Mine

Yesterday made something like the seventh week that "Jack" and I have been dating.  I still have plenty of moments of hesitation, times when we disagree or one of us is in a mood.  But for the better part of my moments, I am enamored.  I go to sleep wishing he was there.  I wake up excited that I'm a day closer to seeing him again.  And it's become comfortable between us.  We tell each other stories.  We share in each other's quirks.  I apologize when I realize I'm giving too much navigation advice in the car.  He offers me bottled water so that the fluoride in the tap won't collect in my pineal gland and damage my brain (but shhhh, I still drink from the faucet when he's not around).  I get a little worried sometimes that we're becoming too comfortable, doing the same things every time we see each other (dinner and bottled water and a movie), but I know that it's just as much my responsibility as it is his to keep things interesting.

I think I've mentioned it before, but my roommate put me on to this great science-based blog called Barking Up the Wrong Tree.  In said blog, there's an article about a set of questions created and studied by a scientist that have been proven to create a quick bond between two strangers.  The article presents the questions as an opportunity to bond more deeply with a romantic partner.  In the spirit of mixing things up, I'd love to have a night where we skip the movie and answer these questions instead.  I don't know how to bring it up, though.  I mean, I know it's as simple as saying, "Hey, I have these questions. What do you think about answering them?"  But I worry that he'll look past the simple statement and see the vulnerable intention behind it: "I want to know you, and I want you to want to know me, too."  Despite our increased level of comfort with one another, I find myself worrying about coming on too strong.  About investing too much too fast.  About liking him more than he likes me.

I know it's stupid.  I know he's a lucky guy.  But I am the queen of anticipating the improbable.  Despite the fact that I spend more than a week every year teaching my students about inferences (logical, evidence-based conclusions), in personal situations, I still give a heavy nod to the imaginary and the irrational.  For example, "Jack" is not always as verbally expressive about his feelings as I'd like.  The most likely explanation for this is that he is an American male and therefore is not socialized to be open with his feelings.  Perhaps he's even had relationships or experiences in his life which have caused him to be hesitant to share said feelings.  But after a while, I start to wonder if maybe it's something else that's holding his tongue.

This is usually when my therapist talks me off the ledge.  "Do NOT break up with him," she repeats.


Meanwhile, I am falling in love.  Not with "Jack"--there's plenty of time for that--but with my house.  Up until now, she has been a combination of a non-entity, a distant investment, and a pain in my butt, but she's growing on me quickly.  Over the last week, I have spent something like ten hours under her floorboards, cleaning out trash from the crawlspace, and another ten hours picking out colors and painting walls.  I've spent hours scanning items to reduce the amount of paper clutter being carried over to her closets, and I've spent just as many hours imagining where furniture will go, and how things will fit.  And I'm in love.  I may need to buy hundreds of dollars worth of caulk to close every gap in the house, and I may need to wear noise-canceling headphones at all times so as not to be a part of my neighbors' conversations, but she has taken a hold of my heart.

And it's not easy to leave the house I'm currently in.  For the last four years, it has been the place I have called home.  It has felt like home in a way that no other house has in my adult life.  Letting go of places and people has never been my strong suit, and I've found myself already missing its screened porch and glass doors and columns.  It's strange noises and fifty-year-old appliances.  But like old boyfriends and old not-quite-boyfriends, I know these things will pull more and more gently on my heart as time passes.  Until eventually, they'll settle into place as fond memories of somewhere I once lived, of a place I once called home.

Because this new house, she's mine.  Today, while painting, I accidentally scratched one of the walls with a ladder, and my first thought was, "Well, there goes part of my security deposit."  But the deposit has been replaced with a down payment, and the house is mine to decorate and damage as I see fit.  When I first made the offer, it was just a nice-ish place I could live in for a while.  A financial move and an opportunity to try and live on my own.  But she's begun to take on life and personality.  She's begun to look like me.  To feel like me.  To be a place I want to go, not a place I'm forced to live.  And like me, she is a work in progress.  I cannot completely change her; I can only make her the best version of herself.


Trees are sanctuaries....In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves....Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.  --Herman Hesse

"Do NOT Break Up With Him."

Therapist: Don't break up with him.
Me: I don't want to break up with him.
Therapist: Good. Don't.

You dump a few too many potential prospects, and all of a sudden, your therapist is constantly on your back, reminding you not to break up with whichever guy you're seeing.

I guess a reputation is a reputation.

