I will preface this with the admission that I have not read the book whose name inspired this post, nor have I even watched the full presentation by its writer, Benjamin Zander. The short clips I have watched, however, have resonated with me. And I wanted to share with you.
Today at school, we had a full day of professional development. As usual, some of it was incredibly boring and pointless, and some of it hit home and altered my thinking. Zander's clips were in the latter of the groups (as was an activity where we made a clown out of torn paper, but that's another story for another time).
In the first clip (accidentally shown to us, but which I went back later and watched in full), Zander explains how there are two major modes of thinking when it comes to possibility. There are the downward-spiral thinkers, those that see possibility as something happened upon by chance. And there are those who expect possibility, for whom "possibility is the norm." The optimists and opportunists, if you will. He describes the difference with a story. Two men from a shoe company go to Africa. One comes back saying, "This is terrible; they don't wear shoes." The other comes back saying, "This is glorious! They don't wear any shoes!"
The second clip I watched (the one the presenter was trying to show) was about our ability to inspire possibility in others. Benjamin Zander is an orchestral conductor. He creates the possibility for amazing music, though he himself doesn't make a sound. He instead empowers those who do to make great music.
I was supposed to take these things and integrate them into my understanding of myself as a teacher, and I did. But I also thought about myself as a person, separate from teaching. Do I see possibility as something inherent and empowering?
The thing is, sometimes I'm not so sure that I do. If I think about my past romantic relationships, as an example, I generally assume that things are doomed from the start. Sure, I allow myself a small glimmer of hope at the start: wishing, wondering, imagining. But as I invest in a relationship, I find myself pushing away from hope and possibility. To put it plainly (and illogically), I don't want to jinx it. And I don't want to be hurt by it. Possibility does not guarantee a specific outcome. It is simply the opportunity for change. But when I think about a future with someone, I'm terrified that because I thought about it, it won't happen and I'll be hurt. On the other hand, self-preservation is lonely, and it hasn't served me well yet.
I'm trying not to be a "downward-spiral thinker" with B. Because he's great and I like him. And there's possibility.
He met my family on Monday. He was a little nervous about it (understandably), but he came to my mom's birthday dinner anyway. "My family's nice," I told him. "You don't have to worry." Normally when people come over, we're pretty tame, but everyone was firing on all cylinders that night, and he got a taste of real family dinners at my house. There was a lot of teasing. There were some bad puns. A few people almost spit out their food/drink. It was fun--by my standards--and he hasn't broken up with me yet, so the family insanity can't have put him off completely. Phew!
This afternoon, after the professional development sessions let out, I met with my financial advisor to sign a few documents. We started off discussing my insurance policies, and we ended up talking about how long I'll be at my current job. He ended the conversation with, "Well, if you ever end up leaving teaching, let me know, and I'll get you an interview." "I don't know if I'd be good at finance," I told him. "You're patient," he said. "You can learn everything else during training."
I didn't say it, but I'm not sure I'd like finance. I'm not sure that I would buy into it completely, and as such, I don't know that I'd do a great job. But I worry about that in teaching sometimes, too. There are strategies and trends that we're encouraged to implement that I have a hard time doing because I simply can't invest. If I don't believe in it, I have a hard time doing it.
Teaching has made me a little cynical. Maybe cynical's not the right word. Teaching (and age) has made me more careful with my time and effort. And it's made me snarky. Definitely snarky.
Luckily, the prescription for a suffering attitude is summer, and I'm extremely grateful that it's only two days away. There, at the finish line, waits a plane on the tarmac for me, whisking me away to a short but much-anticipated weekend with one of my best friends from college in Charleston. If this trip is anything like our past adventures, we will talk non-stop, drink and eat a lot, and mourn the moment where we have to leave again. She lives in Virginia. Why is Virginia so far away?
Despite my snark, I'm getting a bonus in June (Thank you, higher ups!). So maybe I'll make it to a few far away places, yet. The possibilities are endless.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Nearly Done, Getting Great
The end of the year is upon us. It cannot come fast enough.
Someone described it to me best in this way. "It's like when you're driving and you really have to pee. When the next bathroom is 15 miles away, you think, 'No problem, I can hold it,' and the time passes pretty quickly. But that last mile? All you can think about is waterfalls and rainstorms and the need for relief."
I recognize that there will be people who read this and think, "At least you get a summer vacation!" And they're right. I could go on and on about how bad the kids are this time of year and how the teachers need summer and how it is fair in its own complicated way. But I'd rather not excuse away the pleasure of summer. It is not something I necessarily deserve; it is a gift for which I am incredibly grateful.
B sent me a podcast yesterday called "Lazy: A Manifesto," which was essentially a sneak peek at a book by that title. The first chapter, shared in the podcast, was devoted to recognizing the merits of doing a little less and exposing our go-to status of "busy" for what it really is: a "boastful complaint," an opportunity to avoid being alone with ourselves.
I am one of these "busy" people, and as this writer wisely points out, it is a condition of my own creation. People who work back-to-back shifts or multiple jobs, they're not busy, he says; they're tired. Me, I'm busy. In a job that prides itself in its varying degrees of masochism and which encourages long hours, I am already short on time. But add to that my numerous and ever-changing hobbies, and all I'm left with is a couple of unfilled waking hours every other day.
Needless to say, this makes dating hard. The last guy made his subtle complaints. "I work too much; you have too many hobbies," he said when we broke up. My coach and I talked about it this past Sunday, too. I told him I wanted to train on a different day during the summer, so I could spend more time with B on his only day off. "That's great that you're back in the dating scene," he said. "...One day I'll be ready." He waved his hand out over the sand courts in front of us. "I just have to find someone who's okay with this."
So far, B doesn't seem to mind my volleyball obsession. I think that's due in part to the fact that he's usually working when I'm playing, but it also has to do with his own ambition, his own search for excellence. At one point last week, we were going through movies on Amazon, and we ran across the movie Whiplash, a film that takes up certain questions of greatness: what does it mean to be great, what does it take to be great, what does it cost to be great. In the process of describing the movie to him, we ended up trying to answer those questions ourselves, particularly the last one. "I made a decision in high school to choose happiness over greatness," I told him. And it's true. At NOCCA, we read the works of so many amazing writers whose lives were at best dysfunctional and at worst miserable, even suicidal. I don't want that for myself--I want to be happy--but I also want to write, and write well.
The thing is, science has shown that dysfunction and disorganization breed creativity. That is, it's harder to see things a new way when they're in working order. I read about it recently in my favorite blog, Barking Up the Wrong Tree. "Ideas," it says, "need to be sloshing around or crashing into one another to produce breakthroughs."
I suppose this is why I'll never be a great innovator; I like order to a fault. (Though you wouldn't know that looking at my bedroom.)
But I do want to be great. I want to be a great daughter and sister and aunt and friend and mother/wife (eventually). I want to be a great volleyball player--maybe not Kerri Walsh great, but good enough to compete with the local best. I want to be a great teacher.
Friday ends my seventh year of teaching. I find it hard to believe that seven years have already passed. I find it hard to believe that I am almost as experienced as the teacher I interned under in student teaching. Experience creeps up on you, I suppose. Perhaps greatness does, too.
I am not looking for the kind of greatness that overwhelms the world; I'm looking to do the ordinary things well, to impact the lives of my students positively, however I can. And, at least according to these recent student notes, I'm doing alright.
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thank you for being the greatest teacher ever. You taught me so much. I loved doing the article shares you made us do. I learned so much about space. I liked your labs and projects a lot, such as being Teacher for a Day (TFAD). That was really fun. I think Innovation Month was the top lab. It's so fun. I also love the fact that you gave us one--that's 1 not 2, 1--question for HOMEWORK. Thank you for being a great teacher. I will always remember your class.
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thank you for being such an amazing teacher for my 4th and 5th grade years. I am really going to miss you next year and when I'm in science I will be thinking about you. I will really miss your "serious humor."* Overall, you have been an amazing teacher and I will really miss you.
