The Intruders

Last night as I was going down the stairs of my basement, I saw a little mouse on the landing. As soon as I saw the mouse, I screamed and ran upstairs and closed the basement door. The poor little mouse ran down the stairs to the basement. Once upstairs, I started to wonder how I was going to handle this situation. This was the second time in my life that I had encountered a mouse. The first time I was living in an apartment, so I didn’t have to do anything myself in order to get rid of it. But this time, it was my problem.

After I settled down from the shock of seeing a mouse in my house, I decided on a plan of action. I thought tomorrow after work, I’ll go to the hardware store and buy two mousetraps just in case there is more than one mouse living in my basement. Hopefully, someone at the hardware store can show me how to use a mousetrap, since I have never used one. I though I’ll buy some cheese and take it to the hardware store to make sure everything is setup correctly. Last night, as I was laying in bed I wondered about what I would have to do with a dead mouse. How do people dispose of a dead mouse? Would I have to take the dead mouse out of the trap and bury it in the garden, very creepy. Do I simply put the mouse and the mousetrap in the trash? Do I need to tell the guy who picks up the trash that in addition to all the usual garbage there is a decomposing dead mouse in my trash? I have no idea what to do. Maybe I should just google it. One thing is for sure; I’ll have to really clean my basement after all this is over. I saw mouse droppings on the stairs.

There was another intruder in my life over the weekend that caused me quite a bit of stress. Friday night as I was using my computer all of the sudden the screen was filled with a bunch of messages and popups saying that my computer was infected with viruses. I wasn’t able to do anything. The popups kept asking me to buy their antivirus software, which I didn’t. I knew those messages were probably from the virus itself. I already have antivirus software on my laptop. I spent about two hours checking all the security settings on my computer and making sure that I had the latest version of my antivirus software and resurrecting my computer. My computer came back to life, but I could not get rid of the popups that kept appearing every two minutes.

Sunday, I called Jason. He googled the virus and found out how to get rid of it. I read all the instructions for getting rid of the virus, but since it required modifying my computer's registry something that could be risky and I only had done once before, I was hesitant to do it myself. I downloaded a free software that allows remote access to a computer. Once the software was downloaded Jason, who lives in Texas, remotely accessed my computer and for the next hour and a half worked on removing all traces of the virus from my computer. That was the best part of my weekend, having my computer back. Thanks Jason. One intruder gone one left to go.

Mom's Prediction

My mother announced a week ago, at the dinner table that this will be the year that she will die. She announced it very casually, as though she were announcing her upcoming vacation. I smiled and thought "just another one of her predictions".

My mother’s predictions of her own death have been going on for about twenty years. But this one is a little different. A palm reader several years ago told her that she will die in her 80th year of life. I had heard her mention it many times, but of course never believed that it would actually happen. But she really is expecting it.

She had a major heart attack when she was in her fifties and a couple of minor ones in the years that followed. She has had a lot of health problems throughout the years, so it is not entirely irrational that she would be obsessed with dying. But all her illnesses have been managed and it has been about eight years since she has had any problems with her heart. She is on so many medications for her circulation, such as blood pressure, blood thinning, and cholesterol medication, that it is practically impossible for her to have a heart attack.

It all started after my dad died. All of a sudden, she felt old. When she was in her sixties, before she moved to Colorado, she would come and stay with me for a few months every year. When it was time for her to go back to the East Coast where she used to live, she would say goodbye to friends by saying, “See you next year if I’m alive.” With a worried look, our friends would ask, “Is she OK? Is she terminally ill?” Because of her constant preoccupation with death, I always worried that she might die any day. I would sometimes go and check on her in the middle of the night to make sure she was breathing. So, for the last twenty years she has lived as though death is just around the corner. Her commonly used phrase for all these years has been, “I’ll only be alive for 2 or 3 more years.” She has used this phrase to make me feel guilty about not doing exactly what she wants and not getting her way. With me, guilt is a very strong motivation factor. If I wasn’t in a position to do something she wanted, I would do anything to figure out how to get it done, so that if she suddenly died I would not feel bad. It took me about fifteen years to realize that she has been using the same phrase throughout all these years to manipulate me and I always fall for it. When I would say “Mom you need to get a new coat,” she would say, “I’ll only be alive for 2 or 3 more years. My old coat will do.” When I would say “Mom you need a new couch, this one is falling apart,” she would say, “I’ll only be alive for 2 or 3 more years, this one will last until then.” She has been complaining about her dentures for the last five years. She has been saying that they are too loose and don’t fit anymore. When I say, “Let’s get new dentures,” she always says, “Dentures are too expensive, insurance doesn’t cover them and, I’ll only be alive for 2 or 3 more years, so why waste money.” After all these years, I still haven’t convinced her to buy a new couch, lamp, coffee table or dentures. She won’t let me buy them for her either. She simply says, “Don’t waste your money on me. I’ll only be alive for 2 or 3 more years.”

