The Dating Dad

Uncle Joey: February, 2019

“Fuck it, I’m going in,” I said, dropping trou on the shore and splashing into the sea. Orion’s belt reflected off the small waves, and the water was so clear we could see the scalloped sand underneath our feet. The ocean was bracing but not freezing, and the moon was nearly full.

Joseph and Micah looked at each other but hardly hesitated to strip and follow me in, and the three of us — hairy Colorado sea bears — painfully pale and naked in the moonlight, dove into the ocean, laughing and whooping and splashing around.

It was 1am, and Joseph had turned 40 just an hour ago.

His girlfriend was asleep back in the airbnb, and the three of us had stopped to put our feet in the water after a sloshy boys’ night of carousing in the small Cuban beach town of Varadero. None of us thought we’d be going for a swim.

But that’s what you do when the sea is clear, the night is bright, you’re drunk on rum and smoky from cigars, and it’s your brother’s big four-oh.

Joseph and I didn’t know we’d become de-facto sibs when we first met years ago. In fact, we’re not sure when we originally became acquainted. Was it when I used to frequent his pal’s bar on Sunday nights way back in 2006? Or when we shared an office for a short time a decade ago? Whenever it was, we weren’t especially close until a few years ago when, realizing we lived just a few blocks from each other, we became snowboarding buddies.

The point of inflection for me was our third or fourth time up one season, when we’d spent the whole day talking nonstop — during the detour for breakfast burritos and the drive up the mountain, a day of lift rides and powder, and the whole way back to Denver. At some point, Joseph mentioned he had an extra ticket to a restaurant industry beer festival that evening and invited me to join the crew.

I hopped out of the car to head into my house for a brief respite and a shower, when he called out, “Wash your ass and we’ll see you in an hour!” And I realized I wasn’t sick of him yet.

Joseph became one of the most important people in my life — going to superhero flicks with Simone and me, meeting up in SF for drunk nights and weekends with our bar owner friends, family celebrations, gatherings of the boys, and of course snowboarding adventures.

It’s a chill, easy friendship cultivated by last-minute cocktails in the neighborhood, quick catch-up phone calls, and commiseration about everything from politics to the women in our lives (or freshly and painfully out of them).

Joseph is my emergency contact.

A couple summers ago, on a sunny and bright Saturday afternoon, Simone having left the house early to walk to an anime convention downtown, my phone rang and it was Joseph saying he was done working for the day and needed a cocktail in the sun. We wandered up to a neighborhood beer garden, where we proceeded to drink rum and sodas, compare notes about the clientele, and plot our next cocktail.

By the time Simone came walking up the street to the house toward evening, we were both half in the bag, ambling home from our third or fourth patio. She and “Uncle Joey” stretched out on the couch together and played Super Mario Kart while I ordered a giant pizza for us all to share. When our meal arrived, Joseph set out placemats and napkins on wall of the front stoop while Simone filled glasses of water and I transferred massive New York-style slices from the box to plates. We ate on our sunny porch, the three of us laughing and joking and bantering. We judged the parallel parking in front of the house, made noises at the dogs leading their owners down the sidewalk, and reveled in one of those perfect summer evenings, when the sun is still high in the sky but the shadows start to deepen, and the only thing that matters is that very moment of joy with some of the people you love most in the world.

Simone has a picture on her phone of Joseph and me that afternoon. I’m looking at him and laughing and he’s smiling back. Simone kept it because it makes her happy to see us looking at each other with such deep affection. When she voiced worries about me being lonely before she left for college, my friendship with Uncle Joey comforted her that I’d be okay.

As my closest friends since my divorce 16 years ago have gotten married, had babies, moved away, or just drifted into different lifestyle rhythms, Joseph and I (and a few of our core pals) have steadfastly refused to fully grow up. We go out big on weeknights. We drop everything for a #snowpantsTuesday. We’ll forgo getting a head start on the work week and instead spend a Sunday rambling around the city on foot, getting into trouble, dragging other friends into the debauchery, sliding into a new week hazy and relaxed. Or we’ll work on a Sunday so we can get out and play on Monday.

