Standing by on the red-flag alert
‘W hen one door closes, another one opens,” my great aunt had said to me. Really? What a cliche. How could she understand the pain of my broken heart?
I had just broken up with my fiancée. The only door I saw was slammed shut. I was in a dark cave, my only entrance sealed off.
During the engagement, weekends had been spent at her place in Rancho Palos Verdes, fighting. Fighting about the wedding invitations, the band, the location, the number of guests — and life in general.
Our other friends who were getting married around the same time didn’t fight like this. Why was our relationship so troubled?
During a heated argument at the Promenade on the Peninsula mall, I suggested we try pre-wedding counseling. We attended several sessions, but it didn’t help. We broke up that summer. I continued counseling. I learned about the dangers of “red flags” and how they can doom relationships. As I looked back on that engagement in therapy, it was like one big red flag. In fact, I could see that both of us were waving red flags proudly.
When I started dating again, I vowed to look out for those ominous signs of trouble — and to address my own red flags as well.
I joined several local volunteer service organizations to become more community-minded (and to slowly work my way back into the dating arena). I socialized, talked to a variety of women at these group events and finally went out with a few:
There was one dinner date in Santa Monica that was a one-way conversation where she did all the talking.
On another night, a blind date made it clear she didn’t care about the environment and animals, but I did. (I know that opposites attract, but we were on opposing sides of the Grand Canyon.)
Yet another date was a Ballona Creek bicycle ride where I thought we could ride together, and talk, and get to know each other better. We started together for the first 20 feet, but then she raced ahead like she was in the Tour de France.
One organization, the Jewish Federation, hosted a weekend retreat near Ojai. We were separated into small groups for discussions, art classes, lectures and mixers.
That Friday evening, in the middle of the comedy skit session, I glanced up and froze. Across the noisy, crowded room of 20- and 30-somethings stood this radiant woman who made me stop in my tracks and stare. Everyone else in the room was a blur. I could focus on only her. There was something that drew me to her like a magnet.
I know it sounds crazy, but I was spellbound and somehow just knew she was the one.
There was only one catch, of course. Or actually, a few. I had no idea if she had a boyfriend, or was engaged, or had a closet full of red flags. Throughout the weekend, I kept trying to navigate my way over to her during the activities but never managed to end up in the same group. She also seemed to be interested in someone else in attendance that weekend, unfortunately.
I saw her at various events over the next few months and finally worked up the nerve to speak to her. Little by little, we talked and got to know more about each other. Finally, at an activity at the now-defunct Every Picture Tells a Story bookstore on North Robertson Boulevard, I was determined to ask her out, a full five months after I first saw her. (A tortoise is quicker than I am.) I did. And she said yes. Our first date was at Vito’s in Santa Monica. I was nervous and ate only half my dinner. But our conversation felt comfortable. There was no pretense.
On our second date, she quizzed me about my dating history. I must have passed the test since we kept seeing each other. Each successive date was more enjoyable.
I kept looking for red flags, but there were none. Could that be?
But it just felt right, right from the beginning. There was no game playing, like waiting a certain number of days to call. We took an immediate interest in each other’s careers, for example, and encouraged each other on.
One day, on a date in the South Bay, we admitted that we were both surprised at how differently this relationship seemed to be unfolding. The best way I can describe it is that it just felt comfortable. (In the best way possible.) She admitted she was feeling like it was all too good to be true as well and wondering what “the catch” would be.
Evidently, she had been looking for red flags too.
We dated for six months before I proposed to her at Chez Helene in Beverly Hills.
She said yes (to my relief ), and we were married nine months later. (Not because we had to: She wanted the ceremony to be in August to follow the tradition of her happily married parents and paternal grandparents, who also wed in that month.) We were married in Encino on a sweltering August day — 22 years ago today — but the ceremony was indoors, so no one melted.
I guess my great aunt was right.