BY LISA DARON GROSSMAN

My most recent relationship ended with a whale emoticon. Yes, an emoticon. Of a whale. The guy’s name was Bali Boy, and he was a feminist, a liberal, and listened to enlightening podcasts. If you know me, you might think that this Buddhist shrink surfing yogi would be my perfect match—that we would connect heart chakras, and our inner children would be best friends.

I thought so too, which is why on our first date, when he began talking about having dated the daughter of his cult’s guru, I let it slide. Why? Because he wasn’t in said cult anymore, and it’s not like he was dating the guru herself. Also, the universe brought us together, right? By the end of our first date I was sure we had a past-life karmic thing where maybe we were married in medieval times and he saved me from being burned at the stake. A bit dramatic, I know. But Bali Boy felt the same, and he told me via text after date number two.

The first night he stayed over, as we were lying in bed, he whispered, “I can see my inner child. He is hiding under your desk.” Now don’t get me wron—I think it’s fantastic that he can see his inner child, but what in hell is he doing under my desk? Way to ruin the mood, Bali Boy. I tried to say something supportive like, “Do you think you should ask him to leave?” But Bali Boy, who was all about connection and intimacy, decided to communicate with his mini-me right then and there.

With his eyes closed and lips moving, he proceeded to converse with his small self under the desk. I’m surprised he didn’t crack open Dr. Seuss’s Oh, the Places You’ll Go! and begin reading aloud. When he was done, he opened his eyes with a smile and said, “I’m exhausted”—then rolled over to sleep.

When I awoke he wasn’t in bed. It was 6 a.m., and he was seated in a meditation pose. His eyes were closed, his back straight—so straight it frightened me. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to wait for his imaginary meditation bell before talking, but I felt awkward so I blurted, “Good morning? You really know how to sit upright.” He grinned with his eyes still closed and announced, “I want a soy chai latte.”

I was taken aback that he needed a soy chai latte at 6 a.m., but nothing would interfere with his morning routine—not even being in bed with his medieval lover.

When he finally opened his eyes, he spotted my brand-new juicer. His face lit up and with a huge smile he exclaimed, “Is that a juicer?!”

“It is,” I said, before sending him out to get his soy chai latte.

I was in spiritual dating heaven, which wasn’t turning out to be all heart chakras and happy faces. In fact, he never looked at me quite like he looked at my juicer.

Things changed one day. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said one morning over gluten-free toast. “I’m moving to Bali to surf, meditate, and do yoga—you know, to eat, pray, love.”

He actually said the words eat, pray, love! Here was the man I had been waiting for and he was leaving to eat, pray, and love on a beach in Bali? I began to wonder, had Bali Boy known the whole time? Had he seduced me with his Indian chants just to get some sugar before Lama liberation on the Balinese sands?

Possibly. But Bali Boy convinced me not to overanalyze, to be in the present moment and enjoy what we have while we have it. I think he might have even said, “Be here now,” and ripped it off as his own. All his spiritual intricacies that once seemed super connected started to feel super annoying. One night over dinner, during a disagreement that I’m almost positive I didn’t start, Bali Boy said, “If I know one thing in life, it’s about interpersonal dynamics. In a relationship at least one person needs to be sane. If we are both crazy, it can never work. And I’m not crazy.”

What he was saying was that I was crazy. I never denied this; however, receiving this diagnosis from a man who dated the guru’s daughter from a notorious cult was ominous. Finally, it occurred to me that he was trying to end it before he Bali’d. It worked.

I realized, in my moment of spiritual clarity, that the universe was sending me a sign. If I was not planning to eat, pray, and devote myself to Bali Boy, I should just let him get his sugar before he puts on his monk robe and deems himself enlightened.

Right before he left, he gifted me his most prized possession: an orchid he had kept next to his bed over the past year. “It’s the most meaningful thing in my life,” he whispered. The day he flew off, the orchid began to turn yellow and wilt. Maybe it was lacking Bali Boy’s divine energy, or maybe it was the universe chiming in: “He’s not the one.”

When Bali Boy landed, he sent a final text. “I think you’re a cool person. Bali is beautiful.” At the end of the text was an emoticon of a whale—my parting gift from his inner child.

Lisa Daron Grossman is a professional creativity and empowerment coach, encouraging people to be empowered by their narratives. She believes in turning inspiration into action. LisaDaron.com

BY LISA DARON GROSSMAN

This one time, I dated a lumberjack. I’m speaking in past tense because he is quite literally living out of his car in the woods somewhere between Baja and Montana. He has one of those made-for-TV movie lives, something between Into the Wild and a Lifetime Original movie. Jason Preistley would play him.