***

Despite my affirmation that breaking up was, in fact, not on my (very long and obsessively-composed) to-do list for the week, my therapist seemed unsure.

Me: He invited me to have dinner with his mom and grandparents, but I didn't go.
Therapist: Why not?
Me: I don't know; I kind of freaked out.  Dinner with the family?  That's a big deal, right?
Therapist: Sure.  It's a good thing, though.
Me: Meanwhile, I still haven't told my parents.  I've almost brought it up multiple times.  But it never seems like the right time.
Therapist: Everything you tell me indicates that he really likes you.  I mean, he wants you to meet his grandparents.
Me: He does like me.  I know.  And I like him, too.
Therapist: You keep hesitating, though.

Before I left, she made me promise one more time not to dump "Jack."

The thing is, I really actually truthfully with full sincerity have no desire to cut things short.  I like him.  A lot.  In fact, after a week of not seeing him and only talking sparingly, I found myself last night elated to sit in his living room--belly full of overly-spicy vegan Thai food--and disagree with him about religion and philosophy.  And I hate disagreeing about religion and philosophy.  With anyone.

I'm scared, though.  Of all of it.  Getting my heart broken.  Not falling in love.  Falling in love first.  Important conversations like "I love you" ("Me too") and "Let's move in together" ("Let's not").  Committing to him when there might be somebody else out there better suited for me.  Committing to him when there might be somebody else out there better suited for him.

I suppose in the end, I just have to do it.  I didn't learn how to be comfortable traveling solo by reading destination magazines in waiting rooms or looking at pictures on the internet.  And I won't learn how to be in a healthy, romantic, loving relationship by keeping my guard up.  Or hiding him from my parents.

Finn, my favorite character in The 100 (my most recent Netflix binge), said something to the same effect in the very first episode of the show.  He and a few others had found a vine that would allow them to swing across a river and arrive at Mount Weather, a place they'd been hiking toward for two days.  The first to swing was named Jasper, and he hesitated, visibly nervous.  But Finn reassured him: "Hey, it's okay to be afraid, Jasper.  The trick is not fighting it."  Of course, two seconds later, Jasper had a spear through his chest, but regardless, Finn had a point.

When I was a kid, my family used to take long road trips out West, visiting national parks and forests and random Native American museums in the middle of nowhere.  The last of our trips out West happened when I was in college.  My dad had a conference in Colorado Springs, and my parents thought it would be nice to gather their youngest four children into a minivan and make a wandering, two-week trek from Denver to North Dakota.  One afternoon during our stint in Colorado, after my dad had finished his conference sessions for the day but before it got dark, he took my younger siblings and I out to a place called Seven Falls.  The most impressive water falls can be seen as soon as you arrive, but viewing the rest of it requires a 224-step climb up minimalist metal stairs attached to the face of a cliff.  There were no elevators, contrary to what I had been told.  And so, I was faced with a dilemma: stay on the ground and miss out, or muster up some courage and see what's at the top.  I prayed the Hail Mary as fast as I could over and over again as I climbed, one foot in front of the other, even tempo, consistent speed, hand gripping the rail.  I almost bit the head off a woman that stopped to take a picture, and I was sure each time that the stairs shook that the whole thing would separate from the cliff and bring me to a terrifying death, but ten minutes later, I was at the top.  Heart slowing.  In one piece.  I had taken my fear by the throat and by God, I'd climbed the damn thing.  And it felt good.  And after we'd hiked the upper trail, and the sun began to set, I climbed back down those stairs with the rest of my family, calmly, easily, contentedly.  "It was worth it, wasn't it?" my dad asked, as we reached the bottom.  "Yeah," I said.  "It was."

What it looked like in my head.

What it actually looks like.

How I felt on the way up.

How I felt at the top.

Where Do I Begin?

This week marks one month until I have to move out of my current house and into my new house. Up until now, I've been pretty un-stressed about it, but with the onset of this one month marker, the anxiety is ratcheting up.

While the contractor is almost done patching the cracks created by the leveling, the house still has gaps near the floorboards and along the chimney lines that need to be filled.  The interior needs to be painted.  The carpet needs to be replaced in the two back rooms.  A hot water heater and a stackable washer/dryer need to be purchased and installed (which means my current washer/dryer needs to be sold).  Fixtures need to be replaced.  This may not sound like much, but since work starts up again next week, that limits me to something like four weekends to get everything together, leaving the final weekend for moving in.  Yikes, yikes, yikes.

