Shychik and the BF

Shychik and the BF

So it came to pass that I happened upon a great opportunity to do something that I absolutely loved…volunteer!  The project was for a nationally recognized television show that was known for helping families in need.  There were trades of all kinds related to the building industry represented, but it was understood without saying that everyone there was available to help everyone else in whatever capacity was needed.  I did everything from preparing tile to be set in the bathrooms to hauling sod for landscaping and vacuuming up after the project was finished.  And it was awesome!

Thanks to the joys of technology and the advances in cell phones, I was able to text while working on the project, keeping friends and family informed as to the progress, and sending the occasional photo of me with a celebrity along just for fun. I was texting simultaneously Mr. GQ, Mr. Teddy Bear, and Mr. Lifequake (see Sex and the Shychik).  I hadn’t yet met Mr. Lifequake in person, but had been on dates with both of the others.

Mr. Lifequake was on vacation while I was laboring alongside the Stars, and we texted madly all the while.  I was working on set one day and he said that he was on his way back from vacation.  I told him he should drop by and see me after he got home.  Imagine my surprise when I received a text from him saying, “I’m here, where are you?”

At that moment my heart dropped to my toes and my stomach decided to perform it’s own series of inner acrobatics.  He’s here????  OMG!!  We had never seen each other face to face and I was dressed in a promo t-shirt, grubby jeans, and the required hard hat.  Well, like me or leave me, I reasoned, this is who I am, and if he’s not into it, I suppose it’s best to know now, so I took a deep breath, told  my coworkers I had to go check on some design aspects of the project and headed out to the area designated for fans who came to watch.

“I’m wearing baggy black cargo shorts and a blue and white striped shirt”, he texted. 

“I don’t see you, but I’m walking toward the fan area”, I texted back. 

“ I think I see you” he texted, “I’m waving at you”.

OMG, I saw a man waving, that must be him!  I waved back.  I was too far away to see what he looked like, but from a distance it looked like he had a nice body.  Yes, I’m just that shallow, sue me.  As I got closer, I saw (OMG) that he had a goatee.  Yikes, with my military brat upbringing, and the fact that in his profile pics he was cleanshaven, that threw me momentarily for a loop.  As I got even closer, I realized in a heart stopping moment that (again OMG!) he was absolutely gorgeous.  I was right, he did have a great body, along with fathomless dark chocolate eyes and a smile that was pure sunshine.

Oh shit, now I was nervous!  I had to call upon all of my Shychik coping mechanisms not to guffaw and blush in the presence of this amazing guy with whom I had been shamelessly flirting via text and email.

As I approached, I took off my hard hat and ran my fingers through my hair, California style, giving my tresses a flirty little shake (duh, I knew he was watching).  I whipped out my most dazzling (I hoped) glad-to-meet-you smile, and he opened his arms and asked for a hug.  The hug was amazing, hinting at the warmth of who he was and giving me a chance to press briefly against that awesome bod.

We stood and talked for a few minutes and I was absolutely captivated by this man.  He was quite obviously witty and super intelligent (which I had already gathered from his texts), but he also was a little bit shy and absolutely adorable.  He was entirely engaging and disarmingly attractive in every possible way.  They say that a woman knows within the first five minutes whether or not she wants to sleep with a man, I’m thinking in this case it was the first five seconds.  At the risk of being redundant, OMG!!!

I can’t begin to tell you what we talked about during that first meeting (other than a cute little aside about the art of napping), but I walked away from it excited and hoping that we would get together again.

As I walked back on set, I got a text from him saying something about how gorgeous I was and how I made him feel like a shy schoolboy.  Yeah baby, it was ON!

That night, we ended work around 11:00 and I headed for home.  Since it was an area that I was unfamiliar with, and I have no sense of direction, I ended up being lost in the middle of nowhere.  Well now what?  I don’t know anyone…or wait, yes I do!  Mr. Lifequake happens to live in these here parts!  So I called him at midnight, in a panic, hoping against hope that he was still awake, and thankfully he was.  He gave me directions, and I drove home thinking how wonderfully sexy his voice was, and what an incredible ditz he must think I am.

The next night was the last night of work on the volunteer project for me and we wrapped  things up around 10:00.  Mr. Lifequake had texted me earlier with the directive to let him know if I finished early and maybe we could meet for a drink.  So I rationalized to myself, “surely 10:00 is early, right?”.  I really wanted to see him again, so I texted, “hey if you don’t mind meeting a grubby girl for a drink, I’m done.”

