The Summer of Steves: An Anti-Valentine
Essay by Patrice Lockhart. Patrice is a writer, harpist, and doctor living in coastal Maine, where she is at work on her first book.
After the final episode in the poorly-rated series, “Relationships with Men Who Are Pleasant Assholes,” it was time to write a different story line. Mine.
This awareness did not arrive gently. I was sick of turning myself inside out just to have a fella in my life. Sick of leading by example, giving my best, trying my hardest, and getting nothing back. Sick of drinking too much to dull the reality. Sick of being perpetually surprised when “my best” turned out to be a watered down version of the me I secretly cherished.
My Own Sweet Soul was finally emerging as the company I enjoyed the most, but I also wanted some dating fun. With guidance from my work sisters — one who decided she would date one hundred men before “settling down” but disastrously married number seventeen that year — I got a sassy haircut, gave my downhome Mainer closet a tiny overhaul, reveled in my beautifully muscular legs, and flutter kicked my way through The Summer of Steves. I was going to enjoy noncommited relationships, and I was going to have a good time.
For more than a decade, I had been the poster child for a “good” divorce. I even gave my ex-spouse a special title: my Wasbund. I prided myself on being a generous and honorable divorcee, and it was definitely what was best for the kids. It still is. But now, everyone was out of the house and thriving, and it was time for me to thrive, too. I could afford a little bitchy disdain, a heftier dose of self-respect. I was weary of upholding the reputation, the status, the precious appropriateness of… God Bless America, I know not what.
The days were long, the moon was bright, Maine was its magical summer self. The water shimmered with anticipation. I changed the oil in my motor scooter, Ruby, and recognized the badass woman that I am. I smiled at strangers and began an experiment. Could I beguile and enjoy flirtatiousness, accept attention, kick insecurity to the curb, and go home from every encounter alone and happy? It was a delicious proposal.
The air smelled like sea salt and pine and something reckless. While I had no previous affinity for guys named Steve, they trotted into my life, one by one, like a slow-kicking chorus line. I decided to treat each one as a mirror, a lesson, something I needed to learn about myself.
Here’s the rundown of the Summer of Steves.
My old friend Stephen, never really in the dating category, but worthy of a look-see. He probably never knew I was attracted to him. I liked it that way. Long phone conversations between two friends, a couple of trips to the City, sitting at a sidewalk cafe wondering if ending up in bed together would be a fun fling or the ruination of a lovely friendship. The vibes were there; the timing was not. An easy ending appeared when he found someone else to sleep with, and eventually married her. We are still friends. He gives me money advice, I listen to him miss his kids from two previous marriages, wondering why they are so fucked up. Not my problem. Good outcome.
Steve the rich, fat, bald and pompous. He ordered fine wines and cooked ostentatiously. While the goodies I sampled in his overwrought kitchen were sometimes delicious, they always left a bad aftertaste. He didn’t care to know me, even if he wanted to fuck me. I was beyond not interested. I reveled in the confidence of saying no to what I didn’t want, and boogied right on out of there, light on my feet and in my soul.
Steve the Adventurer. I could still wrestle a kayak off the roof of a car in those days, a necessity for keeping up with a fit dude who knew his way around a map. He really didn’t have much to say, turns out, but the adventures were sort of nice. I once paddled a kayak alongside him, musing about having my very own MAMIL (Middle Aged Man In Lycra, for the uninitiated) as he swam two miles to an island just for the hell of it. “What’s my time?” he yelled periodically. That was as deep as our conversations got. Bon voyage, Steve.
Steve who had nice kids but was still in love with his dead wife. Oh boy, this one was painful. He once made dinner for me and the three couples he and his dead wife used to hang with. Each course was one of his dead wife’s favorites. I didn’t thrive in the shadow of a ghost. After staying too long, I left, politely, happy to be alive.
Steve-technically Saul-the grand nephew of Vladimir Horowitz. (Yes, the Vladimir Horowitz. My fan-girl energy swooned without embarrassment.) Saul Horowitz was a true gentleman. A kind and observant man. Of all the Steves, I felt the most myself with Saul. He mirrored the best of me, and reveled in it: my sass, my sense of wonder, my sensual nature, my smarts. He was a gardener, and I flourished in good soil.
I was surprised when Saul let me down gently. My heart was a teeny bit broken, but not too bad. I was still myself, even if not the perfect fit for a man who respected me. Mostly, I got what I needed: to be seen, honored, and still ok, alone.
Not hopping into bed with any of these men turned out to be the boundary I didn’t know I needed. No complications. No explanations. I came to love my king-sized bed and my perfectly smushy pillows. I slept deeply, sprawled out like a starfish. I turned on the light at all hours. I snacked on whatever the hell I felt like. I sang at the top of my lungs, not just in the shower. Solitude, it turns out, can be deeply satisfying. Erotic, even.
I wish I could say I healed thoroughly that summer. I learned a lot, but The Summer of Steves should have become The Year of Patrice. As timing would have it, I met my Merman not long after all of the Steves faded into the sunset. I was closer than I had ever been to being content on my own, but I still succumbed to “true love” with a hot guy who emerged from the sea on a windsurfing board. So yes — the journey continues.
Every hot guy who brings up the feelings of “true love” like my Merman also brings his baggage. The Merman’s baggage matches mine better than most. The lessons we face are both easier and harder. We joust and squabble and are fiercely loyal. He avoids difficult conversations; I push too hard. We both work on ourselves, and it brings us closer. Because truly, who wants to break up a matched set?
A warm hand to hold
Over 15 years time
Is harder to leave
Than a Summer of Steves.
It was the Summer of Steves, and I didn’t fuck any of them.
Happy Valentine’s Day, fellow Boshemians! May you receive hearts, flowers, candy, dinner, and cute shoes. Extra satisfaction points if you buy them for yourself.