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thanks for teaching me science for 2 years, putting up with me, and making class fun. It was a pleasure to be in your class, and I hope to see you after 5th grade!
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thank you for being a great teacher and a friend. By teaching us feet to toes so we can learn about cells to limozones.** From cell to tree so we can't be beat. From sweat to meet you are the best teacher ever. I wish you can teach us next year, Ms Olinde. (sic)
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thank you for teaching me science from fourth to fifth grade. You are nice, funny, and a fantastic teacher. I have learned a bunch from you that I doubt I would have learned from any other teacher. You have great control of the class as well. I know how annoying the boys can be. I hope to see you again at the middle school when you bring next year's fifth graders to the big school. Thanks again.
Dear Ms Olinde,
I will miss you so much going to middle school. I wish I could have you again and again. I have had a really fun time learning about all the cool scientific things in your class. I hope you feel very appreciated!
Dear Ms Olinde,
I would like to tell you how great a teacher you were this year. Science is my favorite subject, and I think you greatly contributed to that.
Also, this one, written as advice to the rising 4th graders:
Dear new fourth graders,
You are meeting Ms. Olinde. She is very nice. And helps out in tricky problems. Also, she is smart and sarcastic (a little).***
ps. Say hi for me!
*What does this mean??
**I think this is supposed to be lysosomes.
***This is B's favorite note. He likes to reference it when I get a little glib.
Someone described it to me best in this way. "It's like when you're driving and you really have to pee. When the next bathroom is 15 miles away, you think, 'No problem, I can hold it,' and the time passes pretty quickly. But that last mile? All you can think about is waterfalls and rainstorms and the need for relief."
I recognize that there will be people who read this and think, "At least you get a summer vacation!" And they're right. I could go on and on about how bad the kids are this time of year and how the teachers need summer and how it is fair in its own complicated way. But I'd rather not excuse away the pleasure of summer. It is not something I necessarily deserve; it is a gift for which I am incredibly grateful.
B sent me a podcast yesterday called "Lazy: A Manifesto," which was essentially a sneak peek at a book by that title. The first chapter, shared in the podcast, was devoted to recognizing the merits of doing a little less and exposing our go-to status of "busy" for what it really is: a "boastful complaint," an opportunity to avoid being alone with ourselves.
I am one of these "busy" people, and as this writer wisely points out, it is a condition of my own creation. People who work back-to-back shifts or multiple jobs, they're not busy, he says; they're tired. Me, I'm busy. In a job that prides itself in its varying degrees of masochism and which encourages long hours, I am already short on time. But add to that my numerous and ever-changing hobbies, and all I'm left with is a couple of unfilled waking hours every other day.
Needless to say, this makes dating hard. The last guy made his subtle complaints. "I work too much; you have too many hobbies," he said when we broke up. My coach and I talked about it this past Sunday, too. I told him I wanted to train on a different day during the summer, so I could spend more time with B on his only day off. "That's great that you're back in the dating scene," he said. "...One day I'll be ready." He waved his hand out over the sand courts in front of us. "I just have to find someone who's okay with this."
So far, B doesn't seem to mind my volleyball obsession. I think that's due in part to the fact that he's usually working when I'm playing, but it also has to do with his own ambition, his own search for excellence. At one point last week, we were going through movies on Amazon, and we ran across the movie Whiplash, a film that takes up certain questions of greatness: what does it mean to be great, what does it take to be great, what does it cost to be great. In the process of describing the movie to him, we ended up trying to answer those questions ourselves, particularly the last one. "I made a decision in high school to choose happiness over greatness," I told him. And it's true. At NOCCA, we read the works of so many amazing writers whose lives were at best dysfunctional and at worst miserable, even suicidal. I don't want that for myself--I want to be happy--but I also want to write, and write well.
The thing is, science has shown that dysfunction and disorganization breed creativity. That is, it's harder to see things a new way when they're in working order. I read about it recently in my favorite blog, Barking Up the Wrong Tree. "Ideas," it says, "need to be sloshing around or crashing into one another to produce breakthroughs."
I suppose this is why I'll never be a great innovator; I like order to a fault. (Though you wouldn't know that looking at my bedroom.)
But I do want to be great. I want to be a great daughter and sister and aunt and friend and mother/wife (eventually). I want to be a great volleyball player--maybe not Kerri Walsh great, but good enough to compete with the local best. I want to be a great teacher.
Friday ends my seventh year of teaching. I find it hard to believe that seven years have already passed. I find it hard to believe that I am almost as experienced as the teacher I interned under in student teaching. Experience creeps up on you, I suppose. Perhaps greatness does, too.
I am not looking for the kind of greatness that overwhelms the world; I'm looking to do the ordinary things well, to impact the lives of my students positively, however I can. And, at least according to these recent student notes, I'm doing alright.
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thank you for being the greatest teacher ever. You taught me so much. I loved doing the article shares you made us do. I learned so much about space. I liked your labs and projects a lot, such as being Teacher for a Day (TFAD). That was really fun. I think Innovation Month was the top lab. It's so fun. I also love the fact that you gave us one--that's 1 not 2, 1--question for HOMEWORK. Thank you for being a great teacher. I will always remember your class.
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thank you for being such an amazing teacher for my 4th and 5th grade years. I am really going to miss you next year and when I'm in science I will be thinking about you. I will really miss your "serious humor."* Overall, you have been an amazing teacher and I will really miss you.
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thanks for teaching me science for 2 years, putting up with me, and making class fun. It was a pleasure to be in your class, and I hope to see you after 5th grade!
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thank you for being a great teacher and a friend. By teaching us feet to toes so we can learn about cells to limozones.** From cell to tree so we can't be beat. From sweat to meet you are the best teacher ever. I wish you can teach us next year, Ms Olinde. (sic)
Dear Ms Olinde,
Thank you for teaching me science from fourth to fifth grade. You are nice, funny, and a fantastic teacher. I have learned a bunch from you that I doubt I would have learned from any other teacher. You have great control of the class as well. I know how annoying the boys can be. I hope to see you again at the middle school when you bring next year's fifth graders to the big school. Thanks again.
Dear Ms Olinde,
I will miss you so much going to middle school. I wish I could have you again and again. I have had a really fun time learning about all the cool scientific things in your class. I hope you feel very appreciated!
Dear Ms Olinde,
I would like to tell you how great a teacher you were this year. Science is my favorite subject, and I think you greatly contributed to that.
Also, this one, written as advice to the rising 4th graders:
Dear new fourth graders,
You are meeting Ms. Olinde. She is very nice. And helps out in tricky problems. Also, she is smart and sarcastic (a little).***
ps. Say hi for me!
*What does this mean??
**I think this is supposed to be lysosomes.
***This is B's favorite note. He likes to reference it when I get a little glib.
Monday, May 11, 2015
One Step Back, Three Steps Forward
Friday morning, in the midst of Blog-gate, I sent out an email to some friends to share the new password with them. I got back a variety of responses, but the majority of the notes sent to me were adamantly optimistic. In the all-encompassing, self-pitying mortification of that morning, I somehow hadn't expected optimism. Which means I desperately needed to hear it.
"I imagine it doesn't feel great right now," one friend wrote, "but who knows what kind of wonderful outcomes it could bring along."
"I think something good will come from this..." another friend wrote.
(Before I move on, I want to say thank you to all of you. I consider it an enormous blessing to be constantly surrounded by friends, family, and readers as supportive as you.)
I was a wreck on Friday, better Friday night, and a wreck again Saturday afternoon. I couldn't seem to convince myself to move past the embarrassment and insecurity. I was so sure everything was ruined that my number one thought was not how to move forward, but whether or not it would be easier to just throw in the towel.
It wasn't until Saturday evening that I'd had enough of myself, realizing how stubbornly sad and half-heartedly irrational I was being, and I ended up calling my therapist to get a little sense thrown at me.