Yay!  He texted back directions to a local but nice watering hole and we agreed to meet.  Thankfully, I arrived first and ran to the ladies room to try to wash away some of the grime from the day.  I took off the required promo tshirt and replaced it with a cami and blazer that  I kept in the car just in case.  I washed my hands up to the elbow until the water ran clear (construction is a messy business) and wiped the dirt smudges from the tip of my nose.  The only makeup I had in my purse was a lipstick, which I applied demurely.  Ready or not, here I come (with butterflies afluttering).

When I came out of the ladies room, he was seated at the bar in all his gorgeous glory.  Seeing him again took my breath away.  “whoa, easy girl”, I thought to myself.  “Don’t go getting all into him, you don’t even know him yet”.  I gave myself a reality check and walked up to him confident and ready to spend an enjoyable evening chatting and finding out if he was really as amazing as he seemed.  The realist in the back of my mind, who was basing conclusions on dates experienced thus far said, “figure the odds”.

The conversation that we had that evening absolutely blew my mind.  Never in all of my dating experience (and frankly, never even in my marriages) had I experienced such non-judgmental honesty in conversation.  And that’s quite a statement for someone who was in the ministry for more than a decade.  We talked about our thoughts and experiences with marriage, dating, divorce, religion, parenthood, sex and a host of other topics that flowed seamlessly from one to the next.  I must confess, I’m a bit ADD when it comes to conversation, shifting from one subject to the next and traveling back and forth down various bunny trails with bewildering rapidity, and he kept up with me!  Not only did he keep up, at times he leaped ahead and I had to keep up, it was awesome.  The last time I had been that intellectually stimulated was probably in college.

We talked for over an hour and decided that it was probably time to call it an evening, though it was clear that neither of us wanted the evening to end.  During the course of our conversation, there were several times that our glances would lock and hold.  It was (at the risk of sounding like a nauseating 16 year old) intense, without being overtly so.  Ah yes, we were both firmly resolved to be the epitome of subtlety.

Being the dashing, debonair gentleman that he is, he walked me to my car.  I didn’t know what he had planned, but I had no intention of letting him slip away without kissing me.  I had been watching his sensual mouth (oh god, great lips, don’t even get me started!) all evening, and I was determined to get a taste of that, propriety be damned.

When we got to the driver’s side of my car, keys in hand, I turned and looked into those amazing chocolate eyes determined to make my wish for kisses known, but he beat me to it, saying in that deep low voice that drives me wild, “I’m going to kiss you” as he moved in to do exactly that.

I swear I felt that kiss all the way down to my toes.  It was as if an electrical current was  rocketing through my body, leaving nothing but heat and desire in it’s wake.

Naturally I behaved like a brazen hussy, pressing myself against him, running my hands over that incredible body, it was heavenly.  But wait, my inner puritan conditioning protested, you want to see more of this guy, you can’t let him think you’re a slut just out for his body!

As overcome as I was by passion after what seemed like just a few minutes of kissing (we actually made out in the parking lot outside the car for about 3 hours), I weakly gasped, “I’m a good girl!”.  To which he smiled indulgently and went back to driving me crazy with his kisses.  The gentle probing of his silky tongue was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and I couldn’t get enough. 

The more we kissed, the hotter we got (which was fortunate, because it was late August and a bit chilly in the evening), and we allowed ourselves the decadent pleasure of letting our hands explore.  I remember sliding my hand down the outside of his jeans starting at the waist and working downward thinking, “oh my god, that’s gonna feel good inside”.  So much for being a good girl.  I thrilled at his sharp intake of breath when I touched upon the evidence of his desire.  He was even more bold than I in his exploration, making his way beneath the lace of my panties and drenching his fingers with what he found there.  He turned me around so that I felt his arousal against the back of my jeans while he began gently manipulating parts of me that had been dormant for quite some time.  In a few short moments, I cried out my pleasure right there in the parking lot while he whispered, “hell yeah, that’s so hot” in my ear.

Well this one would go down in the Shychik hall of fame fo sho!  Not only is it nearly impossible (typically) for the Shychik to have an orgasm standing up, but to have one in public, with only manual stimulation???  This man was truly a sex god!

The odd thing is that I didn’t react with embarrassment after the fact (which would have been standard Shychik protocol), but merely turned around, gave him a long lingering kiss and breathed, “mmmmm” against those sensuous lips.  The afterglow was obviously far too profound to be broken by reminders of mere propriety.