So, as my contractors get their final pieces done--so that I can get my final pieces done--I have been either under the new house, clearing out bricks/wood/rocks in anticipation of termite treatment, in Home Depot vacillating between paint chips, or inside my furnished house, trying to figure out how I'm ever going to fit all of my stuff into the new house.

Clearly some purging is in order, but I'm overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of things that exist in my house and belong to me.  And on top of that, there's always the question of where to begin packing so that I have what I need available, but also so that I don't wait until the last minute.

Which I would do because I hate packing.

Without fail, regardless of whether I'll be gone for two nights or two weeks, I will wait until the night before a trip to pack.  We're talking eight hours before take-off kind of last minute.  Yes, I do occasionally realize that I do not have that very important thing I need, for which I do not have time to shop (because it's midnight and all the shops are closed).  But most of the time, last-minute packing just means delaying the pain.  And as such, the cycle continues.  I'm tempted to do the same with my house.  But of course, packing for a two week trip and packing everything you own are two very different beasts.


Last night, after countless hours of Netflix finally began to bore me, I went through my normal self-entertainment option list to search for something new to give my attention to: I played piano, I read a little, I considered exercise, I thought about who might be available to hang out.  None of the above were good long-term options, though, so instead, I started making lists and brainstorming about my house.

As might be expected, the obsessive side of me came out in full force.  I became almost manic in my enthusiasm for the insane task of deciding how to set up my house.  Sure, it seems kind of normal to want to plan out your floor plan before you move in.  Responsible, even.  But I drew it to scale.  To scale.  I measured all the walls in my new house.  All the furniture in my current house.  And then I arranged all of my furniture on paper, so that each piece had a designated place in one of the new rooms.

No need to come to my housewarming.  I can give you a paper tour instead.

Then I moved on to paint colors.  I tried to create a 3D online replica of my living room (with obsessively placed furniture), but it proved to be cumbersome, and the paints didn't match what I'd seen at Home Depot.  So instead, I scoured paint pamphlets and online photos for the perfect paint color.  I made a list.  I checked it twice.

By 6pm today, I had bought and tried at least 8 different paints.  The choosing process started a little rough (read: intense colors), but eventually I figured out that neutrals were a better bet for my first house.  Also, beyond the fact that neutrals are more versatile, all of my furniture and artwork is meant for neutral walls.  So neutral it is.

The red might be too much, but I kind of like it.  Accent wall?

Nobody likes this color.  Except maybe me, and I'm still unsure.

My neutrals options.  The one on the left is a definite yes for the kitchen.

In the end, it's not obsession that's caused this weekend to be particularly house-centric.  It's necessity.  It's fear that it won't all get done in time.  It's an avoidance of house-work priority conflicts.  I'll already have a hard enough time coming off of Christmas break; no need to make it worse by spending my entire planning period calling electricians or taking days off to go downtown to apply for a Homestead Exemption.

So, with my seven days left of break, I plan on finishing the underside of my house (it will be cleaned and covered!), securing a plumber and electrician, starting the packing process, completing paperwork, and finishing the first season of The 100, the Netflix series I started yesterday.  Oh yeah, and spending a little bit of time with "Jack."  ...Who told his mom about me this week.  Her response: "Now I understand why you didn't tell me who you were dating."  My response to her response: Heightened insecurity and anxiety.  What does she mean by that?  (How could she not like me?  I'm every mom's dream!)  It doesn't help that I haven't seen "Jack" in almost a week because of the holidays and his work, either.  So until he's able to climb out of the nightmare that is his work schedule, I'll have to be content to bury myself in receipts-to-scan-and-shred, piles for Goodwill, and trash bags from under the house.  All to get the moving-in process closer to realization.  I'm unsure about it, but Ryan Gosling seems to have faith.

Bawk Bawk Bakawk

I chickened out.

Knowing that my sister might meet "Jack" at my birthday party on Saturday, I had planned on preempting her potential secret-leaking by telling my parents about him when I went over to their house on my birthday.  But then "Jack" had to work the night of the party and wasn't going to make it or meet her, and as I sat at the table--just me, my mom, and my dad around the cake--I couldn't think of a smooth transition to sharing the news.

I see that you put an extra candle on the cake to grow on.  ...Speaking of seeing, I've been seeing someone for the last six weeks or so.  Would you like to hear about him?