It's all in your head, she told me. Stop letting it play over and over again. Either challenge the thought or stop thinking about it.
So, I challenged my own insecurity. Earlier that morning at volleyball, someone had said to me in response to my last blog post, "You're a Christian, right? Look, God's got it taken care of. It's going to turn out the way he's got planned. Trust me, I've tried to f*** it up multiple times, but He just wasn't having it."
Hearing those words that morning had had little effect, but thinking about them again that evening set me straight. Sometimes I forget that I'm not the big picture. Sometimes I forget that there's someone greater than me who has my back.
I consider myself a fairly religious person--a regular church-goer and someone who aspires to love and serve others--but in everyday life, I tend to lose a lot of the context that frames that effort. I tend to forget why I spend 3-4 hours a week at mass or choir, why I end each day with a prayer of gratitude and a short reading from the Bible. I tend to forget to give Him credit, on small and large things alike. And with that forgetfulness comes an uncertain trust.
"Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe."
"Reach here with your finger, and see My hands; and reach here your hand and put it into My side; and do not be unbelieving, but believing."
"My Lord and my God!"
So from here on out, you might not read that much about me and B. I imagine his name will appear from time to time, but the personal stuff between us isn't really mine to share. It's ours, and I expect it's better kept that way. Because trust and intimacy matter, and I want him to be able to trust me.
Plus, his jokes about release forms are getting old.
"I imagine it doesn't feel great right now," one friend wrote, "but who knows what kind of wonderful outcomes it could bring along."
"I think something good will come from this..." another friend wrote.
(Before I move on, I want to say thank you to all of you. I consider it an enormous blessing to be constantly surrounded by friends, family, and readers as supportive as you.)
I was a wreck on Friday, better Friday night, and a wreck again Saturday afternoon. I couldn't seem to convince myself to move past the embarrassment and insecurity. I was so sure everything was ruined that my number one thought was not how to move forward, but whether or not it would be easier to just throw in the towel.
It wasn't until Saturday evening that I'd had enough of myself, realizing how stubbornly sad and half-heartedly irrational I was being, and I ended up calling my therapist to get a little sense thrown at me.
It's all in your head, she told me. Stop letting it play over and over again. Either challenge the thought or stop thinking about it.
So, I challenged my own insecurity. Earlier that morning at volleyball, someone had said to me in response to my last blog post, "You're a Christian, right? Look, God's got it taken care of. It's going to turn out the way he's got planned. Trust me, I've tried to f*** it up multiple times, but He just wasn't having it."
Hearing those words that morning had had little effect, but thinking about them again that evening set me straight. Sometimes I forget that I'm not the big picture. Sometimes I forget that there's someone greater than me who has my back.
I consider myself a fairly religious person--a regular church-goer and someone who aspires to love and serve others--but in everyday life, I tend to lose a lot of the context that frames that effort. I tend to forget why I spend 3-4 hours a week at mass or choir, why I end each day with a prayer of gratitude and a short reading from the Bible. I tend to forget to give Him credit, on small and large things alike. And with that forgetfulness comes an uncertain trust.
"Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe."
"Reach here with your finger, and see My hands; and reach here your hand and put it into My side; and do not be unbelieving, but believing."
"My Lord and my God!"
Doubting is my default mode. I worry. I fret. I consider and reconsider and consider again. I hesitate to let people take care of me. I hesitate to let go of things that matter.
Trust in romantic relationships seems to work in much the same way. B and I are just getting to know each other, but after hours and hours of talking about ourselves and the Big Life Things that we've experienced, I'm starting to trust. Not so much trust that he is who he says he is (though we joke about that), but trust that we're on the same page. Trust that he won't break my heart. Well, not yet, anyway.
It turns out that Blog-gate might actually have been a good thing, just as my friends had thought. For one, B now knows unequivocally that I like him (I mean, I told him, but he really knows now). More importantly, it got us talking about all sorts of things we might have been otherwise too nervous to say.
It also opened the door (Get it? Blog-gate) to both a discussion between us and a personal reflection on my own about the purpose of this blog and what I'm trying to achieve in writing about my life. Sure, it's a practice in openness, but it is most importantly a testament to the people and events in my life that have brought me to where I am. "I want to respect the people that show up in my blog," I told him. "Normally, respecting people's boundaries isn't an issue." And that's true. My friend "Edgar" has repeatedly mentioned that he wouldn't mind seeing his name show up in the blog at one point or another, and my friend Mick (who requires no quotation marks) usually jovially curses at me via Facebook comment every time his name appears. People tend to like it.
I'm beginning to realize, though, that B and I are a different story. This is not smack talk on the volleyball court or friendly advice. These are deep and intimate conversations. We're being open, just not with the outside world.
It's a new thing for me, opening myself up to one specific person. It's pretty scary, and with the little experience I have in mature and serious relationships, it might take me a while to get good at it. But it's also exciting, and satisfying. It's like having an inside joke, but even better. Like an inside pun.
So from here on out, you might not read that much about me and B. I imagine his name will appear from time to time, but the personal stuff between us isn't really mine to share. It's ours, and I expect it's better kept that way. Because trust and intimacy matter, and I want him to be able to trust me.
Plus, his jokes about release forms are getting old.
Friday, May 8, 2015
The Other Shoe
Last night, after going out to see the most recent Avengers movie with his roommate, B and I sat on his bed. We talked for a little while about the movie, about stuff that had happened that day, the usual. And then, the not so usual.
"I have to tell you something," he said out of nowhere.
"Okay..." I answered back, a little worried. A little hopeful?
"It's not a bad thing," he said.
"Just tell me," I answered back, just worried now.
"I know about your blog."
"Please tell me you didn't read it," I said, desperately.
He just looked at me.
"Oh my god," I said. "Oh my god, no. Oh no." I couldn't look at him. "How much did you read?"
"All the ones about me. And a few more."
"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god." I clung my hands to my face in utter mortification. "Oh my god."
"No, no," he said, pulling my hands back. "Don't do that."
I finally calmed down enough to keep my hands away from my face. I stared at the ceiling instead.
"You know everything," I said. "Oh my god."
His ex-girlfriend had found the blog somehow, and she'd sent him the link.
All of that work. All of that work at being open and letting myself be vulnerable. All that work at being honest in my writing. I felt exposed. I couldn't even fathom touching the subject of his ex-girlfriend. I couldn't be mad or disappointed or sad because I couldn't get past the fact that he knew everything.
My blog is like a public diary. It is the most honest I will ever be with others about who I am, how I'm feeling, and what matters to me. And over the last nine months, it has become an integral part of me and how I process daily living. When I found out that the blog wasn't safe anymore, I wanted to write something to help me work it through, but I couldn't. Because it wasn't safe.
He responded as well as any guy might to stumbling upon sappy writing about himself.
No, that's not fair. He responded better than I'd hoped. "You didn't write anything in your blog that I hadn't thought myself," he said. "I think you're amazing." He kissed me.
I didn't say anything. I was stuck, staring at the wall. He continued. "I have thought more about picking up my guitar again and song-writing since meeting you last week than I have in the last year."
I didn't say anything. He continued. "You're a great writer, and I admire how open you are. I need to be more open."
But he balked, too. "If you keep posting, she'll keep reading. And I want what's between us to stay between us. I don't want her to be involved."
In my state of shock, I could only take deep breaths and calm myself.
"I think I'm just scared," I said.
He looked at me seriously.
"You think I'm not scared, too?"
I eventually got past "Oh my god" and moved on to trying to rebalance the scales. "You know way more about me than I know about you now," I said.
"Ask me anything," he replied.
So we talked about personal history and family and movies and fears and the stuff you want to talk about with a guy about when you're just getting to know him.
But I still couldn't get past it.
"Oh my god," I stopped at one point. "I can't believe you read my blog. You just waded through a sea of compliments."
