Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Why try?

Sometimes I'm so right it hurts. People, DO NOT DOUBT the feminine intuition. I'm telling you, if I could bottle and sell this stuff...

So what's a girl to do when even the good guys are assholes? It's a mixed up muddled up shook up world, for sure.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some brooding and unhealthy fixating to do. If you need me, I'll just be in bed for the next 12 hours to possibly a week.


Monday, October 29, 2007

Why can't too good be true?

I'm uneasy. Feminine intuition or crazy paranoid tendencies, who's to tell? And yet...I'm uneasy. I've been here before. That feeling right before I'm about to get hurt. People who've broken a bone sometimes say they can tell when it's going to rain, even years after the wound heals. Same kind of thing, I'm thinking. Hear me out.

He's kind. He's chivalrous. He's a vegetarian. He runs marathons. (Oh yeah, that too). On our last date, I caught him looking at me, several times. No, not just looking, but dare I say it, looking at me adoringly. Yes, adoringly, really! Deep, deep into my eyes, until I would blush and look down at my lap. We shared a dessert, two spoons. We lingered until the restaurant had emptied out, everyone else in Boston in search of a good spot to watch the Red Sox game. We left, and as soon as we got outside he slid his arm around my waist, and I put mine around his. He walked me to my bus stop across the street. "You don't have to wait with me," I said, but he insisted. "It could take a while," I warned. "You don't ride the bus, you don't know." But he stayed, and we waited, snuggled against each other, his arm around my waist, me tucked into his side. We kissed and watched the DirectTV blimp, like some fat, white wishing star, and kissed some more. The bus came, and a crowd of people waited to board. "Well," I said, "goodnight." We kissed. I got into line. The person in front must have been paying all in change. Nickels, probably. The line didn't move. An interminable amount of time later, I turned around. He was still there. "I'm still here," he said. "So am I," I said. We kissed again, because it seemed the right thing to do. Finally the line moved, and I said goodnight again. We kissed.

I went home, and the weekend passed in a blur of reading, exam-grading, Halloween party festivities, and mooning about in mildly lovesick puppy-like manner. Today I realized I hadn't heard from him since our date on Thursday. I looked up his online profile, as one does, wondering when he had last been active. 24 hours? 3 days? The last time I had checked it had been over 5 days. Maybe he does like me, I had thought. I entered his username. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing; it was almost as if he had never existed. Maybe his account expired, I thought. But no, when your account expires you can't send or receive e-mails, but your profile doesn't get deleted. He must have taken it down. But what would lead someone to take their profile down? Maybe he met someone. I briefly wondered we've only been on two dates. Do you think...? But if that were the case, if he liked me enough to take his profile down, you would think he would be a little more enthusiastic. I mean, you would at least think that I would have heard from him between Thursday and now. Right? Unless...unless it's someone else. Someone he likes more. Someone he calls, e-mails, tells about his day. Someone who gets his weekends, and not just the occasional weeknight dinner. I e-mailed him this afternoon, and I haven't heard back. Perhaps not everyone is the compulsive e-mail checker that I am. But in my (perhaps warped) mind, he's stalling, trying to figure out a tactful way to say, Sorry kid. Or just hoping I'll forget about the whole thing altogether.

I don't want to say watch, I hope I'm wrong. I hope I don't have to say I told you so.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Why chivalry is not dead

I've been on two dates now with PDA guy (and I'm not talking Blackberry, if you know what I mean, wink wink, nudge nudge). He's different than anyone I've ever dated before; I'm not quite sure what to make of him. He paid for dinner both times, even though I offered several times to split it. When I leave the table, and then when I sit back down again, he does that half-standing thing. Do you know what I'm talking about? I never knew it existed in real life; I've only ever seen it in movies.

When I first met him a week ago, I walked in and saw him standing by the bar. I introduced myself, and scoping out the chair situation, saw two empty stools next to one with a bag on it; his, I presumed. I walked to an empty stool next to the bag, and he followed me there. Oh, sorry, I said, thinking that that must have been where he was sitting. I turned and walked to the next empty chair. He followed me there too, at which point I turned around and walked back to the first chair. This awkward dance went on for an uncomfortably long time, until I was flustered, slightly annoyed, and just wanting someone to sit the heck down, already. I only realized much later in retrospect that he was probably just trying to pull my chair out for me. But, I ask you, how was I to know?

