June 23, 2013

Incidentally, it’s two AM. 

And I’m feeling this strange feeling that I’m watching something minute and complicated implode.  Like the tiniest details in my life are spiraling wildly, chaotically, boringly into dense nothing, and suddenly, I’m feeling like I shouldn’t qualify as an adult anymore. 

Maybe I don’t. Somehow, a fight with my mother, a friend withholding information, and some pounds gained are making me question my innate identity and worth.  That’s it.  I’m doubting, doubting BIG, and those items – those tiny, infinitesimal things! - are pretty significant frontmen on the battlefield of dizzy confusion in my head. 

The good news, though?  This melee may have prompted some sort of emotionally exhausted breakthrough.  Like hope emerging from the recesses of Pandora’s box, I may have hit upon the crux of a really significant issue in the midst of the general madness escaping my subconscious.

You know, I’m fairly certain that my relationship evaluations have never really been about my actions, my thoughts, my words.  “Boys don’t want me,” I’ve long written on my personal assessment sheet.  “Boys aren’t interested in dating me long-term. Boys I want don’t want me back.”

In the midst of my current, minute crisis, however, I started asking myself how much I actually cared about these guys.  How I felt about these guys.  The things I thought of them.  And some simultaneously fascinating and disconcerting patterns began to emerge. 

I disdain men, to a certain extent.  Not all of them.  A fair percentage of single men, to be more accurate.  The married ones are permitted, in my head, to exist as fully fleshed-out human beings, completely capable of caring on a deeper level, of seeing me, in turn, as a dynamic, three-dimensional person.  Single men, however, with rare exceptions, present this bizarre, many-headed opponent, possibly entirely fabricated in my own delightful brain.  “Don’t mess with me.” I demand of them as a whole.  “Don’t assume you’re above me. Don’t think I’m not powerful, intelligent, tough, or whatever because I’m possessed of ovaries. And if you do, be prepared to be sliced to ribbons with words.”

There’s this sickly intoxicating thrill in knowing that even if I’m putting a guy off me – making him believe that he might choose goats first if we were the last two humans left on the planet – that he’s still coming away with the understanding that  I’m an equal.  A spitfire. A pistol. Even a deeply unpleasant harpy. Anyone but a person to be trifled with. 

I cringe over how rare it is for guys in a position to date me to truly care about me as a person, but considerably more damning is a question fully within my power to influence: how often have I truly cared about a guy I was in a position to date?

And there it is.  A question that strips my problems to terrifying nakedness. 

Let’s see... Randy? Chris? Grant? Stephen? Christian? All come with significant caveats. 

Randy was marvelous and awesome to me in record time.  As in ‘roids and blood transfusions kind of record time.

 It took me a good six months before I stopped calling Chris “ginger” 75% of the time I spoke to him. 

Grant was fascinating, and not just because he somehow voodooed me into an about-face from vaguely irritated disinterest to absolute captivation in a single. month’s. time. All while maintaining his own vague disinterest.

Stephen…well, Stephen has a boyfriend now, but also was a great human who was unknown amounts greater due to his hot guitar-playing, stupidly sexy singing, deeply irritating love of reading, and truly aggravatingly attractive face. 

Christian’s welfare always mattered to me like that of a brother; his sexual attractiveness spun gleefully from desk lamp to cute boy in sophomore English and back again, pulling me along in its inebriated wake; and his personal qualifications as a long-term interest presented a considerably more difficult word problem than any given in any calculus course I’ve ever taken.  

The real fact of it is, in harshest terms, it’s fairly possible that the only guy I’ve REALLY cared about,  in a call-me-when-you-need-me, foolishly, soul-baringly familial, flawed-human (based on well-documented experience)-with-divine-potential(also based on well-documented experience) sort of way is Christian.   

Why so rare?

Well, frankly, it’s because I’m still twelve years old.  It’s because every unattached guy I meet remains just a tiny bit the older brother who found me loud, angry, and repulsive, just the barest hint the boys who always teased and teased rough in elementary school, and ever the slightest whiff of the guys who forgot my existence in a school where our grade literally consisted of thirty people.  The guys I meet on a daily basis have absolutely no idea that through my eyes, they may well be guys who underestimate me, guys who think they’re better than me, and guys who prefer girls who are every kind of more than me.  However, what isn’t always crippled in my sense of reality is that among these are guys who are occasionally actually attracted to me. 

And that’s when I get dangerous.

The unfortunately interested male before me has no idea that he’s presented me with a sudden ability to set right injustices the existence of which he has never even considered, much less held responsibility for. Having him want me when I find him attractive is pure adrenaline, and watching him squirm when I come down hard on him a sweet vindication.  Knowing that I can make out with him and feel the exact level of empty hormones for him that he feels for me is a heady shot of potency. 