After several more minutes of kissing and the beginnings of shivers as the early Fall night became colder, we parted ways and headed for home.  I have no idea how I made it home that night actually, because my mind and body were in an entirely different universe than the one I was driving my car in.

And so it began…the beginning of what was to become a Relationship with a Capital R.

Sex and the Shychik

  Sex and the Shychik

One of the things you really start to miss when you’re mired in the sticky morass of a failing relationship is hot, juicy, rollicking sex (unless of course hot, juicy, rollicking sex is what brought about the demise of the aforementioned failing relationship).  I mean, there may be the oh-god-this-is-the-last-sex-i-may-get-for-a-reeeeeally-long-time desperation sex, or the one-for-old-times-sake sex, or perhaps even the yes-I-feel-sorry-enough-to-do-you-one-last-time sex (for the altruist in all of us).  But let’s face it, sex is so tied to emotion and thought that when we’re bogged down in the mucky details of who gets the CD’s and holiday flatware, sex (or lack thereof) usually fades into the woodwork.  Until of course, we are officially single, whereupon the absence of sex, the lack of opportunity for sex, and fevered keep-us-awake-at-night thoughts of sex becomes a raging tornado of longing that is a force to be reckoned with.

What’s a single girl to do?  Unfortunately, we are conditioned from the time that we are wee tots, with such confining idiocies as, “good girls don’t”, and “save yourself for marriage”, not to mention, the much despised, “why would they buy the cow if the milk is free?”.  So now women are cows to be purchased?  Oh no, not all women, just the horny ones.  Like me.

Responsive to the conditioning despite my distaste for puritanical norms, I set out upon the dating world fiercely resolved to be a “good girl” (not admitting, even to myself, that such things didn’t exist, although I strongly suspected it).  The first date that I had was with a rangy and randy fireman.  Here was a guy who worked out every day, and spent his working hours saving lives and solving problems.  Sweet!

The first time we met face to face (after being introduced by our good friend the Internet), it struck me that he looked older than his profile picture, but the striking blue of his eyes was an arresting feature to focus on. 

After a couple of glasses of super-sweet and fruity sangria (those were all me, he had beer – what else would a fireman drink?), I was drowning in the depths of his cerulean blue eyes.  I was drowning in something at any rate.  I wasn’t even subtle, I was flirting my little Shychik ass off, with no thought (or at least not any conscious thought that I would admit to, even under oath) as to the consequences or potential outcomes of the situation.  Yeah, right.

So here’s the scenario…horny, flirty, slightly intoxicated, newly single, feelin-free-and-breezy Shychik meets blue-eyed boy who’s really good with a hose – you take the brush and paint the rest of that picture.

It’s hard to say whether the sex was actually good, or whether we had both merely fallen prey to “Oasis in the Desert Syndrome” or ODS.  I suspect it was the latter, because it wasn’t very long before we realized that kissing each other was really more like kissing a relative of whom we were particularly fond – not exactly a hotbed of frenzied passion.  We laugh about it now, both of us having moved on to greener pastures and greater passions.  The awesome outcome is that we forged a great friendship.  He saw me through the hills and valleys of my dating experience (see Dating and the Shychik), and I helped him figure out the best marriage proposal ever when he bit the bullet and asked for his beloved’s hand.

So where did that leave me?  Horny and moving on to datable guy #2.  A racecar owner/driver with the largest…ahem… “member” I’d seen in recent history.  Living proof that size doesn’t matter.  His intentions toward sex were good, but let’s not forget, it’s all in the execution baby.  Sweet guy, fun to talk to, fabulous imported wine collection, but no real chemistry there.

Enter guy #3 – there should be a law against guys that gorgeous, it’s just not fair to have to go out with someone prettier than I am.  Seriously, this guy always looks like he just stepped out of the pages of GQ, perfect hair, big blue eyes (what can I say, I’m a sucker, so far every guy has had them – strange coincidence for a recessive trait!), abs that one could bounce quarters off if one had the inclination, and a killer smile.  I must admit, when our mutual friend the Internet first introduced us, I was skeptical.  It was inconceivable to me that someone who apparently had so much going for him hadn’t been hooked, filleted, fried and eaten by some enterprising female.  I feared that he had used some supermodel’s pic and was really a 60 year old fat bald guy who needed a date.

