Be Mine

I'll admit, I've been remiss in writing about "Jack."  It's not that we've broken up, nor is it that I have nothing to share, it's just that I'm stumped as to how to go about writing about us.  Take, for example, this paragraph.  At the point that I am writing this sentence, I have written and rewritten this paragraph about four times.  I just can't seem to get the story started.

Let me backtrack and try to give you some context.  Maybe that'll help.

In December, we told our respective parents about each other.  My mom was simultaneously happy for me and unsure about whether or not I was talking about a guy.
Me: "I'm seeing someone."
Mom: "Like a male?"

His mom was another story.  Partially because I already knew her (added pressure!) and partially because I got very limited information about her reaction through "Jack."

Him: I told my mom.
Me:  What'd she say?
Him: She said she understands now why I didn't tell her about it before.

(WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???)

He told her around Christmas, and I passed on an opportunity to have dinner with him, his mom, and his grandparents right after that because I wasn't sure if she hated me or not.  I was dreading going back to school and having to face her there, but then she was out for the first week.  Initially, I felt relief, but the waiting became like a Sword of Damocles, hovering over my head, ready to drop and behead me with its Mother Bear blade at any moment.  It wasn't until mid-way through the second week back from break that I finally saw her at lunch.  I looked over at her.  And she was looking away.  I hovered in the area for a minute, still looking.  Still no eye contact.

She hates me, I thought.

I didn't share this with anyone, of course.  Because it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever thought, and I knew it even then.  But my reptilian brain had already kicked into overdrive and emotion had taken down reason with a one-two punch.

I retreated to my room, where I weighed the pros and cons of approaching her later in the day and setting things straight.  And by setting things straight, I mean pleading for her approval.  I decided on what I would say over the course of my planning period (finally settling on "Please don't hate me for dating your son!")  and continued mentally rehearsing intermittently until dismissal.  At which point I chickened out and left school early, hoping not to run into her.

The next day at lunch, I saw her again.  I looked over in her direction, hesitantly this time, and we made eye contact.  She smiled.  I pointed to her.

Me:  I should probably talk to you at some point.
Her: I should probably give you a hug at some point!
Me:  ...Do you want to give me a hug right now?
Her:  Yes.

I'm not even lying.  Those were our exact words.  And that hug lasted a long time.  When she finally let go, it was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.  The joyous realization sang in my head: She doesn't hate me!

She does occasionally get awkwardly excited to see me in the hallway, and she did stop me on Friday to ask me how things were going with "Jack."  And she did interrupt a conversation I was having with a guy in the bathroom line yesterday (I think she thought we were flirting; we weren't--well, I wasn't, anyway).  But knowing that she approves makes me feel a thousand times better.

"Jack" and I have made strides, too.  We've finally gotten to a point where--for better or for worse--we're a little more real with one another.  And more affectionate.  One of my sisters, my older brother, and my sister-in-law met him on Friday, and they had three reactions:

Brother: How OLD is he??  (He looks like a teenager)

Sister-in-law: You kiss every time you two see each other.  Sarah and I just noticed, that's all.

Brother: I don't like that he calls me "bro." A little presumptuous, don't you think?

I'm beginning to appreciate "Jack" more, too.  At first, I was really worried about the fact that we were different.  He's a vegan; I love a good leg of lamb.  He's not particularly observant, religiously-speaking; I'm a weekly church-goer.  He's got kind of weird interests and musical preferences; I like Taylor Swift and other vapid-slash-great pop music.  I worried, too, that he was insecure, and I wasn't sure how that would pan out between us.  I mean, I usually go for tall, muscular, confident men.  After three months of dating, though, I'm starting to realize that what I first thought was insecurity was actually consideration.  He's not lacking in confidence; he's just really sweet and thoughtful.

This is the first time I've ever dated someone like that.  And it's awesome.

This weekend, I saw him a lot because I was on the parade route close to his bar.  Every time I stopped by, for a drink or to use the bathroom, he would go out of his way to see me.  On Thursday night, he apologized for forgetting that this weekend was Valentine's Day.  "I'm not worried about it," I said.  "We'll do something fancy next week," he countered.  I was about to tell him that he didn't need to do that, but then I stopped myself.  Who am I to argue if he wants to treat me well?

We are officially boyfriend and girlfriend now, too.  It happened pretty naturally, mostly because everyone else started calling us that.  My friends refer to him as my boyfriend.  His friends introduce me to other people as his girlfriend.  And yesterday, when I went to use the bathroom at his bar, he tried to get me a pass when they stopped selling them: "I asked the owner for a wristband for my girlfriend, and he said to wait twenty minutes." (Jack's exact words)

And you know what, I like it.  I wasn't sure that the word would make any lick of difference in our relationship, but there's something to be said for putting a name to things.  It gives credibility amongst his/my friends, and with strangers, too.  Because that old saying "when it rains, it pours"?  Not a lie.  Just a couple of days ago, I was making conversation at "Jack"'s bar with the guy next to me.  He was friendly, and I like talking to strangers, so we were exchanging pleasantries while I waited for my drink.  As I went to leave, this guy's female friends stopped me. "He's a good looking guy, right?  You'd date him, right?"  I just smiled and shrugged. "If I weren't dating the bartender..."  To which the girls let out a loud "oh!!!!!" (like my students do when somebody gets dissed) and then laughed uproariously.  Poor guy.  But it made for a funny moment.

The truth is, I probably was talking flirtatiously with him without realizing it.  Prior to November, I'd been single (not including casual dating or short-term flings) for seven years.  More to point, I've been alive for 29 years, and I've been in a relationship for a total of less than two of them.  Eventually, you get used to being single, and you develop certain habits.  So even though I already have a boyfriend, I find myself looking around at guys anyway: "Hmm, he's cute.  I wonder if he's single."

I have no doubt, though, that at some point, I'll clue in and shed my old single ways.  Sunday, I found myself looking at a really attractive guy and thinking, no way he's as sweet as "Jack."  I mean, that's progress, right?