So, in the absence of good timing, I just didn't tell them, and they're still in the dark.  I did tell my youngest sister about him tonight, though.

Me: So, I was shopping today for a present for this guy I've been dating--
Her: You're dating someone???  Where was the text?  Where was the phone call?
Me: You're hearing about him right now.  What did you want me to do, text you after the first date?
Her: Yes.

She didn't ask for the scoop on him (apparently that's not important), just to see a picture.

Her: He has weird bangs, but otherwise he's cute.
Me: He doesn't have bangs.
Her: Huh.  Maybe it's the lighting.


I decided today that I should buy him a present for him for Christmas.  I wasn't going to, but then he got me something thoughtful for my birthday, and now I'm terrified he'll get me a present for Christmas, and I'll be empty-handed.  A friend of mine, who is like my little brother, was hanging out at my house this afternoon, and we ended up driving out to Elmwood to wander the stores there, looking for just the right thing.

Friend: Why don't you get him a shirt?
Me: A shirt?
Friend: Sure, guys are simple.  He'll like anything you get him just because you got it for him.  I bet if you bought him a button-down shirt, he'd wear it the next time you saw him.
Me: But I don't know what size he is.
Friend: Is he bigger or smaller than me?
Me: I don't know, bigger?
Friend: He's probably a large, then.
Me: I don't know if he'd like a shirt.
Friend: I'm telling you, he'll like anything you get him.
Me: But what kind of shirt?
Friend: You're not listening.

Eventually, after combing the aisles of World Market (where I managed to knock over half a display of magnetic containers) and KMart (where I tried not to touch anything), I finally came to a decision: Jenga and a contour pillow.  Neither of them were in the stores, so I had to order both online later.  The pillow is to help with neck pain he's told me about, but the Jenga game has a story.

The first people that "Jack" ever met from my group of friends were guys from volleyball.  We were all hanging out at Shamrock and playing ping-pong, as we are sometimes apt to do, and after a while, we decided to play large Jenga.  This is sort of a talent of my friend Chris and I; the last time we played at Shamrock, we got the tower high enough that I had to get on my tiptoes to place the removed blocks on top.  So, in an attempt to include "Jack" in the fanfare, he joined in the game.  Chris went first.  He chose a center block from the fifth level of the Jenga tower and easily placed it on top.  "Jack" went second.  He chose a right block from the fifth level of the Jenga tower and it was like slow motion.  Everyone was watching as the tower began to fall, but no one said anything to stop him, dumbfounded that he would take an obviously off-limits block and on the second move of the game.  The tower fell.  We all stared.  And then a half-second later, the other men broke into raucous laughter.  "That is the shortest game of Jenga I have ever played," said one.  "I can't believe you just did that," said another.  Meanwhile, I'm shooting daggers at all of them with my eyes as I help "Jack" pick up the blocks from the floor and reset the tower.  When he went to go get his drink from the other side of the room a minute later, I punched Chris.  "Stop being an asshole," I insisted.  "But it's so funny," he countered.

Needless to say, they did not let him live it down for the remainder of the night, and that singular moment is the only thing that they ever talk about when I bring him up.  It's probably one of the only things that they honestly remember, besides his baby face and his lack of ping pong skill.  In other words, they're not convinced about him.  I think a lot of that has to do with insecurity on his part.  When we talked about the Jenga incident later on, he said that he was trying to be cool and (obviously) wasn't paying enough attention.  And my male friends can smell the blood in the water.  Normally, they'd make fun of me (I can take it; I know they love me), but instead, they've shifted their sights to him.

I'm trying not to let their current dismissal of him affect my view of this budding relationship.  And I'm trying not to let his insecurities get in the way, either.  While his desire to impress me and do the right thing is often cute, it's also mired in potential disingenuousness.  Is this what he wants?  Or what he thinks that I want?

Me: So, you remember when you brought up the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing last week?  I feel like you wanted to talk about it, but I sort of shut down the conversation.
Him: It's okay.
Me: Did you bring it up because you want to use those terms?
Him: Well, I just thought it was an appropriate time to bring it up, you know, with you being a teacher and responsible and [mumble mumble mumble].
Me: Teacher?  Responsible?  What does that have to do with anything?
[pause]
Him: I just mean that I've never dated a girl like you, so I thought it might be appropriate to bring it up sooner than normal.
Me: Okay...
Him: Plus, I thought I might be going to your party, and I didn't know if you wanted to introduce me that way to your friends.
Me: It's not a big deal; I would've just said, "This is 'Jack.'"  People would've figured it out.
Him: True.  [pause]  What do you think?
Me: Well, I don't feel like using the word "girlfriend" or "boyfriend" would change what we have here.  But I wouldn't be offended to be your girlfriend, either.
Him: We can do that.

