Me: Um...I don't know. There was kickball, and then that movie...
Him: Kickball, movie, putt-putt...
Me: Yeah. Wait, no. Kickball, movie, lunch, and then putt-putt. And then...
Him: Ethiopian food.
Me: Right. Ethiopian food makes five. Then hanging out with my friends at Shamrock makes six.
Him: So, seven.
Me: Yeah, I think tonight makes seven. I've started losing count, to be honest.
Him: Seven is a good number.
[long pause]
Him: You know what makes me more anxious than text messaging? The whole boyfriend-girlfriend conversation.
Me: Really? It's not that big of a deal. There's no rush.
Him: This is me barely scratching the surface of that conversation.
Me: Is that why we're counting dates?
Him: I don't know.
Me: You know what we used to call that in college? DTR.
Him: DTR?
Me: Define The Relationship.
Him: [laughs] I've never heard of that.
I am an idiot.
I literally almost get into a car accident every day thinking about "Jack." My mind simply cannot be bothered with both thinking about him and watching the road. And here I am, sitting on the couch with the man that has managed to make driving a hazardous activity for me, and instead of engaging in a serious conversation about us, I shrug off what is both obviously important and nerve-wracking for him with some stupid acronym.
In the moment, I took what he said for face value. I thought to myself, if this makes him anxious, let me make him less anxious by taking the pressure off. It's no big deal. I like him; he likes me. Why rush into labels? I mean, when he told me that he didn't like texting, I just started calling him instead.
Looking back, I'm not sure it's that simple. He brought up the number of dates out of nowhere. And then he brought up the relationship thing immediately afterwards, also out of nowhere. I'm beginning to think that it was his way of asking me to be his girlfriend, and I completely missed it. I mean, completely. There is a high probability that I am over-thinking it and adding intent where none was intended (I'm very good at this), but there's also a chance that I am incredibly obtuse and missed it. Aren't women supposed to be the intuitive ones? Clearly I suck at this.
Prior to the conversation on the couch, we were at his holiday work party. I changed at his house right after school, and we drove together to the bar, where I was characteristically quiet at first and then loosened up as the night went on. Maybe the shot and three beers I consumed on a mostly empty stomach helped with that, but either way, by the end of the night, I was petting the accountant's dog and accepting compliments from a gay patron that wanted me to come drink champagne with him at his nail salon. (I'm not even joking; I can't make this stuff up.) I met the boss. I took a shot with the team. I commiserated with one of his coworkers about unpleasant nicknames. And meanwhile, "Jack" introduced me to everyone with a "This is Rebekah," the ambiguity of which no doubt induced the couch talk.
With all of this serious almost-discussion about relationships, I decided sometime in the last 24 hours (probably while driving) that I'm going to tell my parents about him this week. I'm a little nervous. I haven't told them about a guy that I was dating since college, and that was only because that guy stayed at their house on a service trip and they already knew him. Also because he and I dated for a year and a half, and it becomes difficult to hide a boyfriend after a while, especially when you live at home every summer. But I'm also nervous because he doesn't look great on paper. My sister is marrying a guy with what seems to be a stable, well-paid job, and I'm dating a guy that has yet to finish college. But to quote Selena Gomez--something I never thought I'd do--the heart wants what the heart wants, and mine wants him. I suppose that they will come to see that. Or maybe they'll just be excited that their daughter isn't going to be single (and therefore childless) forever.
Luckily, my house renovation eats up most of my nervous energy, and so time that may have been spent harping over when to break the news to my parents and whether or not to tell them about Tinder is instead spent on the phone with contractors, trying to get the house into shape and managing tenant concerns. Or spent trying to remember why in the world I ever thought being a landlord was a good idea. And when I get too stressed out from all that, I fall back into daydreams about "Jack." The concurrence of my house closing and first date--within a day of each other--was a brilliant coincidence; I am so regularly engrossed and preoccupied by both that I can't be overwhelmed by either. Well, not too overwhelmed, anyway.
Thursday marks my 29th year on this planet, and the new year brings all sorts of possibilities. Last year at this time, I was unhappy with my job, single, feeling "stuck" in my social life, and planning on staying in the same house for the foreseeable future with my then-roommate. Life feels different this go-round, and it's the good kind of different. I feel better. I feel more me. My new gay, salon-owning friend said as much last night: "I was way happier at 30 than I was at 20, and at 40 than I was at 30, and at 50 than I was at 40. I wouldn't go back; I wouldn't go any younger than 45." Who knows? Maybe this time next year, as I'm days away from my thirtieth birthday, I'll be even happier, even more myself. I have no idea what my house will look like, or whether my male friend "Jack" will still be in the picture, but time will tell. And personally, I'm looking forward to seeing how things play out.
 |
| Not that I'm in love. Seven dates? That would be ridiculous. |
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