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.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
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.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
FUNK at FUDS
I think we could have won our division. We had what it takes. But the weather did what the weather does sometimes, and playoffs were rained out. I'm disappointed; I wanted to stand on that winner's stage. I wanted to win.
I went into the weekend a little hesitant. Our team had never played together before, and I wasn't sure how we would do. I wondered, too, how playing for the first time myself would affect things. Would leaving parties early to get some sleep make the weekend less fun? Would it strip the tournament of its semi-annual magic?
In the end, the fun could not be kept at bay, and my hesitations regarding play were wholly unfounded. Our team (Mid City Funk) went undefeated in pool play on Saturday, winning by an average of 8 or 9 points each game in games that only went to 15. Where we faltered in pick up on Friday afternoon, we dominated and communicated well on Saturday morning. We moved, we talked, we won. If I'd had any doubts about playing at FUDS before, they were long forgotten in the pleasure of victory.
The parties were tamer than they'd been in the past, though. I counted my drinks. I watched the time. I over-thought it; the freedom of the dance floor was diminished by the anticipation of hang-overs and sleep-deprived sluggishness. I did continue my make-out streak (3 times running!), but even that rang a little false.
Guy: Hey, I'm M---.
Me: Nice to meet you, M---. I'm Rebekah.
[dance break]
Me: Where are you from?
Guy: From Atlanta. What about you?
Me: From New Orleans.
[dance break]
Guy: You're adorable.
Me: Thank you.
[dance break]
Guy: You should live in Atlanta.
Me: Umm...
Later, I vented to friends. "Why on Earth could he not have been a stereotypical, non-committal man the one time when I really just wanted to make-out and move on?" He wasn't even that great of a kisser. He was tall, though. And had decent rhythm. And lips. It was not a total loss.
I saw him the next morning at the captain's meeting, where the tournament officially cancelled playoffs due to inclement weather. The depression of missing out on an opportunity to win it all was momentarily overshadowed by a need to hide. "If we're walking, and I suddenly go a different direction, it's because I'm avoiding someone," I told a friend. "Got it," he said. But in the end, I had to walk right past M---, and he caught me. "How are you feeling this morning?" he asked. "Good," I said with an insincere half-smile and continued past him. He watched me walk away.
I promise that I am not a terrible human being or an enormous bitch to men. Normally, I would love for a guy to pursue me. But FUDs is like Vegas. It is an unreal world where anything is possible, and the only thing that follows you back is friendship and debt. Plus, suggesting that I live in his city ten minutes after meeting me was weird. He was weird. I probably should've made out with someone else.
Despite the clingy dance partner and the rain, I had an incredible time. I lost valiantly in Settlers of Catan, ran across a bridge barefoot at midnight, gawked at a penthouse, made friends with a bartender, and drank and laughed and played and soaked in sun when there was sun. I danced, I ate, I saw friends. I was, in short, supremely happy to be back in the place that brought together three of my favorite things: volleyball, dancing, and friends.
Returning to New Orleans yesterday meant readjusting to real life. I took off today to give me a larger adjustment period, which turned out to be a wise choice. I needed it. I needed to drink tea and eat snacks and watch a few episodes of a show on Netflix while I did a load of laundry last night. I needed to get some errands done and lounge around today.
Returning to New Orleans also meant acknowledging my place as a single person again. Am I unhappy to out of the last relationship? Not in the least; I am quite pleased for that to be over and done with. Am I unhappy to be single? Well, jury's still out. I'm not unhappy; it's just more fun to have a dedicated someone to talk to.
In the spirit of getting back on the horse, I re-downloaded Tinder this past weekend (which I had deleted from my phone a while back), and began to play the left-swipe/right-swipe game again yesterday. It is decidedly less fun this time around, though. Last time, I had all kinds of interesting conversations with guys in the area. It only led to a few dates, but that wasn't really the point of joining. In my mind, Tinder's main purpose is entertainment. Since re-downloading, I'm significantly less entertained than I'd hoped. There is less conversation. There are less people. I am less inclined to bother with it. Which is pretty disappointing.
