post script and follow up

I never thought I'd see him again. And probably, because I wished that one embarassment never was is why he ambled back to say hello. I've always found coincidence fascinating, because it leads me into so many strange encounters. This one was no different; I opened the door of the cafe to the cooler weather, he just happened to be walking by in that moment I lingered by the condiment bar to restock it. Fearing he'd be noticed walking past and avoiding me, he boldly stepped inside to inquire how I was.

I hardly recognized him. He'd gained weight and dyed his hair a bright yellowish blond. It was his smile that clued me in and I was shocked to see the man of the year standing in front of me, a ghost of what was and smiling at that.

We fumbled through an awkward conversation, taking the year and a half that has happened since and wrapping it up into a few lines. He's been travelling across the country. I've stayed here working and grad school was a no. And then he left.

It's strange. It's not like I realized immediately that I'm better off for never having the misfortune to immerse myself in the mess that he was. I remembered how excited I was about him, how thrilled I'd be after he came by. And that same thrill travelled through me. I looked in the mirror and studied my face, I wondered how it looked to him. And then it ran it's course and I was back to reality, back to realizing that there are more important things in life than thrills.

Also, I was warmed by the thought that I'm with Eric now and things between us are fantastically good. I know now that I have always been his and he's always been mine, and having these attempts at relationships with men like the man of the year only underlined the fact that things between Eric and I were never muddled, never hard to begin, and I never had to wonder about him. Of course, that kind of peace of mind only comes with time for me and six years finally knocked me over the head.

"just remember you called it all bullshit"

the opportunity to pay back a man with the same pain some other man has doled out to me is tempting. tempting in a slightly fantastical, probably won't really happen way, but still, an element of the appealling is there. seen from this vantage, his face appearing before mine at the most inopportune times, his subtle hints awkwardly inserted obtusely into the conversation, his specific references to our innocuous history and: I see how I must have looked to the man of the year.

of course, I will never know for sure, because he remains an enigma, swallowed by his own sense of standards which are are once damning and revealing. his loathing of drama surely is a cover for something else, especially since he has generated mostly all of what drama existed between us.

so I have willed him out of my mind, cast off into the pile of things I will never understand, but time passing is really the only solution to him, and really most things.

as for this other man: the snow swirled around us lazily, and we talked of things benign and ridiculous and I wondered why I had invited him along on my usually quiet walk, and his words tumbled out in a nervous pile of nonsense. it is refreshing to be liked. but that is a dangerous road to travel, one that I have stumbled down before and taken the turn of my life that has led me here, to this desolation. so I know the promise I need to heed is waiting to be spoken, but I wonder if I truly have no feelings for him, since of course, in his absence (some five weeks or more) I wondered where he was and if I had laughed him away for good.

my brain is addled by such hysterics, and I wonder if what really rattles me is that the man of the year has pegged me and I am just too angry to agree. but I know I saved all my soap operish meanderings and gave them others, and only presented him with the best of myself.

in case you were wondering: when is it going to feel right?

"sometimes you win, sometimes you lose"

It's just that simple. Okay, so right now I'm in the losing part. I feel like a loser. All the signs point to: yes, indeed, you are.

The Man of Year? Not interested. I totally read him wrong. A fucking mistake I can chalk up under the experience category. Alongside all those other "mistakes" that I've endured. Thankfully, I didn't endure his confusing-ness very long. Just three months. Not bad. The last time it took me three and a half years to figure out the guy wasn't interested. I figure this means I'm bound to be single for the next three years and three months, due to cutting short this potential mess of a relationship.

...which is the perfect amount of time to complete my graduate degree! But thanks to my own ineptitude, (read: loser), I can't go to the one school I've been determined for a while to attend, because I was too busy doing other things to find out when the deadline was. I doubt I could have somehow managed to squeeze in practicing for the GRE on top of applying for the Iowa Writers Workshop and finishing my last semester as sucessfully as I did (all A's, again. see, sometimes you win...).

I'm sure some pysch student could simply say it was a matter of where my priorities were and if I really wanted to go, blah blah blah. Maybe it's no coincidence. Maybe it's not. I don't know. I won't know for sure 'til the years go by and I realize that my capricious error resulted in something else far better.

in the meantime, something has happened between Marilyn and I that has ripped me apart from her. It was a very benign event, I suppose, but it was tangled up with other things, and perhaps, truly, it was just the straw that broke the camel's back. I'd rather not go into the whole complicated affair, but suffice it to say, I feel like a total loser. I know that what I'm doing is okay and completely reasonable, but another part of me knows how much she depends on me and wants me around. the truth is, I'm more upset about the potential loss of her friendship than anything else going on in my life right now. things between us were going so well, and for the first time in a long time, I felt understood and cherished as a person. it is a very hard thing and eventually it will be resolved, but for the time being, it is a constant throb that accompanies me everywhere.

