The upside of breaking up

Last night, in search of a pre-karaoke drink, my friend Chris and I realized that we weren't the only ones pursuing shelter from the cold in the form of a hot toddy: our favorite cozy St. Mark's bar was packed. Of course, there's no shortage of bars in the East Village, but on a twenty-degree night, I wasn't in the mood to go wandering. After a brief pow-wow with the Yelp app near the bitingly breezy vestibule, Chris tapped me on the hand. "I just remembered--I know a cute creperie with really good wine a few doors down. I went there on a first date ages ago."

I will pretty much never say no to crêpes and wine, so off we went, and it was indeed darling. (And, most importantly, warm.) Our detour got me thinking about what we get out of dating after the damage is done. Sure, there are lessons to be learned. Memories to hang on to. Things you realize you can't compromise on. Next time: I'll be more appreciative and less of a nag. I won't turn a blind eye to flimsy excuses. I'll be more honest about what I need. I won't date someone who won't stand up for me. That's all great--but it also takes time, and acceptance. How do you convince yourself it was worth it in the meantime? How to rationalize the time you've spent on people you'd love to extinguish from the planet?

When I look back on the men in my life, however briefly they were there, I learned something from all of them, even if it wasn't necessarily a big life lesson. Marathon Man introduced me to two totally rad beer shops, and a neighborhood I'd never explored. Broadway Conductor dished some good dirt on my all-time favorite composer. And I like to think that I've given them some things to remember me by, too. I think we all probably do. Sharing the best place to get blintzes in Brighton Beach. Your favorite cute animal channel on YouTube. The trick you use to get wax out of candlesticks. A helpful iPhone app, a foolproof recipe, a nugget of info about the Second Avenue subway or how Jerusalem artichokes got their name. While we all have people in our past we'd rather forget (and some who left us with baggage that eclipses all else), sometimes it helps to focus on the good things the others left behind.

Even if it's just the knowledge of a charming creperie. Worth it? At least for last night, I think yes.

Dating is dead, long live dating

Turns out that my grandmother isn't the only Gray Lady who thinks I'm doomed to die alone: this article in the New York Times has been generating a ton of buzz in the dating world. Is courtship dead? Honestly, in my year of dating in NYC, what the author describes has not been my experience. My dates have been very traditional--yes, even sometimes dinner on the first date! But if I had my choice, I think I'd prefer this "hangout" dating these other women speak of. I'm crazy shy and anxious on first dates, and sitting down to dinner with a stranger feels hellish sometimes. (And by sometimes I mean ALWAYS.) Even if it goes well, there are so many things that can stress me out: my date asking me to pick the wine, worrying over the price or contents of my entrée (what if the only vegetarian option is full of onions and spinach?!), that awkward moment when you're asked a question just when you've taken a way-too-big bite. And if it's going terribly? You're locked in for at least an hour, and in my experience, those are always the dates when the waiter disappears just when you're ready to sell your soul for the check. I've often felt that my ideal first date would include both parties bringing along a wingman. Someone who has your best interests at heart and could help pick up the conversation in a lull. That whiskey/mac and cheese/dance date in the article? That sounds totally rad to me! I think I'd love a few hangout dates, and then the formal dates if things are progressing.

Some danger, though, in involving friends too early. Marathon Man introduced me to both of his close sets of friends (undergrad, law school) on our fifth and sixth dates. As a single urban girl, my friends are my family, so if you're meeting them, it's a big deal. Accordingly, I took MM's introductions as a sign that he really liked me--but a couple weeks later, well, the joke was on me! Hanging out with your date's friends can create a false sense of intimacy--a few drinks in and you can feel like you're one of the gang, when you really aren't. I learned this the hard way when, a week after my breakup with Marathon Man, I ended up sitting two rows behind some of his friends at a basketball game. Awkwardness aside, I was sad because I'd really liked them, could see myself in their dynamic, and now they were off limits.

In the end, I'm not sure courtship is dead--it's just different. Sure, sometimes I dream about living in a time when dudes had to make a significant effort just to kiss you on the hand. But all you have to do is watch Downton Abbey to know that Lady Edith would probably have killed for OKCupid.