But even with all of that, Joseph hustles more than anyone I know — he’s a successful real estate agent who works every day of the week and still spends plenty of evenings putting in time at the restaurant he co-owns. He truly lives up to the work hard, play hard, be kind, and always crush it ethos that seems to have become my day-to-day as well.

It’s all things in moderation, even moderation.

I have a core group of pals who are committed to squeezing the most out of every day, ideally together, and I’m so fortunate to have them in my life. We joke about our “race to the gout,” but we intersperse the rich foods and late bourbon nights with healthy bites and visits to the gym. It works for us, even if it’s not the lifestyle others might appreciate.

Cuba was a full-on adventure, the four of us exploring the streets of Old Havana with a bottle of rum and no agenda. We ate street food in the outdoor mercados, watched a storm surge break over the walls of the Malecón while drinking cortados on a terrace above, and rode in classic convertibles with Latin music playing around every corner.

We left the island with bellies full of añejo and ropa vieja, smelling of cigars and debauchery. I was ready to be home and sad to wind down another adventure with my pal. But I was content in knowing we still had plenty of travel escapades and shenanigans ahead of us.

As I slog my way through the toughest month of the year, it's good to know a brother like Joseph is there to pull me out of my doldrums.

Wonder where we’ll wind up next!

I’m Okay: August/September, 2018

We’d had ourselves another epic road trip; the snacks, the singing, the laughing, the requisite rest stops. We’d survived the rolling, wide open plains of Wyoming and the brushfire that was just crossing the highway as we drove through it. We’d watched the sun set three or four times over various western mountains as we sidled into Helena, MT for steak dinner perfection (cooked up by my sister) and an ice cold Manhattan (stirred, not shaken, by my brother-in-law).

We’d driven the verdant stretch of beauty that is western Montana, a sliver of Idaho, and eastern Washington (forested mountains, serpentine waterways, dips and curves and long descents), all hazy yellow and socked in with smoke from nearby forest fires, only stopping long enough to gas up and keep going.

We’d found our little carriage house Airbnb in south Seattle, wisps of spider webs sticking to our hair as we dragged our bags along a dirt path through a neglected garden laden with unharvested apples below their parent tree, melting back into the earth, red and brown and smelling sweet with just a touch of vinegar rot.

We’d made our requisite Seattle stops — Japanese curry for dinner on Thursday and Biscuit Bitch for breakfast Friday, before I drove Simone to meet her mom outside the SeaTac car rental pavilion so they could head to Target and be together before dorm move-in the next morning.

I’d spent that night carousing with friends in Seattle, sure to eat my fill of dollar oysters and drink every craft cocktail handed to me before Lyfting back to the cottage, wiping a spider or two off my shirt before shouldering the door open and setting an alarm for the next morning.

It was a lovely moving day — not too hot, but cloudless and gorgeous. Volunteers in golf carts scooped up the boxes from the rental car and drove them to the dorms, where other students helped carry them into the building. I was doing okay, caught up in the business of getting the girl settled. I’d break down boxes and carry them to the recycling area while Simone’s mom organized clothing and unpacked sundries.

The three of us found a pizza place for lunch, and while Simone ran to the bathroom to wash her hands, Simone’s mom shared photos from morning check-in — our happy daughter engaging with the different student groups. It was the first time all day when I could feel tears welling up, my heavy heart, my deep love for the girl making the room go all fuzzy and sideways. I tamped it all back down just in time for Simone’s return, kind of moving my pizza around the plate but not able to eat much of it.

By late afternoon, after a funny and lively convocation in the stadium and a college-wide picnic dinner that I didn’t touch, Simone walked her mother back to her car (she’d return in the morning with Starbucks and breakfast for Simone and her roommate) while I sat on a stone stairwell, watching as other kids and parents navigated their remaining time together, the sun shining warm rays of light between campus buildings, bugs lazily buzzing around the lawn.

We walked to the outdoor havdalah ceremony sponsored by the Jewish Life department, the short set of prayers and ritual that ends the sabbath on Saturday evening. The word “havdalah” means “separation” — separating the day of rest from the rest of the week, but the special meaning of the word in that moment was not lost on either of us.