I went grocery shopping for the first time since I've moved into my apartment (yes, three whole months have gone by) and when I went to put some things in the fridge, I was reminded via my offended olfactory equipment that I still had leftovers from Thanksgiving in there! Due to the aforementioned terrible state of busy-ness, I had neither the time nor gumption to remove these things before. So I went through the fridge and threw all of it away, even the Mother's brand white bread that hadn't turned moldy at all, due to, what I can only presume, was a freakishly high level of preservatives [shudder].

As I threw the stinking mess away, I realized it was probably high time to clean the fridge, which I hadn't done in the first place. And by first place, I mean when I moved in. I'd always assumed I would do it someday, soon, which, of course, is a phrase I tend to reserve for things I know I'd never do, even if there was _nothing_ to do.

enter feelings of loserdom. It is a weird thing to be a single person. I have no inclination towards cooking, therefore no pots or pans or food. I eat here and there. When I lived with Eric, I was glad that he actually enjoyed cooking and thusly took on the job of making home cooked meals three or four nights a week, when we weren't tempted by the deliciousness of burritos, thai or bar food. I realize that the last time I had a home cooked meal was Christmas, and the time before that, Thanksgiving. And I can't remember the time before that.

Also, as a single person this time around, I see no need in keeping my apartment neat and orderly, since no one other than myself is ever going to set foot in here again. I've become a comfortable, veritable slob. It is covered up under the guise of being busy, but the truth is, I love coming home to my apartment and having it be a slovenly mess, and crawling into the spot of my bed that isn't covered with clothes or papers or books. It's almost like being welcomed home by an old friend at the doorway, you feel you cannot get to the person to hug them fast enough. I cannot wait to land on my little spot in my big bed and go to sleep. On my way to the bed, I dump things in piles, a pile of clothes not dirty enough to wash, a pile of junk mail, a pile of mail I should file, a pile of things I must not forget to bring with me in the morning, there are literally little designated piles all over my apartment that only make sense to me and make the place look disgusting. But it is my mess.

Once I set off a cleaning frenzy, it tends to erupt violently and be hard to stop--at least in my case--so after I cleaned the fridge with a deodorizing, anti-bacterial cleanser, I moved on to the bathroom. Though I've still got the tiled shower walls to do--which I avoid touching while I shower as much as possible--because when I moved in I immediately placed the dingy walls in the "someday soon" category. The only thing that stopped me from completely turning into Cinderella was my friend Annie's pleading texts for company at a bar.

Joining her was fun. I got to meet one of her old college buddies, who mans the bar most nights: a tall, intellectual sort who wore a slightly intriguing (though not sure yet if I feel intrigued in a good way or bad way) pendant necklace with a tommie gun charm. I was proud to notice that even though he was tall and smart, I didn't instantly fall in love with him. I was invited to join them for dinner on Monday, which sounds like it'll be a good time.

I'd made plans earlier in the day to go see a sketch comedy troop and I couldn't find anyone who wanted to go with me, so I left my friend Annie and her pals at the bar and headed to the show all by myself.

and I sat next to a stranger.

and I was a-l-o-n-e.

And that is part that really makes me feel like a loser. It's not just because I'm not used to it...I hate doing things alone. I have so much more fun doing things with other people. I don't mind spending time alone, because a lot of my hobbies and interests are solitary activities, but going out in public and sitting at a show and laughing at funny things just seems like something you should do with someone.

so of course, I've been thinking a lot about Mr. Burnham. I miss him. I know part of it is just because I've had all these slightly traumatic/dramatic events happening these last two weeks, that there was the turning of a calendar, on which he is a blank space and he has not contacted me in six weeks. Aside from all that...I miss him. I don't miss the bad things. I just miss the good things. I miss him making us meals, and getting all excited about going to the grocery store and being my date for just about every silly thing I wanted to do (though this insta-date phenomenon began to fade toward what was the end). I miss the way he was when he was present and sober, and this makes me most sad, because I know he'll never fully be engaging.