Chivalry takes some getting used to, but I have to admit, it is kind of refreshing. So, he sounds really great so far, right? But there is one thing, though. One tiny little fly in the ointment. He's...the V-word.

Vegetarian. It's not that I have anything against vegetarians; they're perfectly lovely people. I just have no idea how to act around them. I find myself stressing over decisions like, is it ok to order a hamburger? If I order a hamburger, is it ok to ask for it rare? Should I get tofu when I really want chicken? Will he judge me??? Or I find myself saying things like, "Ok, so you know when you're eating a hot dog, and...oh, wait, no, of course not." For instance, not even five minutes after he told me he was a vegetarian, not even five minutes later, I found myself having this conversation:

"Oh, so you live in the South End? That's one area of Boston that I really never get to, but I'd like to sometime."

"Yeah, it's nice, I like it."

"I hear there's some really good restaurants there."

"Oh yeah, definitely."

"Like, um, The Butcher Shop? I hear that's really good." At this point I notice he's making a sort of strange face, and yet I forge ahead in confusion, as his face keeps getting stranger and harder to read. "Oh, I mean, I just heard...that it's...good...Is it...not...good? I mean, I've never been I just...OHHH...right..."

"Right, well it's just that it's know...meat-based."

"Right! Of course! Ha." And then I excused myself to rinse my mouth out after having gracefully extracted my foot from it. He started to half-stand up too. "Oh, do you have to go, too? I mean...oh. Right. Um, thanks?"

For some reason he still seems to like me. We'll see.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Why sometimes breaking up is easy to do

For those of you playing our game, if you guessed option number 3 several posts back, you would be correct. It was fairly obvious, wasn't it? The loud bassy music, the peeling tires, the f-bomb as introduction...I mean, what's not to love? Perhaps we can psychoanalyse my teenage stupidity another time, though. For now, I have a tiny confession to make. I wasn't quite honest with you before when I said that Bachelor #3 was my very first boyfriend. I did go out with a boy for 36 hours when I was 14 years old at church camp. It was the longest 36 hours of my life.

For those of you with the good fortune of never having been to church camp, a little background information may be necessary. Church camp was a week-long hormone-laden frenzy of matching up two by two, Noah's Ark-like. Seven emotionally fraught days of frantic hand-holding and covert kissing while the adults weren't looking. Touching between the opposite sex was strictly forbidden, and boys and girls were technically supposed to maintain a person-wide distance between themselves. Also, girls' shorts were to be no shorter than an inch above the knee. No tank tops. Obviously, these rules were bent to the breaking point as often as possible.

The goal of church camp, along with dedicating your life to the Lord, was to "go out" with someone, or else admit failure as a human being. I attended church camp several years in a row and came away unloved each time, at least by any earthly being. Until one night during the summer of 1994, when we were all hanging out on the big rock, eating M&Ms and drinking Coke before curfew.

"Hey Rachel, have you talked to Chris?" Alex asked. He reclined lazily, eyes half-closed as some girl massaged his shoulders. "Ohhh yeah," he murmured. "That feels sooo good."

His attention thrilled me, and my heart started beating faster. Alex was the long-time object of my secret adolescent affections; he was (and according to his MySpace profile, still is) a musician. The bottom half of his head was shaved; the top portion of his hair was chin-length and blond. He would flip his head to one side and then the other, keeping it tilted at an uncomfortable-looking angle to keep the hair from falling in his eyes. He was 15, and he was so cool. When I was in kindergarten through third grade, he used to send me Valentines that his mom had helped him make, professing his love for me. About the time that I started caring was about the same time that the cards stopped. But it was too late; I was hooked. I spent close to eight years of my adolescent and teen years hopelessly and quietly in love with him.

And now he was talking to me!

"Chris? Um, no, why?" I asked.

"Cause he really likes you," he said.

Likes me! Someone likes me! Who likes me? Chris likes me! Chris, Chris...who's Chris?

"Hey look, here he is now."

Oh. Chris. My heart sank a little. Chris was small and shaggy-haired, with freckles and buck teeth. He was no Alex, certainly. In the interest of beggars not being choosers, however, I agreed to go on a walk with him. There wasn't much time, so we had to get straight to the point. "So, um, Alex says me?" I said.

