a new trick

Some things that have happened to me this year, and my responses, none of which would have been my responses a few years ago:

- A man with whom I have exchanged maybe half an hour of conversation, ever, reached over at a bar one evening and casually smacked my ass.  "You have such a badonkadonk," he informed me.

I said, "I do, but you know, that's really not an invitation to touch it.  Do not do that again.  Excuse me."  And I left.

- A man who I was seeing turned all flaky, like they do when they're about to disappear.  The text messages continued apace, but the actual dates were suddenly in short supply.

I said, "Okay, okay, enough.  I've reached my limit on ambiguous texting.  I can't tell if you're trying to date me, or just hook up with me, or what.  I'm going to need you to clarify what's going on here."  Thus pressed, he said he thought we should stop seeing each other.  And without much angst at all, I wished him godspeed.

- A man who I was dating seriously was not moving to New York when I was.  He said, "I've thought about the possibility of doing long-distance, but I know how little either of us will be able to travel, and I've watched so many friends get badly hurt that way.  I don't think it's a good idea."

I said, "I know.  I've had all the same thoughts.  I agree."  And we cried, and kissed each other goodbye, and parted the way I've always hoped that grownup people do.

Maybe it's a newfound directness; maybe it's only a symptom of self-assurance.  In any case, of all the unlooked-for gifts that my late 20s have brought me so far, this one might be the best.

mise en scène

Remember this?

Well, I went east.

Three years I'll be here, at a minimum.

Breathe fast: we're backing off the rim.

this year

"Ben's in town for the wedding.  He's staying at our place this weekend," I say.

It's a Wednesday night and I'm threading through the puckered traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, talking to Morgan while I drive.  A few miles away, she's doing the same thing on Los Feliz Boulevard.  (Welcome to social life in Los Angeles.)

"Oh, IS HE."  Her voice is heavy with significance.

"Yes, Morgan, he is."

"Don't you take that tone with me, Clare Alexandra."

"No, no!  Really!"  I acknowledge the obvious:  "I have decided to do something novel and not hook up with him this time."

There's an unmistakable snort on the other end of the line.  "Clare, listen to me," she says.  "You are one of my best friends.  I think you are beautiful and smart and you can do anything you put your mind to.  Except that if Ben Harmon is anywhere in a five-mile radius, you are going to make out with him, no matter what you have decided."

The truth is that we've had this conversation quite a few times before.  I go ahead and deliver my line:  "Oh, shut up, I hate you."

Two years ago, I said that because she was right on the money.  This year, though, I just say it because it's what I've always said.  In fact, the weekend comes and goes as I suspected it might, without a single untoward incident.  There's some alcohol involved, but everyone sleeps in their designated beds.  There are no awkward moments in the morning -- just sleepy hugs goodbye so he can make his early flight.

Afterwards, I stand on my front porch, staring up at the little strip of sky slowly brightening between my building and the one next door.  Maybe this is what growing up feels like.  But I'm pretty nostalgic for all the years of bad decisions, and I go back to bed -- clean, unrumpled, hangover-free -- feeling strangely sad.