On the flip side, summer is approaching fast, and I am in the middle of planning my two months off. I'm headed to Charleston with one of my best friends from college at the end of May. I'm no doubt helping with my nieces, or my cousin's kids. I've got a training for a robotics program around the beginning of July. I might visit Denver and/or DC. I will not make the same mistake I did last year and settle with staying in New Orleans all summer. I will not put myself through that again.
Last summer, I worked maybe 5 hours a week at the Gap, and with nothing else to do than over-checking realtor.com and lazing around, I suffered a huge human-interaction withdrawal. No amount of Netflix, Facebook, or reading could make up for the sharp drop in time spent with other people. After about a month, I got fed up, quit my retail job, and drove up and down the East Coast, getting as far as Montreal and visiting as many people as I could along the way. If I ever doubted that I was an extrovert, last summer put that to rest. If I ever wondered how much I dislike driving by myself for thousands of miles, last summer made that aversion clear.
To avoid another last-minute, thousand-mile drive, I'm trying to plan regular activities ahead of time. I've sent emails to Habitat ReStore, Ronald McDonald House, Hands On, Tulane Medical Center, and other places that might have lots of people and something for me to do. I'm hoping a few of them email me back so that I have a choice, but just having something to do this summer with people will make me happy.
Volleyball will, of course, make a grand appearance this summer, too. I'm not exactly sure when, where, or what I'll play, but I want to train and get in as much practice time as I can. I might even work out a little. Either way, I'll keep inching toward that 10,000 hour mark Malcolm Gladwell likes to talk about. (Which, according to my calculations, at my current level of play, will take approximately 21 years for me to reach. In other words, I need to play more, and I should've started earlier.)
Part of the beauty of summer is the possibilities it affords: the freedom to see new places and to meet new people and to try new things. It can't get here fast enough.
Part of the beauty is that when it does, the next FUDS is only a few months away.
I went into the weekend a little hesitant. Our team had never played together before, and I wasn't sure how we would do. I wondered, too, how playing for the first time myself would affect things. Would leaving parties early to get some sleep make the weekend less fun? Would it strip the tournament of its semi-annual magic?
In the end, the fun could not be kept at bay, and my hesitations regarding play were wholly unfounded. Our team (Mid City Funk) went undefeated in pool play on Saturday, winning by an average of 8 or 9 points each game in games that only went to 15. Where we faltered in pick up on Friday afternoon, we dominated and communicated well on Saturday morning. We moved, we talked, we won. If I'd had any doubts about playing at FUDS before, they were long forgotten in the pleasure of victory.
The parties were tamer than they'd been in the past, though. I counted my drinks. I watched the time. I over-thought it; the freedom of the dance floor was diminished by the anticipation of hang-overs and sleep-deprived sluggishness. I did continue my make-out streak (3 times running!), but even that rang a little false.
Guy: Hey, I'm M---.
Me: Nice to meet you, M---. I'm Rebekah.
[dance break]
Me: Where are you from?
Guy: From Atlanta. What about you?
Me: From New Orleans.
[dance break]
Guy: You're adorable.
Me: Thank you.
[dance break]
Guy: You should live in Atlanta.
Me: Umm...
Later, I vented to friends. "Why on Earth could he not have been a stereotypical, non-committal man the one time when I really just wanted to make-out and move on?" He wasn't even that great of a kisser. He was tall, though. And had decent rhythm. And lips. It was not a total loss.
I saw him the next morning at the captain's meeting, where the tournament officially cancelled playoffs due to inclement weather. The depression of missing out on an opportunity to win it all was momentarily overshadowed by a need to hide. "If we're walking, and I suddenly go a different direction, it's because I'm avoiding someone," I told a friend. "Got it," he said. But in the end, I had to walk right past M---, and he caught me. "How are you feeling this morning?" he asked. "Good," I said with an insincere half-smile and continued past him. He watched me walk away.