And the truth is, for the first time since we broke up, I feel the weight of being single and lost. When we broke up, I barely had time to process the whole thing before unnecessary accessory boy stepped in to pick at me, and then this whole fantasy about The Man of Year gave me some hope that I wouldn't be single for long.

Now that I have no prospects and this restrictive set of criteria that literally makes most men look like clowns to me; I feel odd in my singleness. Before I met Eric, I was single for about a year and it was like I could have anyone I wanted. I was a head turner and I loved it. That was nearly five years ago. It is kind of shocking to feel like I have very little head turning abilities left. I walk around the city feeling slightly invisible. I no longer subscribe to popular fashion (the seventies bohemian look just happened to be somewhat close to my style those five years ago). I dress comfortably (therefore I probably appear to look like a lesbian to most men). I would rather read a book on the train than make cutesy "missed connection" eye contact. In bars, I look forward to talking to the person I came with than meeting someone random and potentially stupid. I am slightly revulsed by men and what has been revealed to me as their "true thoughts." Potential men loom on the horizon like huge swaths of disappoinment that I just want to avoid at all costs. I mostly feel that men are useless and just here to cause me grief, which men manage to pick up on quickly, and by no suprise, it doesn't really make any guy want to talk to me longer than two minutes. And part of me really doesn't care. I don't want to spend any more wasted time with someone who doesn't like me as a person first and a potential girlfriend/mate second.

The part of me that does care worries that my big bed will always be half empty. And worries that this whole grad school business will further steep me in independence and bitterness against men as a whole. And she, that part, that plaintive wailer, worries about the possibility that being alone--even though I keep trying to tell her it's only for a little while--will become permanent and all those girlhood thoughts of getting married and having kids and dogs and cats and a house and a loving husband won't happen.

but the part of me that won't let just anyone in is a lot stronger than that. and I know that this is all part of the experience train, and to get where I'm going I have to ride and it can either be a great trip or really fucking suck. and I'm so tired of all the trips that have really fucking sucked. So I'll let this take me where I'm going and I'm going to try not to complain at every chance I have.

the end of the love life musings.

This is the first time in my love life where things don't make sense. I can't rely on the information I know, my experiences to guide me, other people's opinions to illuminate things. Everything I think I know turns out to be total bullshit. I can't decide if it's a matter of finding out the truth or trusting myself above all. I guess in a way it's a little bit of both, because even if people present me with what's true for them, I don't allow it to undo me, because I can't.

Unnecessary accessory boy has been randomly texting me plaintively for the last couple weeks. And I decided I'm done with him. He is bad news. He has nothing but a vein of the purest misogynistic anger that I have ever encountered. Yet, his presence in my life left its mark. I think of him often, I feel confused about why it went so wrong. I know that I did my thing that I do in relationships, but it was met with resolute anger and a wall of meanness. And I will not go out with someone who's a contrary bastard. I did that for three and a half years and it left me empty, I have no more fight left. All I can do is whimper and shut down in the face of that.

So I randomly texted him my reason for not responding. His missives (eight or nine) followed quickly, one after the other, at first neutral, then filled with some of the most vile things, attacking me on many levels. I read them, I still have them on my phone, but I know myself, his opinion of how it went simply isn't true. His idea of being in a relationship is having all the control, and he does that through manipulation and truth bending. He even denied sending me any texts.

With the Man of the Year, my intuition began to falter in the last few days because I'd communicated with him in various ways and had not gotten a response. Maybe there was simply nothing for him to say, but the agony I felt over the last few days just makes me wonder. Do I want to be with someone who can't be bothered to give me a simple response? Just as I began to give up on him, with the full bag of tears, frustration, inability to concentrate on anything else, he texted me back. He had no apologies, no promises, but there was a depth there that implied we'd gone beyond pleasantries. I even wondered if he'd been drinking.

Once you've gone to the brink of despair about a man, it's very difficult to turn back and act like nothing's wrong. And that's what I do in relationships. I get all about them, and then I go into despair, and then the chance of having a proper relationship based on trust is gone. I hold them to a high standard, if I give you something, it ought to be acknowledged. Maybe even reciprocated somehow. I have gotten better at not lashing out if this doesn't happen. People are who they are. They're not like me. I have a wellspring of words to give. When I put my bet down and roll the dice, my optimism fades. I gamble like it's the only chance I've got.