About three and a half years ago, one day when I was at her apartment, we had an argument about something. In the midst of the argument in order to make me feel bad, as usual, she said, “I’ll only be alive for 2 or 3 more years and then you won’t have to deal with me at all.” All of the sudden, I heard myself say, “Mom, you have been saying that for the last seventeen or eighteen years, and it hasn’t happened yet.” As soon as those words came out of my mouth, I knew I was in trouble. What I really wanted to say was, “Please stop saying that in order to manipulate me.” When my mom heard what I had just said, she got upset and said, “Oh, you want me to die, don’t you? You are waiting for me to die. Aren’t you?” I said, “No mom, I don’t want you to die. I just don’t want you to say that anymore. It makes me feel bad to hear it. I worry about you and feel bad when you talk about dying. That is what I meant to say.” For the next thirty minutes, I kept apologizing and explaining that she had misunderstood me and that I don’t want her to die. I love her and it’s just that I worry about her. But the damage was done. She would not believe me. I saw my sister, Sudi, later that day. When I told her what had happened, she burst into laughter and said, “Now, you have to stand in the corner for the next 30 days. It’s going to take her that long to forgive you”. And of course, she was right. My mom was mad at me for a long time after that and told everyone in the family what I had said.

I remember about six years ago, one Saturday morning, we were having breakfast. My sister Zhaleh had just moved to Australia. She was going to live there for about a year or two. As we were having our tea, my mom with a stressed look on her face said, “Oh, too bad Zhaleh won’t be here for my funeral.” I chuckled and said, “Why? Are you planning to die soon?” She said, “She is going to be gone for a year or two. For sure, I’ll be dead by the time she gets back.” Laughingly, I said, “Don’t worry mom. I’ll take care of everything.”

She has also written her will a number of times and has explained to me who should get what. She changes her mind so many times that she no longer updates her will. She just tells me and wants me to remember. The Persian rug in her apartment, for the longest time, was supposed to go to Zhaleh upon her death. Then about five years ago, she went to Iran and brought a Persian rug for Zhaleh, at which point the Persian rug was supposed to be given to Sudi when she died. Then tonight, when I was visiting her at her apartment, my mom again said, “I will die soon. The year 2010 is the year of my death.” As she was saying this she almost tripped and fell. I held her arm to help her maintain her balance and jokingly said, “It’s not 2010 yet, we still have a couple of months to go, so be careful.” She smiled. As she sat on the couch she said, “I want you to have the Persian rug.” I said, “But you had already said that Sudi could have it.” She said, “No, I’m giving Sudi my money. She needs that more.”

Throughout the years, she has also planned her funeral and memorial service in great detail. She has given me a list of people to invite. She wants to have a dinner, as that is the Persian custom, and if cooking for fifty people is too difficult for me, I should hire Holly, our friend, who is also a caterer. She has picked the menu too. She has also selected all of the readings for the memorial service. The last time we went to a memorial service was about six years ago. At the end of the service, she went to the lady who had just lost her father and said, “I really liked the last prayer that was read, could you please give a copy of it to Soheila for my memorial service.” The grieving lady burst into laughter.

So tonight again, my mom talked about dying. I kept telling her as I always do that she will be around for a long time and that she is not going to die soon. I told her that she is on all the proper medication and that she has no reason to think that she is going to die. But for the first time ever, I did not believe myself. She looks weak. She holds on to me when we walk. She trips and falls often. There is a frailty in her that I have not seen before. I looked at her when we were sitting on the couch, examined the wrinkles on her face. Looked at her old hands. Looked at her fragile body. And, all I could think was how much I wanted to hug her. For a second, I felt that her departure was near. Tears rolled down my face. I held her tight in my arms. I kissed her face and told her that I loved her. I will miss her so much when she is gone.




PS I just read half of what I have written here to my mom. She wanted to know what I was writing about. She stopped me in the middle and said, “What is this nonsense you are writing? People will make fun of me.”