But after texting for a few weeks (I’m totally not a phone person, see “Shychik Defined”), he asked me out and I accepted.  I will ramble on at length about the nuances, discoveries and realizations that came from my various dates in “Dating and the Shychik”, but for our purposes here (it’s all about sex baby!), suffice to say it went well.  No, we didn’t have sex on our first date, but we soon realized after much hot texting, that it was a distinct possibility in the future.    In the meantime, I went about my quest to date as many different types of guys (recessive traits notwithstanding) as possible in order to determine what, precisely, I was looking for.

Which brings me to datable guy #4, a Native American multimillionaire who lived 3 hours away, in a major city.  This guy had incredible emailing skills, managing to be witty and engaging, practically jumping out of the computer screen with personality.  He was much the same in person, but had an energy level so vibrant that I felt eclipsed and somewhat worn out.  Sex with him was much like I imagine riding an unbroken pony in the nude might be.  Kinda exciting in a fear-for-your-life kind of way that left me chafed and scratching my head wondering what the hell just happened.  His body movements were so fast and furious that I wondered if he had a train to catch and if that train would give a better ride than the one I was getting.

Moving onward….

I wish I could say that next came datable guy #5, but oh no…before we get to the sweet soul who is indeed datable guy #5, I must confess to the dirty deeds done dirt cheap with UNdatable guy #1.

It started off so well…good food, decent (but not great) conversation, and a nice summer night ride in a German convertible.  Yes, I confess, I let my base drives get the best of me, and in a moment of pure sexual desperation, I went for it, although truthfully, the hairy chested barrel body thing does nothing for me, and I ended up with one of the few regrets of my dating/sexual exploration phase.  Not only was he selfish and hopelessly inept in bed, he was crass about it afterward.  I felt dirty, cheap and used, and these are not emotions with which Shychik is terribly familiar.  I’ll dish out all of the gory date details (literally gory, ugh) in Dating and the Shychik, but suffice to say, my misgivings were well founded, the guy was a bonafide jerk.  And as we all know, Shychik is not judgmental and loves everyone, but dear god this guy was a piece of work.    Lesson learned!

Side note – as I began to have a basis of comparison for the size of male genitalia, I came upon the realization that (with the exception of the profundity of the racecar driver’s instrument) despite the fact that I’ve run into those who tend to run at or a bit below averages, I do believe that dynamite truly can be found in small (er) packages.  Pun fully intended.

But I digress.  Shortly on the heels of the nightmarish encounter with UNdatable guy #1, my dear friend the Internet introduced me to datable guy #5.  Keep in mind please, I texted and emailed with datable guy #5 for a significant amount of time before he asked me out.  He was careful and deliberate in his dating style, far from my reckless sense of abandon in that arena.  Vive la difference!

I had three dates with datable guy #5, who was a former football player with the demeanor of a teddy bear (he was soooo sweet!), and he never even tried to kiss me.  Not because he didn’t want to, but because he was a gentleman and was as deliberate about his dating progress as he was about his dating selection.  Unfortunately in the fast paced world of internet dating, I was meeting new people as he was taking his time.

So while #5 was doing the “right thing” and taking the time to get to know me, the sexting with Mr. GQ/supermodel was getting more provocative, and we finally made arrangements for our second date.  We’re both horror movie fans, so he invited me to his place for “movie night”.  Oh yeah baby, it was ON!

All the right elements were in place, he had my favorite wine in his wine frig, he showed me all of his remodeling projects around the house, tickling and teasing my inner decorator, and showcased the horror movie in his gorgeous den with buttery soft leather couches.  He had me at “Transitional Style with Earth Tones”.

OMG, OMG, OMG, I was about to get it on with the hottest guy ever.  He was an excellent kisser, knew all the right moves, and had just the right sized and shaped penis attached to his perfect body…lookout heaven, here I come!  Pun fully intended…I wish.

The ultimate irony is that I was so nervous about how I looked, how he felt, and dozens of other insecurities that swirled about in my intimidated brain, that I couldn’t get into my groove at all.  If I were a man I would have been impotent.  Shit.  I was so looking forward to sex with him, so consumed with lust, I had been waiting for weeks for that moment, and when it came, I choked.  No, not literally, we didn’t do that.

We had sex anyway, and, all things considered, despite the fact that I was way too far into my own head, it was pretty damn good.  The view was tremendous.  Just stay there and look pretty honey.  And it soon came to pass that, when we had the time, we would get together, hang out, satisfy each other’s needs with no strings attached and make no demands other than peace and goodwill.  Not a bad arrangement, but not a Relationship (notice the capital R) either.  And so I dated.