"Well, yeah, I think you're cool and all, and you look good and stuff..."

Whatever hesitation I had melted away. He thought I looked good! No one had ever said that before! (Attention men : flattery will get you everywhere). Although, a brief break for honesty here; Internet, I did not look good. I have seen the pictures. I was too tall, too skinny, too flat, and hmm, now that I'm thinking about it, I guess not all that much has changed since then. (I'll tell you what's changed; makeup. Thank the gods for makeup). Though his compliment was obviously a bald-faced lie, I decided to accept it. When he asked me the all-important question, though, 'So, do you want to go out?' I did hesitate just a bit. While instinct told me I had no shot with Alex, like, ever, years of watching teeny-bopper movies and reading The Babysitters Club had taught me that the cute, popular boy will eventually fall for the shy, awkward girl, once he gets to know her and finds out what a great personality she has. I wondered if perhaps I should hold out a bit longer. I weighed the options in my head and decided in favor of the one that would allow me to return to school in September and tell everyone all about my boyfriend from the summer. No one would ever have to know what he looked like, anyway.

"Yeah, ok," I said. And not a minute too soon. Just then the announcement came over the loudspeakers: Campers, to your cabins. It's 10:00.

The trouble started the next morning at breakfast. "Hey Rachel, there's your boyfriend. Aren't you going to sit with your boyfriend?"

"What, I have to eat breakfast with him now? Just because we're going out?"

As soon as he was seated next to me, ten other people stood up from the table in unison, in a clatter of trays and silverware, leaving Chris and I alone and somewhat dazed. Great, I thought. What are we supposed to do now? Talk? By that evening, I had had enough of other people giggling and pulling Chris or I aside for whispered conversations, and clamping our limp and sweaty hands together in a forced embrace. They were way more excited about this than I was. The van back to Maryland couldn't leave fast enough.

The day of departure finally arrived. Chris and I exchanged addresses and had a much more complicated conversation than was completely necessary, regarding who would write whom first. But why can't we both write each other at the same time? I wanted to know. No, no, that would never do, he said. I would have to write first. I acquiesced and gleefully threw my arms around him, free! Free at last! and ran into the van before he could attempt anything else. A goodbye has never been so sweet.

Upon arrival at home (home sweet home!), I dutifully took out a piece of stationery and penned a letter, detailing all the impossibilities of our continuing our relationship. Namely that he lived in Ohio and I lived in Maryland, and well, neither of us could drive. But it was fun while it lasted. Sincerely, Rachel. I licked a 29-cent stamp and pasted it on the envelope, and put it in the mail. I never heard back from him.

A few weeks later, I saw Alex in the parking lot after church. "So, have you heard from Chris?" he asked.

"Nah," I said nonchalantly. "I broke up with him. It just...wasn't working out."

"Ah." He nodded understandingly.

I smiled as I walked away, thrilled at our brief conversation. I practiced saying "My ex-boyfriend lives in Ohio..." It had a nice ring to it. I was 14, life was confusing, my skin was a mess and my mood changed more often than the weather, but for a moment, life was good. Yes, for that moment, at least, life was good.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Why I never really liked Frasier

You know it's a bad date when you find yourself drifting out of mid-date conversation and instead writing the follow-up blog entry in your head. Internet, it was so bad. My one consolation was thinking, well, at least the Internet may get some amusement out of this. Internet, I dearly hope you're amused.

My date was quite...foppish. Ok, let's be honest. He was Niles Crane, only with more swishing and hand-flapping. He was wearing dress pants, a button-up shirt, a cardigan, and a scarf. Also, it was 70 degrees out. I was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and wondered if perhaps I should have made more of an effort. Though he did compliment my shoes.

We fought our way through the crowds in town for the regatta, only to find that Grendel's, like everywhere else, was much too crowded. I've never seen that many people in Harvard Square before, and found myself getting claustraphobic, though I was outside. We made our way to Crazy Crusts in The Garage, which was distinctly un-chic enough to keep most of the crowds away, with the added benefit of $4 pitchers of PBR. There, the situation took a turn for the decidedly worse. Though the temperature outside hovered around 70, the pizza ovens made the temperature inside much warmer. Within minutes, Foppish Guy was dripping sweat from every pore. We stood in line as he ineffectively fanned himself with his scarf. No! I wanted to scream. Don't fan! Mop and wipe! He looked as if he had dunked his entire head in a pitcher of water. It was so bad, I think the pizza guy said something to him. I overheard them as I retrieved napkins. "Hey, you're uh, sweating a bit there," pizza guy said. "Oh I know," Foppish Guy replied. "Isn't is awful?" We sat down as he continued to swish, mince, and drip his way through the date. Appetite? What appetite?