Me and the Rooster

The house where I was born and lived until the age of 17 will always have a special place in my heart. Although, I have not seen it in so many years yet in my mind’s eye, I can see every part and corner of it clearly. I have dreamed about it so many times throughout the years. Often in my dreams, I wonder how I came back to my home country. I just see that I’m back and living in that old house in Iran.

The house was a three story house that my parents had built. In its time, it was a nice big house. The first floor was at garden level, which basically was a large green house with lots of windows. My dad spent a lot of time there taking care of his plants and flowers. The next floor had three rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom and a long hallway that led to the stairs to the 3rd floor. This floor was rented most of the time. The 3rd floor was where we lived. It had 5 rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom.

The most beautiful part of the house to me was the landing between the 2nd and the 3rd floor. Its area was about 6 feet by 4 feet. The walls on three sides of it were about 3 feet high, and then there was glass all the way to the ceiling. I remember standing on that landing looking at the backyard, neighbors’ homes, alleyways and best of all amazing sunsets. I remember, my mom at times would open one of the window panes and call one of her friends who was one of our neighbors. And I remember her friend responding, although I could never see her. She would always appear at our front door shortly after that exchange. I was always fascinated by this method of communication, the simplicity and the intimacy of it.

There was another part of the house that I loved. It was the long balcony off of our living room facing the front yard, which was full of trees that my dad had planted, along with flower gardens, the grape vine and the big apple tree with its branches reaching the 3rd floor windows. We spent a lot of time on that balcony during the summer. The balcony was about 20 feet long and 10 feet wide covered with Persian rugs. We ate breakfast there a lot of the summer mornings and, in the late afternoon, we would all gather on the balcony and have tea and fruit. A lot of the summer nights, we slept on that balcony. The air was cool and fresh. Early in the mornings it would get cold and we would all pull the blankets over our heads. Later in the morning, it would get really warm and the sun light would be on our faces. Those summer nights on that balcony are some of the best memories of my childhood. I would lay there at night looking at the stars and imagine all sorts of things and dream of a beautiful future.

Unlike most Persian houses, we also had a large backyard full of tall trees. In Iran it is the front yard that is big and is used for playing and family activities. All the homes have walls around them, so the front yards are very private. The backyard was where my dad raised chickens, one of his hobbies. We lived in a city, and most people didn’t raise chickens in their houses. But we always had chickens and fresh eggs. In spring when the chickens would hatch, there would be these tiny, yellow chicks coming out of the eggs. They looked so precious and loveable. I would hold them in the palms of my hands and caress them and grieve the fate that was waiting them, ending up on our dinner table someday. The backyard belonged to the chickens. It was entirely their domain.

When I was very young, I used to like to go to the backyard with my dad when he was feeding the chickens. When I was about three or four years old, my dad bought a fighting rooster, which would walk about in the backyard as though he was the king. He was a beautiful creature. The colors of his feathers were variations of deep red. I remember, every time I would go to feed the chickens with my dad, my dad would tell me “Stay close to me and don’t get close to the rooster”. I, also, remember him saying don’t ever go to the backyard by yourself. The entrance to the backyard was usually locked.

My niece, Mahta, who is my age, would often come to our house, and we would play together. One summer day, when Mahta was visiting, we walked by the door to the backyard, and I noticed that it was open. I asked Mahta if she wanted to go and see the chickens. Mahta said that she was afraid of the rooster, and she didn’t want to go. I told her that I feed the chickens with my dad every day and the rooster has never hurt me, but she still didn’t want to go. To further prove my point, I proceeded to go down the stairs from the second floor to the back yard. All the chickens were moving about, and the rooster was about 5 feet away from the last step to the backyard. I looked at the rooster happily as I was going down the stairs thinking that I was visiting an old friend. I got to the bottom of the stairs and started to walk about. I had only taken one step when the wild rooster took a leap into the air and jumped on me and pushed me to the ground. Fortunately, I landed on my tummy and my face was on the ground. The rooster jumped on my back and started to poke at my head, neck, back and arms. I was shouting and crying and didn’t know how to save myself. I remember thinking that the rooster was going to kill me. Mahta saw what was happening. She ran to get my dad who came to the backyard and rescued me from the rooster. My hands, neck and head were bloody and hurting.