We can do that.  He told me about an ex-girlfriend that made him meet her family on Christmas within a month of dating, and so I didn't want to force the conversation and be that girl, but I also have no idea what "we can do that" means.  It doesn't build a whole lot of confidence, that's for sure.  When I had this conversation with my college boyfriend, his response was "You're making me the happiest man alive."  Of course, College Boyfriend also admitted a year later that he thought I rushed things and that I made it harder for him to convince his ex-girlfriend that he hadn't cheated on her (he broke up with her three days before our first date).  So, I guess if I had to choose, I'd rather "Jack's" genuine uncertainty over College Boyfriend's false enthusiasm.  But I'm not a big fan of either.

Him: I don't really know how this goes.
Me: Well, I don't have a ton of relationship experience, either.
Him: Shit. How are we going to know what to do?
Me: We'll figure it out.

Despite our uncertain status and the anxiety that this particular conversation has left me with, I had an amazing weekend.  There is something perfect about a birthday and all of its surrounding celebrations.  I truly do not understand people who ignore or forget their birthdays.  I literally start counting down the days in June.  It's my half birthday!  Only six more months!

Thursday morning, the whole school sang me Happy Birthday.  My students asked me how old I was all day long.  Parents stopped by to give their well wishes at dismissal.  That evening, my mom made my favorite food (crawfish etouffee) and cake (angel food), and I sat at the table with her and dad for hours, just talking.  I got dressed up afterwards and met up with some girlfriends for drinks and "Jack" joined later.  We ended up taking over Delachaise's stereo system around midnight and proceeded to have a dance party with the other four people still in the bar.  TSwift, Beyonce, you name it.  We stayed out way too late, and by the time my head hit the pillow, I realized there were only two and a half hours until my alarm would go off for work.

Probably a terrible decision, but what a perfect way to enter the last year of my twenties.

The weekend went much the same way.  I worked feverishly Friday to get as much done as possible at work before leaving at 2:30 to take a nap, shower, and head to a Christmas party at a coworker's house.  I stayed until 9pm, went to see "Jack" despite being over-tired, and went to sleep too late.  The next morning, I played terribly at volleyball (I blame it on the cold and sleep deprivation), and that afternoon, I cleaned my house top to bottom in anticipation of my s'more-themed birthday party, which was a complete success.  There was food, drinks, and fire.  And friends, of course.  What more could a girl want?  By 12:45am, most people had left, but I stayed up another two hours talking with a friend before finally getting into bed.

It's Sunday night, and at this point in the weekend, I'm exhausted.  Normally exhaustion on Sunday night would be a terrifying thing--an omen of a tough Monday and a therefore long week--but thanks to a little thing called winter break, I've got time to recuperate.  I can sleep late, watch movies, read books, write posts for this blog.  I was hoping to spend some time working on my house and hanging out with "Jack," but the holiday season is kind of a minefield in both respects.  The workers are taking most of the week off and I can't start anything until they're finished, which means I'm on hold for DIY projects like painting and soundproofing.  Christmas and New Years, meanwhile, are weighty holidays.  Family- and friend-oriented.  He and I won't be meeting family this early on, so most of this week is out of the question, but New Years seems unlikely, too.  He'll probably be working that night, but even if he's not, there's the question of whose friends we go with.   This is one of the few times when I wish I was still single so that my feelings were the only important feelings.

Time off from seeing each other isn't a great thing for me.  It means extra time to over-think the relationship.  To wonder if the grass is greener elsewhere.  To fall back into my commitment phobia.  Luckily, I've got an appointment with my therapist tomorrow, and she can remind me how much I like "Jack" and why I need to stick it out.

Either that, or I'd better start looking into holiday specials for cats at the SPCA and old lady sweaters at Goodwill.

Practice makes perfect.

Warning: Do Not Daydream and Drive

Him: So, how many dates have we been on?
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.

Sticking With It

My therapist loves "Jack."

I guess I should've mentioned at some point in the last couple of months that I have a therapist, but people get really weird about that sort of thing.  And they look at you weird.  And they talk to you weird.  And they get nervous around you when someone brings up mental health during a dinner conversation.