We sat there for an hour and a half; after all, we had a whole pitcher of PBR to work through. He recited Chaucer, in old English. He kept touching my arm in a quite disconcerting way. "So, do you have any plans for tonight?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah, I have to meet my roommate," I lied.

"What time do you have to meet her?" he asked.

"Oh, I have to meet her at, um, uh, at um..." (Don't look at your watch, don't look, just say a time, just say a time that will let you leave right now, just say a time) "at um, 7:00." (Look at watch. 6:25. Perfect).

We walked outside and said goodbye. "Ok, well I'm going this way," he said. Ok, In that case, I'm going that way. "It was so nice to meet you! Let's do it again!" And with a kiss on the cheek and a swish of his scarf, he was gone.

And I breathed the biggest sigh of relief imaginable.

For you, Internet. This one was for you.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Why 1 out of 25 ain't bad

You know it's been a good date when you find yourself having this conversation at the end of it:

Him: "What kind of lipgloss are you wearing?

Me: "Oh, um, it's mint."

Him: "Mmm. Tastes good."

Me: "Oh, heh. So, obviously you didn't list public displays of affection as a turn-off in your profile."

Him: "Nope. Only when other people do it."

Me: "Agreed."

You'd think if there was one thing I've learned by now it's not to count my chickens. So I'll just be here. Not counting.


Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Why I hope older is wiser

1998 was an auspicious year. In 1998 I graduated high school. I started my freshman year of college. It was the year of Monica Lewinsky, El Niño, and the Unabomber trial. I was 18 years old.

The summer of 1998, through lack of anything better to do, turned into the summer of Get Rachel a Boyfriend. Things hadn't exactly panned out for me in my town of 5,000, with a graduating class of 150. I decided I needed a larger playing field, and so I threw myself headfirst into the online dating world for the very first time. I don't even think the site I used exists anymore. It was called Classifieds2000, in the way that everything used to have a 2000 tacked onto the end during those pre-Craigslist years creeping up to the new millenium. In the budding one-stop shopping wonder that was the internet in the late twentieth century, I discovered that by going to just one website, one could find a house, a used boat, and yes, even (I hoped) True Love.

As a nearly ten-year vetern of online dating at this point (with a few years off in the middle), I feel I can say with confidence that it was a lot different back then, in those prehistoric days before cell phones and digital cameras were commonplace. Not only could you not call someone if you were lost or running late, but you ran the chance of not even recognizing your date once you got there. Elaborate e-mail descriptions were necessary, detailing height, weight, hair color, and what shirt you would be wearing. (God forbid you spilled something at the last minute).

I wanted a boyfriend. I was ready. I had an e-mail account, a car, my best friend with me for support, and a summer full of nothing better to do. I was ready to go wherever the internet and a tankful of gas would take me.

We met my first date at the Natural History Museum. We ran up to the balcony on the second floor to scope him out first. We giggled and snapped pictures of him, in case we needed them for a police report afterwards. Eventually we introduced ourselves. He was skinny with long black hair and pale skin. We sat on the steps outside as he told us about how he juggled and went to the Renaissance Faire on weekends, and his penchant for Anne Rice novels. He had a black duffel bag with him, and he reached inside and pulled something out. A knife. Sunlight glinted off the blade, and for a second time stood still. Tal and I looked at each other, and in her eyes I saw that she was thinking the same thing I was : I've read about things like this, but I never thought it would happen to me. He reached into his bag again, and pulled something out. An orange. He cut it up and ate it.

We met my second date at the University of Maryland, in the frat house dorm room he was renting for the summer. He was blond and frail-looking. He insisted that he wasn't anorexic, even though we hadn't asked. He just really liked to run. A lot. And he didn't really like to eat. He loved the Backstreet Boys. He wanted to be a Backstreet Boy. Did we want him to sing for us? Well, ok, if we insisted. And he did. He sang for a long time, with feeling. Eyes closed, falsetto. It was...uncomfortable. You try not to laugh.