Afterwards, I remember my parents telling me never go to the backyard again. Of course, I wasn’t ever going to go there. There was a monster living there. From then on, I lived in fear of the rooster in the backyard and never went to feed the chickens with my dad. Shortly after that incident, I heard my parents talking to each other saying that I was lucky my face was on the ground when the rooster attacked me. The rooster could have poked my eyes out. I remember them talking about killing the rooster. They thought he was too dangerous to have around. After that, I knew it was going to be a short time before the rooster was going to be put to death.

A few days later, one sunny morning, my dad announced that he was about to kill the rooster in the front yard by the apple tree. I was curious to see how he was going to do it. I went walking in the front yard. Soon I saw my dad coming to the front yard carrying the rooster in his arms. The rooster was struggling to get away and was making a lot of noise. He took the rooster to the apple tree and proceeded to cut his throat. I was standing far away and couldn’t see how he was doing it. I could only hear a lot of noise coming from the rooster. A few minutes later the noise stopped and the lifeless body of the rooster was lying by the apple tree. Blood was flowing out of his neck. I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel. I was relieved that the rooster could never hurt me again, and I could freely go to every part of the house. At the same time, I felt sad that the rooster had to die because of me. Looking at his lifeless body by the tree made me want to cry. Needless to say, my dad never bought another fighting rooster again. Two days later, the rooster made its final appearance on our dinner table.

A Marriage Proposal

I started working in downtown Denver about seven years ago and since I live in one of the southern suburbs of Denver, it meant that I would have a commute of about 50 minutes each way. I wasn’t used to that. My last job was only about 15 minutes from my house. The drive to downtown is always very hectic and traffic is usually pretty bad. Also, parking in downtown is sometimes hard to find and expensive. So for the first two years, I took the bus to get to work. There was a Park and Ride about 8 minutes from my house.

Not being a morning person every morning I would get out of bed with a strong sense of doom. This was, also, during the time that I was going through my divorce, so life was hell. I would jump in the shower, always, later than I should, get out, get dressed, grab a couple of pieces of fruit, my lunch and run out the door knowing that if didn’t run the stop sign by my house and didn’t drive like a maniac, I would miss the bus. So I would drive 50 in a 35 mile per hour zone, switch lanes quickly, and finally would stop behind the red light on the street that would turn into the Park and Ride. This was a major road and the Park and Ride was on a minor road, so the red light was very long maybe 3 minutes and the green arrow for turning to the park and ride lasted maybe two seconds. So 9 out of 10 times I would be stuck behind the light and miss my bus. Soon, I learned that instead of waiting behind that red turn light for three minutes, I could drive straight through and get to the next place where the bus would stop. It was another five minutes of driving. So I started to drive to the second bus stop to catch my bus. Since I always left the house late, at times I would miss the bus at the second bus stop too. In those situations, I would drive to the third stop and catch the bus from there. All this driving was done very fast with a lot of lane changing, trying to make sure that my bus didn’t beat me to the next stop. And I was always looking out for cops. There were times that I would miss the bus at the third stop too. On those days, I would drive very close to downtown, park my car in a residential area and then take the bus number “0". This way I wouldn’t have to pay for parking in the downtown area. I know this all sounds crazy, but a day in the life of Soheila can be pretty nutty.

There are two buses that go through downtown Denver. One is bus number “0” that goes north and south and the other is the bus that goes east and west on Colfax Street. Each bus has its own type of people. They can be kind of scary at times. The Colfax bus, I have never been on, but I have heard that a lot of prostitutes and transvestites take that bus. Apparently, there is a lot of prostitution on east Colfax Street. The people who take bus number “0” are a diverse bunch. There are a lot of homeless people who haven’t bathe in ages who take this bus. It gets them to the homeless shelters north of downtown. And, also, there are a lot of people with mental illness who frequent this bus. I have seen a lot of people who are totally delusional and talk to themselves or insist on talking to others. And a couple of times I saw men who wore women's clothes get on the bus all made up with high heels, finger nail polish, fake nails and all. So it can be entertaining at times. This bus would take me to the vicinity of my building right in downtown.