Simone let go of my hand as the braided candle flame was dipped in wine to end the ceremony, turning to chat with one of the other girls in the circle we’d made.

And then she walked me to my rental car, hugged me hard twice, said, “I’ll miss you, Dad,” and headed to the dorms, turning to wave just once.

- - -

I’ve been home a month now, and I’m still adjusting to the new cadences of my solo life — without the built-in parenting schedule to keep me organized, I often find myself disoriented. What day is it? When do I go grocery shopping if I’m not picking up Simone at the bus stop and stopping for dinner supplies, lunchbox items, and fresh fruit on the way? If I’m not parenting on Wednesday and Thursday nights, what should I be doing instead? Right now, it’s either drinking with friends or eating dinner on the couch and watching TV for hours. And don’t even get me started with laundry, the dishwasher, and cooking for one.

I’ve had a steady stream of events, concerts, and boys’ nights to keep me occupied since I’ve been back, which has been a welcome way to enjoy my new-found freedom. For the last 15 years, I’ve operated from a perception of scarcity — my off-duty nights were limited to Mondays, Tuesdays, and alternate weekends; my parenting time was also limited, and sacred to me.

So everything else — time with friends, dates, dinners, whatever — always had to be squeezed into just a few nights each week.

A couple Wednesdays ago, I got home from the gym in the late afternoon, showered and… had no idea what to do next. If Simone had been with me, I would have put on pjs, cooked dinner, and hung out with her. But it was a bonus off-duty night, so I knew I should make the most of it. And at that moment, I realized every night is now an off-duty night. I wouldn’t be squandering a no-kid evening by cooking up salmon and broccoli (Simone’s fave at-home dinner) and watching season two of Westworld for a few hours on the couch alone. It wasn’t a bonus non-parenting night, it was just… Wednesday.

Weekends are a little easier, because I’m used to having those off, at least every other one. I know how to enjoy them already — a healthy (and sometimes not-so-healthy) mix of debauchery and solo time, cocktails, lazy mornings, pj Saturdays, Sunday fundays, and life management tasks if I get to them. But those are stacking up now, too. And I realize I need to get a bit strategic and intentional if I’m going to make better use of them than I have.

I need to find new, constructive, creative outlets for my free time — get back to writing books, or take up tap dancing, or learn another instrument. I’m letting myself roll along a bit in an undisciplined way for now, but it’s not sustainable.

That’s not to say filling my time is my only challenge. I miss my sweet girl deeply. And little things can make the tears well up. Sometimes, I’ll just find myself staring off into the distance, lost in thought, feeling a little sad, but not able to pinpoint why, stuck in the moment until it passes. Some mornings, I wake up blue and have to force myself to face the day and all that comes with it.

But it’s a big, exciting transition, and I thrive on change. I love venturing into the unknown, and this new time in my life has the potential to be my next big adventure. For now, I’m letting myself be sad, happy, lazy, and untethered and unsettled.

It’s that time of year, after all — the Jewish holidays of introspection and atonement, another upcoming birthday, the loss of summer. Even in normal times, this part of the year is rough on me. So it’s much more challenging facing it alone, with the additional heartache of transition. But my friends are there 100% for me, my family checks in, and I do have that big-ass TV and cozy couch when everything is just too much.

Mostly, I’m okay.

The End? July, 2018

I’m on a plane, flying over the Western Slope of Colorado on a classic, hazy summer day, light and airy clouds playing under the wing like wispy dolphins, the high sun baking the tan expanses of farmland and prairie below us.

One of my closest friends is getting married tomorrow morning at City Hall in San Francisco, and I’m excited to be with him as he takes this next big step in his life.

Christopher and I met 16 years ago because my baby sister saw a craigslist ad for an editor to help launch a local magazine. She sent me the link because she thought it would be a fun project for me. At the time, I was still youth content editor at The Denver Post, and the thought of working on a side hustle sounded compelling.

So we met up at a coffee shop downtown and Christopher shared his plans with me. He had this hip, visionary, non-stop patter; a sort of stream-of-consciousness cadence that was wildly brainy and charismatic. Like an urban prophet about to break big.