I had extra support for my third date. Jas and Tal both came with me to watch Pi in DC. (Oh yeah, great first date movie). We waited, but no one came. Not that I even knew who I was looking for. "I told him the movie theater in Tenleytown," I said. Rach, there are three movie theaters in Tenleytown. "What? How is that possible? I mean, what are the odds? I mean, really?" We headed off on foot to see if he was waiting for us at one of the other theaters. The other theaters were farther away than we had thought. Neither one was showing Pi. By the time we got back to the original theater, we were tired, and at least half an hour had passed. "Well, I guess we missed him," I said. Just then a Volvo pulled up in front of the theater, blasting bass and rap music. The window rolled down. "Rachel?"

"Um, yeah, hi. David?"

"Where the fuck've you been?"

"Oh, well, we went to the other theaters, and..."

"Ok, well I'm gonna park." He took off, tires squealing, bass still blasting.

He parked, came back. We watched the movie and went to McDonald's after. In a classic move, I dropped my Sprite on the floor, where it rolled under the table but didn't spill. I crawled under the table to retrieve it, and hit my head.

One of these guys I would deem worthy of the title My First Boyfriend. But which one was it? Care to venture a guess?

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Why sometimes it's easier to let complete strangers make your important life decisions for you

"First of all," she said, "do you believe in psychics?"

"Well," I said, trying to be tactful, "I believe that there are things out there that I can't explain."

This seemed to satisfy her, and she started the Angel®Card reading. Though she was only a student in the art of Angel®Card psychic readings, she certainly looked the part. Dressed in a black corset, fishnet stockings, and a short black skirt, with bright red lipstick and cascades of dark black hair, it was easy to forget that the costume was for goth night at a club that she and my roommate were going to, and not expressly for my benefit alone.

"Ok, so what's your question," she asked.

"Oh, I'm supposed to have a question? I don't know, my roommate just kind of sprang this on me..."

"So you just want a general reading?"

"Yeah, sure. That sounds good."

She cut the deck. "Are you planning on moving?" she asked, with an air of surprise.

"Oh, well...yeah, actually I have been thinking about it a lot lately. I don't know."

"Interesting...Yes, I think you may be moving soon. Is anyone in your family pregnant?"

"Oh god, I hope not."

"Well it doesn't necessarily mean a baby. It could be a pet. A kitty?"

"I have been thinking about getting a cat," I said.

"You should get a kitty!"

"I know, I know, I do want one."

" anyone in your life named...Charlie?"

"Oh,, I don't think so."

"Or...I'm hearing the name Jeffrey?"

" that I know of."

"Well, it could be your spirit guide. Yes, I'm feeling it very strongly. Ah, see, this card shows that you're very strongly protected."

"Well, that's good, I think."

"'re very busy, you have a lot going on, perhaps too much..."

"Oh yeah."

" should take some time out for yourself. Also, you're worried about your future, but you don't have enough information right now to make a decision."

"Wow, yeah. You're good."

"And you're still angry, about your last relationship. You need to let go, and you need to forgive. You have to cut ties. Go like this." (She made a chopping motion with her hand).

"O...k..." (chop)

"Say, 'I release you.'"

"I...release you?"

"Good. Now you can move forward. Oh look, here's that card again. Yeah, I think you're going to move. You should definitely move, I think your energy is stagnant here."

"You're probably right."

"And look, here's the animal card again. You should get a kitty. Cats are so good, because they absorb all negative energy. They're not reincarnated, so they're just pure beings."

"Um, uh huh."

"You should move and get a kitty!"

Now, Internet, I am not one to just blindly follow the advice of vamped-up, Angel® Card-reading goth girls. But the fact that she pin-pointed so exactly what I was already thinking and wanting...

I think I do want to get out of Boston. I don't know how to do it yet, but I just feel kind of done here. I feel like Boston and I need to sit down and have a chat. Like, Dear Boston. How are you? I have some things I need to get off my chest. We've been together for over four years now. I know, can you believe it? And, this is hard for me to say, but I just don't think it's working out. You're great, Boston, really you are. It's just that you're kind of demanding. I mean I love you, don't get me wrong, but I had to give up my friends and my family for you, and, well, I miss them. And sometimes, Boston, you're so, so cold. I know you don't mean to be, but that's just the way you are. I know I can't change you. And well, I might as well just tell you, I have my eye on someone else. There's this city, DC, and I think maybe he can make me happy. No offense Boston, he just feels like home to me. So, no big hurry, and nothing's going to happen right away, of course. Just a little warning, but if you don't stop taking me for granted, I might not be around next year.