Now don’t get jealous. The reason I’m disclosing this is because you too could meet a lumberjack. Where? Online of course! Since I’ve started online dating, I’ve dated a scientologist, a shaman, a circus clown, a trapeze artist, a Mormon, a millionaire, a magician, a furniture designer, and a botanist. Each and every time I’ve met someone, I’ve listened to the stories of their lives. Sometimes I’m bored. Most times I’m enthralled. Every time it’s an experience.

Our first date was at a bar called Camp, where there was a canoe in the corner and people were huddled around tables roasting marshmallows and looking cute. When he arrived, he looked even better than his photos. He was wearing the same red plaid shirt from his profile picture and a Carhartt jacket. The first thing he said was, “I was just chopping wood. Sometimes, I need to get out of the city and chop things.” Pinch me, please!

Lumberjack ordered us each a hot toddy, and we went to sit in the back by the canoe. I felt like I had been transported into the backwoods of Montana, and in my mind, he would soon regale me with stories of growing up in a small cabin in the mountains with parents who raised him to fly fish and ride horses bareback, and he had wavy blond hair . . . oh wait, that’s Brad Pitt from A River Runs Through It.

“I grew up in New Jersey,” Lumberjack said, as the air in my balloon began to hiss. Turns out, Lumberjack wasn’t from Montana after all. He was a Harvard graduate, living the dream of a software developer while DJing hip-hop on the weekends. “But one day, I just couldn’t breathe,” he said. He needed the Carhartt jacket, an axe, and the open road. So he bought a shiny white Land Rover and a camper to attach to the back, and hit the highway.

For a city girl like me, I found this pretty sexy, and after three hot toddies, Lumberjack said, “Wanna see my camper?” I mean, of course I wanted to see his camper, but I knew better than to follow a strange man into his mobile home on a first date. So Lumberjack came home with me.

When we got home, I was ready to impress. I turned down the lights and turned on the Netflix Fireplace For Your Home channel—I wanted Lumberjack to see how city girls start fires. There was no steamy love scene; we fell asleep watching a televised fire roar.

Next morning, Lumberjack broke the bad news—he was heading back out West and didn’t know when he’d return. So I walked him to his camper, watched him climb into the front seat of his Land Rover, and waved as he drove off into the sunset.

The story doesn’t end there. Lumberjack and I kept in touch. He would text me photos of himself chopping wood, taking hikes, and pitching his tent. I would return the sentiment with photos of my Netflix Fireplace, to which he’d respond with “LOL.” (I have to admit something here. While Lumberjack was gone, I was having fantasies about him whisking me away in his camper. Maybe we’d drive to Guatemala and start a nonprofit in a rural community, and everyone would call him Lumberjack, and I’d be Mrs. Lumberjack, and we’d learn Spanish and raise our kids in the Winnebago of our dreams.)

A year went by, and suddenly Lumberjack was back, developing software from his camper. I told him I’d meet him for a hot toddy by the canoe. It took him over an hour to find parking, and when he walked into the bar he was wearing the same red plaid shirt. He was sorry he was late, but he spent the day at a wildlife refuge birdwatching. He looked different than I remembered. Instead of handsome stubble, his face was covered in an untrimmed, untamed lumberbeard, just like his newfound lifestyle.

“I’m DJing this weekend,” he told me. “You should come.”

Bye-bye, birdie. In that one sentence, my Guatemala dreams were crushed, and suddenly I was sitting next to a guy from New Jersey. It dawned on me then that I had been making up stories about Lumberjack all winter long. I’m not mad about it. I really enjoyed the time I spent with him before he hit the open road. He reminded me that there are so many people with stories waiting to be heard and so many connections waiting to be made. Online dating is just one way to tap into the vastness of humanity, and with the click of a mouse, we are offered endless possibilities for connection and experience. We just never know who is going to walk through the door, and to me, that is pretty extraordinary.

Lumberjack and I kept in touch for two years. When he would swoop back into town, he’d regale me with stories from Tijuana to Tennessee. The last time I heard from him, he was surfing in Nicaragua. It’s no Guatemala, and I’m not sure if his lumberbeard survived the heat, but he did trade in his Land Rover for a Winnebago.

Lisa Daron Grossman is a professional creativity and empowerment life coach, helping people discover the muse within them so they can confidently and joyously share their stories.
LisaDaron.com

I’ve been having an affair. Well, to be honest, I’m having more than one. You see, I’ve been cheating on my general practitioner for about five years now.