On one of the days that I took the number “0” bus, a man in his late thirties got on the bus. He was of medium height and build with blonde hair and blue eyes. He sat directly across from me. I noticed that the guy kept looking at me. I tried not to make eye contact with him. After a few minutes of him staring at me, I started to feel kind of uncomfortable. While trying to avoid his eyes, I, accidentally, made eye contact with him. Right at that moment, in a very loud voice and a serious expression on his face, he said, “Will you marry me?” Everyone on the bus looked at him and me, waiting to see how I would react. I looked at him and said, “I can’t. I’m already married.” Technically that was true. I was separated. I thought there was innocence and simplicity in his question. He had a thought and he, freely, expressed it like a child without wondering about the place, people and the fact that I did not know him. It was a clear expression of desire by someone who was not socially apt or had some mental issues. After my response, I looked away and tried to ignore him, but he wanted to talk to me. I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. I didn’t want to talk to him and give him the impression that I may be interested in him in any way, but he kept on talking. I tried not to engage in a conversation with him without being rude. I shook my head in agreement a couple of times as he talked. He said that he had just been released from prison. That alarmed me. He continued to say that after his release from prison, he found out that his wife had left him for another man. Then he said, “I found her and I took care of her.” I was scared at that point. I was dying to know what he meant by that, but didn’t want to ask. He kept repeating the sentence “I took care of her.” I was thinking I hope he won’t get off the bus where I’m going to get off. Soon, I got to my stop. I, quickly, jumped out of the bus and walked very fast toward my building. After a minute, I looked back to see if he had followed me, but I didn’t see him. I was relieved.

About six months later, one morning in downtown when I was standing behind a red light waiting to cross a street, I saw him on the other side of the street, also, waiting to cross. I recognized him immediately. The light turned green. We both proceeded to cross the street from opposite directions. In the middle of the street, as we were passing each other, he looked at me and said, “Hi gorgeous”. We both continued to walk. That was the last time I saw him.

The Best Hike Ever (Mount Audubon)

The picture above was taken on June 28th on top of Mount Audubon in northern Colorado. It was an amazing hike. The weather was warm. There were lots of wild flowers on the mountain. There were patches of slushy snow that were melting and forming narrow streams. I loved the sound of the streams. I walked along the streams that were running gently down the mountain. At times, I closed my eyes and just stood in a shallow stream and listened to its soothing, gentle sound that took me back to my childhood. The last time I had walked along a stream was on the foothills of my hometown when I was about 12 years old. It was a beautiful and sunny summer morning. The hills were lush, the trees were green and the stream was cool and refreshing. If I could be anything in nature that’s what I would want to be, a stream. A gentle stream that beautifully sings as it runs down a hill nurturing all that crosses its path.

Mount Audubon

Distance: 4 miles one way

Elevation: 10,480 to 13,223 feet

Highlights: Dramatic views of peaks and plains, alpine wildflowers

Difficulty: Strenuous

"This prominent mountain, which can be seen from many points in Boulder County, looks like a dish of ice cream with one spoonful taken from the side. Because it is one of the many Indian Peaks, the views from the summit are especially dramatic. Imagine looking down on Mount Toll! Two-thirds of the trail lies above timberline so the views and the alpine wildflowers en route are also magnificent."

My relationship with a chocolate chip cookie

As I walked into the building this morning the security guard who sits in the lobby, and makes sure that no one without a badge gets into the building offered me a chocolate chip cookie. He is a nice and friendly guy, so I make sure that his friendliness is returned. I really didn’t want a cookie at 9:00 AM, but I took one to be polite. As I was riding the elevator, I thought once I get upstairs I’ll just throw the cookie in the trashcan. I don’t need any sweets today. But once I got to my desk, I just put the cookie on a tissue on my desk. In the back of my head I was thinking I’ll keep it for a rainy day. Maybe later on I will be craving something sweet like I sometimes do in the afternoons. At the same time, I was thinking I had a piece of cake last night, and I’ll probably have my mocha today at about 10:00, since that seems to be something that I cannot give up. I have become addicted to these amazing mochas that I buy from this little family owned coffee shop a block and a half from my work. It seems like I can’t really go through the day without one. I always get a small, non-fat, light whip mocha. At least, I try to keep it healthy. That is the only sweet thing I usually have during the day. Of course, sometimes I give in to a cookie or a piece of chocolate. Today may be one of those days, since there is a chocolate chip cookie sitting on my desk looking all pretty.