"Don't worry," he said. "I won't let it get to my head."
This morning, the state of shock hadn't worn off. I left my house early and sat out at the lakefront for a few minutes, trying to sort things out. Trying to understand how I'd ever get back my feet back under me. He knew everything.
I walked into a coworker's room this morning, and I stopped her in whatever she was doing. "He read the blog," I said, "and I didn't show him." "Oh no," she said. "I don't know what I'm going to do," I said.
She suggested a password, and she was right. It was the best option. I googled the how-to and put one in place immediately.
I think that's when the hurt set in. The blog was never meant to be about privacy. I've always tried to write in a way that protected the people that made their way onto the page, but it was always about openness and honesty and engagement. I had never thought that it would cause problems. I had never considered that someone might read it and use it against me. I always figured the worst that could happen would be that my mom would read it and find out that I make out with strangers and use curse words when she's not around. Maybe that makes me naive; I don't know.
During first period today, someone who knows his ex-girlfriend texted me. She'd seen my post on facebook about the new password protection. "Hey can u give me a call when u get a sec?" she wrote. I was with kids, though, so I just texted back to call me later.
In second period, after I'd finished all my grading and while my students built wooden towers and circuits on their own, I went back to read the blog. Or rather, to re-read the blog through the eyes of B. What had he learned that I didn't want him to know, or to know yet?
I'd written unequivocally about how I felt about him. I'd written about marriage (oh my god). I'd written about that Tinder guy who was at the grill-out at his house. I'd mentioned my therapist. And my ex-boyfriend. And I'd revealed my own deep insecurities about how he felt about me.
"Oh my god," I said under my breath as I read.
By lunch time, I wasn't shocked any more. I was just hurt. And sad. I felt like I'd been stripped and punched in the stomach a few times. Because I love my blog. It is a small and inadequate representation of myself, but it is something I have become increasingly attached to and proud of. And now my blog has been restricted, censored. It's been reduced to an email newsletter of sorts. It was never supposed to be that way. I was never supposed to be that way.
The kids were ten minutes late to recess, and I spent those ten minutes on a bench in the front of the school, wiping tears from my face. Things with him wouldn't be the same--maybe better, maybe worse--but the blog could only be worse. I loved getting emails and comments from random Facebook friends out of the blue, and that can't happen anymore. There's nothing open or random about it with a password. It's a private diary now. That still has merit, but it's not the same.
I pulled myself together for the last two hours of school, and then I promptly got in my car, drove home, laid on my bed, and cried. And cried. And cried.
B and I texted back and forth, and it's hurting him, too.
"It hurts. All of this," I typed. "I don't understand why a girl I've never met would go out of her way to make my life a little harder. I don't want you to feel sorry for me or feel bad for telling me, though. I'm glad you were honest."
"I felt between a rock and a hard place," he replied. "And I imagine that's how you feel. But something was taken away from you, and it wouldn't have been if I wasn't around. That doesn't make me feel good."
I didn't know what to say. How do you explain to someone you've only just met that you wouldn't wish him to go away for the world--not if the blog could get a million hits a day--but that you really miss the way the blog was. That you feel the loss somewhere in the pit of your stomach. That you cannot choose, and you cannot win.
At that point, he had to go. He was at work, and work needed him.
In the end, I don't know what to do. I suppose I'll keep writing, and hope you'll keep reading. If you know someone that might like the blog, let me know, and I'll send them the password.
And pray that I come out of this better. Pray that it doesn't kill a good thing. Because I really, really like him.
"I have to tell you something," he said out of nowhere.
"Okay..." I answered back, a little worried. A little hopeful?
"It's not a bad thing," he said.
"Just tell me," I answered back, just worried now.
"I know about your blog."
"Please tell me you didn't read it," I said, desperately.
He just looked at me.
"Oh my god," I said. "Oh my god, no. Oh no." I couldn't look at him. "How much did you read?"
"All the ones about me. And a few more."
"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god." I clung my hands to my face in utter mortification. "Oh my god."
"No, no," he said, pulling my hands back. "Don't do that."
I finally calmed down enough to keep my hands away from my face. I stared at the ceiling instead.
"You know everything," I said. "Oh my god."
His ex-girlfriend had found the blog somehow, and she'd sent him the link.
All of that work. All of that work at being open and letting myself be vulnerable. All that work at being honest in my writing. I felt exposed. I couldn't even fathom touching the subject of his ex-girlfriend. I couldn't be mad or disappointed or sad because I couldn't get past the fact that he knew everything.
My blog is like a public diary. It is the most honest I will ever be with others about who I am, how I'm feeling, and what matters to me. And over the last nine months, it has become an integral part of me and how I process daily living. When I found out that the blog wasn't safe anymore, I wanted to write something to help me work it through, but I couldn't. Because it wasn't safe.
He responded as well as any guy might to stumbling upon sappy writing about himself.
No, that's not fair. He responded better than I'd hoped. "You didn't write anything in your blog that I hadn't thought myself," he said. "I think you're amazing." He kissed me.
I didn't say anything. I was stuck, staring at the wall. He continued. "I have thought more about picking up my guitar again and song-writing since meeting you last week than I have in the last year."
I didn't say anything. He continued. "You're a great writer, and I admire how open you are. I need to be more open."
But he balked, too. "If you keep posting, she'll keep reading. And I want what's between us to stay between us. I don't want her to be involved."
In my state of shock, I could only take deep breaths and calm myself.
"I think I'm just scared," I said.
He looked at me seriously.
"You think I'm not scared, too?"
I eventually got past "Oh my god" and moved on to trying to rebalance the scales. "You know way more about me than I know about you now," I said.
"Ask me anything," he replied.
So we talked about personal history and family and movies and fears and the stuff you want to talk about with a guy about when you're just getting to know him.
But I still couldn't get past it.
"Oh my god," I stopped at one point. "I can't believe you read my blog. You just waded through a sea of compliments."
"Don't worry," he said. "I won't let it get to my head."
This morning, the state of shock hadn't worn off. I left my house early and sat out at the lakefront for a few minutes, trying to sort things out. Trying to understand how I'd ever get back my feet back under me. He knew everything.
I walked into a coworker's room this morning, and I stopped her in whatever she was doing. "He read the blog," I said, "and I didn't show him." "Oh no," she said. "I don't know what I'm going to do," I said.
She suggested a password, and she was right. It was the best option. I googled the how-to and put one in place immediately.
I think that's when the hurt set in. The blog was never meant to be about privacy. I've always tried to write in a way that protected the people that made their way onto the page, but it was always about openness and honesty and engagement. I had never thought that it would cause problems. I had never considered that someone might read it and use it against me. I always figured the worst that could happen would be that my mom would read it and find out that I make out with strangers and use curse words when she's not around. Maybe that makes me naive; I don't know.
During first period today, someone who knows his ex-girlfriend texted me. She'd seen my post on facebook about the new password protection. "Hey can u give me a call when u get a sec?" she wrote. I was with kids, though, so I just texted back to call me later.
In second period, after I'd finished all my grading and while my students built wooden towers and circuits on their own, I went back to read the blog. Or rather, to re-read the blog through the eyes of B. What had he learned that I didn't want him to know, or to know yet?
I'd written unequivocally about how I felt about him. I'd written about marriage (oh my god). I'd written about that Tinder guy who was at the grill-out at his house. I'd mentioned my therapist. And my ex-boyfriend. And I'd revealed my own deep insecurities about how he felt about me.
"Oh my god," I said under my breath as I read.
By lunch time, I wasn't shocked any more. I was just hurt. And sad. I felt like I'd been stripped and punched in the stomach a few times. Because I love my blog. It is a small and inadequate representation of myself, but it is something I have become increasingly attached to and proud of. And now my blog has been restricted, censored. It's been reduced to an email newsletter of sorts. It was never supposed to be that way. I was never supposed to be that way.