All the while that I dated Mr. GQ, the Native American, and the Teddy Bear, I was corresponding via email and text with a gentleman who would eventually rock my world like a 7 on the Richter scale.  Sexually AND emotionally, although I didn’t know it at the time.

He was incredibly witty and at turns charming and a bit of a smartass.  He knew how to play the conversational games that I loved and bantered like a champion.  Throughout much of my recreational dating, he had my attention.  Details on dates and times with this particular lifequake will be outlined in “Relationship with a Capital R”, but again, our purpose here is to talk about sex baby, and oh the tales I have to tell…

There is certainly something to be said for age and experience.  Up until I met Mr Lifequake, the guys I had dated were all around my age.  Mr Lifequake looks younger than me, but is actually 8 years older.  To my thinking, that’s 8 years more experience.

The first time we met, he gave me a hug initially, and a hug when I left.  The thought that echoed in my mind at the time was like a sigh whispering, “warm”.  Danger danger Will Robinson.

The 2^nd time we got together, we had this amazing intellectual and flirtatious conversation with many a sidelong glance.  In the parking lot after, he moved in for the kiss and it was all over.  Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I was all over him.  Or that we were all over each other.   We kissed for three hours, the most sensual, juicy, tongue tingling kisses ever, and he reached down my jeans and gave me an orgasm standing up in the parking lot, whispering in my ear, “hell yeah, that’s hot”.

Thus began the odyssey of my sexual awakening…the best is yet to come.  Pun fully intended.

Shychik's Guide to Networking

The Shychik’s Guide to Networking

My friends, coworkers and family members refuse to believe that I am indeed, a shychik.  Quite possibly because the confident, secure, ready to take on the world persona that they see is a far cry from the quivering- lipped- kindergartner- clutching- a- fistful- of- mom’s- blue- polyester- pants- while- trying- to- hide- behind- her individual who is indeed the reality of my inner being when it comes to certain social situations.

I’ve always been a shychik, it’s just that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more adept at stuffing the quivering-lipped kindergartner efficiently in the closet of my psyche in order to take care of the business of living, growing and achieving in a world of extroverts.

Now, don’t get the wrong impression here, I’m not a nerdy, what-not-to-wear social moron who is basically invisible to her fellow man.  I know how to dress, apply makeup, chat with strangers, and flirt with the best of them.  It’s just that this kind of behavior is largely external, while internally I’m the girl who would really rather be having a cup of coffee with her dog at her feet and her bf discussing hot topics of the day and solving the problems of the universe.  And, believe it or not, I actually do enjoy going to parties when there are people I know and want to hang out with present. 

As fate, desperate life choices, or an omnipotent entity with a scathingly ironic sense of humor (see chapter on Jesus, Buddha and the Universe) would have it, the way that I make my living stands in complete hilarious contrast to my inner shychik.  I’m a professional networker.  Yeahhh….I’m in outside sales, and my goal each and every day is to go out and meet total strangers, develop strong relationships with them as quickly as possible and get them to procure goods and services from the kindhearted but unwittingly torturous souls who hired me.

Let me just point out, despite my natural aversion to communication and human contact, I’m actually quite adept at networking.  It’s not that I don’t like people, I really, really do (in almost all cases, we’ve all met the exceptions to the rule though, haven’t we?).   It’s just that in unfamiliar settings, with unknown outcomes, people tend to scare the hell out of me.  It’s not rejection that makes my blood turn to ice in my veins, and it’s not rudeness that makes me want to look at an ultimately fascinating spot on the sidewalk when someone passes by.  I guess if I had to sum up my discomfort with the interactions which so many blessed folks take for granted in one word it would be…awkwardness.  You know, those moments when words are either particularly elusive, making conversation impossible unless one possesses the extractions skills of a Bronx dentist, or words are plentiful but inappropriate, offensive or just plain mixed up beyond recognition.  In either case, one is left feeling socially inept and embarrassed, either for one’s self or for the unfortunately awkward soul with whom they are making contact.

Fortunately, I don’t let my abhorrence for things awkward deter me from doing what needs to be done and taking care of business.  Which brings to mind the question… “How on earth does she do it?”

