Although we have great chemistry, Henry and I have an “understanding.” It’s not that we don’t care about each other; we do. But his “geographic circumstances” prevent us from taking our relationship seriously. This way, nobody gets hurt.

I have a thing for highly intelligent men, and Henry is not just an “ordinary” Jewish Doctor; he’s an M.D., Ph.D., Professor of Neurosurgery, brain surgeon, and tumor specialist. For the past five years, he’s been spending six months at a time in Irvine, doing research on brain tumors, and the other six months as a neurosurgeon in Oslo, where he has been living for the past 30 years.

While he recognizes that to have a permanent relationship he needs to choose between Oslo and Irvine, he is still going back and forth. But he likes teasing me about moving here next year and, recently, he acquired a permanent apartment in faculty housing. And although I broke up with him last summer and joined JDate, when he returned to Irvine, we started all over again.

I adore Henry. Although he is 18 years older than I am (67 to my 49), let’s just say that he could put men half his age to shame (wink). But more than that, Henry is into the very activities that women consider synonymous with intimacy—holding and snuggling. And when we’re out together, he’s always touching me affectionately.

For me, however, Intimacy (with a capital “I”) is synonymous with being cooked for. Henry’s slow cooked Irish oatmeal and French roast coffee, with the half-and-half he pre-warms, make me feel like I’m back in my grandmother’s kitchen. And his kasha varnishkes and homemade challah on Shabbos are to die for.

Just when I think that Henry hasn’t been listening, he surprises me. I once mentioned that I get a kick out of Audrey Hepburn movies. He started tracking the “classic movie” channel schedule and presented me with “My Fair Lady,” which he had taped for me.

Even more importantly, Henry wants to see me all the time. The weekend is a natural time to get together, and we see each other all weekend, every weekend. However, because Henry is not comfortable with expressing his desire to see me at other times, he has become quite creative in coming up with “excuses” to get together during the week. The moment he first sees me the look on his face says it all.

I also am ambivalent about Henry. He is 18 years older than I am! I’m always telling Henry that I want someone to grow old with, to which he replies, “Then why are you with me?” His mixed messages also keep me ambivalent. I savor his sweet kisses on my neck or his giving me a potch on the tukhas. However, if I mention my pleasure, I get back, “You’re not falling in love with me, are you?” The few times I tried to discuss our “relationship,” Henry tried to confuse and distract me with humor. I felt like I had put my head in a blender and hit “puree.” Yet, in jest lies the truth. During such times, Henry has told me that I am “habit forming,” that he will miss me so much after he returns to Oslo, he will come back early, and that he loves me.

Herein lies the problem. Neither Henry nor I will openly acknowledge our feelings, but we cannot hide them. It’s a delicate balancing act. Whenever one of his colleagues comes in from Oslo, or we attend a university event, he proudly introduces me. However, I have never met anyone in his family. Granted, they are spread out—a son in Oslo, with twin daughters, and a daughter in Northampton, with a son and a daughter who is currently preparing for her “Bas” (as Henry says) Mitzvah. But I have yet to be invited to one of his family get-togethers. Until last night.

Henry asked me if I would like to attend his granddaughter’s Bas Mitzvah. Introduce me to his family. Oh? I thought we had an “understanding.” But maybe Henry’s understanding has changed. And unless I get over my ambivalence, somebody will get hurt.