I promise that I am not a terrible human being or an enormous bitch to men. Normally, I would love for a guy to pursue me. But FUDs is like Vegas. It is an unreal world where anything is possible, and the only thing that follows you back is friendship and debt. Plus, suggesting that I live in his city ten minutes after meeting me was weird. He was weird. I probably should've made out with someone else.
Despite the clingy dance partner and the rain, I had an incredible time. I lost valiantly in Settlers of Catan, ran across a bridge barefoot at midnight, gawked at a penthouse, made friends with a bartender, and drank and laughed and played and soaked in sun when there was sun. I danced, I ate, I saw friends. I was, in short, supremely happy to be back in the place that brought together three of my favorite things: volleyball, dancing, and friends.
Returning to New Orleans yesterday meant readjusting to real life. I took off today to give me a larger adjustment period, which turned out to be a wise choice. I needed it. I needed to drink tea and eat snacks and watch a few episodes of a show on Netflix while I did a load of laundry last night. I needed to get some errands done and lounge around today.
Returning to New Orleans also meant acknowledging my place as a single person again. Am I unhappy to out of the last relationship? Not in the least; I am quite pleased for that to be over and done with. Am I unhappy to be single? Well, jury's still out. I'm not unhappy; it's just more fun to have a dedicated someone to talk to.
In the spirit of getting back on the horse, I re-downloaded Tinder this past weekend (which I had deleted from my phone a while back), and began to play the left-swipe/right-swipe game again yesterday. It is decidedly less fun this time around, though. Last time, I had all kinds of interesting conversations with guys in the area. It only led to a few dates, but that wasn't really the point of joining. In my mind, Tinder's main purpose is entertainment. Since re-downloading, I'm significantly less entertained than I'd hoped. There is less conversation. There are less people. I am less inclined to bother with it. Which is pretty disappointing.
On the flip side, summer is approaching fast, and I am in the middle of planning my two months off. I'm headed to Charleston with one of my best friends from college at the end of May. I'm no doubt helping with my nieces, or my cousin's kids. I've got a training for a robotics program around the beginning of July. I might visit Denver and/or DC. I will not make the same mistake I did last year and settle with staying in New Orleans all summer. I will not put myself through that again.
Last summer, I worked maybe 5 hours a week at the Gap, and with nothing else to do than over-checking realtor.com and lazing around, I suffered a huge human-interaction withdrawal. No amount of Netflix, Facebook, or reading could make up for the sharp drop in time spent with other people. After about a month, I got fed up, quit my retail job, and drove up and down the East Coast, getting as far as Montreal and visiting as many people as I could along the way. If I ever doubted that I was an extrovert, last summer put that to rest. If I ever wondered how much I dislike driving by myself for thousands of miles, last summer made that aversion clear.
To avoid another last-minute, thousand-mile drive, I'm trying to plan regular activities ahead of time. I've sent emails to Habitat ReStore, Ronald McDonald House, Hands On, Tulane Medical Center, and other places that might have lots of people and something for me to do. I'm hoping a few of them email me back so that I have a choice, but just having something to do this summer with people will make me happy.
Volleyball will, of course, make a grand appearance this summer, too. I'm not exactly sure when, where, or what I'll play, but I want to train and get in as much practice time as I can. I might even work out a little. Either way, I'll keep inching toward that 10,000 hour mark Malcolm Gladwell likes to talk about. (Which, according to my calculations, at my current level of play, will take approximately 21 years for me to reach. In other words, I need to play more, and I should've started earlier.)
Part of the beauty of summer is the possibilities it affords: the freedom to see new places and to meet new people and to try new things. It can't get here fast enough.
Part of the beauty is that when it does, the next FUDS is only a few months away.
 |
| GO FUNK! |
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Ridin' Solo
"Jack" and I are officially broken up, and I am now back on the market (though that seems sort of self-deprecatory to say...I'm not merchandise, after all). It was perhaps the calmest, shortest, and most mutual break up that I have ever experienced. Though looking back, I'm thinking that it might have also been the most subtly passive aggressive. But I'll explain that later.