Later in the day at about 3:00 PM, I take a break from work by having a cup of tea. As I’m making my tea, I think should I have the cookie with my tea or not. I go over everything I have eaten during the day. For breakfast I had a little bowl of cherries with a handful of walnuts. Yes, my diet is unusual. I try to eat a lot of beans, grains, nuts, seeds, fruits and vegetable. And I try to eat very little meat, dairy or processed foods. This diet works the best for my body type. I count my calories too. For my size 1300 to 1500 calories a day is sufficient. I, also, workout three to four times a week. What screws up my diet are sweets. My daily mochas shouldn’t be a part of my diet, but I justify having them. They make me happy! They really do. For the fifteen minutes that it takes me to drink one, life is perfect. It is the happiest fifteen minutes of my day. Can I have fifteen perfect minutes a day even if the mocha has chocolate which is sweet, milk that has added hormones, coffee that has caffeine and whip cream that is full of saturated fat. The answer most days is a resounding “yes”. I tell myself, it’s only 10 ounces of milk, it’s only one shot of coffee, it’s only a little bit of whip cream and just a bit of chocolate. I have actually looked at the label on the container of the chocolate syrup they use at the coffee shop. It has no fat and only a few calories. So, cherries and nuts for breakfast, a mocha at 10:00, which is about 300 calories. For lunch I had what I usually have a salad made of beans and vegetables with just a little bit of olive oil and lemon juice dressing, very healthy and low fat. For dinner I’m going to make sure I’ll eat low fat and healthy especially if I’m going to have the cookie. I’ll probably have something like Salmon with corn.

My tea is ready. The question remains. Should I have the big fat chocolate chip cookie with my tea or not? I sit at my desk and look at the cookie the same way that a cat looks at a gold fish in a fish bowl. I count the chocolate chips, exactly thirteen. The cookie looks moist and soft. I tell myself maybe I’ll eat half of it. I have a sip of tea and bite into the cookie. It is so good! I love it! I have another bite. Before I know it, I have eaten half of the cookie with a few sips of my tea. I am totally enjoying this. I tell myself just eat the whole thing, reminding myself that I’m going to do a workout tonight. I eat the whole cookie as I drink my tea.

About 10 seconds after I swallow the last bite of my cookie with my last sip of tea, I think to myself, I am feeling so fat. I always associate feeling full with getting fat. I usually try to stop eating before I feel really full, but that is hard for me to do with desserts. I look at my belly and wonder did it get bigger in the last 10 seconds? Then I think, It’s impossible for it to get bigger in that short of a time. I start to have feelings of regret about eating the cookie. I should have, at least, had just half of it. I probably put, at least, 300 extra calories in my body. I wasn’t even hungry, so the fat is not even going to be used at all. It is just going to be stored in my body probably on my belly. I think I should just get up and go for a 10 minute walk around the block so a little bit of it is burned. Then, I think, you’re so weak. You can’t even resist a cookie. What is wrong with you? Why can’t you not eat something that your body doesn’t need. For an instant, I think maybe I should go to the bathroom and make myself throw up. Then I think, that’s going overboard. I’m not bulimic, just go for a 10 minute walk and make sure you workout tonight and no more junk food for today. I do have a love hate relationship with sweets just like my relationships with men!

As I’m getting up to go for a 10 minute walk, I smell popcorn. Someone in the office has just made some microwave popcorn. It smells so good! I wish I could have some! Here we go again… Just kidding!

My experience with speed dating

Last year a friend of mine told me about speed dating. He had tried it and had dated a woman for a little while as the result. If you are not familiar with the concept of speed dating let me tell you about it. The way that it works is that you attend an event where you get to meet, for example, ten people of the opposite sex and have eight minutes to speak to each one. At the event, you are given paper and pencil to write down the names of the people that you like. Each person, of course, has a nametag. At the end of the event, you can go to the speed dating website and select the people that you want to be in contact with. If they, also, choose you then you have a match and you start communicating. Once the event starts, the organizers ring a bell at the end of each eight minutes, at which point, the participants move to the next table to meet the next person.

About four months ago, with reservation, I signed up for one of these events. I charged $35.00 to my credit card and registered for the upcoming event, which was in about three weeks. During the three weeks, I kept telling myself, I can back out at any time. I don’t have to go if I don’t want to. I’ll only lose the $35.00.

Finally, the day of the event arrived. That evening at about 6:00 o’clock, wearing a tight, low cut dress and high heals, I drove to the restaurant where the event was going to take place. As I was looking for the venue a part of me didn’t want to find it, but I did find it. I wasn't comfortable with the idea of meeting men this way. Anxiously, I entered the restaurant, followed the signs to the large room where the event was going to take place. I entered the room, and looked around. I checked out my competition. I had nothing to worry about. I looked at the men in the room. Except for two guys they were all at best average looking. I took a deep breath and relaxed. I was no longer anxious or intimidated. I approached the bar and bought myself a glass of cranberry juice and proceeded to sit on a couch by the wall.