The short answer is years of practice.  But there is a better explanation, and, since my PC is a non-threatening, non-judgmental, non-awkward entity to whom I can say anything, I will expound fu rther than the short answer.  I am the sum total of my experiences.  Some have been traumatic, some have been joyful beyond imagination, and all have served to shape me into the (hopefully) lovable, if a bit introspective and introverted “hot mess” (my boyfriend’s term, not mine) that I am today.  I’ve learned to embrace the sage advice offered by the last bastion of wisdom in our culture (the Nike corporation) and have decided to “Just DO It!”  Which is by no means as easy as it sounds.  Curse the glib advertising execs who coined the phrase and made it sound so readily achievable!  But, achievable it is, with grit, courage, and the occasional jello shot, one can “Just DO It!”  Just don’t do jello shots at work.

I have several things going on in my mind as I gear up for a social event – what to wear, who I should endeavor to talk to, what strategy I should have for approaching people (that one almost never turns out like I planned, but I figure it would be poor form to not have a strategy), and most importantly, who is the caterer and will they have anything without copious amounts of dairy available? (IBS at a networking event can be a bit of a problem).

I execute my plans for the evening in a series of tried and true steps:

1.        Arrive early enough that I can get a good parking space (where my sporty little German car is in sight of other arriving networkers), but not so early that I’m one of five people in the room standing around smiling awkwardly because it’s too quiet to start a conversation.

2.       Get the lay of the land.  When approaching the event, I try to focus on my purpose for being there and my goals for the evening rather than the queasiness in my stomach at the thought of being cast adrift in a sea of people who are often times more socially terrified than I am.  That accomplished, I people watch to note who is there, and gird up my loins (no, I’m a girl, I don’t have loins – I don’t think- but you know what I mean) to go approach the key players that I have targeted, er, chosen as potential business associates, for the evening.

3.       Smile, smile, smile.  I’ve been told many times that I have a terrific smile (yeah, that’s from my boyfriend too, but it doesn’t make it any less valid!), and I employ it in every situation that I can at an event.  “Pleased to meet you” – big grin. “ You own a business that could benefit from my company’s products and services?” – sweet smile (if in the South, I’d probably bat my eyelashes as well for that one).  “You say your boss is a douchebag?” – sympathetic smile with a rueful headshake.  You get the idea.

4.       Okay, this one is a bit of a copout, but if I’m  being honest, I have to include some shychik survival skills:  I try to always have food or drink around so that when there are the inevitable lulls in the conversation, I  can serenely sip or nibble and remark upon the quality (or lack thereof, but I try to be positive whenever possible) of the libations and edibles.  ( The caveat to this is that you really should eat before you go to an event so that you don’t scarf down massive quantities of high cal/high carb goodies while attempting conversation.  No one wants to talk to someone whose mouth is always full, and take note, there aren’t many obese networkers out there either, just saying.  I know, I know, that was totally not politically correct, but this ain’t politics honey, it’s business, and the harsh fact of the matter is that typically, attractive networkers tend to be more effective).  Let the hate mail begin.

5.       Get people talking to me!  How do I do it?  By asking questions.  People love to talk about themselves and their businesses typically.  If I can engage them in conversation and get them talking about themselves, they will hopefully leave the conversation thinking that I’m far more witty and charming than I actually am.  I whip out the smile several times during this process.

6.       When I make contact with someone with whom I want to develop a business relationship, throughout the smiling, questioning, drawing- them- out process, I keep two main goals in mind:  I want to ensure that I have a means of contacting them in the future (exchanging business cards – if their cell number isn’t on it, I work up sufficient courage to ask for it!), and I want to make plans to get together at a later date.  If plans can’t be made on the spot, at least I can plant the suggestion, then call to work out the details.

Now, it bears bringing up, that the folks I’m trying to network with are not the Billy Bob guy next door type (yeah baby, political correctness goes out the door once more, yeehaw), they are business owners, entrepreneurs and community leaders who have tight schedules and high standards.  Yep, that’s just the kind of pond a shychik wants to fish in…NOT!  But the fact of the matter is that I have something to offer these folks that will potentially tremendously benefit them and their businesses, it would be remiss of me not to try to get a foot in the door to help them out.  All sense of profitable altruism aside, these are by and large, quite an intimidating group of pedigreed people.

So how on earth does a shychik like me get up the gumption to even enter the room?  By realizing that I am the sum total of my experiences.  I’ve been through my share of ups and downs, the likes of which serve to minimize the life impact to be had from the potential pain of not maximizing my opportunities at a cocktail party.  I am a person who has valid thoughts, ideas and plans.  Someone who is valuable simply because she exists.  A woman who is important because she loves and is loved.  And at the end of the day, isn’t that what gives us all a common denominator in this crazy existence known as the human race?

