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“Being in a new relationship is kind of like walking into a room with a blindfold on. You know you are going to bump into something eventually but you won’t know until it happens,” I said to Scott as I laid in the crook of his arm on a canvas painter’s sheet in Central Park. He laughed jovially, as is his tendency and said “That’s great.”

“But it’s true!” I continued. “There’s always something you end up hitting—a coffee table, a sofa, loveseat…and the dreaded wall.”

Sally has mastered not only her relationship, but has learned to make a mean omelet.

I’ve been dating Scott for 10 days. He’s an engineer working on something to do with some sort of transportation system somewhere in Long Island City (it’s not that I’m not listening, it’s just that it sounds like he lapses into a different dialect when he talks shop and my strategy thus far has been to smile and nod. Maybe one day I’ll figure out what the hell he is saying and be able to converse semi-fluently). And within less than a week in a half we’ve managed to bump into a nightstand (he said he wanted to wait to have sex, then one night we almost did and he changed his mind and pissed me off. Since then we’ve had sex on three separate days, four separate times), and a coffee table (he had to set a “boundary” that he can’t spend weeknights over because in the morning he feels like “dog shit”. This would have gone over much better if he had chosen his words with a bit more tact. Today we brushed the edge of the loveseat with my monogram on it and an embroidered pillow that says “She who sits there is insecure and will ask you to repeat that you like her about 50 times. A day.” It’s amazing what they can do with needlepoint these days.

I don’t feel that hitting him in the face with this pillow was uncalled for. He was fairly aggressive about getting his sleepover requirements established, and then managed to lump all of his debate tactics together and ask me for the sixth time, “What do you want?” Uh, could you be more specific? I don’t friggin know.

I was feeling a bit bullied and wasn’t even realizing that I had yet again put myself in a cowed position until he brought up the point that all the major tripping points had been about him – when he was ready to have sex and where he needed to sleep being at the forefront. I was at a loss for words about what I wanted, but I knew what I didn’t want was another guy telling me what to do, manipulating how I felt, and making me feel like shit. And so I told him, very calmly (even though my scalp tingled as I felt the indignity of it—it does that) that I was sorry but I don’t respond well to someone laying down boundaries for me.

No one wants to be walled in by a fence not of their own making. Boundaries are there to protect you but when they are erected between two people trying to get closer, they need to be put down with great care, and the type of fence should be tasteful and inviting. Six foot hedges or chain link fences are only for keeping nosy neighbors from knowing how much cocaine you snort when you throw your $100,000 pool parties. Picket fences serve just fine, are easier on the eyes, and are an alternative solution for the urbanite who hasn’t saved enough pennies for a four bedroom in Jersey. And ask my friend Sanjit pointed out, the boundary was not made from a mutual decision, but was him telling me how it’s going to be. And that don’t fly with me.

What better way to say 'I love you' than with a clearly defined property line?

We had just past the issue of the nightstand (or one-nightstand, hah!) when he decided on an whim that he was sick of waiting. This of course came after a long soliloquy about how he likes me a lot and just wants to make sure he’s ready because in the past he’s lost interest in girls after sleeping with them. He seemed to imply he knew from the beginning if this would happen or not, but I had my doubts. It’s hard not to when someone tells you there is a chance that they will go hot and cold on you (his words, again. Sigh).

So fine, you can’t stay over because you leave for work at 5am. I can deal. And you say you’re here to stay even after we’ve had sex. But I couldn’t help but notice the change in mood on Thursday, the day after. Granted I was very nervous because I spent all day whittling my nerves, wondering if he had gone cold on me, and if he had, if I would be able to tell, and ultimately regretting my decision. But the first time I noticed he had kind of a macho attitude in general (or was I just projecting that? He had conquered me and now I assumed he was a conqueror?) Then he went with the machismo flow and told me what was what about the sleeping arrangements, and then practically forced me to open up about my feelings even though I wasn’t ready. And yesterday he was distant, didn’t touch my hand much, I had to ask him to touch me more. I only felt I had his undivided attention when I started getting frisky and we ended up having sex, a lot. And although I was for the most part caught up in the moment, there were a few moments I looked up at his face and wondered if it didn’t reflect the same kind of glee you see on a rollercoaster rider, not a lover.

What am I doing. I don’t want someone to fuck, I want a lover.

In a classic me move, I brought up all my insecurities within an hour before his friend was coming to pick him up, leaving lots of tension to dissolve in about twenty minutes. I was upset he wouldn’t say he like me when I asked him to, he didn’t see why he had to say it so much, I pointed out he hadn’t said it of his own volition the whole weekend…yadiyada, relationship banter, yay. I tried to tell him I felt like he went from being very in my face “I LIKE YOU” to “I don’t want to turn office space it’s my favorite movie. I know I won’t see you all week. But renting it from the store isn’t the same.” That shit ain’t cute.

I just don’t know. I was on the verge of tears but was too proud to show them and too mad to actually cry. Mad he can’t listen worth a damn. Mad at myself for being so insecure, for again making the guy compensate for my lack of esteem, mad for ever sleeping with him, convinced I was already ruining it. This was the one thing I thought I wanted, thought finally met my expectations, and it was already souring. I retreated to my apartment and curled up on the sofa with my roommates and lost myself in bad T.V. God bless it.

It’s raining frickin weddings. Everyone I know is fucking married or might as well be. Even my staytrue friend from college, who hated the institution as much as it gave me hives, caved and tied the knot. To her credit, she is in an open marriage to a Irishman who is really just providing her with an EU citizenship, and they got married spontaneously at town hall, but still.

I’m on vacation. In between jobs, I guess you could say. I just quit my god forsaken job at a translation company which treated its employees like cattle and the linguists who worked for us even worse. I discovered I am not a business woman, and aggressively pursued a job in non-profit. One landed in my lap, and I will now be an administrative assistant to a large non-profit that handles study abroad scholarships around the world.

I’m so frustrated writing doesn’t bring me the joy it once did.

Anyway. I mention my job because I finally feel myself inching towards where I want to be professionally. But I hear a voice going off in my head, well I suppose it is more of a scenario -- me, successful, alone, and 43 with no husband in sight. I don't believe in stalling my climb to success at all for a man but I don't want to end up without one.

Working girl.

Meanwhile, girls my age are walking down the aisle left and right and that scares me. How can they hope to be successful career women? Don't their futures matter to them beyond the men they have in their lives? Or am I just booking myself a one-way ticket to spinster-dom by thinking of them thus? I'm so confused...

Guys have it so easy.

There was a time (or a period of time) when I dreamt of my wedding day. When I'd go to the Borders in my college's town and grab all the wedding mags just for fun to see what the latest dress styles were. I have a whole folder on my computer devoted to possible wedding rings -- but the one I want has been picked out for some time now. I have envisioned my wedding to at least four different men...that I can count off the top of my head. And every time one disappears from my life I vow not to be so silly with the next one, only to find myself trying out a new surname on a second date.

All in all I'm largely less alter-bound than ever before, but I am just as confounded by the obsession of my entire gender with one freaking day of our lives. I honestly don't believe that people put as much thought into who they are marrying as they do into the arrangements themselves. Seriously, if you thought about whether to say yes or no to a man's proposal for a year (about the same amount of time it takes to plan the average wedding) you might change your mind before the big day.

Anyway, the pickings are slim in Manhattan. Sex and the City is honestly less funny to the single New York woman and more chicken soup for the battered dater's soul. God it's been too long since I've been laid. And waaaaaaaay to long since I've been laid by someone I respected.

The destitute spirit of my sex life.