K, love ya lots,

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Why 17th century French poetry is still relevant (really)

I found him in the tiny campus-housing kitchenette. He was playing host to the already raucous party, and so there was only enough time for a quick throwing of arms around each other, a pressing together of bodies, a murmured hello and a good to see you. My face pressed against his shoulder, my mouth on level with the smooth skin of his neck. I didn't seem to have a choice, my lips pressed against his skin. "Careful," he warned. With all the weight of things left unsaid was the man-child I called my boyfriend on the other side of the wall. I knew what he meant. So I slipped. So sue me. I laughed and walked away, and didn't see him again for several hours (see above-mentioned host duties), until he cornered me once again in the small kitchen.

"So do you still love me?" he said.

"Always," I said.

Later I would write about this moment in my journal, not really understanding what it meant. It would be a fantastic ending to this story if I said that it was a symbolic moment, foreshadowing a lifelong friendship that surpassed the bounds of romantic love and circumvented the ravages of time. But really, it was just two drunk kids in an apartment kitchen, not realizing that life doesn't always come with Hollywood endings. Sometimes life doesn't come with any endings at all, for that matter. Plot lines falter and disappear, never to be picked up again. People get jobs, dogs, girlfriends, lives. Phone calls, e-mails slow to a trickle and then stop altogether, until you find yourself saying, "I used to have this friend..." Une fois, j'avais un ami. Now I know why they call it the imperfect.

I don't know why he came to mind tonight. Maybe because I was reading La Fontaine, "Le Corbeau et le Renard," and I remembered how when we first met, he told me he could recite the entire poem from memory, in French. And he proceeded to give a lightning recitation, mangling pronunciation, accent and articulation until the words themselves and even what language it was supposed to be in were rendered unidentifiable.

Maître Corbeau, sur un arbre perché,
Tenait en son bec un fromage...

Isn't there supposed to be a moral to this story? Something about hey, didn't I used to have some cheese? In any case, it doesn't seem relevant here.

This one, however, does seem fitting:

(from La Fontaine's "Parole de Socrate")

Chacun se dit ami ; mais fol qui s’y repose :
Rien n’est plus commun que ce nom,
Rien n’est plus rare que la chose.

In my own words (and look, rhymey!) :

Everyone calls himself a friend, but he who believes it is a fool;
Nothing is more common than the word,
But a friend is rarer than a jewel.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Why I'm still single, probably

I started dating J in May 2002. We broke up in January 2004, and by May I was dating J2. What I'm saying is, this is the longest I've been single in a long time. Also, after breaking up with J1, I grieved, started dating again, and found someone new all in the span of four months. You hear that universe? I'm due.

Also I'm thinking that the next guy I date probably shouldn't be a J. And it would be lovely if, one day after we're married, the intials on my monogramed luggage didn't spell RAT or RAD. Now that I'm thinking about it, other intial combos I would like to avoid are RAG, RAM, and RAW (though I've lived with this one my whole life so far. Someone save me, please). ((My inner feminist is begging me to please reconsider that last sentence, but I told her to shut up and go eat some chocolate)).

Since I've gotten this far, and in the interest of verbalizing of desires leading to fulfillment of desires, I might as well specify what and who exactly I'm looking for. (Listen up, Universe). Here it is, laid out in official and ad-like detail:


Requirements for position:
  1. Please be 6'2" or taller as client would like to feel dainty in heels. Must be in possession of a body that could be at least loosely described as "athletic" and a full head of hair for purposes of running fingers through.
  2. See aforementioned first and last initial restrictions. Jeremys, Johns, and Josiahs need not apply. Candidates named Andy or Ben are particularly encouraged to submit an application.
  3. The client seeks an asthetically-pleasing applicant qualified to appeal to a discerning and appreciative eye. The ideal candidate may be described by some as "hot."
  4. (Not "hot" in the physical sense of body temperature, although warm hands are always encouraged and appreciated, particularly when applied in mitten-like fashion to the dainty and chilled hands of the client).
  5. As the client is tired of dealing with boys and man-children, the candidate's age should typically fall within the 28-35 range.
  6. The ideal candidate should be able to demonstrate intelligence, generosity, humor, and strength of character, as well as exhibit signs pointing to excellent fatherhood potential.
  7. Ability to work in Microsoft Office offer unprompted foot rubs a must.
  8. Candidates that could be described as flakes, liars, commitment-phobes, or those with secret other girlfriends need not apply.