The kids were ten minutes late to recess, and I spent those ten minutes on a bench in the front of the school, wiping tears from my face. Things with him wouldn't be the same--maybe better, maybe worse--but the blog could only be worse. I loved getting emails and comments from random Facebook friends out of the blue, and that can't happen anymore. There's nothing open or random about it with a password. It's a private diary now. That still has merit, but it's not the same.
I pulled myself together for the last two hours of school, and then I promptly got in my car, drove home, laid on my bed, and cried. And cried. And cried.
B and I texted back and forth, and it's hurting him, too.
"It hurts. All of this," I typed. "I don't understand why a girl I've never met would go out of her way to make my life a little harder. I don't want you to feel sorry for me or feel bad for telling me, though. I'm glad you were honest."
"I felt between a rock and a hard place," he replied. "And I imagine that's how you feel. But something was taken away from you, and it wouldn't have been if I wasn't around. That doesn't make me feel good."
I didn't know what to say. How do you explain to someone you've only just met that you wouldn't wish him to go away for the world--not if the blog could get a million hits a day--but that you really miss the way the blog was. That you feel the loss somewhere in the pit of your stomach. That you cannot choose, and you cannot win.
At that point, he had to go. He was at work, and work needed him.
In the end, I don't know what to do. I suppose I'll keep writing, and hope you'll keep reading. If you know someone that might like the blog, let me know, and I'll send them the password.
And pray that I come out of this better. Pray that it doesn't kill a good thing. Because I really, really like him.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
All the Time in the World
I did end up seeing him Sunday night, despite what I said in my last post. In fact, I stayed over until almost midnight, at which point everyone else had left and we were laying in his bed, falling asleep in each others' arms.
"I can't stay," I whispered.
"Five more minutes," he murmured sleepily and pulled me tighter.
Sunday night was the first time I'd met any of B's friends other than his roommate. There weren't that many people that came over to his house for their grill-out that night, but it was still my first real introduction to his world and their first real introduction to me. I liked them, but I was more excited by how comfortable they allowed me to feel. They seemed to like me, too, but I didn't talk much--I mostly listened--and sometimes that unnerves people.
I am the social equivalent of a tightrope walker. No matter how easy or terrifyingly difficult the situation, no matter how confident or insecure, I keep a slow and steady pace. I like to respect the inertia of friend groups and social circles; I step lightly at first. I ease myself in. Usually, I approach relationships in much the same way.
But I saw B last Saturday and last Monday and last Thursday and this past Saturday and this past Sunday and this past Monday, and in all likelihood, I'll see him again tomorrow. In fact, if it weren't for my volleyball and choir obligations and his late nights at work on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, we'd probably be seeing each other even more. Which excites me. And makes me nervous.
A wonderful friend of mine emailed me on Sunday after my last post to set me straight: "I don't want to be a total stalker and read your blog and all, but shit, woman, if this guy makes you so happy, be happy!"
I know she's right. I feel it in my my gut every day when I remember that I'd rather be with him than at work or at home or pretty much anywhere else. But I think my hesitation comes from the fear that I'll be so honest about my complete enchantment with him that he'll be turned off. It hasn't happened yet, but every time I open up, I cringe, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I told him I liked him Monday night. He came over after work, and we sat on my couch for a couple of hours, talking about whatever, before he kissed me and talking took a backseat. Somewhere in the midst of making out, as though saying it at normal volume would elicit a different response, I whispered, "I like you a lot," and waited. He smiled, and kissed me, and replied, "I like you a lot, too." And even though I know he likes me--everything he's done to this point screams that he likes me--a small voice rose up in my head, swimming against the wave of endorphins flooding my system, to remind me of that most-intimate fear: Not as much as you like him, it pressed.
When it was time for him to leave, we sat on the couch in a loose embrace--my legs over his legs, my shoulder buried beneath his, his arms around me--and as much I knew it had to end, I couldn't pull myself away. His head leaned gently on mine, and I wished with all my might that time would move more slowly, or that some strange (but only inconvenient) force would cause school to be canceled, so that I could just sit there, for hours, with him.
Eventually, he spoke up, "I should go," and despite standing up and walking to the door, I clung to him. I couldn't help it. Sleep and responsibility and even feeding myself seemed unimportant by comparison.
I spent Tuesday fighting the urge to reach out. I reminded myself that we both needed space if I ever expected this to work out, and so I just daydreamed about him in every spare minute (or testing hour) of the day. He sent me a message, finally, that evening to wish me good luck on my volleyball game, and we texted briefly about it.
B: Not sure what time you're playing but good luck tonight!
Me: Just won our first game ever!!! On the last week of the league, but still. We're pumped!
B: That's awesome, congrats!
Me: I also tripped on a line and face-planted in the sand before later being hit in the head by a ball.
Me: I am not always the most graceful person.
Me: It was hilarious.
And then after a quick exchange, he didn't text me back, and I wondered whether he was caught up in his work, or if he'd crashed as soon as he got home, or if that small voice that had had its say the night before was right.
When I woke up this morning, I had three text messages from him, all sent after 3am. Two of which said, "I'm just getting home.... Were you tired today? I felt bad for keeping you up." I texted back "Not that tired, actually" and "Why were you just getting home at 3am?? Yikes!"
He responded almost immediately. Apparently his cell provider has been having some text messaging issues this week, and his messages are being delayed. He sent me a screenshot from his phone as proof. "I was wondering why you never texted back last night," he added. In reply, I sent him this screenshot to show the time-stamp:
And then I realized that my screenshot included the picture I'd set as his contact photo a few days ago. A picture he hasn't seen yet. A picture of us at Jazz Fest. Of us. And I was mortified.
Me: Oh wait, that's embarrassing. Now you can see the pictures I use under contacts. Whoops.
B: Yeah, that's so weird.
B: And by weird I mean that you're getting some of my texts hours later.
B: Not embarrassing. That's cute ;)
And all of the air that had escaped my lungs for a full minute rushed back in. He may still not like me as much as I like him, but at least he's not SUPER freaked out that I'd already put a picture of us in my phone, ten days after our first date.
And then, as I caught my breath and returned the phone to its place on my bedside table, I heard a ringing. At first, I thought it was coming from the other side of the wall. Maybe my neighbors had their ringer volume up to max. But then I realized it was coming from my phone. I opened the cover, and there on my screen was a call TO "Jack." Yes, that "Jack," ex-boyfriend "Jack." At six in the morning. I promptly hung up the call and texted him: "Whoa, weird. My phone just randomly dialed you while it was closed. Sorry about that." I also quickly removed his number from my list of favorites, and I sat for a moment, considering the important post-break up question: To delete or not to delete?
In the end, I didn't delete his number. Not this morning, anyway. I'm not sure why, but it seemed rude to. I wasn't mad at him, after all. And yet, why keep the number? I have no desire or intention to call him at any point in the foreseeable or distant future. It seems like a no-brainer. But it wasn't until twelve hours later that I finally pressed "delete." After all, the memories of the last five months are not housed in those ten digits, and if I ever need any reminder of our time together, I can simply find his mother and bask in the death glare behind her strained smile.