A couple of months later, I was putting final edits on our first issue of 16:9, a monthly magazine dedicated to the film scene in Colorado. In that short amount of time, we’d recruited a talented team of designers, writers, and film aficionados. We didn’t manage to keep the mag afloat for very long, but we spent long hours working together, ideating, brainstorming, even planning an epic launch party, and building a print and an innovative web version of the project. And when we finally had to say sayonara to the magazine, the most concrete thing we had left to show for our efforts was a true friendship, forged by our hard work and shared goals.

Shortly after my divorce a few months after that, Christopher went through a major relationship/life transition himself and ended up living in the finished basement suite of our Big Blue House, his lovable Bernese a cuddly companion for Simone. We were a couple of hapless, newly single dumbasses, and it was a comfort to share space while we sorted out our lives.

Eventually, Christopher made his way out to SF and ended up living with my baby sister for a few years (after her own divorce), and they became close, too. He’s more like a member of the family than a mere best friend.

Christopher was there when I started living out the Dating Dad stories, and he was there when GeoParent and SheKnows.com first asked me to write a regular column for them, sharing the joys and humiliations of my first forays into single parenting. Our struggles became my stories — both of us in the dating scene, both of us stuck in the suburbs, both of us not sure if we had the ability or the wherewithal to actually make it all work.

We’ve both been through quite a few strange and thrilling and frustrating experiences in the decade and a half since then.

So it’s fitting that I’ll be hanging out with him while I question the direction of this blog and of my whole Dating Dad online persona.

If you haven’t noticed, I haven’t been publishing here consistently. For nearly fourteen years, I’ve posted a long-form column every single month. I’ve shared my parenting challenges and treasured moments, dating gaffes and near-misses. I’ve navel-gazed about my life and my future and my family and my persistent singleness.

But, lately, it seems like every new column has been about Simone’s upcoming move to college, and my struggles as I try to wrap my mind around what will happen next — for her, and also for me.

It’s pretty much all that’s on my mind.

My life is changing in a big way, but that’s all I know for sure. By November, I’ll likely have settled into a new routine, hopefully traveling more often, writing more books, hanging with friends, focusing on keeping the business going, and maybe, you know, finding some lasting romantic connection.

I feel like I’ll have one or two months of stories left in me as I work through the big transition. And then what?

Will I still be “The Dating Dad” if my daughter doesn’t live with me anymore?

The truth is, so much of my identity is wrapped up in the last 15 years of my life — and it’s a life I wouldn’t have recognized as possible in the midst of the sadness and confusion of those early months, when Christopher and I would drink Guinness and play Halo into the night. The carousing balanced by the quiet parenting nights. The lifestyle and career choices based on the commitment to be present as a father. The forced decisions and inconsistent prioritization of how to spend my limited off-duty nights and weekends (balancing friends, dates, work, travel, and on-the-couch pj days).

Writer Mark Manson recently shared an older post he wrote about four life stages, and though I love the guy’s writing and outlook on life, I felt like his take was a bit too linear (and judgmental) for me. I, myself (at 50, for fuck’s sake), am about to go through a massive “reshuffling of life’s priorities,” and it leaves me both excited and nervous. 

And I can’t help wonder if that reshuffling should include a hard look at my reasons for maintaining this blog.

Will I let it die as I shrug off my old weekly routines, or will I have new and exciting stories to tell? As I focus my creative energy back to writing novels and into a new, food-related project that’s been germinating in my brain, should I consciously wind it down and move into a new direction?

I don’t know.

In two weeks, Simone and I will drive a rental car packed with clothes and essentials to her new city, and we’ll move her into the dorms. At some point in that process, I’ll kiss her goodbye, hug her too long, and find my way back to the Airbnb where we were staying. The next morning, I’ll take an early, solo, one-way flight back to Denver, then make my way home.

The house probably won’t feel all that different from when Simone isn’t normally there.

But at some point, probably that Wednesday, when I’d normally get her back, I’ll start to really feel the change — no more parenting on Wednesdays and Thursdays. No more on- and off-duty weekends. The days and weeks will roll together without the satisfying punctuation of my child being home with me.

I’m going to need some new hobbies.