There are numerous good things about this break up.
First, I do not have to shave as often. This is a major plus because as much as I hate hairy legs, I also hate shaving. Additionally, I am remarkably bad at it, considering the fact that I've been practicing for the last 17 years. (It's the knees. Always the knees.)
Second, I no longer have to devote one night per week to the same person. I don't mean that in a selfish way; I simply mean that it is difficult to constantly explain to people that (a) I cannot come because it's the night I see "Jack" or (b) "Jack" is not coming because he works a lot and I only see him once a week. Having a fixed "date night" means I'm forced to sacrifice fun things and/or alone time with the person I'm dating. I prefer a little more flexibility.
Third, I do not have to stay up late or sleep in just because my significant other does so. I don't particularly like being awake at 3am, nor do I enjoy wasting away the morning in bed. I recognize that others have different opinions on this, and I respect them. But they are not mine.
Fourth, I do not have to spend all of my therapy session every other week talking about one person. Because I have other things in my life, thank you very much, and those are important, too.
Fifth, I do not have to feel guilty for wanting to play volleyball or hang out with my friends as frequently as I do.
It is pondering on this fifth point that I began to realize that perhaps the break up was not as mutual or as lacking in blame as I originally thought. There was a point in our very brief conversation, where "Jack" said that he felt that we were nearing a point where we might begin to accuse the other of being selfish. At the time, I thought nothing of this, but paired with another comment of his ("You have too many hobbies, and I work too much"), I'm beginning to think he was actually a little pissed at me, that he was gently accusing me of playing too much volleyball. Which is probably true, but I happen to love it, as well as the people I've met playing it. I suppose the solution is to date a volleyball player. Or at least someone who doesn't mind that I spent at least 6 hours a week on the game.
There are a few costs to being single. Not many in this particular case, but a few.
First, my intake of physical affection will be sorely limited with the passing of this relationship. At least for now.
Second, I can no longer frequent the bar that "Jack" manages. A shame because it's actually a cool place. But I don't want spit in my drink.
Third, and most importantly, I will still have to see his mother at work, and I don't know how she'll react to the news.
Of course, the fact that it ended up being a calm and mutual break up will probably make the latter easier to manage. We realized that we were too different, and as such, we allowed ourselves to take our own separate paths from here on out. She can't fault me for that. Right? (Fingers crossed on this one.)
With my grandfather's passing this past week--and all of the self-reflection that it kicked up--I knew that I couldn't stay in a relationship that, to be blunt, bored me. I no longer looked forward to seeing him. I no longer waited for him to call. We no longer had anything to say. While there were plenty of great things about dating "Jack," one of the most important was being able to recognize the difference between dating likes, preferences, and needs.
I need someone caring and thoughtful (no jerks).
I need someone who is independent and confident in himself.
I need someone who doesn't mind my volleyball addiction.
I prefer someone who listens to the same music I do and/or reads similar books to those I read and/or watches similar movies/tv shows to me, etc. We need some sort of art-related commonality.
I prefer someone who eats meat (If he cooks, even better!).
I prefer someone who has similar religious beliefs.
I prefer someone who has a similar sense of humor.
I prefer someone who has a similar level of education.
I prefer someone who is in good physical shape.
I prefer someone who makes me laugh, and in turn, will laugh at my jokes.
I prefer someone who likes kids and wants to have kids.
I'm looking for someone who is good and strong and ambitious and upright and generous.
I'm looking for integrity and honesty and purpose.
And with these thoughts in mind, I reembark on my journey as a single almost-30-something. I hope that there will be plenty of fun stories to share with you, but hopefully also someone out there that's worth more than a laugh. Time will tell.
There are numerous good things about this break up.
