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.


  1. Dear Diary,

    Could we perhaps maybe analyze this just a l-i-i-i-i-tle bit more? :>)

    Relax. Kiss another boy. Kiss two.

    Or you could just call and ask him for coffee or lunch or something. All that kissing earned you one phone call. Like, when you get arrested, except without the orange jumpsuit.

    Be well,


  2. Thanks, M. :) See, this is why I blog; to get the male perspective and someone to tell me to just relax, already.

    I can't imagine what it must be like to live in the cool, calm, "it's all good" world that men live in. It sounds nice. Because this just barely capped fountain of frenzied hysteria? Yeah, it's pretty much like that all the time around here. God, I love being a girl.

  3. I agree with M. Kiss another boy or three. Forget the vegetarian. He's probably suffering from a lack of iron or something - clearly, you're fabulous.

  4. I love being a girl.

    Know what? I'm glad I'm not. I don't think I could handle all that adrenaline and estrogen smooshing around in one body. :>)

    The advice still stands: Call him. He will (a) be extremely flattered and happily join you at more bus stops, (2) go weird and tell you his great-grand aunt just died, in which case you are better off anyway, or (iii) offer to move in with you. Because it's a big, bad city out there, and you need protecting.

    And I'm sure Ess is right, you are totally fabulous, so who cares what any man thinks?

  5. Well, I was being a little sarcastic there. Times like this I hate, HATE! being a girl.

    Anyway, good advice, all. I was planning on texting him though. Does that count? Should I text him? Help!

  6. from my distanced (although female) perspective, i'd say send him a text message, see what's up. nothing to freak out about. breathe!