A man in his mid-forties was sitting on a chair next to me. He introduced himself. His name was David. We started to talk. He was divorced and had an eighteen-year old daughter. He had some government job. I didn’t find him in any way attractive or interesting, but I continued to talk to him out of politeness. He was a pleasant guy. The event organizers announced that they had some appetizers at the other side of the room. David and I both got up and walked to the food table. Since the restaurant was a Japanese restaurant, they had a lot of great Sushi. So far that was the most exciting part of the evening, since I love Sushi. David was standing close to me and talking up a storm. At that point, I had been talking to him for about 15 minutes and I was ready to move on, so I put a few pieces of Sushi on my plate and walked back to the couch. David was still at the food table. As soon as I sat down a very good-looking young man in his late twenties sat next to me. He started talking to me. His name was Tim. He was a high school history teacher. As we were talking the event organizers announced that we were about to start the speed dating process. They said, “People under the age of thirty-five go to the next room and people over the age of thirty-five stay here”. Tim said to me, “Are you ready to go to the other room?” I said to him, “I’m over thirty five, so I have to stay here”. He surprisingly said, “Are you really?” I said, “Yes, couldn’t you tell?” He said, “No, I couldn’t”. He continued, “Can I write down your name? You may be the most interesting person I meet here tonight.” I said, “Sure”, but I knew I would not choose him. He was too young for me. I don’t like to date men more than five or six years younger than me. He wrote my name on his card. We said goodbye, and he walked to the next room.

I looked at the remaining men in the room. There was only one man who was attractive. He was tall and slender with great hair. He looked to be in his late thirties. Looking around, I knew that I would, probably, never want to date any of those men. I just didn't find any of them attractive in any way. The only guy I liked to meet was the good-looking guy. There were 10 men and 10 women in the room, but we were going to have eight dates. So I wouldn’t get to talk to two of the guys present. They rang the bell, and we looked at our cards to see which table we needed to go to. I went to the first table listed on my card. I met the first guy. He worked in carpet sales. We asked the usual questions, how long have you been divorced, how many children do you have, what do you do, what are your interests. The eight minutes were up. They rang the bell. We moved to the next table. I talked to another guy that I wasn’t interested in. He was a mechanic. The third date was with David. We talked a bit. He told me that he loved my hair, and then he said, “What kind of man are you looking for?” I said, “Someone kind, caring, giving….” He said, “I posses all those characteristics. You should pick me.” I laughed and said, “Oh, you’re so sweet.” I really didn’t know what to say. I knew I wasn’t interested in him. Our date was over, and I moved to the next table. The guy waiting for me was Chinese. We started to talk. He spoke perfect English. He had his own investment firm. He moved to the US to go to school when he was nineteen years old. He had a master’s degree from Yale. I asked him more questions about his job and his company. He was well traveled, cultured, and he was interested in me. I liked him, but I didn’t find him attractive at all. I thought if only he were better looking I would go out with him. Sitting there listening to him, I felt uneasy. If only I wasn’t so vain. I remembered my friend Charles telling me, “You are so picky.” I remembered my niece, Ziba, telling me, “you have so many hang ups and, don’t give a chance to the guys you should”. All of a sudden, I felt anxious. Why can’t I get over this and give him a chance. We continued to talk and soon eight minutes were up. I got up and tried not to think about him.

It was time for a fifteen-minute break. I dashed to the food table trying to distract myself. I put several pieces of Sushi on my plate and stepped aside to eat. As I was eating, a man named Mike introduced himself to me. He seemed like a nice guy. We talked for a few minutes. I couldn’t decide whether I was interested in him or not. While we were talking, in mid conversation, he stopped and said, “Soheila, you are really pretty, you really are. You’re not offended by my saying that. Are you?” I thanked him and told him that I would never be offended by a compliment. Soon the break was over and I found my next table and my next date waiting for me. On my way to my table I saw David. He was smiling big and said, “This is exciting, isn’t it?” I replied, “Yes, it is.” My next date was with a Fund Manager who worked for a financial firm. I asked him a bunch of questions about what a Fund Manager does. It was an educational date, but I didn’t feel any chemistry. The next date was very unremarkable.