All that said, I love my job!  I’ve experienced tremendous growth and a feeling of accomplishment that is outta this world.  Guess that’s what happens when I step outside of myself to do things that I never dreamed I could do.  And, did I mention…I’ve found that there are so many people out there who are a lot like me, just making friends and taking care of business.  Ain’t life grand?

Dating and the Shychik (as yet unfinished)

Dating and the Shychik…

Pounding heart, sweaty palms, nausea creeping slowly up the back of my throat, “I’m not going to throw up, pass out, or otherwise humiliate myself!  I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!

Roller coaster ride?  Stuck in an elevator? Car crash?  Nope, nothing quite so blasé’ I’m afraid.  What you have just witnessed are the thoughts that scream within the self-tormented brain of a suddenly-single forty-something mom facing the prospect of….gasp…a date.  Let’s just be clear, EARLY forty-something, ahem.

Dating in the millennium, what a concept.  The last time I had considered such a thing I was in my twenties and the world was a very different place.  I had no idea where to begin, what was a decent post-divorce length of time before beginning such endeavors, and who in the world would consider dating a twice divorced woman with (count em guys!) four children.  I had visions of an 80 year old version of me living out my life alternating trips to distant lands with reading my vast (well, what would be vast eventually) collection of books with a mug of tea, an exquisite and exotic fuzzy shawl, and a big fluffy dog curled around my feet by a fireplace…alone.  And I was perfectly okay with that – after all it seemed far preferable to gingerly easing my terrified toes into the murky waters of dating.

Yes, I’m quite aware that men are (or can be) personable, wonderful, intelligent, creatures who possess skills and desired attributes that I do not (see chapter on “Sex and the Shychik”), but I was thoroughly convinced that I was not exactly the sort of prize catch that men surely must be seeking.

Of course I now realize that nearly everyone comes out of failed relationships with the same boatloads of insecurities, doubts and fears.  It’s the “too” factor, surely I’m too….(you fill in the blank, based on your particular set of keep-you-awake-at-night personal boogeymen – too fat, too boring, too plain, blah, blah, blah).  The reality of it is that we all have our strong points as well as an internal closet full of  things that we really wish our moms wouldn’t talk about at family reunions.  It usually is true that you’re okay and I’m okay (possibly emotionally battered and bruised, but ultimately okay).  We just lick our wounds, square our shoulders and  move on.

I asked everyone I knew about dating in this day and age.  My kids, who described an array of steps and social mores so extensive and impossible to decode for anyone over age 21, that my eyes glazed over and I almost gave up the fantastical idea of dating on the spot.  My bgf’s, who were adamantly convinced that one day Prince Charming would simply come in and sweep me off of my feet (not guessing for a moment that I like standing on my own two feet thank you very much, and if he wants to do some sweeping, he can start with the dog hair in the foyer!), and lastly my family, who were all so glad to see me out of my last relationship that they thought anyone new would be an improvement.

Yeahhhh…not much help there.  So I did what any enterprising young (yes, I said young!) divorcee would do-  I went man shopping on the internet!  Oh the plethora of possibilities – there are veritable catalogs of guys from which to choose, no matter what your preference!  Personally, after being married for 14 years, I had no idea what my preferences in men would be, so I set out to find out.  My goal was to meet all kinds of men, so I could begin to develop a sense of my “type” (if there was such a thing).

But where to begin?  Chatrooms?  Online dating services?  Personal ads?

Thankfully, being a practical sort of gal, I prioritized first by lowest risk.  I googled free dating sites.  I figured as long as they were secure, since I made no monetary investment, I had nothing to lose.

So I found one, and attacked the daunting task of creating a profile, followed by the even more daunting task of inputting search criteria.  Here was a dilemma – they wanted me to search for “What I’m Looking For”.  How the heck should I know what I’m looking for???   That’s why I’m on the Internet, to see what the possibilities are!  So I set some vague guidelines (which were revised in short order after receiving emails from “potential” suitors), and put myself out there as available.  I’m in cyberspace baby, laissez les bon temps roulez!

I soon found myself wishing that there were screening criteria such as, “must have teeth (and hair)”, “prefer no potbellies”, “must have a working knowledge of grammar”, and my all-time favorite… “profile photo taken within the last 3 weeks”.

I dove headlong into the dating game with great relish.  My goal was to just get out and meet men, see what they were like, begin to define the things that I did and did not desire in a man, and probably most importantly, I wanted to practice the joyful art of human interaction and have the most fun possible! 