I can get drunk on the absinthe of unresolved and blithely ignored bitterness, and the intoxication almost lets me overlook the overpowering damage I do with every successive binge.  Meanwhile, the rising tide of the resulting hangover which seems only to build on itself threatens to swamp me the longer it goes unchecked.

Unpack your emotions, I always say.  Are you feeling angry? Mean? Unforgiving? Resentful? Ask yourself why.  The crazy miracle of life is that when you really understand those dully familiar demons, you understand that YOU are the person feeding every one of them, and most beautifully of all, you therefore can release yourself from every one of them. 

Granted, I can’t test this for every person in every life, but in my own, it’s applicable on what I would consider a statistically significant level.  That would be my own brand of statistical significance, which exists with absolutely no scientific basis. The fact is that so much of our own bad behavior comes back to inattention to our understanding of the situation.  MOST ESPECIALLY, our own smallness, cruelty, and negativity can almost always be traced to a reptilian response to perceived threats to our self-worth. 

And really, this – the same devil that I’ve fought twelve ways to Sunday - is here again.  I am kind, I am smart, I am loving, I am funny, I am loveable, but most unshakably of all: I am a child of God.  In dating, as everywhere else, the smallest things can make me forget the crucial importance of my own worth, and when I do, I stop acting in accordance with that worth.

If someone doesn’t respect me, my value doesn’t diminish.  If someone doesn’t think I’m smart, I don’t lose IQ points.  If someone doesn’t think I’m pretty, I can and will still be beautiful to someone else.  I’m enough.  I don’t need to demand that boys see that or else run home with figurative tails clamped securely between taut and terrified hamstrings.  I understand confidence as the ability to be brave enough to love myself. There’s a higher plane of confidence. That plane is peace – not spite, not sarcasm, and certainly not sass – in the face of those who don’t.      

Chris

Hey, haven’t legitimately spoken to you in almost an entire year, despite seeing you in about one class every school day through the duration of that year.  Now I’m going to write you this a-propos-of-just-about-nothing missive.  Ha ha I’m just going to own up to that awkwardness now, as well as the fact that I have no excuse for it.

There isn’t a particularly strong likelihood that I’ll ever see you again, a fact which allows me to write this without significant repercussions.  Even though I did the same the last time I said anything to you in person, I wanted to thank you one more time.  Yes, I’m going to say nice things about you and you are just going to deal.

The experience I had with you smoothed flaws I hadn’t previously been able to fix on my own.  It gave me a faith and optimism for relationships to match my overpowering cheeriness on the subject of just about everything else, a faith I really needed.  You know I didn’t know what it was like to have something real, and I’m forever going to owe you for being willing to try me under those circumstances.

I want to tell you that I did and still do think that you are incredibly giving, selfless when it matters, and unquestionably smarter than me.  I'm really happy I met you, and through you (funny old world, this one), Kate.   

Replies are difficult, so you don’t need to feel an obligation to send one.

Just….thanks, and good luck, with everything.

Spencer

There are many things I could say about you.  You are goofy.  Intelligent.  Competitive.  Optimistic.  You put me on a pedestal at a truly terrifying altitude, but I won't pretend that you don't have a practically daunting list of virtues. 

You remember the story, of course: you wrote the following lyrics (or something very similar, it's been over a year now and my memory is something short of eidetic) in my honor: 

"Why don't you come here?" She purred, 

Pressed up against the door

I know my jaw's supposed to drop,

But this is canned, she's done this before

[Was there something else here?  I feel like there was.  I'm really not sure.]

They say that love is blind, 

But I'd say one-night stands are more near-sighted.

Ha. Well, I suppose I can congratulate myself for making an impression?

I told you that we needed to cut off contact after you sent me this song, and you were immediately chagrined.  You wanted me to know you were sorry even though you couldn't apologize to me directly, and that concern is certainly to your credit, as were the flowers you sent.   

I wasn't actually angry, though. Ha, don't get me wrong, I definitely never imagined someone would bother to compose verse immortalizing me in quite that fashion, but concerned is a much more accurate adjective. A third song about me? Really? I mean, a grumpy song, but still. I was fine with us hanging out and talking, if you wanted to, but if you still cared enough to be lyrically annoyed and put that to paper, you needed some time without my presence, even my virtual presence, to get to a place of apathy.  

Remember your irritation with me when I bailed on some everyday plans to hang out, after our breakup? 

"So I'm really not going to see you today?" appeared on my phone, under your name.

"You'll be fine," I swyped back, returning my phone to my purse and continuing my conversation without a skipped beat.

Ha, I remember being quite taken aback at the texted lecture I received in reply - I could have just apologized, I was being really rude, deeply inconsiderate etc.  Hindsight is much clearer than my poor vision at the time, and now I can understand that that text was more insensitive than I then realized.  The evidence, however, would suggest that my throwaway non-apology was remarkably prescient.  