The accidental call to "Jack" wasn't the only awkward male interaction of the past week, either. On Sunday, as I was standing in B's kitchen with him and his roommate, prepping food for the grill (or really, watching them prep food), a very familiar-looking man walked into the room. He gave a what's up to us, and B's roommate introduced him. "This is Xavier," his roommate said, pronouncing it za-vee-ay. "He works with me." As B introduced us, it hit me: I went on a Tinder date with this guy six months ago. When we shook hands, he looked at me pointedly and asked, "What was your name again?" I repeated my name, and though he didn't show anything on his face, I knew he'd placed me as well. "He's French," B's roommate said, and B looked at me, "You should talk to him in French!" I didn't, though; what would I say? Xavier walked back outside, and I silently thanked him for keeping mum. B and I made our way to the backyard minutes later, and there, on the porch swing, he sat with a woman in a revealing dress who kept her hand on his leg. His girlfriend. No wonder he'd kept quiet. Nonetheless, I avoided eye contact and conversation for the next half-hour (hard to do when there are only eight people total) until he and his girlfriend stood up to leave. "I'm the lead bartender at such-and-such place," she said as they left. "Work calls." I don't know why I was so embarrassed by the prospect of admitting that we knew each other. It had been a painful date; we'd run out of things to say in both languages pretty quickly. As he was leaving the backyard, though, I recognized the value of running into him, however potentially uncomfortable it may have been. He had told me on the date that he was a big partier, and I could see how dating a bartender would fit him well. I looked over at B, who was manning the grill at the time and watching me talk with his friends, and I was grateful that I'd ended up with this guy instead of that guy.
And I am exceptionally grateful to have found someone as thoughtful and attentive and mature as B. Our time together reminds me of when I dated my boyfriend Peter in college. It happened quickly, and we saw each other almost every day, spending hours together at a time. Years ago, I'd shared that memory with a friend of mine, a guy, and he'd said, "That was college. Adult relationships don't work that way." In a sense, he's right. I don't see B every day, and we don't sit on The Lawn with books in our hands and our eyes on each other. But it feels the same. It feels urgent and all-encompassing. It claws at my heart, leaving a burning sensation where I'd felt nothing of the sort for years. Not like this. It drags me out of myself. It makes me tender where I am normally stiff. It lifts my feet ever so slightly off the ground.
That memory of college reminds me, too, that there has to be more than a feeling. Peter and I dated for a year and a half before it all fell apart. There was so much love, and there were so many differences we'd quietly or loudly chosen not to talk about. They say that when you know, you know. But I thought I knew, and I didn't.
My uncle Robert can't wait for me to get married. Beyond the desire to see me happy (I hope), he is elated at the prospect of eating catfish at my reception. I happen to hate catfish, but it's the only thing I currently have planned; we've been talking about it since college. Since then, catfish has become for us synonymous with marriage. On a recent post about B, he commented, "Too early for catfish talk, but I have my fingers crossed." And the thing is, I have my fingers crossed, too. Not because I can't wait to get married--I think it'll be harder and more restrictive than being unmarried--but because I can't wait to finally be with someone who "gets" me. I don't know if B's that guy--we have a lot more we need to talk about before that even begins to clarify itself--but I guess it doesn't really matter right now. I mean, we're only eleven days in.
I texted him a few minutes ago. "Hey, what are you doing tomorrow night? Want to go see that movie?" And I'm waiting, but it's alright. We've got time.
"I can't stay," I whispered.
"Five more minutes," he murmured sleepily and pulled me tighter.
Sunday night was the first time I'd met any of B's friends other than his roommate. There weren't that many people that came over to his house for their grill-out that night, but it was still my first real introduction to his world and their first real introduction to me. I liked them, but I was more excited by how comfortable they allowed me to feel. They seemed to like me, too, but I didn't talk much--I mostly listened--and sometimes that unnerves people.
I am the social equivalent of a tightrope walker. No matter how easy or terrifyingly difficult the situation, no matter how confident or insecure, I keep a slow and steady pace. I like to respect the inertia of friend groups and social circles; I step lightly at first. I ease myself in. Usually, I approach relationships in much the same way.
But I saw B last Saturday and last Monday and last Thursday and this past Saturday and this past Sunday and this past Monday, and in all likelihood, I'll see him again tomorrow. In fact, if it weren't for my volleyball and choir obligations and his late nights at work on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, we'd probably be seeing each other even more. Which excites me. And makes me nervous.
A wonderful friend of mine emailed me on Sunday after my last post to set me straight: "I don't want to be a total stalker and read your blog and all, but shit, woman, if this guy makes you so happy, be happy!"
I know she's right. I feel it in my my gut every day when I remember that I'd rather be with him than at work or at home or pretty much anywhere else. But I think my hesitation comes from the fear that I'll be so honest about my complete enchantment with him that he'll be turned off. It hasn't happened yet, but every time I open up, I cringe, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I told him I liked him Monday night. He came over after work, and we sat on my couch for a couple of hours, talking about whatever, before he kissed me and talking took a backseat. Somewhere in the midst of making out, as though saying it at normal volume would elicit a different response, I whispered, "I like you a lot," and waited. He smiled, and kissed me, and replied, "I like you a lot, too." And even though I know he likes me--everything he's done to this point screams that he likes me--a small voice rose up in my head, swimming against the wave of endorphins flooding my system, to remind me of that most-intimate fear: Not as much as you like him, it pressed.
When it was time for him to leave, we sat on the couch in a loose embrace--my legs over his legs, my shoulder buried beneath his, his arms around me--and as much I knew it had to end, I couldn't pull myself away. His head leaned gently on mine, and I wished with all my might that time would move more slowly, or that some strange (but only inconvenient) force would cause school to be canceled, so that I could just sit there, for hours, with him.
Eventually, he spoke up, "I should go," and despite standing up and walking to the door, I clung to him. I couldn't help it. Sleep and responsibility and even feeding myself seemed unimportant by comparison.
I spent Tuesday fighting the urge to reach out. I reminded myself that we both needed space if I ever expected this to work out, and so I just daydreamed about him in every spare minute (or testing hour) of the day. He sent me a message, finally, that evening to wish me good luck on my volleyball game, and we texted briefly about it.
B: Not sure what time you're playing but good luck tonight!
Me: Just won our first game ever!!! On the last week of the league, but still. We're pumped!
B: That's awesome, congrats!
Me: I also tripped on a line and face-planted in the sand before later being hit in the head by a ball.
Me: I am not always the most graceful person.
Me: It was hilarious.
And then after a quick exchange, he didn't text me back, and I wondered whether he was caught up in his work, or if he'd crashed as soon as he got home, or if that small voice that had had its say the night before was right.
When I woke up this morning, I had three text messages from him, all sent after 3am. Two of which said, "I'm just getting home.... Were you tired today? I felt bad for keeping you up." I texted back "Not that tired, actually" and "Why were you just getting home at 3am?? Yikes!"
He responded almost immediately. Apparently his cell provider has been having some text messaging issues this week, and his messages are being delayed. He sent me a screenshot from his phone as proof. "I was wondering why you never texted back last night," he added. In reply, I sent him this screenshot to show the time-stamp:
And then I realized that my screenshot included the picture I'd set as his contact photo a few days ago. A picture he hasn't seen yet. A picture of us at Jazz Fest. Of us. And I was mortified.
Me: Oh wait, that's embarrassing. Now you can see the pictures I use under contacts. Whoops.
B: Yeah, that's so weird.
B: And by weird I mean that you're getting some of my texts hours later.
B: Not embarrassing. That's cute ;)
And all of the air that had escaped my lungs for a full minute rushed back in. He may still not like me as much as I like him, but at least he's not SUPER freaked out that I'd already put a picture of us in my phone, ten days after our first date.
And then, as I caught my breath and returned the phone to its place on my bedside table, I heard a ringing. At first, I thought it was coming from the other side of the wall. Maybe my neighbors had their ringer volume up to max. But then I realized it was coming from my phone. I opened the cover, and there on my screen was a call TO "Jack." Yes, that "Jack," ex-boyfriend "Jack." At six in the morning. I promptly hung up the call and texted him: "Whoa, weird. My phone just randomly dialed you while it was closed. Sorry about that." I also quickly removed his number from my list of favorites, and I sat for a moment, considering the important post-break up question: To delete or not to delete?
In the end, I didn't delete his number. Not this morning, anyway. I'm not sure why, but it seemed rude to. I wasn't mad at him, after all. And yet, why keep the number? I have no desire or intention to call him at any point in the foreseeable or distant future. It seems like a no-brainer. But it wasn't until twelve hours later that I finally pressed "delete." After all, the memories of the last five months are not housed in those ten digits, and if I ever need any reminder of our time together, I can simply find his mother and bask in the death glare behind her strained smile.
