught loveliness for me. It’s a mixture of joys and pain all wrapped up in the teasing buds and blooms and snowflakes of early spring. In Denver, April is when you withhold your trust that winter has truly left, unable or unwilling to suspend your disbelief, knowing that a 70 degree day could be followed unbidden by one of those spring blizzards that shatter the branches of the city’s newly green trees, leaving everyone feeling sort of bereft, even though we should have known better.

And that’s sort of how I felt when my parents got divorced when I was in my mid-20s. April 1 would have been their anniversary, and it it never goes by without my wondering what might have been. I’m no April fool, but I am still the kid of two wonderful parents, and though I don’t grieve for their marriage in the way I once did, the first day of the month always catches me a little sideways.

My parents had been married for a little more than a quarter century when they pulled the plug. When I talk about it, I say that I’d thought we’d beaten the odds — most of my friends came from divorced families, and I felt like we were the rare exception that had made it through. I mean, shit, my parents were married when they were 20 and 21, and had me, premature and unlikely to live more than a few days, just months later. They were still kids when they had my middle sister, and not even out of their 20s when my baby sister came along. We moved up and down the East Coast, then away to Denver when I was 8, to LA when I was 10, and back to Colorado on my 14th birthday. And, through it all, my parents, though they fought here and there, were, at least in my eyes, a model of love and affection. 

So when my father and I met for lunch one day, something we’d do every few weeks, I was surprised by the news, but not altogether shocked. To make some extra bucks, my mother had been working as a traveling nurse all over the country, staying in nursing shortage areas like Fresno and Sacramento for months at a time, and every time she returned, she was more worldly and independent than before. I could see that she was becoming her own person, defining herself outside the context of a relationship that had kept her in a little box since she was a teenager, and I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if she found herself back in the house with my dad. 

I remember the day Mom drove off to Sacramento, where the hospital she’d been working for had offered her a permanent position. I know she was feeling devastated, leaving my high school-aged youngest sister and my dad to fend for themselves. I’m trying to piece together where we met — I think it was at a park and ride on the outskirts of the city, just off the highway she’d take westwards. Her car was loaded up with items she’d bring to her little apartment; the whole back seat was stacked with boxes and clothing...26 years of stuff whittled down to whatever could fit into her Ford Tempo. I remember Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” playing, plaintive and heartbreaking. I remember that it was a cloudy, grim sort of day, the mountains barely visible in the distance. And I remember my mother’s tears as she hugged me goodbye. 

Thinking about it now, I imagine the torrent of feelings that must of been wheeling through her heart at that moment — wracking guilt over leaving her children, maybe some doubt about ending a lifetime of love with my father, a sense of devastation at everything she was giving up, and then, if I’m not mistaken, that heart-pounding feeling of possibility, of liberation, of an adventure that could go anywhere. 

My parents have never really talked to me about the divorce — I was out of the house, dealing with my own relationship, and I think they believed it wouldn’t affect me like it did my sisters. Of course it did, in ways none of us would have guessed.

But here’s where April threw me a curveball this year.

My father sent me a text wishing me a happy Passover, adding that he and his wife would be at my mother and her husband’s house for the first night of the holiday — for first seder.

Both of my parents remarried within a few years of the divorce — my mother met a man in Sacramento and stayed there; my father met someone in Albuquerque and moved there to be with her. A few years ago, though, my father was transferred to Sacramento, and he and his wife moved within 10 minutes of my mother.

The new arrangement was a little uneasy at first...one year, when Simone and I were invited to spend Thanksgiving at my father’s house, my youngest sister insisted he invite my mom and her husband. It was a fun night, but everyone was a little on edge. Still, it was a good start, and having my parents live in the same city is much easier on the travel budget.

But I attribute the latest changes to dogs and illness.

A couple years ago, when my mother learned that my father and his wife had picked up a gorgeous puppy, expected to grow into a very large dog, I told her there were still sibs left in the litter. She ended up with one of my dad’s puppies’ brothers.

After a time, my mom and dad would meet up at the local dog park, and the brothers would play together while they visited. Pretty awesome, right?

And then, last summer, my father was diagnosed with cancer and had to go through several months of chemotherapy. My mother ended up keeping my father’s dog at her house occasionally, to take some pressure off of Dad’s wife when she was ministering to his needs. And then, when my mother needed foot surgery, Dad and his wife took her dog quite often, and the boys would play together in their backyard.

Now I receive mobile photos of the two dogs together at one house or another. And I smile every time.

See, I don’t expect my parents to get back together; they are happy in their respective relationships, and have found some sort of sustainable equilibrium. They were best friends for 25 years, so it only makes sense that they’d find a way to enjoy each other’s company again.

