Well, for better or for worse, it's true. Am I proud? Not really. But I'm not ashamed either.
In January, it will be the 10 year anniversary of my commitment to non-commitment. Just after the new year in our new millennium, I broke up with my boyfriend of eight and a half years. He had been continuing to refuse to marry me, and by then we were living 500 miles apart. I refused to move back to where he was and he refused to move to me. All this refusal left us with only one alternative: to break up. Which I did.
I swore to myself after that that I would not commit to someone until I knew he was the right one. Further, I would never live with a lover again until we were officially engaged with a wedding date. I lived with M for 5 of our 8-1/2 years together and I have literally nothing to show for it (in fact, we lived so independently while we were living together that there was no arguing over anything when we moved....we just kept each of our own stuff).
So, I decided to date like a man. Play the field. If it had three legs, I dated it. Or, more accurately, I "tapped" it. And that's when the men in my life started to be referred to by descriptors rather than names.
The man who came into conversation earlier today was "The Power Ranger." He actually was a Power Ranger for the tour show, not the TV show, but he was a martial artist with some staying power in my life. We didn't break up, as it were, until he was deported back to Japan. But I met him after I had already dated the "G-man" or, as he is now known, the "FBI agent." This guy was the only one my father seemed genuinely excited to meet, but alas, that would never happen. The FBI agent and I pissed each other off with our politics so much that we just drifted apart and back into our bi-partisan corners.
There was the OR Tech, the Fireman (well, more accurately, Firemen), the cop (city), the cop (highway patrol), the cop (another city), and the Mama's Boy. There was the Nurse, the Actor, the Animator, the X-Man (not what you think....go back further, he was ALWAYS happy and in love). There was the Gay Man (that's right, you've dated him too) and the Business Executive.
The Born-Again Christian later became known as The Macaroni Art Guy. He broke up with me because, after we slept together, he realized that I was going to hell and wanted me to accept his lord Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior. I said that that wasn't going to happen: the wrath of Jesus is nothing compared to the wrath of a Jewish Mother. A couple of months later, though, I guess that he eliminated that criterion because he wrote me a poem on poster board and decorated it with dried flowers and other sundries. It was truly heart-wrenching. In an emotional tizzy, I showed my friend C. the piece and her roommate popped out and declared that it was Macaroni Art. Henceforth, the unfortunate moniker.
But my favorite (nickname, at least) was the One-Armed Hugger. You know him, right? He seemed genuinely interested in me, we had fun on our dates, we had great conversations. But, at the end of each date, he'd open the car door for me and give me a one-armed hug and never anything more. Now, let's be real. I'm pretty well-endowed in the, uh, chest area. Any red-blooded, American straight male would give me a two-armed hug just to cop a cheap feel, regardless if he wants to sleep with me or not. I'm not being conceited in saying this, just noting that I am not naive, and I've certainly witnessed this among other boobilicious women I know. Which means only one thing: The One-Armed Hugger was the second gay man I dated.
