I’ve been a successful businesswoman over the years and so far have lived most parts of my life rather conservatively and used my head most of the time. I don’t take big chances on Wall Street or need the adrenaline rush of bungee jumping or high-risk living. Regarding my love life though, some would beg to differ.
Some (ok, most) of my choices in partners haven’t turned out to be in my own best interest. But looking back, I survived with a few scars and most of my skin intact (with a few more worry lines), and I learned a whole lot about myself in the process. If I hadn’t had the courage to dust myself off again and again, I wouldn’t have the material to write a column now, would I?
I have been told that I can see the core of a person where most of us are inherently good little beings. In my own defense and with my typical self-deprecating self-disclosure, I would have to agree. That warm, gooey center is what I seem to fall in love with most of the time. With the fervor and tenacity of an archeologist obsessed a dog looking for his bone, I’ll dig until I find it and I want to find it fast. (I could never make it to the middle of a Tootsie-Roll Pop without biting through the candy coating.)
A very wise woman I know once told me that we can’t have a relationship in parts (those parts we really like in a partner). This is the same person who pointed out that I fell in love with cores. If he is adorable and has a great sense of humor, but is being indicted for income tax evasion or sleeps with other women, we have to take it all. He isn’t a Mr. Potato Head with removable eyes, nose, and good qualities, but wouldn’t it be great if he was?
Core excavation is tough work. Sometimes we get worn out trying to find that nugget. We get our hands dirty and our bodies muddy. Underneath the superficiality of laughs and handsome faces, we might uncover the absolute worst part of someone and then have to ask ourselves if we can live with that until we get to the essence we are looking for because we keep telling ourselves that it just has to be there.
One of my archaeology projects was a great cook and incredible lover, a dedicated and successful businessman, could fix or build anything, loved to dance and travel, and had a hysterical sense of humor. Post ex-cavation, he was a womanizer and an alcoholic. He had a warm, sensitive, cuddly center and when he died (and no, I didn’t kill him), he packed the house with all of the other women who were looking for the good stuff too.
Another was stable, attractive, soft-spoken, and dressed well, but after the dig, he was a big meanie and an angry little misogynistic monkey, and I was covered with blood (my own). His hurt-little-boy core was one that a woman might want to nurture and protect, but he should have been spanked more by his Mama.
And one was handsome and passionate, intelligent, and had a fabulous body. Post ex-cavation, he was still obsessed with his ex and had five kids (which could have been ok if he didn’t live two houses down from them all). But he got himself into therapy, self-realized, and now has a new girlfriend. Go figure. Maybe I should have stuck around for that one.
At this age, maybe we might want to say “Namaste” (the Hindu greeting that salutes the divinity and yummy center in another human being) and keep on walking. With some people, it might be safer to love them from afar and from a safe distance. But the question is, what is that safe distance? Is it a block, a mile, a city, a state, or another planet?
My new rule is this. If it hurts, it’s too close. If you need a hard hat to be around the guy, walk away.
(That little voice: Men are not Mr. Potato Heads, nor are they Tootsie-Roll Pops. If you are burning too much daylight trying to find the good stuff, move, levitate while chanting Namaste, put your hands up, and step away from the sucker. Be core-ageous and get along without him, little doggie. And remember, no matter how sweet it might be in the beginning, you can crack your teeth on hard candy.)
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.