Ever since the early days of my divorce, I’ve had a fervent wish that Simone’s mom and I could find our own friendly equilibrium — that, once the initial anger and hurt went away, we could see that it would be in Simone’s best interest for us to get along. And I’ve tried, at times, to encourage that kind of interaction, from inviting Simone’s mom and her family to join us for her birthday brunch or our Hanukkah latke-making party, to letting them know that Simone and I would love to watch her baby sister for a few hours if they ever need it. 

And though none of those invitations have been accepted, they also haven’t been met with the same incredulity of the early years. So we all attend Simone’s functions together, whether it’s a school play or a Taekwondo belt test, and I get along with Simone’s stepdad. I also always make a point of getting down to kid-level with Simone’s sister, because I don’t want her to think I’m just the guy who takes her “Sissie” away from her.  

Dad and Mom have been divorced for many more years than we have, and they were together much, much longer. But they do give me hope that, someday, Simone’s mom and I will find our way to, if not friendship, at least a sense of mutual admiration for our roles in our daughter’s life. Maybe we won’t have Passover seders together, but maybe, just maybe, we’ll find ways to celebrate and honor Simone’s accomplishments as one big family.

Tribe: March, 2010

I’m looking out a big picture window from the clean and tiny Chattanooga airport after a big client meeting. It’s a gloomy day — low-slung clouds dumping sheets of rain on tall, gangly trees that are just starting to show new buds of spring. From where I’m sitting, I can see the rolling hills of Tennessee, covered in green-brown foliage and wisps of fog. The accents from the conversations nearby remind me that I’m far from home and family.

That feeling is quite the counterpoint after spending the last four days in Las Vegas for a huge Jewish leadership conference called TribeFest. In Vegas, I shared a small suite with my two best friends, the close quarters of the room ensuring a warm and intimate mix of laughter, disclosure, and the occasional really bad smell. By the time I checked into my hotel in Tennessee last night, I was wrung out and ready to sleep. But the quiet sterility of the room made me instantly miss the messy, loving experience of gathering with 1,200 Jewish people.

When you’re Jewish, you can go almost anywhere in the world, find members of your tribe, and feel like you’re with family. We’re a huggy, demonstrative, too-familiar-too-soon kind of people, and though it can feel suffocating at times, that immediate comprehension can dispel any sense of homesickness in a matter of moments.

I agreed to travel with EJ and EZ to the conference because I couldn’t resist the idea of spending 3.5 days in Vegas with those two jokebags. We are so different from each other that people wonder aloud how we’ve become inseparable. Three guys from diverse backgrounds, a full dozen years of age between the youngest and the oldest of us, with vastly different views of acceptable behavior, shouldn’t crave time together the way we do. We have our dust-ups and disagreements, but the foundation of love, generously given and received (uh...but no bodily fluids, mind you) has only increased over the years — it’s a relationship of brothers, mushy and enriching, transcending friendship, and transformed into a confidence of enduring commitment. When we say “I love you” to each other, we don’t find it necessary to trivialize the statement by adding “man” to the end of the sentence. Simone calls EZ and EJ her uncles.

We arrived the day before the conference so we’d have time to enjoy a bit of debauchery, and I can’t begin to express the sense of contentment I felt walking along the Vegas strip, cocktail in hand, laughing with my best pals. That evening brought a larger contingent from Denver; a mix of old friends and people I knew from being active in the community, and it felt like a family reunion of sorts. By 4am, just a few of us were still coherent enough to grab some breakfast before sleeping for a couple hours.

The next day, as EJ and I wandered the long hallway in the Mandalay Bay conference center, making our way to the registration desk, we both felt the heady appraisal of Jewish women walking in the opposite direction. Sure we were all there for inspiration, to connect with our Jewish roots, and to learn how we could do more to make a difference in the world. But a good many of our parents were also hoping we’d cross paths with our beshert — our meant to be — during the festivities. This wasn’t a singles event, but there was still a sense that the conference would end in new love for some lucky couples.

Because that’s another thing about being Jewish — it’s all about the love. We are expected to love those in our community, and to perform acts of lovingkindness, as far as we can reach, through service and charitable giving. A rabbi once told me that being Jewish is expensive, and it’s true. We are exhorted to welcome the stranger. I could tell you stories about traveling in countries around the world and being welcomed like family into Jewish households, where no one knew anything else about me. 

The entire conference was really about defining our Jewish identity and finding ways to do good work in the world — to sort out our passions and make real effort to create beauty and bring about positive change. It wasn’t just the sessions, but the act of gathering with so many inspired and inspiring young leaders that gave me pause, that warmed my heart, and that gave me the impetus to ponder my own contributions.

