It’s really coming down.  Now this is real rain, she thinks as she runs through puddles and dodges the spray the cars send off.  The rain is cold and coming down with a purpose, heavy and dark. Not like the rain she was used to growing up in Southern California. But then nothing seemed as real down there.

She ran the short block between her and the bar where her friends were waiting. It had been a long week. Long meetings, hectic days, and intense office politics. She was ready for that vodka martini and she was only moments away from it and some great unwind time with her friends.  And, with any luck, a little fun with whatever handsome men may be in the bar.

As soon as she walked in the bar she made her way to the bathroom, trying to make the best of her fine hair that never did well with recovering from the rain.  She put herself together and strode confidently into the room to look for Mercy.  She spotted her 6′ tall, blond friend immediately.  As she approached Mercy held up a full martini, “Hi, here you go sweetie. Let’s toast to another week of kicking ass.  And to our new friends,” she said as she turned to a few handsome men in suits.  She went around the group and introduced me to each of them, they were already a few drinks in, that was clear. She was intent on catching up.

She’d met Mercy, of all places, in a pole dancing class. The breakup she’d had two years ago with Alex had left her listless and without her usual feeling of strength.  The drawn out breakup had done a number on her. She was telling her waxing girl about it one day when she said, “I know exactly what you need” and brought out a pair of stripper shoes.  I was confused.  Picking up stripping at 32 didn’t seem like it was the road to empowerment.  “Pole dancing classes. They are so fun and confidence building. You’ll get your mojo back and get a great workout.”

Always up for a new adventure, she signed up.  Her waxing girl was right. It was a blast, and slightly terrifying to bare yourself like that to strangers.  It was all about shutting down the mind and dropping into the body.  Yeah, she was excellent at that. But after two years, she found a new resolve, a new confidence and some very fun and bold friends.

“I just don’t know,” he said.  She felt sick. How many times had they had this conversation?

They sat at the top of Dolores Park on a sunny afternoon. They had come to relax but the mood was heavy.  “I wish I did but I’m just not sure if this is right. I can tell you’re the best woman I have ever met but I don’t know if this relationship is right for me.

She felt a combination of fury and panic rise up in her.  The panic won. She felt that she was being left, that she was not good enough, that this man who she loved so much was not as captivated by her as she by him.  She looked at the gorgeous San Francisco skyline, thinking that she didn’t know if she had it in her, to have this conversation again. To try to convince him again. To then move on like all was fine.

They packed up their blankets and walked to the car.  She got behind the wheel but did not start the Honda.  He looked at her with sadness in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, I wish I could be different for you. I love you so much, we’ll work this out. I just wish I was sure about where this is going.”

“You know what? That’s OK, because I am sure,” she said.  “This is over. I do know I and I know that I don’t want more of this.” She turned on the car while he sat in silence, stunned.  They drove back to her apartment, where they sat on the sofa. Oddly, since she’d made her unexpected choice in the car, she felt a little more peaceful. Still, goodbyes were not easy.

They sat on the sofa; she told him again it was over. He seemed reluctant. They hugged and then she asked him to leave.

In the days and weeks that followed she felt miserable. She’d loved his spirit, his out of the box way of thinking and living. She had not loved that he criticized her for eating the whole carton of yogurt in the morning, “Do you really need all of that?” she can recall him saying. She did not love that he regularly did recreational drugs or that he hung out with a crowd that spent entire evenings high, pontificating on the benefits of Polygamy. Seriously?  But still, this breakup stung.  Except in one way. In one way it was different than the string of breakups she’d had in her young life.  With this one, she’d made the choice for herself. She’d decided to want more and better rather than dwell on the wounded feelings of not being worthy.  She rejected that reality and created her own the moment she told him it was over.  It felt good. She felt powerful for the first time in her romantic life.

She came out of her funk a few weeks after that fateful night at Dolores Park.  She realized that she’d re-written some of the shitty stories she had in her mind about herself and whom she wanted.  That moment of taking control, of making a choice for her, and of losing that loser had changed her.  She did not look back.

She looked across the bed at him.  What did he just say? Did he just tell her that the way she had carefully folded the towels the way he liked them folded was wrong?