I figure over the last three months with the man of the year, I've made a lot of progress. I have despaired, but then returned, not stiffly, not with anger, but with understanding and love. I've done other things I need to do. I know it's not about me, whereas in other relationships, it was always my fault that they couldn't love me enough. Even though I have one foot out the door, ready to bolt at the slightest shadow, I have waited for him.

I'm tired of struggling over my relationships with boys. I feel the urge to give up, focus all my energies into grad school and the next year and just be happy in my own life, with myself. Every time I resolve to do this, they return, in small ways or big ways, and I am distracted by the possibility that this time it might be the message I was waiting for. Instead it always disappoints. And I must do the work of retracing my steps and returning to what's important.

The good news is, I take fewer steps back each time.

here comes the storm

The Man of the Year has made bold moves in my direction. He has gone out of town for the "holladays" and has not only responded to my texts in kind, but has also emailed me. He asked for my email some days ago; I presumed in an attempt to locate my myspace page. He has filled out an address entry in his email for "Christena Coffegirl." What infatuation I once held has become full-on fervor. His email contained the most personal and confidential information, the sort that one might share with a close friend. And yet, he shared it with me, the coffeegirl.

And now, I shiver and tremble, waiting in my spot, biding my time, wondering how it will go, and if this means anything, if this means we are having a relationship, if this means we will actually spend time in each others' vicinities without a countertop between us.

I feel I cannot force the issue. I fear I will cause whatever this is (progress?) to take a turn for the worst. I am terrified. I want to grab him and kiss him. I want to run away and hide. It is the oddest feeling. I want to ask him out for new year's eve, but I feel I must let him do the next step. I wonder how the time passes until it simply does, and I find myself in bed unable to sleep for the giddy thrill that races through me each time my mind skips across his name, or replays his last great laugh, or sees again that infamous wink (and it's companion, the once mentioned, dulcet stuffed, "Hey, peaches").

And it is Christmas. And he is somewhere thinking of me. He is somewhere far away and his mind is fingering the dark curls of my ponytail, the freckles on my skin, the easy conversations we've shared.

This has been the most unusual of holidays. I have spent my morning audibly tickled by my father, and my evening languishing in conversation with my mother.

I spent the time in between with Marilyn, whose gifts for me were far more sophisticated than I can hardly understand, yet they suit me perfectly. Her presence in my life has been steady and kind, and I have felt us growing closer, almost like two indistinct entities who have always been this way and none other, and we have a deep understanding of each other. She is my best friend. I feel completely known by her, and it is pleasant to spend time with her. Her ways amuse me, and she feels loved. She says, "It would be nice to drink some champagne!" and then a laugh, "Too bad I drank it all!" I surprise her with hysterical laughter that bubbles from the core of my being, for she is something else, and I know her all too well.

For one of my friends, my Christmas text to her was all too precise, and she called me with tears in her voice, and her heart in her throat, and I forgot the weeks since we'd seen each other last, and we melted into sorrow together.

I spent time with my family, and it was hectic. We are growing. There are more of us. They are small, and wanting for attention. And my smile grows wide when they are around.

Sitting on the front steps with her in my lap, her laughter wrapping around us, her beautiful dress billowing over my legs, her tickle spots unearthed, her sadness pushed away just for me, I asked, "Should I have Grandma take a picture of us together?" She shook her head no. I could see the pleading in her eyes. And like the other times we've spent together, we don't need words to communicate, I know her and she knows me, and we are one and the same, and we are beautiful together and there is nothing that is necessary when we are together and she wants nothing more than that moment to belong only to us; to have grandmothers coming over to take pictures would spoil the entire thing. So I persist in tickling her and she throws her head back and laughs and exposes her neck, the most ticklish area of them all, and I love her. Right then, I love her more than I've ever loved anyone in my life.

They leave in a flurry and we are alone again. We are back to our small bunch. We are shiftless and restless together. We have no reason to be together. We don't match anymore. I feel this most with my brother, whose reason for living is muddled by the realities of the world and its unfairness, and its lack of maps for some of us, and its oversight of him and his way in the world. Who is he supposed to be? When is he supposed to be? And he falls asleep, drifting into a world that makes the time pass and doesn't ask anything of him.