First, I do not have to shave as often. This is a major plus because as much as I hate hairy legs, I also hate shaving. Additionally, I am remarkably bad at it, considering the fact that I've been practicing for the last 17 years. (It's the knees. Always the knees.)
Second, I no longer have to devote one night per week to the same person. I don't mean that in a selfish way; I simply mean that it is difficult to constantly explain to people that (a) I cannot come because it's the night I see "Jack" or (b) "Jack" is not coming because he works a lot and I only see him once a week. Having a fixed "date night" means I'm forced to sacrifice fun things and/or alone time with the person I'm dating. I prefer a little more flexibility.
Third, I do not have to stay up late or sleep in just because my significant other does so. I don't particularly like being awake at 3am, nor do I enjoy wasting away the morning in bed. I recognize that others have different opinions on this, and I respect them. But they are not mine.
Fourth, I do not have to spend all of my therapy session every other week talking about one person. Because I have other things in my life, thank you very much, and those are important, too.
Fifth, I do not have to feel guilty for wanting to play volleyball or hang out with my friends as frequently as I do.
It is pondering on this fifth point that I began to realize that perhaps the break up was not as mutual or as lacking in blame as I originally thought. There was a point in our very brief conversation, where "Jack" said that he felt that we were nearing a point where we might begin to accuse the other of being selfish. At the time, I thought nothing of this, but paired with another comment of his ("You have too many hobbies, and I work too much"), I'm beginning to think he was actually a little pissed at me, that he was gently accusing me of playing too much volleyball. Which is probably true, but I happen to love it, as well as the people I've met playing it. I suppose the solution is to date a volleyball player. Or at least someone who doesn't mind that I spent at least 6 hours a week on the game.
There are a few costs to being single. Not many in this particular case, but a few.
First, my intake of physical affection will be sorely limited with the passing of this relationship. At least for now.
Second, I can no longer frequent the bar that "Jack" manages. A shame because it's actually a cool place. But I don't want spit in my drink.
Third, and most importantly, I will still have to see his mother at work, and I don't know how she'll react to the news.
Of course, the fact that it ended up being a calm and mutual break up will probably make the latter easier to manage. We realized that we were too different, and as such, we allowed ourselves to take our own separate paths from here on out. She can't fault me for that. Right? (Fingers crossed on this one.)
With my grandfather's passing this past week--and all of the self-reflection that it kicked up--I knew that I couldn't stay in a relationship that, to be blunt, bored me. I no longer looked forward to seeing him. I no longer waited for him to call. We no longer had anything to say. While there were plenty of great things about dating "Jack," one of the most important was being able to recognize the difference between dating likes, preferences, and needs.
I need someone caring and thoughtful (no jerks).
I need someone who is independent and confident in himself.
I need someone who doesn't mind my volleyball addiction.
I prefer someone who listens to the same music I do and/or reads similar books to those I read and/or watches similar movies/tv shows to me, etc. We need some sort of art-related commonality.
I prefer someone who eats meat (If he cooks, even better!).
I prefer someone who has similar religious beliefs.
I prefer someone who has a similar sense of humor.
I prefer someone who has a similar level of education.
I prefer someone who is in good physical shape.
I prefer someone who makes me laugh, and in turn, will laugh at my jokes.
I prefer someone who likes kids and wants to have kids.
I'm looking for someone who is good and strong and ambitious and upright and generous.
I'm looking for integrity and honesty and purpose.
And with these thoughts in mind, I reembark on my journey as a single almost-30-something. I hope that there will be plenty of fun stories to share with you, but hopefully also someone out there that's worth more than a laugh. Time will tell.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Half
My grandfather would've loved Friday. He would've loved that people wrote about him in the paper. He would've loved that the flags in Baton Rouge were put at half-mast for him. He would've loved that hundreds of people lined up down the aisle, around the church, and out the door that afternoon to see him one last time and pay their respects. He would've loved having all of his family there. The music, the readings, the stories his sons told, the poems and prayers they read, the memories people shared, the delicious food at the reception: he would've loved it all.