The accidental call to "Jack" wasn't the only awkward male interaction of the past week, either. On Sunday, as I was standing in B's kitchen with him and his roommate, prepping food for the grill (or really, watching them prep food), a very familiar-looking man walked into the room. He gave a what's up to us, and B's roommate introduced him. "This is Xavier," his roommate said, pronouncing it za-vee-ay. "He works with me." As B introduced us, it hit me: I went on a Tinder date with this guy six months ago. When we shook hands, he looked at me pointedly and asked, "What was your name again?" I repeated my name, and though he didn't show anything on his face, I knew he'd placed me as well. "He's French," B's roommate said, and B looked at me, "You should talk to him in French!" I didn't, though; what would I say? Xavier walked back outside, and I silently thanked him for keeping mum. B and I made our way to the backyard minutes later, and there, on the porch swing, he sat with a woman in a revealing dress who kept her hand on his leg. His girlfriend. No wonder he'd kept quiet. Nonetheless, I avoided eye contact and conversation for the next half-hour (hard to do when there are only eight people total) until he and his girlfriend stood up to leave. "I'm the lead bartender at such-and-such place," she said as they left. "Work calls." I don't know why I was so embarrassed by the prospect of admitting that we knew each other. It had been a painful date; we'd run out of things to say in both languages pretty quickly. As he was leaving the backyard, though, I recognized the value of running into him, however potentially uncomfortable it may have been. He had told me on the date that he was a big partier, and I could see how dating a bartender would fit him well. I looked over at B, who was manning the grill at the time and watching me talk with his friends, and I was grateful that I'd ended up with this guy instead of that guy.
And I am exceptionally grateful to have found someone as thoughtful and attentive and mature as B. Our time together reminds me of when I dated my boyfriend Peter in college. It happened quickly, and we saw each other almost every day, spending hours together at a time. Years ago, I'd shared that memory with a friend of mine, a guy, and he'd said, "That was college. Adult relationships don't work that way." In a sense, he's right. I don't see B every day, and we don't sit on The Lawn with books in our hands and our eyes on each other. But it feels the same. It feels urgent and all-encompassing. It claws at my heart, leaving a burning sensation where I'd felt nothing of the sort for years. Not like this. It drags me out of myself. It makes me tender where I am normally stiff. It lifts my feet ever so slightly off the ground.
That memory of college reminds me, too, that there has to be more than a feeling. Peter and I dated for a year and a half before it all fell apart. There was so much love, and there were so many differences we'd quietly or loudly chosen not to talk about. They say that when you know, you know. But I thought I knew, and I didn't.
My uncle Robert can't wait for me to get married. Beyond the desire to see me happy (I hope), he is elated at the prospect of eating catfish at my reception. I happen to hate catfish, but it's the only thing I currently have planned; we've been talking about it since college. Since then, catfish has become for us synonymous with marriage. On a recent post about B, he commented, "Too early for catfish talk, but I have my fingers crossed." And the thing is, I have my fingers crossed, too. Not because I can't wait to get married--I think it'll be harder and more restrictive than being unmarried--but because I can't wait to finally be with someone who "gets" me. I don't know if B's that guy--we have a lot more we need to talk about before that even begins to clarify itself--but I guess it doesn't really matter right now. I mean, we're only eleven days in.
I texted him a few minutes ago. "Hey, what are you doing tomorrow night? Want to go see that movie?" And I'm waiting, but it's alright. We've got time.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Falling
OH MY GOSH, GUYS. HE'S AWESOME.
I could at this moment try to rattle off a list of reasons to justify the constant state of swoon I find myself in, but I'll spare you the usual he's funny and he's smart and he's nice and all of that. I will instead sum up the extent of my enchantment with a simple story.
Thursday night, we went out to dinner and afterwards, watched a TED talk and a trailer for a documentary at his house. (This, in and of itself is awesome, but wait, it gets better.) Then we kissed. (Still gets better.) And I drove home. (Lame.)
Upon arriving home, I texted him. "Thanks again for dinner and showing me all those nerdy videos! I'll be dreaming of drones and Chilean hikes tonight!"
He texted back, "Sweet dreams. I would opt for the hikes. A quad-copter dream might be scary."
My sleep ended up being interrupted by a nightmare in which my grandmother died. I woke up devastated. Not exactly the sweet dreams I'd been wished.
I told him about it and before we said our virtual goodnights the next night, he added, "Oh, wait...good vibes..." And then sent me this video from youtube:
https://youtu.be/xgudu2SZYzE
I didn't get much rest that night, but it had nothing to do with nightmares. When an extremely attractive man that is interested in you sends you a love song before you go to sleep without him, it's a little like someone sending you pictures of dessert before you go on a diet. If I wasn't yearning before that night, I certainly started.
Friday was a stay-in night. I watched the NFL draft and movies with my dad at my parents' house, and I texted with "Brady." At one point, he invited me to come over to his house to watch a movie, and I turned him down. "I would, but I'm ridiculously tired," I told him. Which was true. But also, I was afraid of getting too attached too early. Hanging out four times in seven days? Seeing him two days in a row? Was that too much?
I watched the video again before I went to sleep.
I didn't sleep well again.
You think I'd learn.
We spent the better part of Saturday together, slowly inching our way toward being comfortable with each other, physically, casually. We hugged when I first caught up with him at Jazz Fest. By the time Elton John got to "Rocketman," we were in a swaying embrace, my head on his shoulder, arms around waists.
We took a nap after the Fest, exhausted from the sun, and got up after darkness had settled in, in time to drive to Metairie for Chick Fil A with his roommate (because men are men...and because CFA has great fries). We got it to go and watched Hiro Dreams of Sushi, a documentary about a Japanese shokunin that he'd been telling me about. When it ended, we just sat there.
"I should go home," I said. "It's late."
"You could stay," he said.
"I shouldn't," I said.
And I didn't. I went home. Where I watched and listened to that video over and over again. Last night. This morning. In the car. I missed a descant in church because I was thinking about him. I tripped on the sidewalk because my thoughts were anywhere but on the path in front of me.
As I write, my phone is face-up beside me, and I hope--though I shouldn't--that he'll text me, that he'll ask me to do something today. Because I want to see him. I don't care that I spent ten hours with him yesterday; I want to spend eleven with him today. I can't, and I shouldn't, and I probably won't. But I want to.
These arms of mine
They are wanting
Wanting to hold you
And if you
Would let them hold you
Oh how grateful I will be
OH MY GOSH, GUYS. HE JUST TEXTED ME.
I could at this moment try to rattle off a list of reasons to justify the constant state of swoon I find myself in, but I'll spare you the usual he's funny and he's smart and he's nice and all of that. I will instead sum up the extent of my enchantment with a simple story.
Thursday night, we went out to dinner and afterwards, watched a TED talk and a trailer for a documentary at his house. (This, in and of itself is awesome, but wait, it gets better.) Then we kissed. (Still gets better.) And I drove home. (Lame.)
Upon arriving home, I texted him. "Thanks again for dinner and showing me all those nerdy videos! I'll be dreaming of drones and Chilean hikes tonight!"
He texted back, "Sweet dreams. I would opt for the hikes. A quad-copter dream might be scary."
My sleep ended up being interrupted by a nightmare in which my grandmother died. I woke up devastated. Not exactly the sweet dreams I'd been wished.
I told him about it and before we said our virtual goodnights the next night, he added, "Oh, wait...good vibes..." And then sent me this video from youtube:
https://youtu.be/xgudu2SZYzE
I didn't get much rest that night, but it had nothing to do with nightmares. When an extremely attractive man that is interested in you sends you a love song before you go to sleep without him, it's a little like someone sending you pictures of dessert before you go on a diet. If I wasn't yearning before that night, I certainly started.