I know that cheaters always say this, but none of this was premeditated. It was an accidental mistake. Is that redundant? I don’t care. It was. I accidentally started seeing 2 doctors, and now I’m seeing 11. The problem was that once I started, I couldn’t stop. It was a doctoral addiction to healing my undiagnosed ailments. And when I became bored with Western medical practitioners, I began trying on alternative ones for size. I was open to anything: naturopaths, qigong specialists, new age chiropractors, shamans, Australian gurus, hugging gurus, fairies, wizards, magicians, and everything in between. And what I came to realize over time is that dating doctors is synonymous with dating men.

Let me explain. One day last month, a new disease came in the mail in an envelope addressed to me. I rarely get handwritten mail, so I ripped it open, hoping for a love note from the one that got away. To my surprise, instead of said love note I had received a love diagnosis from Dr. Larry. “Dear Lisa, you have tested positive for celiac disease.” It was a handwritten love letter from the 11th doctor I just recently started seeing.

Now, let’s talk a little bit about Dr. Larry. He’s not my usual type. In fact, he’s nowhere near my type at all. I didn’t find him online, and my friends didn’t set us up; my dad did. And there is something you need to know about my dad—he never sets me up with anyone. There’s something else you need to know about my dad—he loves Dr. Larry. Actually, I’m kind of embarrassed to admit this here, but Dr. Larry has been my dad’s gastroenterologist for over 20 years. Yup, Dr. Larry is a gastroenterologist. So I declined seeing him year after year because aren’t gastroenterologists for old people with bowel problems? “Dr. Larry is not my type,” I would shout at my dad, over and over again. To which my Dad would reply, “Just give him a chance! Maybe you’ll like the guy.”

The truth is, I didn’t run from Dr. Larry just because he was into stomachs. It was because I’m more into alternative guys-—you know, kinesiologists and acupuncturists. So for me, seeing Dr. Larry was equivalent to dating a Tea Party candidate—ancient and against everything unconventional. But my dad kept the pressure on, and the sicker I became, the more desperate I was to find Dr. Right.

Now, I do know a thing or two about dating. I know how it goes when you’re single and searching; you have to play the field. So while my pops was putting on the pressure to “give Dr. Larry a chance,” I was dating 10 others.

There were:

• » The spiritual chiropractor
• » The barefoot Nigerian bug juice importer
• » The NYC shaman lady
• » The expensive, alternative, hip, New Age-y, “as seen on Dr. Oz” doctor
• » The acupuncturist who doubled as an actress
• » The Australian guru songstress
• » The colonic lady from Rosy Cheeks Wellness
• » The old woman who talks with wolves
• » That doctor who cures trauma by singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”
• » And of course, my general practitioner—who I hadn’t seen since 2010

There in lies the problem: there were too many options. And too many options led to casual encounters, and casual encounters decreased the severity of the relationships. So really, I was loosely dating 10 doctors. The commitment conversation had yet to come up, or if it did, I would skirt around the issue. Like when the lady from Rosy Cheeks Wellness asked me to schedule my next colonic, and I politely replied, “Oh yes! I would love to see you again, but I have to check my schedule.” This is how I seemed interested without having to commit. I like to always keep my options open.

I finally agreed to see Dr. Larry in October, after the continued persuasion by his biggest advocate, my father. As I had assumed, his office was filled with people over the age of 70, and when I went to check in at the front desk, the nurse gave me a look that I interpreted as, I’m pretty sure you’re not his type. It was my first blind doctor date, and already I was weary of judgment.

Dr. Larry looked younger than I had anticipated, and we spent quite some time talking. He asked me a lot of questions, and when I spoke, he maintained eye contact, and I could tell he was really listening. Not only was he listening, it was like Dr. Larry could see the real me—all of me. I quite liked Dr. Larry, but was the feeling mutual?

“You’re a difficult case,” he said at the end of the visit. I appreciated his honesty, and as I sat on the cold sterile table, making eye contact with him in my light blue gown (open in the back), I had an overwhelming feeling. I felt warm and safe, yet vulnerable. When Dr. Larry put his hand on my shoulder and said, “We’re going to get through this,” it felt like the moment I had been waiting for all my life. Was this my guy? Was Dr. Larry the one I had been searching for all along?

I don’t have the answers yet, but I’m getting closer to the truth. Tomorrow, Dr. Larry will take a look inside of me, witnessing things no doctor has seen before. Some might call this a routine endoscopy, but I like to think of it as a medical journey into the soul. And in a city of endless options, if I don’t slow down and revel in these moments of connection, I might accidentally pass by the guy that’s into stomachs, and maybe, just maybe, he might be the one.

Lisa Daron Grossman is a professional life coach. She helps her clients tap into their inherent creativity so they can live a life that matters. LisaDaron.com