To be clear, I am not less mentally healthy than anyone else I know.  In fact, I think my therapist would argue that I'm actually fairly stable and healthy in the cerebral department.  But I have one very large psychological flaw, and that is that I am a huge commitment-phobe.

I'm not exactly sure when it started.  I always assumed that people with commitment problems were immature men, or women with daddy issues, and I'm neither.  Definitely female.  Probably too mature for my own good.  And my father is one of my favorite people in all of the world.  In fact, we had dinner together last night, just the two of us, soup and sandwiches at a restaurant near my house.  It was so pleasant and reminded each of us why we're each other's favorite.  Not that he's told me I'm his favorite, but my siblings and I have discussed it and come to agree that it's probably true.  Then again, my name is never used as part of the Netflix password like some other siblings I know.  So maybe not.

This whole therapy and commitment issues thing began a little more than two years ago, when I was dating a really nice lawyer.  Things were perfect when we were together, but he was busy, and so over the course of our relationship, there was a lot of alone time for me to over-think things.  After three months of exclusive but sporadic dating, I felt myself getting quiet and detaching emotionally, resenting the little effort he seemed to make in order to see me.  We probably could've solved some of our problems with an honest heart-to-heart, but instead, I silently hoped and wished that he'd figure out what I was thinking and that things would magically resolve themselves.  As I felt myself withdrawing, I contacted a friend's therapist and got on her schedule.  I think we only met once before I broke up with him.  He and I had just spent two hours at his apartment, eating a pasta dish I'd cooked and talking and laughing, and I broke up with him at the end of it.  In hindsight, it doesn't make sense that I let him go after all that, but at this point, it really doesn't matter.  I think he got married a couple of weeks ago, and I've moved on anyway.

Therapy was the best thing to come out of that relationship.  My therapist and I spent the first year helping me to get to know myself better and encouraging me to be proud of who I am.  Within the last year, we've worked on bigger-picture things: dating, career moves, personal challenges, house purchases, and the like.  You know how girls in movies always have that aunt that they can tell anything and who always has the best advice?  Well, I'm pretty sure my therapist is only like 35, but she's my super wise aunt.  She is the only person I can be completely honest with, and she is my advocate in all things.  Which is why, when she tells me not to break things off with "Jack," I know I'm letting my commitment issues get in the way of a good thing.

I told her the concerns I have about him, most of which I wrote about yesterday, and she listened to all of them.  And then she said, "You haven't told me anything yet that actually worries me."  Instead, she encouraged me to talk to him about some of the differences I'm worried about.  I have to clarify for him what being Catholic actually means to me.  What career ambitions mean to me.  What drinking responsibly means to me.  The good news is that he's really easy to talk to.  We've already unloaded our fair share of confessions, and the two of us have been really open to respectfully hearing out the other person: our concerns, our insecurities, our passions.  The bad news is that I'm a wimp, and I don't like putting myself out there.

She likes him because he likes me and he's respectful, and because I clearly like him.  And because his weird obsession with nutrition and his love of alternative music/philosophy/world religion and his affinity for drinking when he goes out might just be the kind of thing I need in my life.  To balance the hyper-responsible, sometimes uptight, mostly-mainstream woman that dominates my personality.  As she said, "Maybe he can help you be more like the 'vacation you' that comes out every time you travel or play volleyball in Florida."  If that's the case, he'd better watch out.  Because vacation me is awesome.

So I don't know, maybe this relationship will last yet.

Where'd You Meet?

It hasn't happened yet, but it's going to happen.  "Jack" and I haven't discussed how to respond to the question yet, but I feel like that conversation is coming soon.  Personally, I don't mind that much that we met on Tinder.  I mean, everyone who's read this blog already knows, and on top of that, it's not that big of a deal.  If we'd hooked up a bunch before we starting going out, that would be a big deal.  But it didn't happen that way, so I suppose there's not much to worry about on that front.

I think he feels a little weird about it, though.  Yesterday, I met up with his friends after a kickball tournament they played, and one of the guys (who "Jack" told about the Tinder connection) came up to me and said, and I quote, "I think it's f***ing awesome that you subbed for our team on your first Tinder date."  I must've looked shocked because he followed up with, "this guy (pointing to "Jack") told me not to say anything, but I think it's f***ing awesome."