When I sat down for my seventh date, I noticed that my date was very young. We introduced ourselves, and immediately I asked him how old he was. He said, “guess”. I said, “twenty-five”. He said, “I turned twenty-one two nights ago and have been partying ever since. I only had three hours of sleep last night.” I replied, “You turn twenty one only once. You might as well make the most of it.” My next question was, “Why are you in this group?” After a couple of minutes, I found out that for the thirty-five and older age group they were short one guy. So the organizers grabbed him from the bar and bribed him with free drinks so that he would participate in the event. That way all women would have a date at all times. We both laughed about it. He reminded me, so much, of my nephew, his demeanor, the way he talked and his attitude. I guess, there are a lot of similarities in young men in their early twenties. I felt maternal towards him. He, surprisingly, said a few times, “ I can’t believe you’re here”. He said, “You are the best looking woman here and, I can’t believe that you are single.” I explained to him that I was divorced. We talked about relationships and how complicated they can be. He told me about his last girl friend who recently broke up with him and how heart broken he was. I thought to myself he’s only twenty-one. He’ll probably have many more heartbreaks. A part of me wanted to spare him from all that. At the end of our eight minutes he said, “Can I tell you something?” I, curiously, said, “Yes”. He said, “OK, I’m gonna put it out there”. He sheepishly smiled and said, “You have great boobs!” I laughed really hard. That was not what I was expecting to hear. He asked if he could give me a hug. I said, “Sure”. I gave him a light embrace and wished him luck.

As I was walking to my last table, I saw the good-looking guy. He gave me a big smile. My last date was not memorable at all. I went through the routine of questions until the eight minutes were up. I was not interested in him.

The bell rang and I thought I didn’t have a date with the only guy that I thought was attractive. The organizers announced that the event was over, but there was still some food left and invited us to hangout and chat. I was still sitting on my chair when the good-looking guy came and sat next me, put his arm around my waist and said, “It’s, finally, time for us to meet.” I was surprised of his easy approach. We had started to talk when one of the women, who had attended the event, came to him and started flirting with him putting her fingers through his hair. I thought she really likes him. She was so obvious about it. He wasn’t at all interested. He pushed her hand away and continued to talk to me. Apparently, she had been trying to get his attention all evening. We talked for about thirty minutes. As we talked, I realized that we didn’t have anything in common. He was more of a beer-drinking sort of guy who likes to go to sports bars. He didn’t seem very interesting or engaging to me. When we were talking I said, “One of my favorite places in the world is a bookstore.” He replied, “That’s one place you’ll never find me. I don’t read.” I thought how could someone say, "I don’t read". To me, it would be like saying I don’t eat. I can’t go a day without reading something. That’s how I relax. It was clear to me that there would be a huge part of me, my intellect, that I could not share with him. For me three components would have to exist in order to become attracted to someone. I have to have an intellectual connection, an emotional connection and a physical attraction. If any of the three is absent then it is not going to work. By the end of our conversation, I was sure that I didn’t want to date him, but he seemed so into me. He insisted on walking me to my car. As I was leaving, I saw the Chinese guy. He said, “Every body here is going to pick you. I’ll definitely pick you. I hope you’ll pick me too.” I said, “I’ll see.” I said goodbye and left with Doug, the good-looking guy. Doug walked me to my car. He was nice and sweet. He said, “I’m definitely interested in you. I hope you’ll pick me.” I said “OK”. I had no idea what to say. We said goodbye. I got into my car.

Driving home, I thought it was an interesting evening, definitely something different, but I didn’t meet anybody I wanted to date. It was like picking eight random guys off the street. What are the chances of me liking any of them? I thought how just a few short years ago I was married and I thought I was going to be married forever. How things didn’t turn out the way I wanted them to turn out. I really hate going through all this dating, again, at my age. It was hard enough in my twenties. A part of me felt mad at Jason, my ex-husband, for an instant. I thought it is because of him that I have to go through all this. But I, immediately, reminded myself that he did the best he was able to do. I said to myself, this is life. Life is complicated and, we don’t always have control over what happens to us. We just have to be resilient and make the best of things. I thought at least, in my life, I have experienced great love. Even if I never love again with Jason, I experienced something that forever has a hold of a part of my heart, which is sweet and precious to me, and for that I am grateful. I remembered how when we were at our best, I experienced true intimacy and oneness with him. That was an amazing experience, that coming together, that understanding, that acceptance, that pure love, that unity of heart and mind, what we call love, what I believe to be the cause of creation, I experienced a form of it with him although for short durations. My life is richer because of it.