While he tosses and turns on the couch, my mother and I speak easily together, and the words follow the cigarette smoke between us, and I feel like crying when I tell her all of my hopes and dreams for the next year, which I have declared will be the best of my life until another comes later on to surpass it. I tell her, it is the year I will get married, it is the year I will join a master's program, it is the year I will travel abroad again (and we shall do this together), it is the year when my life will truly become solidified, and she will be with me, either vicariously or by my side, and it will be the best year of her life also; perhaps.

And we talk about the men I have loved and how great they were. She loved them too, in her own way. Her face is paralyzed by tears when we speak of them and their successes. Her face is frozen by pain when we consider why the last one had gone so badly and ignored the invitation to join us at Thanksgiving, because not only would it have been nice for him to be there, but his absence was a slap in my face and she felt it in hers as well.

And for the first time in a long time, I will spend my holidays alone in my big bed, which is perfect for me now. I look forward to tomorrow. A morning with little Nina, whose face delights in my presence, whose spontaneous laughter is part of a game we used to play and I know that no matter who I have been in my life, good or bad, it is always about who I will be, and she knows that I will be wondrous and kind and beautiful for her.

In the evening I will celebrate the thirtieth birthday of my new, great friend, Annie, who is responsible for loaning me the phrase salt-of-the-earth, and whose listening of me is far beyond anything I could have mustered for myself. I am included among her small list of friends she wishes to spend her birthday with, and I feel honored by her invitation.

I am surrounding myself with only goodness, only kindness, the things I want to see reflecting back at me in the mirror, and I feel them emanating from me, I feel their desire to be a part of me, and in my own small way, I know I created the depth that runs underneath the profound love I share with others. And I love them more than they will ever know.

when life is in your face, say hello and thanks for coming.

Intuition. I have lots of it. It sits in my bones and stares out at the world with a cold, dull stare. I eat it for breakfast. I shower a layer of it away and it builds up again. I go to sleep and find it between the covers, waiting to seep into my pores. I find it in the millipede that lives in my apartment, because nothing surprises me anymore, not even a big huge ugly creepy crawler.

More powerful than that, I have insecurity. I don't have as much of it, but that doesn't matter. It seeps out of me in my waking state, when I am around other people, when I am not sure if they like me and it pollutes the drinking water. It is the cold, hard, brutal knot of hate that sits like a popcorn kernel husk in the folds of my mind, an irritant, a thing to pay attention to during idle moments. At night I sleep with the confidence I own. During the day I conserve myself. I give my confidence to those whose bridges I've safely traversed, and even then I still step lightly, until the ground feels solid beneath me.

I notice the battle between them frequently, one is holding on so tightly, the other is trying to get in, and there are long nights of standstills, painful awful days of grappling, in which I am held hostage between them and there is nothing I can do but wait them out until they grow tired. During those hours or days, I suffer immensely, all the while knowing how unnecessary my agony is but being unable to put a halt to the stand-off.

I need them both. They balance me out, they make sure my head stays screwed on tight, and doesn't bloat from my triumphs. They are crucial elements to the make-up of me. I am getting better at listening to them instead of wondering how to exorcise them. They are the children of my mind and clamor for my attention and it is worse when I ignore them.

In the pursuit of the man of the year, I can say one thing, my intuition is stronger and it knows exactly what to do, it has all the time in the world for this busy man, this real man, this man who has "No time for love, Dr. Jones!" It knows how to talk to him (with results). My intuition knows what moves him, and it has been an interesting thing to trust myself for once when it comes to liking a guy.

In the past, my intuition always got shoved aside. Insecurity plauged me. It made me black inside. It made me bitter. I continuously shoved it aside:

in the case of unnecessary accessory boy [he paid so much attention to me, he seems to like me so much, "he validates my ego!" my insecurity pleaded] [my intuition countered, but you can't imagine him touching you. you want someone you're attracted all the way to, you know he's fucked up]

in the case of Mr. Burnham [he is doing all the right things! it feels right. he is reaching out to you.] [but he doesn't know what love is. he is scarred inside. he is phony.]

with scotty [he is creative and talented and could have any girl, but he wants you!] [he is not a match for you, you have nothing in common, you are an experiment to him.]

My insecurity has been whining about the lack of action on the man of the year's part. [Where is he? If he liked you why isn't he calling? What the fuck?! I need to know, now!]

When I listen hard, when I look at all the evidence before me, when I see that objectively, I know he likes me. I know there's something going on over there with him (aside from owning his own business and being massively busy) that has him scared of even going out on a date with me. I know it has nothing to do with me. The lack of some kind of definitive motions on his part doesn't invalidate me. I am still an amazing girl. And I overlook that a lot. That I haven't changed just because he hasn't called. I'm still living my life and being great when I can and it's not because anyone's there to see it, it's because that's who I am.