Shychik Defined

Shychik Defined

The nightmare goes all the way back to grade school…

Everyone stands in a line waiting to be chosen for a team.  I stare at the ground in front of my feet, slowly moving a piece of bark back and forth with the toe of my sneaker.  “I pick Susie, I pick Sally” I listen dully as the team captains choose their best friends, star players and mediocre players in that order.  As one by one kids leave the line to stand with their teams, I begin to panic, noting that there are almost no people left to choose, then it’s down to two, me and the girl with Downs Syndrome.  “I choose Allison”.  Are you kidding me???  They chose the girl with Downs before me?  I really don’t think that it was because I wasn’t a good player, I could hold my own, but rather that no one knew my name.  Or maybe I was invisible.  That’s certainly how I felt.  Such is the life of Shychik.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends, I always had one or two, kind persistent souls who were willing to do the monumental amount of work that it took to get me to talk so that they could get to know me.  But outside my immediate circle of tenacious friends, it was as though I didn’t exist.

Fast forward to Junior High…

After years of being invisible (which I usually used to the greater good rather than for evil pursuits), I was unceremoniously dumped into the deep end of the emotional and hormonal cesspool known as Junior High.  I told myself over and over again before my first day that this was an opportunity, a chance for a brand new start and I could invent any persona I chose to present to the world.  I could break free from the bondage of shyness that had held me captive my entire life.  Yeah, I didn’t really believe it either, but if it kept me from throwing up on the bus, so be it.

It was in Junior High that I discovered the sheer thrill of a class called Drama.  I took to Drama like a duck to water.  Here was a venue wherein I could pretend to be someone else and be applauded for it.  I noted that the concept worked far better in Drama class than in real life.

I decided to be brave, bit the bullet, joined Pep Club, Ski Club, Drama Club (of course) and various other outlets for socialization, fiercely determined to never be invisible again.  It was by turns exhilarating and humiliating, but, although I didn’t know it then, such was the nature of the Junior High experience, and in the end, I came through it alive.

And then there was High School…

With the realization of the power contained in a big smile and a scanty pair of short shorts came a confidence that was heretofore absent.  I found out that it was fun being a teenage girl and there were perks that  came along with it!  The Shychik was still present and accounted for, but was becoming more and more accustomed to being pushed into the background to make way for new and exciting experiences.

Once adulthood struck, although still inwardly paralyzed by insecurities at times, I had a wide variety of coping mechanisms in place to deal with the Shychik.  Very seldom did I let shyness get in the way of goals, ambitions and adventures.  I even learned how to control the trembling in my voice and still the shaking of my hands, at least until after the fact when I was safely ensconced in a ladies room, elevator, car, etc..

So what are the characteristics of a Shychik?  Well, I can only speak from my experience, but, after having had enough girltalk over the years to form a reasonable frame of reference, I’m thinking that there are probably a lot of fabulous Shychiks out there who will be able to relate.

·         Shychiks will talk to anyone who approaches them, but will not initiate contact if there is any way around it.  In fact, in a social situation, the Shychik is probably inwardly screaming, “Someone please come talk to me!  I’m an interesting person, I just don’t approach people!”

·         Shychiks pray that they get an answering machine when making a phone call.  That way, information is conveyed without the potential awkwardness of talking to an actual person.

·         Shychiks will troubleshoot potentially embarrassing situations that they could possibly find themselves in and will plan their cool, calm reaction in advance.

·         Shychiks are worse than men about asking for directions and will drive around for as long as it takes rather than stopping at a gas station for help.

·         Shychiks will avoid, evade and maneuver to thwart awkwardness, embarrassment and emotional risk.  They like to play it safe.

·         The four most terrifying words to a Shychik are, “we need to talk”.  Dear god!  About…gulp…feelings??  The Shychik would almost always rather die than talk about feelings

That said, probably one of the most defining characteristics of the Shychik is that most people will never get emotionally close enough to her to know these things.  Transparency and sharing is reserved for those who, through often times Herculean effort, have proved themselves safe and trustworthy.   On the surface, the Shychik is a capable, confident human being who can and will get the job done.  It takes commitment and love to unlock the treasure chest of the inner Shychik, and those who have the tenacity and grace to do it are almost always glad they did.

So, if the Shychik is such a private person, why oh why am I writing about her inner self for all the world to see?  Because this is for all the Shychiks out there who will recognize a little bit of themselves in these words.  We’ve come a long way baby, and it’s time to let the world know.