Spinning through space

When I'm newly single, I get the sensation of being unhinged. Not mentally--although, ok, there's that too. But this almost physical feeling of losing my grip. Where once I was tethered to someone who held me steady in this crazy world, I'm now flung back out into it, hurtling off the rollercoaster with nothing to hang on to. It's a sensation that stings more keenly after the loss of something long-term, naturally. But sometimes even after something short, a month or two, maybe even just a few dates with someone you really connected with--even then, you mourn the promise of something true. Someone who would listen to you recount last night's crazy dreams. Someone who would eat your yellow Skittles and let you have all the red ones. Someone who loved wine as much as you do and talked about trips to Sonoma while sharing his favorite Nebbiolo vintage. Someone who made you coffee and let you cry with no judgment after a bad day at work. Memories of pillow whispers and futures (city, not suburbs; kids, maybe later; east coast, always) that made you think--here is someone to hold onto. And here, I hope, is someone who can hold me.

But quickly it comes, a harsh yank. Or maybe it is a slow, wretched tug-of-war, like the rope between the two of you being sawed with a butter knife. Either way, you're flying back out into space, a dizzying arena you'd nearly forgotten existed. And now what?

Eventually you remember: your mom will listen to your crazy dreams. Your oenophile coworker will take you to a wine bar. Your best friend will gchat you with encouragement and cat pictures when the day seems too much to bear. And slowly you begin to re-tie your bonds. Maybe not just the one, large and strong, but many tiny ones that will keep you grounded. And now, at least for a little while, the whispers of futures will have to be your own.

Sprinting toward love

"Watch out for the runner!"

I knew the Park Slope dad was just trying to keep his daughter from meeting harm via the crazy lady barreling through Prospect Park (that would be me.) But his words took on more meaning than he intended. Am I a runner? I hadn't thought of myself as one since before I'd started dating the Marathon Man.

Running had started as a lark for me. My ex, College Sweetheart, and I had signed up for a 5k to benefit brain cancer research back in 2006. It was a cause that was important to his family and it seemed like a worthy personal goal as well. It also seemed completely impossible. I'd never been athletic and running one mile was daunting, let alone three and change. But once we'd trained for the race and finished it, I was hooked. More 5ks followed, then 10ks, and eventually a couple half-marathons. Fancy shoes, GPS watches, wicking t-shirts, fresh air and fresh tunes on my iPod: I loved it all.

But when I started dating Marathon Man, I felt less proud of my running accomplishments. Right before our second date, he clocked in a sub-3:00 marathon. I felt good if I ran sub-10:00 miles. He routinely ran 10-15 miles in a daily workout; I was pleased if I could squeeze in 3 on the treadmill. And though he never disparaged my running, I started feeling less secure about it. When I met his law school friends at a party, one girl asked me, "So, are you a runner too?" "Not really. I mean, kind of, but not like MM" was my reply.

Fast-forward a month and a half, and I found myself nursing the wounds of a post-New Year's dumping. I'd spent my Christmas in a haze of daydreams and giddy, blossoming love, but Marathon Man had apparently spent his deciding that he didn't want to go the distance with me. And this morning, when I knew that he was running a half-marathon in Houston (and hating myself for remembering this, when I knew he wasn't thinking of me) I decided it was time to lace up my sneakers.

It was a temperate but gloomy January day in Brooklyn, and I'd lost my iPod charger so I had only my thoughts to keep me company. The trees were bare and everywhere the streets were full of strangers. (Ok...so maybe I've had Les Mis on the brain.) But as I pounded the pavement and the miles fell away, I realized that instead of indulging my inner Eponine, I'd started to feel...well, better. Marathon Man was probably running six-minute miles at that very second, and I sure wasn't. But who cares? I'd been subsuming my running into MM's, and it scared me to think how quickly I'd come to feel that it was no longer "my" thing. I'll never be the fastest runner in the world and I'll never be the slowest (well. Hopefully not.) But I'll still be a runner as long as I keep hitting the streets, whether I'm dating Usain Bolt or not. (Probably not.) And I hope that the next time around, I'll remember to keep dreaming my dreams, no matter how small they may seem.

And I will also try not to run over the small children of Brooklyn. (Sorry, kid.)