I mean, it is pretty awesome.  Not how I'd plan a date and certainly not like any other date I've been on, but it worked kind of exceptionally well.  It gave us a third party to interact with and fill awkward silences, and it gave us something to talk about until we figured out other things to say.

"Jack" wasn't a big fan of this grand announcement by his friend, but it did start an interesting conversation about that first date.  "I was kind of intimated by the fact that you were actually good at kickball," he said.  "And then I kept worrying because you were playing right in front of me but you weren't looking back.  I thought, 'She's not looking back; she doesn't like me.'"  In truth, I tried to look back, but it felt stupid.  I didn't know how to look back casually and I couldn't think of anything to say when I did look back, so I gave up trying.  Plus, it was ridiculously cold, so I had most of my attention focused instead on jumping up and down to keep myself warm.  When we came off the field, I did my best to stay beside him and make conversation, but it took thirty to forty minutes of stilted small talk before things became more natural.

And we're not out of that awkward, getting-to-know-you phase just yet.  We went out to dinner Friday night at an Ethiopian restaurant, and there was one point when we talked about the etiquette of keeping your elbows on the table because I didn't know what else to say, and silence felt lazy.  We're still getting comfortable with each other physically, too.  We've started greeting with a kiss, but there are times when he puts his arm around me and it's weird so he stops, or I go to kiss him and miss his mouth a little.

Meanwhile, I'm trying not to be intimidating, and he tries regularly to impress me.  We've played multiple games of pool together, and while I have no doubt that he's actually pretty good, he ends up letting his nerves get to him and he barely misses shots.  He does martial arts, too, and has tried to flip me a couple of times.  I am less excited about this.  On the flip side, I am trying not to over-impress.  I have a tendency to play the strong woman in all facets of my life, but men tend not to be too excited when you offer to try your hand at opening that water bottle he can't get open.  Or when you offer to pick him up in your car because it's more efficient that way.

I love my mother, but between her practicality and stereotypically confident and strong presence, she has not prepared me well to let men take the lead.  I generally assume that winning everything and being the strongest will impress everyone.  While this does occasionally work in general life, I have realized that it is a disastrous approach on dates.

After dinner at the Ethiopian restaurant, we went to bar and met up with a bunch of his work friends.  I didn't spend much time talking to anyone of them in particular, but they all seemed pretty nice.  With the exception of one guy who I think was trying to seem cool.  Alternatively, he may just be an idiot that drinks too much and likes to put people down, but I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Everyone else was friendly and engaging, and seeing him interact with people he works with gave me a better sense of what he's like when I'm not around.

The biggest take-away for me from the night, though, was the realization that while I have met most of his friends, he has met none of mine.  Not a single one.  Part of this is a conscious decision.  One segment of my friend group also knows his mother, and I don't really want it getting back to her just yet.  Part of it is only somewhat conscious.  I don't know how serious this is going to get (if it ever gets serious), and I'm weighing the costs and benefits of introducing him to a group of people whose opinion and friendship means a great deal to me.  Introducing "Jack" to my friends means identifying him as a viable choice for a boyfriend, and I'm still nervous about our differences.  It's been fun, but how serious can I get with a guy that's still working out what he wants to do with his life, drinks a lot, views religion in a completely different light than I do, and is generally functioning at a different level of maturity than me?

Tomorrow, I'm meeting up with a very wise friend of mine who always has good advice in this department.  I'm hoping she can help me shed some light on where to go from here.

And for those of you interested in the never-ending saga that is my homeowner status, my tenants are considering moving out to avoid the inconvenience of construction (I'm okay with this), new problems arise every week (not so keen on this), and it looks like I'm going to be house-poor for a while (still very uncomfortable with this feeling).  Retirement contributions might be on hold this year, and I'm cutting back on personal expenses as much as possible.  The silver lining to all of this is that when the house is finally done, it's going to be beautiful and wonderful to live in.

Also, today marks 11 days until my birthday.  It will be my 29th birthday, my final year in the third decade of my life.  I'm pretty conflicted about the whole thing.  On the one hand, I hear that the thirties aren't bad: you know yourself better, and you know what you want.  On the other hand, I'm not quite ready to let go of the freedom of my twenties, or the amount of time I currently have before I need to make some real decisions about my personal life (marriage, children, etc.).  Fortunately or unfortunately, time will pass whether or not I like it.  I may as well embrace the slow march toward age (and wisdom, I hope).  I hear that optimistic people are happier, anyway.