Friday was a stay-in night. I watched the NFL draft and movies with my dad at my parents' house, and I texted with "Brady." At one point, he invited me to come over to his house to watch a movie, and I turned him down. "I would, but I'm ridiculously tired," I told him. Which was true. But also, I was afraid of getting too attached too early. Hanging out four times in seven days? Seeing him two days in a row? Was that too much?
I watched the video again before I went to sleep.
I didn't sleep well again.
You think I'd learn.
We spent the better part of Saturday together, slowly inching our way toward being comfortable with each other, physically, casually. We hugged when I first caught up with him at Jazz Fest. By the time Elton John got to "Rocketman," we were in a swaying embrace, my head on his shoulder, arms around waists.
We took a nap after the Fest, exhausted from the sun, and got up after darkness had settled in, in time to drive to Metairie for Chick Fil A with his roommate (because men are men...and because CFA has great fries). We got it to go and watched Hiro Dreams of Sushi, a documentary about a Japanese shokunin that he'd been telling me about. When it ended, we just sat there.
"I should go home," I said. "It's late."
"You could stay," he said.
"I shouldn't," I said.
And I didn't. I went home. Where I watched and listened to that video over and over again. Last night. This morning. In the car. I missed a descant in church because I was thinking about him. I tripped on the sidewalk because my thoughts were anywhere but on the path in front of me.
As I write, my phone is face-up beside me, and I hope--though I shouldn't--that he'll text me, that he'll ask me to do something today. Because I want to see him. I don't care that I spent ten hours with him yesterday; I want to spend eleven with him today. I can't, and I shouldn't, and I probably won't. But I want to.
These arms of mine
They are wanting
Wanting to hold you
And if you
Would let them hold you
Oh how grateful I will be
OH MY GOSH, GUYS. HE JUST TEXTED ME.
Friday, May 1, 2015
15 More Days
Summer. Summer desperately needs to get here faster. I have come home from work every day this week completely exhausted. And it's not from working hard. I gave quizzes or took kids on a field trip or watched them work independently for most of each day. But somehow, I still leave school wrecked. Maybe it's the whining and complaining, the why does so-and-so's class get to go outside and we don't? Maybe it's the rudeness of specific students during other kids' presentations. Maybe it's just that I am mentally and physically done with the year, and my energy and patience for children starts dangerously low these days. Whatever the reason, I remind myself that I have 15 more days with kids and 20 more days before summer officially starts. I can do it. (I have no choice.)
It helps that I've started seeing someone new.
So soon? you might ask, worried for my new potential rebound and the heartbreak I'm setting myself up for. Keep in mind, though, that I had been considering breaking things off with "Jack" for more than a month before it happened, and that when we did finally break up, I was massively RELIEVED. The point is, even though I've only been single for two weeks now, I've felt single for a while. I did see his little sister in passing this week and wondered if she knew. I am worried about the potential shunning I'm going to get from his mother for the rest of my teaching career at my school. But worried about seeing someone new already? Not in the least bit.
Our first date was Saturday night, and I was both nervous and less-than-ecstatic going into the date. After giving me his number and texting me earlier in the week, he'd proceeded to not answer my first text message at all, and then not answer my second message until more than 24 hours later. I was preparing myself for a flake, and preparing to move on quickly.
But it didn't happen that way. Saturday night, we walked into a bar at 8:15, ordered drinks, and sat at the same table talking until 1am. He got up once to get us more drinks. I didn't stand up from that chair until we were yawning and moving toward the door.
He texted me as soon as he got home.
He texted me the next day.
He texted me the day after that, and we had dinner and ice cream that night.
He texted me after he dropped me off.
He texted me the next day.
He texted me the day after to ask about seeing me yesterday.
We had dinner again last night (sushi), and we might see each other again tomorrow.
It has not been a week since our first date, and I've already seen him more than I saw "Jack" in the entire month of March. And we have talked about more interesting and personal things in three dates than "Jack" and I probably ever shared during five months of dating.
I know it's not fair to compare romantic interests, but this new guy (we'll call him Brady) feels like an upgrade. He has similar characteristics to "Jack": slightly taller than me, used to do martial arts, interested in personal training and nutrition, really into music, stuff like that. But he has a graduate degree. He runs a business. He listens. He's close with his parents. He's in great shape. He has a fairly normal schedule. He eats meat.
Most of all, he has never once called me responsible or balked at the fact that I wake up early and go to bed early. Because he is also responsible. Because he also has early days. Monday night, he dropped me off at my house at 9:30 without fuss or peer pressure because he knew I had to be up early the next day. It seems dumb, but it meant a lot. Who knew having your shit together and being considerate was such an attractive trait?
He's confident, too. I have never met a guy--ever--that called or texted less than three days after the first date. Ever. Or that was more vocal or proactive about finding time to hang out. I admit, it's a little overwhelming to see someone so much after dating mostly losers that don't talk to me for a week at a time. But I like it.
I don't know if he's a keeper (it feels too early to give such a definite stamp of approval), but at the very least, it gives me something to look forward to when I check my phone during planning or leave school at the end of a too-long work day. And that, in and of itself, makes the attempt worthwhile.
It helps that I've started seeing someone new.
So soon? you might ask, worried for my new potential rebound and the heartbreak I'm setting myself up for. Keep in mind, though, that I had been considering breaking things off with "Jack" for more than a month before it happened, and that when we did finally break up, I was massively RELIEVED. The point is, even though I've only been single for two weeks now, I've felt single for a while. I did see his little sister in passing this week and wondered if she knew. I am worried about the potential shunning I'm going to get from his mother for the rest of my teaching career at my school. But worried about seeing someone new already? Not in the least bit.
Our first date was Saturday night, and I was both nervous and less-than-ecstatic going into the date. After giving me his number and texting me earlier in the week, he'd proceeded to not answer my first text message at all, and then not answer my second message until more than 24 hours later. I was preparing myself for a flake, and preparing to move on quickly.
But it didn't happen that way. Saturday night, we walked into a bar at 8:15, ordered drinks, and sat at the same table talking until 1am. He got up once to get us more drinks. I didn't stand up from that chair until we were yawning and moving toward the door.
He texted me as soon as he got home.
He texted me the next day.
He texted me the day after that, and we had dinner and ice cream that night.
He texted me after he dropped me off.
He texted me the next day.
He texted me the day after to ask about seeing me yesterday.
We had dinner again last night (sushi), and we might see each other again tomorrow.
It has not been a week since our first date, and I've already seen him more than I saw "Jack" in the entire month of March. And we have talked about more interesting and personal things in three dates than "Jack" and I probably ever shared during five months of dating.
I know it's not fair to compare romantic interests, but this new guy (we'll call him Brady) feels like an upgrade. He has similar characteristics to "Jack": slightly taller than me, used to do martial arts, interested in personal training and nutrition, really into music, stuff like that. But he has a graduate degree. He runs a business. He listens. He's close with his parents. He's in great shape. He has a fairly normal schedule. He eats meat.
Most of all, he has never once called me responsible or balked at the fact that I wake up early and go to bed early. Because he is also responsible. Because he also has early days. Monday night, he dropped me off at my house at 9:30 without fuss or peer pressure because he knew I had to be up early the next day. It seems dumb, but it meant a lot. Who knew having your shit together and being considerate was such an attractive trait?
He's confident, too. I have never met a guy--ever--that called or texted less than three days after the first date. Ever. Or that was more vocal or proactive about finding time to hang out. I admit, it's a little overwhelming to see someone so much after dating mostly losers that don't talk to me for a week at a time. But I like it.
I don't know if he's a keeper (it feels too early to give such a definite stamp of approval), but at the very least, it gives me something to look forward to when I check my phone during planning or leave school at the end of a too-long work day. And that, in and of itself, makes the attempt worthwhile.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)