I haven’t come to any conclusions just yet, but I’m definitely pondering a few major issues. 

1. Simone and her Jewish identity
I miss my daughter so much that I had dreams about her two nights in a row. I won’t get her back for another day, and the heartache is almost overwhelming. I’m so looking forward to a few uninterrupted days with her. 

Simone identifies herself as Jewish — her heritage and religion is a source of joy for her. Her mother converted before we were married because she’d always felt a connection to the Jewish experience, and she was encouraged by her parents to do so. For the short part of Simone’s life that we were together, we were unified in our priorities. But now that Simone’s mother is married to a man who is not Jewish, their household is mixed in the experience it offers to Simone. When they remember or it’s convenient, they offer some semblance of observance, but it’s not rooted in a lifelong understanding of intentions and practice. For that, Simone has me; I take her to Hebrew school, we celebrate the Sabbath together when I have her, and I provide her with a deep connection to her Jewish roots. Our extended family, her Uncles EJ and EZ, and our larger local community support her growth.

But I realize that I should be doing more — that she needs to start contributing some of her hard-earned allowance to charity, that we should attend services regularly, that we could be engaging ourselves in a deeper way. Simone really wants to attend a Jewish sleep-away summer camp this year, because she hates not knowing the songs and prayers that her Hebrew school contemporaries learned there. But her mom is resistant, and it’ll be an uphill effort for me to negotiate that opportunity for her.

2. E-3 Events and our potential
When EZ, EJ and I started our Jewish cultural events organization, we had a single goal in mind — create opportunities for the engaged and disengaged to gather together for non-threatening, yet totally unique, experiences. Our events are fun, informative, and tend to be talked about for a long time afterwards. We are great at bringing new faces to each event, and some of those newbies become more involved in the Denver Jewish scene. 

But, even with a small, dedicated advisory board, the three of us are continuously overwhelmed by the time and effort necessary to keep things running. We all have full-time jobs and lots of other commitments. E-3 Events is a success, but it could be so much more. And it’s a viable model for other communities nationwide that are struggling to reach young people who resist institutionalized religion. 

And here, again, I should be doing more — we have a model that should be receiving national attention (and funding), but none of us have made it enough of a priority to do the necessary outreach. We’re great at planning and producing inventive events that draw 100-500 active participants, but the larger vision and longterm goal-setting always takes a backseat to the triage of event development.

We need help. And we need to commit to increasing our footprint.

3. Dating
I’ll just say it: seeing all of the beautiful, intelligent Jewish women at the conference, and being wrapped up in the glow of a celebration of Jewish thought and practice, made me feel guilty for dating women outside the tribe. I’m not quite ready to follow the example of my best friends and date only Jewish women, though it’s something I’m considering. 

I’m not comfortable keeping a list of deal-breakers, and I believe I need to stay open to the possibility that my one right girl might not be born of the tribe.

Dating Jewish is not about a sense of superiority or exclusion. It’s really more about wanting to be with someone who will participate in and support an active Jewish lifestyle — from building a Jewish home together, to engaging with the local community, to committing to the concept of tikkun olam, or repairing the world. If I met a non-Jewish woman who was interested in sharing these things with Simone and me, would it be right to send her away?

I don’t know the answer to that. But I do know that I need to be more open about my priorities — to not be apologetic about not eating pork, to talk openly about my involvement with the community, and to share in my religious observance, rather than hide it. If I’m going to date someone who isn’t Jewish, I owe it to her, to my people, to Simone, and to myself to be very clear about what’s important to me. 

4. My Jewish Identity
...which leads to defining who I am, and what I truly believe and care about. When I think about the people who have given so much in order to make it possible for 1,200 Jews to gather openly (and loudly) in celebration, I feel shame at my occasional downplay of who I am and where I come from. 

For me, being Jewish is about my religious observance and spiritual beliefs, my cultural roots and way of interacting with the world, and a heritage of intellectual challenge, discussion, and argument. It’s about donating money and time to causes and to people in need — not just Jewish ones — and it’s about finding ways, big and small, to make the world happier, more beautiful, and whole, whether through good works or artistic expression or even the right smile at the right time. 

How my identity manifests itself is complicated and rich and beautiful and troublesome, which pretty much sums up what it’s like to be Jewish in the 21st century. 

So, yeah... our time in the desert stirred me up. I experienced the love and warmth of a thousand family members, and came out of it with a basketful of unanswered questions. Yep, I’m definitely Jewish.