The thing about my intuition is, as I look back on all the times I've ignored it, all the times I've stepped over it to dwell in melodramatic emotions, how I tried to get my feelings validated for my ego's sake, it was always right. It always knew the answer and I fucking didn't listen.

Not anymore. The man of the year needs space? I'll give him space. Hell, I don't really have time for him anyway. I may not even be ready to be in a relationship again. I know that's what's best. It's been a whole month since he gave me those cd's? oh fucking well. he hasn't changed either. he just has life in his face and he doesn't know what to do now. and maybe he's waiting to see if I'll stick around, because the other ones didn't, the other ones wouldn't, they didn't understand the busy, they didn't have room for him to be a busy guy and be their boyfriend, maybe their insecurity sucked the marrow out of their relationship and he's afraid of anyone with teeth.

but I'm not gonna not be me. I made an emotionally risky move over the text messaging (so addictive and so easy and so careless) and I agonized all weekend for it, until I realized that just because I told him what I did, nothing had changed. he was still stuck with life in his face, and I was just being me. and putting myself on a ledge, with the knowledge, the intuition that he will be there if I let go. because intuition lives somewhere where words don't matter. and that requires faith in the intangible.

If it turns out I fall and he's not there, then at least I can move on knowing I put myself out there, even though life got in my face.

preening myself for failure

just when I think it's all a wash, that the man of the year is just a case of botched snake-charming and bad timing, the universe sweeps us into each other's strong magnetic pulls and we are stuck, saying words that sound mechanical, gazing at each other, trying to make sure the other is seen, heard, felt, understood.

sometimes, I wish I could always say what I really mean, that I could look him in the eye and just lay it on him.

Instead, I smile. and then I listen to what he has to say. and agree or counter. and the moment passes. And the feeling of dire, insane, wanton affection is thwarted by my timidity.

and the Man of the Year falls away like petals off a bouquet that is still in the vase two weeks later.

It never seemed so hard to charm them. or break through the icy crust of being polite.

also, for the first time in a while, I am unsure, shaky, wondering how I can stand next to him without out passing out from lack of breath.

it's been a long time since he winked at me. but he is a bundle of nervousness now, so I cannot be sure that the lack of winks means anything other than he is just terrified by my charms and discombobulated around me.

when asked about this situation, chuck, who is certainly a guy who has said plenty of funny things before, said, "There's nothing that turns a guy into a doofus like a woman."

and so, I'm back on the waiting list, figuring that nothing bad has happened yet, and it is just a matter of being patient.

"don't you know that patience is a virtue? that life is a waiting game?"

a revelation, of sorts.

So, after spending most of my weekend lamenting (i.e. mulling over and processing information about) the man of the year, I've come to some surprisingly adult conclusions:

1) I've got no money and no time for dates right now anyway!

2)I am doing that thing again where I focus on what didn't happen (why didn't he at least ask me out for coffee?!) instead of what has actually happened (He went out of his way to give me 10 albums that he thought I might like!).

3)I'm also doing that thing where I can't just be with myself, I have to always be wondering about a guy (or 3).

And so, as I do the adult thing, the mentally healthy thing, I find myself cleared up to focus on my schoolwork, of which there is plenty, and dawdling along the halls of my mind in no particular hurry. It is with a much more relaxed poise that I face the day and anticipate that feeling of accomplishment.

word of the day: sparkle

so then, this is what "Me And You And Everybody We Know*" was about.

It's hard to say what's been the most important thing that's happened to me today. Was it the obsessive thoughts about the Man of the Year, circling, hovering, over me? Was it seeing the vast array of beautiful objects at SOFA? Or some detail of either that really stands out?

I don't know why I obsess about boys. I don't know why it's easy for me to be so patient with everyone else, but when it comes to boys, I have no patience.

The art was lovely. Truly, it was a huge show and I saw so many beautiful things that my head aches. At least it was from art and not people being annoying.

How about this: Yesterday, I volunteered (something I haven't done in some time) for a Build Day at the Redmoon Theatre. I, and a group of thirty others, assisted the interns and theatre dwellers with various tasks that require a lot of hands. Also, we got to do some collage art that will be featured in an upcoming show. It was pretty fun. I enjoyed myself immensely. I realized I want to do more stuff like that; both volunteering and theatre stuff.

