The suspect chooses between doing things the hard way and doing things the easy way, and the scene ends with either gunfire or the gentlemanly application of handcuffs You're sometimes led to believe that this person is actually relieved, but I've never bought it. Though it probably has its moments, the average day spent in hiding is bound to beat the average day spent in prison. When it comes time to decide who gets the bottom bunk, I think anyone would agree that there's a lot to be said for doing things the hard way.
-David Sedaris
Y'know that saying about "be careful what you wish for you will surely get it?"
What does that mean anyway?
See, if I go to the trouble of wanting something, I usually try to pause (at least for a moment) and be grateful when I actually get it.
Take this weekend, for example.
As my newest flame pointed out to his friends at a party last week, "watch what you say, your life is an open book." I told him I didn't think he'd suffered too badly so far.
(Last week, for example, he got described as "impressive," and who's going to take offense at that? Ok, in fairness, I didn't exactly call him impressive, it was more of a simple anatomical acknowledgement used in poorly worded sushi similes about the unagi— but still, that's hardly the kind of thing anyone would think of as mean-spirited. And it's not like you could pick him out of a lineup based on that characterization. Not as long as he keeps his clothes on anyway. If his current career collapses, at least he has a promising future in adult films. So what.)
I'm not guilty of any sexual McCarthyism, because I never name names.
In fact, I really take pains NOT to invade anyone's privacy.
Like with one of my longtime pals (who does have a seriously sensitive job — but one that lends itself to reallllly good stories), I've told him he just has to tell me when something is Off the Record —because that's a seal I'd never violate. His argument is that everything should be assumed to be off the record, unless he tells me otherwise. My response is that everything is for public consumption, unless he tells me it isn't. He's also learned to clarify distinctions for me — like the fact that there are stories I can tell, I just can't write them. That's fair.
I make all kinds of exceptions, for all kinds of reasons (especially if I'm asked to).
This weekend, however, was not one of those times.
When finally, in the current relationship, I got a glimpse of HibbityDibbityVille.
We cruised right past Friendship Boulevard, where we had been temporarily stranded. I waved jauntily to the bored onlookers over in Marriageopolis.
The reviews are in, and I think everyone agreed it was a great night — which is not to be confused with "easy."
He's the tall, dark, and handsome laconic type. He's shy.
He went through a painful divorce last year (she got half). I went through a bad breakup this summer (I got less than half).
I'm not sure what it was about me that brought him out of relationship retirement, but once he chased me down, it's fair to say, the path was long and hard. There were many obstacles in my way.
I had to draw on every resource I'd ever gleaned from 12 years of Catholic school. Overcoming Reservations and Objections, Prom Night 101:
"We can stop anytime you feel uncomfortable."
"Nothing has to happen that you don't want to happen."
Fortunately, I stopped long before I got to, "We can do this the hard way or the easy way."
Or, "Stop crying. You're ruining it for me."
Because those are lines that can, deservedly, get you arrested.
The truth is, as cool and seductive as I wanted to play it, my game is rusty. (Not that I ever had much game, beyond a general goodnatured willingness to try anything, as long as no one got hurt and we didn't frighten the horses). There was a time when I was comfortable and confident in this arena, but not lately. We were both skittish, and it's not at all like riding a bike.
OK, maybe it's a little like riding a bike, but my point is, you can lose all kinds of skills if you don't use them.
It was great. But it was also awkward.
Can I talk now? Can I talk yet? Should I just shut up? Am I using my inside voice?
What passes for acceptable conversation? "Looks like rain?"
I could — in some strange way —hear the voice of our sports columnist in my head, "let's hear some chatter out there!!"
But that didn't seem right either.
And I guess not everybody appreciates a well-timed one-liner.
Tough room.
Also, "what am I supposed to do with my hands during this part?" What about the moments where he's busy, but I'm not? Maybe I should catch up on a little light reading? Or perhaps I should crochet? Do I remember how? Is it still knit one, pearl one?
Sometimes, it felt like I'd showed up for a test, and forgotten to take the class.
Then there's always the Aftermath that follows the afterglow.
I never knew how to deal with those moments at 25, and I'm not any better at it at 35. (I mean, 36.)
I guess it's the endorphins that make me want to be kind and reassuring and sometimes even (dare I admit this?) warm.
But those tendencies are always impeded by my steadfast horror that someone will confuse me with "That Girl."
You all know "That Girl."
The one who brings a U-Haul on the second date.
The one who's always writing out the guy's last name with a "Mrs." in front of it, just to, you know, try it out.
The thing is, I like the weather fine in HibbityDibbityVille.
In fact, I strongly prefer it to RelationshipLand.
It's a perfectly great place to hang out for an indefinite period until somebody gets their first chance to better-deal you.
All I want right now is a day pass. Not citizenship. Not even a passport.
No comments:
Post a Comment