Congratulations on your wedding, man.  Your wife is ABSURDLY beautiful.  I've never met her, and almost definitely never will, but knowing you, I'm willing to bet that she's also extremely talented, intelligent, and possessed of a delightfully off-beat sense of humor.  Certainly, her blog and instagram speak for themselves as regards her artistic abilities, something I most definitely never brought to the table when you were seated at it. 

I would not be surprised to discover that if she knows of me at all, she knows of me as a less than wonderful human being. If we're being honest, I deserve that more than I'd like to admit. In fact, this merits an official apology, so let me issue one: I'm sincerely sorry for my behavior.  Selfish, reckless with your feelings, and then dismissive of the consequences of my actions?  I'm not proud of any of it.  

It's wonderful that you got into medical school, and wonderful that you married someone who by all accounts is truly extraordinary.  I wish that I hadn't estranged you enough to prevent ever hearing from you, because I know you and your wife are going to go take down the world with your wealth of combined talents and awesomeness.  You're grand.  I'm sorry I was not, as you knew me. 

Randy

You are a great story, you know that?  I rarely resist the temptation to tell people the entire sordid (not remotely sordid) tale from start to finish; meeting you, dating you, and then enjoying, as I still am, your continued radio silence.  That “great” holds no twinge of sarcasm, either; our minute history is funny, unusual, and a marvelous addition to my not-unimpressive quiver of romantic entanglements.

Things I wish to say.  Well, first, you’re under the impression that I was at best more into it than you were, and at worst, doodling your name and mine in little hearts on every available surface.  Haha. The latter has never been quite my style, I’m afraid, but the former is unfortunately accurate.  I would like to state for the defense, however, that my reaction and responses to you are considerably more unique in my history than you may realize.  I feel a childish petulance considering it even now.  Dude, I’m usually the cool girl.  I swear it.  I’m the one waving in the rear view mirror, having moved on without having first informed the guy reflected in it.  I break, and am not broken with, generally speaking. 

As I said, though, you are correct, I did possess the balance of liking.  To an extent, I appreciate your willingness to remove yourself from the equation once that became clear.  I know it must have been unnerving to have me texting you first.  Do me a favor, though, and take note of the following.   I was informed by a truly exceptional source that you needed a bit more push than the average guy.  The defense calls your attention to the fact that in direct answer to this quandary, the defendant was initiating text conversations no more than twice a week, conversations abandoned by the defendant after five to ten texts.  I fully understand that you weren’t into me, and that any level of effort beyond yours was therefore disconcerting.  The defense, however, demands of the jury to decide for themselves whether such actions can accurately be described as being particularly overwhelming or ill-advised. 

Further, it would make me feel better to make a point of the fact that I allowed your departure with no protest.  I understood it – even though it kind of sucked – and I did not follow you with texts or calls or visits demanding explanations or vindication or similar nonsense.  We made out that last time, your assertion that we see where things go ringing falsely in my ears, and following it to this very day, there has been no contact on either side.

I’d like to establish that I do understand, for the record.  I know why you left, and I’d have done the same.  However, I have notes on your departure.  When you are told in no uncertain terms that someone is interested, and you verbally indicate reciprocation, you do yourself and the lady in question a service to explain deviations from this status quo before ending contact.  Your approach, by contrast, was just kind of cowardly, man.  I can’t help feeling like you were simply afraid to be there when I found out that you didn’t like me.  Hey, in point of fact, I’m a tough kid.  I can handle it, and so can any future lady with whom you have similar confounding situations. I deserved at least a text informing me of your disinterest.  Your deafening silence does your legitimately good character no credit. 

Finally, I find myself wanting to defend the extent of my interest, an arguable nucleus for all of these thoughts.  I want you to understand that you are different.  Unfortunately, not in your exit, nor in the fact that our kisses were both early and casual.  You stand alone in your immediate and genuine appeal to me.  I crush hard on boys with abandon and without apparent discretion, but I like them for fairly inane reasons.  This one is hot, that one a musician, that one is funny, that one loves Neil Gaiman, that one rocks some deeply excellent style, that one is hot, etc.   You, however. You grabbed me with the person you were: levelheaded, legitimately compassionate, brilliantly intelligent, opinionated, but not insufferable.  I’ve been known to find these traits and fall in love with them many times over in the people of my life, but only after years of friendship. Never had someone shown me such undeniable evidence of being such a wonderful person so soon.  And I’ll be honest, I have often been guilty of missing the bad in people, but I have yet to be wrong about the good.  You discredit your good by extricating yourself in so depressingly high school a fashion, even from a dalliance as insignificant (and I do know that it was insignificant) as yours and mine was. 

I’m happy I got to know you, and I like to think that your behavior in these circumstances was as singular in your life as mine was for me – that your departure was a fluke, and not the rule in your relationships.  I know that you’re a wonderful person, and you have an absurdly bright future ahead.  Please go live it marvelously.