Well, that's it, that pretty much everything I'm looking for. Let's just see what we have here...Gentlemen? If those of you who are left could please step forward...Hello? Hello???

Hey...Where did everybody go?

Saturday, October 6, 2007

Why single is better than crazy

Me: so i'm an idiot. the concert is sold out.
Ex: oh, i totally forgot about that
Me: ah...
Ex: so how's school and everything going?
Me: oh, you know, it's going. working my way through my reading list, i'm on a 4 book a week schedule now
Ex: w4mm
Me: what's that?
Ex: sorry, gibberish
Me: ah, yes. totally meaningless gibberish
Ex: more or less
Me: anyway, i have to go

This is getting ridiculous. I can't even have one normal conversation with the guy. And the thing is, shit like this shouldn't matter now. It shouldn't, it can't matter, and yet it was still a punch in the gut. My body reacted just like it's always done every time something like this would happen, every time he didn't call when he was supposed to, every time I didn't know where he was or who he was with, the time I found a "hey, this isn't my hair" on his pillow, the time I was looking for socks and thought, "but I don't remember leaving pantyhose here." My body's way of dealing with any hint of boyfriend-related impropriety is to break out in convulsive, uncontrollable shivering. Imagine wearing a bathing suit in the middle of a snowstorm. Imagine a fucking epileptic seizure. If I concentrate very, very hard I can make it stop for about five seconds, and then it starts all over again, teeth chattering, hands like ice. The only way to make it stop is to bury myself under mounds of down blanket until I'm overheated and sweaty. When it's finally over I'm exhausted, and every muscle in my body aches. I don't know why this happens; I can't imagine any constructive purpose it could serve. But it's as involuntary as a sneeze. It's like a full-body flinch, as if my body was saying, Oh! Sorry, you frightened me there.

Until last night I hadn't felt that feeling in quite a while. About five and a half months, to be precise. While there is a lot I miss about my life before, I have to say I haven't missed that feeling at all. That, I think I'm turning into a crazy person because this isn't how normal people act feeling.

You don't trust me, he would say. You've never trusted me.

Well can you blame me? I would say. After what I've been through...

I'm not him, he would say. You can't hold me accountable for something someone else did. It's in the past, you need to get over it.

Truly, your capacity for empathy knows no bounds. And besides, you haven't exactly given me reason to trust you.

I have NEVER given you a reason to distrust me.

The only reason you can say that with a straight face is because while my world is black and white, you live in all the gray area in between. You're nothing BUT gray area. Always pushing your limits. Just because you didn't have sex with someone else doesn't mean you're a goddamn hero. What you did was completely inappropriate, and that's putting it lightly. Those e-mails you sent that you didn't think I would find...And yeah, I do consider it cheating, so there. Wanted to make new friends, my ass. And you wonder why I can't trust you? Believe me, I wish I could. It's all I want in the whole world. To know I'll never have to feel that sick, shaky, losing-my-mind feeling again.

(And this is where, in the imaginary conversation in my head, he breaks down and begs my forgiveness, saying of course he knows it was wrong, so wrong, and he doesn't deserve to live let alone be loved by me, but if I could just find it in my heart to forgive him it would be more than he ever deserved, and of course it goes without saying that it will never happen again).

((Obviously, in real life this part never took place. And it did happen again. And yet I continued to date him. Yeah, um, I don't know either)).

And now, for the first time in years, I'm finally living without jealousy or suspicion. I have to admit...I kind of like it. I also have to wonder...are relationships even possible without all that other shit? I hear about these magical, fairy tale, so-healthy-it-makes-you-want-to-puke relationships, but I'm not sure if they only exist in urban legend. Because the only relationships I've ever known have involved gray areas and mind-fucks, and huddling under blankets alone and shaking in the middle of the night.

What do you think? Can relationships be healthy? Can you ever completely trust someone else?