“It’s fine Love. It’s just that the cabinet they go in is a certain shape and I like to fold them so they fit well. I’ll refold them, thanks though.”

OMG.  She was dying. Her new boyfriend of a few months was amazing. And incredibly rigid.  He had a way of doing things that was not only foreign to her, it was baffling.  But she adored him for so many other reasons so, here she was, trying to adapt to folding the fucking towels in a certain way. And yet, she’d STILL done it wrong.

They stood across the bed from each other. Her temper flared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.  You really need to have the towels folded that way?”  “Yes, I do. They won’t fit in the cabinet any other way,” he said, beginning to sound indignant.  “And you know, it’s not so unusual. This is standard towel folding practice.”

That was it, she lost it.  “Who are you? Martha Fucking Stewart? Who has ever heard of standard towel folding practice anyway?”

He paused, hands on hips and said in a calmer tone, “So what if I like them folded this way? So what if I’m Martha Fucking Steward and like to have my home and the things in it cared for in a certain way. Why does it bother you so much?”  He walked out of the room.

She was still fuming as she attempted to fold the rest of the laundry, wondering if it would all get refolded later.  As she focused on the socks, she thought about what he said. This man had unending patience and had learned many of her peculiarities without flinching.  Yet she was unglued at the towel-folding request.  It went against her carefree nature. But clearly it didn’t go against his.  She looked over at the refolded stack, noting what he’d done differently.  Still hot, she decided she could learn the standard towel folding practice too.

They sat quietly at the small, two-person table.  2011 started with a joint agreement to no longer eat dinner in front of the TV. She’d seen a report that it was linked to obesity.  It was now November and TV was no longer the norm, rather it was reserved for special occasions when they were feeling lazy or decadent.

Early on she realized, that while she loved her husband and enjoyed spending time with him, they didn’t have enough conversation to fill every mealtime.  Silence wasn’t an issue for her. But when you’re sitting in dead silence while chewing the natural impulse is to talk about something.  Not one to keep her thoughts to herself she early on in the year stated, “You know, we just don’t have enough to talk about at dinner. Are we just going to sit and stare at each other and our food?”  “We don’t have to talk all the time Love,” he said.  She agreed. But still, boring.

She dropped into her thoughts to consider how satisfying marriage is. And how utterly boring it can be.  Dinnertime is often the pinnacle of boring.  Sometimes it’s comforting to eat in silence. Sometimes it’s exactly what she’s looking for. But when that active mind is going and she can hear the clock ticking it seems like one long meal.  She remembers fondly racing home from work to change into her ‘going out’ clothes and running out to the bar to meet the girls and flirt with any handsome men she stumbled across.

She looked at her husband, eating. Finished her meal and headed to the couch to lose herself in the latest episode of Gossip Girl.

“It didn’t totally suck. I mean, he was a nice guy but absolutely no spark. And oh, yeah, that reference on his profile about having some health issues, well he expanded on that one for sure.”  Zoe didn’t sound upset about her date, she didn’t sound that happy either. “Well, it turns out that he has some type of pituitary issue that causes massive testosterone fluctuations on a regular basis.  It disrupts his life but he’s ok. And I’m not a bitch, but dude, I just can’t take that on.”

Testosterone fluctuations.  I felt bad for the guy and for my friend who had to hear about it. Compassion is one thing but a first date, over ice cream and the conversation turns to serious medical issues? He’s a pass, I think to myself.  And dammit. She’s been having such shit luck lately. We’ve all been there, that string of dates where it seems that there is a greater chance of winning the lottery than meeting a decent guy you’re compatible with.

“But there’s good news,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.  “Yep, I’ve decided I’m going to take a man/dating hiatus. Let’s call it “Zoe’s dude hiatus 2011”. I feel great about it. I’m tired, Beard Boy and his chronic neediness just wiped out my reserve and now I’m going for some me time.” Now this thrilled me.  My outstanding, edgy and intelligent friend had spent far too much time thinking about totally sub par guys and no time, I mean zero time, thinking about taking care of herself. I jumped in with my endorsement of the hiatus. She fired back with, “I’m kicking it off with a boot shopping trip. Want to come?”