Of course, I thought of the man of the year excessively. His favorite theatre is Redmoon (which he just so happened to mention one day in passing) and I was nervous that he might be there since he's quite the laborer. As soon as I realized he was not, I began to enjoy myself and my nerves were soothed by the monotony of black paint and strokes with a paintbrush.

word of the day: palpable

*"We have a whole life to live, fucker, but it can't start until you call."

it's no wonder

Just when I was beginning to seriously consider the idea of lifting the blanket of love we had and laying it over myself in a new relationship with him, logic got the best of him and he pulled it back.

He said he was sorry to have confused me. And he still has feelings for me. But one night does not a relationship make. And I agree wholeheartedly, and though I experienced some tragic sadness, I am willing to accept that things are the way they are and it is okay. I thought that I was over him and that spending time with him would be different. I hadn't anticipated how much I had let our relationship go, but not the love I had for him. So we are doing what's best for our separate selves and leaving the door open to talking, but not to sharing a bed, or hearts, or minds.

"there is no solution but to love and to be loved..."

And somehow, even though it doesn't match what other people might call love, that we could approach this summit and look down at both sides together is really something, and couldn't have happened without that love.

And, of course, as soon as my mind had settled those things for myself, another man stepped right in to take Eric's place. I think most of the time, I seek out the next man, but he simply showed up on his own volition. Although, I'll be honest, I was thinking about him. The Man of the Year. I was wondering if he'd been by in the morning. His coffee card was filed neatly away, indicating he had not. I looked for him in the nearby deli where I ran into him once. He had a panini and was puzzling over a red eye sudoku. But today he was not there. I even quelled my urge to ask about him, because after all, I'd just been mooning about Eric, and it was just hours ago that he was the guy for me, until I knew again that he wasn't. Not now. Not yet.

I was idly eating lunch and staring outside when I saw a car pull up in front of the coffeeshop. Then He jumped out of it, and I was surprised to see him. The Man of the Year. I felt very surprised. He bounded up the steps with a stack of cd's in colored jewel cases in his hand and plopped them on the counter for me. His usual smile and banter was absent, he was all business with me. Nervous? Not expecting me to be there? Does it matter? As I looked down at this package--bound together by a plain rubber band and a note on top--I asked, "Is this for me?"

My heart must have been beating so loud that I lost all my hearing, I know he said something but I don't know what. Even moments after he left I couldn't tell you what he said.

Then as I held the cd's and looked up at him, he said, "I gotta go."

And just like that, he was gone. It was the oddest thing. And yet, it thrilled me to the core of my being.

The note was the epitome of sweet. I mean seriously, it could not have been more perfect. It was apparent that he'd spent time thinking of what to say, reviewed it and made changes, and he even put drawings on there for me. It would have been fine just like that. Just to know he'd given me music (ten cd's!) I might enjoy listening to that much thought would have been plenty. That he'd come out of his way to drop them off for me was even more amazing.

But then, there it was, vertically written along the border: his phone number.

His phone number! You haven't seen a smile that wide on my face in some time. I went to the bathroom and looked at it in the mirror, because I wanted to see what it looked like. And I was so giddy with joy that I literally bounced around the coffeeshop for the following hour.

Now I sit holding his note in my hands and think to myself, this is it. I have to choose. I have to decide if I want to play the game with him. I have to choose whether or not I'm ready to begin the rigor of Dating Another Person. I thought I was ready, but I don't know if I am. I want to be ready for him, I want to be my best for him, and I don't think I'm there yet. I'm close. Closer than I was with [the man who associated himself with an unnecessary accessory]. I think seeing Eric and really getting all the things about our relationship talked over made a tremendous difference in my general well-being. I don't feel so much like a victim, and I don't feel so much like terrible girlfriend material.

I know I can try taking it slow. Or seeing what happens. Or playing it by ear. Or maybe nothing will happen. Maybe we'll go out for coffee or dinner and immediately know that we're not the right person for each other.

What scares me most is that he might absolutely be the right guy for me.

He's goofy, intelligent, observant, a reader, an artist, a hard worker, a lover of animals, someone who searches for quality, his aesthetic sense is well developed, his fashion is on target, but not the most expensive brand just for the sake of having a name brand, he has a funny laugh, he has great taste in music and he winks. he's excellent at the winking.

it's no wonder that I'm absolutely terrified.