And yet, a wife grieved her husband that day. Children grieved their father. I said goodbye to a man that I have loved and respected and looked up to all of my life.
1st very young cousin [stacking brownies on her plate]:
I saw you crying in church.
Me:
I was. I was sad.
2nd very young cousin [looks up at me]:
Why were you crying?
1st very young cousin [matter-of-factly before returning to her brownie stack]:
Because Papa died.
When I was in middle school, I read a book called A Summer to Die, in which a girl loses her sister suddenly to leukemia. I have a distinct memory of finishing the book, walking down to the living room, and sitting down on the floor next to my mother, where I sobbed into her shoulder for what felt like hours. I have always been a crier, and losing someone has always been a thing unfathomably sad to me. How do we ever get past the sorrow that comes with the irreversible absence of someone we love? How do we ever forget how much we miss them?
I have never dealt much with death myself. Before Friday, I'd been to one funeral and two memorial services in my twenty nine years of life. But the people I lost were so far away--physically or emotionally--and I saw them so rarely, that death felt more like a break-up, like a friendship that had faded with time. My friend Matt died a few years ago, and I've visited his grave at Arlington, but sometimes I still think about him as thought he hadn't, as though he might still send me an email out of the blue tomorrow with stories of Navy flights and parachute practice.
My grandfather was an active part of my life, though. Anytime anything happened in Baton Rouge, we would at least stop at his house: holidays, football games, hurricanes, baby showers, you name it. And he would come down to New Orleans, too, for events here: graduations, weddings, and more. I saw him at least once every other month; more often if I was lucky. And now I won't. And I wonder how things will ever be as happy as they were, as love-filled and joyous as they were.
Yet, for all the tears that fell on Friday, there were just as many laughs, just as many smiles. There, gathered in the church and at the cemetery and in his home, we shared memories and told jokes. We made fun of siblings who couldn't remember people's names and great aunts who asked intrusive questions. We laughed as children handed out fake bills from a printing calculator, and as my cousin worried that her twins would be born on Hitler's birthday. We laughed as he would have, surrounded by the people that give our life meaning and keep us going. And I suppose that that is how sorrow fades: in the faces of the people who look like him, who act like him, who carry his heart in their heart. There, his memory and strength live on.
As we parted ways Friday night, different members of the family came up with plans to see each other more. Beach trips were suggested. Invitations to come to this city or that city offered. For all the sadness of the day, we were reminded how blessed we are to be part of this family, to have people as special as those packed into the kitchen and dining room that evening.
When my great aunt came up to say goodbye to my grandmother, they expressed how lucky they were to find such wonderful husbands. Both married more than 50 years, they'd found men who were strong and caring and perfect for them. "They never said a cross word," my father said of his parents in the eulogy that afternoon. "I asked my mother about it once, and she said, 'He may have thought about it once.'" Driving home that night, I realized just how many examples of strong marriages I have around me: my grandparents, great aunts and uncles, my parents. Even my older brother has married a woman that simultaneously betters him and adores him.
Saturday, as I spent the afternoon with "Jack," I felt the last threads of our relationship unravel. On the outside, traipsing through the French Quarter in rain boots and jackets with daiquiris in hand, we seemed alright. But as he played poker at Harrah's, I scanned facebook on my phone. As he talked to a friend, I watched a band perform. As we ate, we grasped at things to say.
Meanwhile, the small things are becoming big things. I nag; he avoids. "I'm sorry for getting upset at you earlier about the soap," I said at one point. "Let's not talk about it right now," he said, as though knowing that it wasn't really about the soap. Between the schedule conflicts and the lifestyle differences and the lack of passion to make up for all of it, I don't really want to be with him anymore. I've put the break up off for a long time now, hoping that things would get better, or maybe just avoiding the discomfort of having to say something he might not like to hear.
"Something has to change," I told him on the phone today. "It's just not working. I don't know what the solution is: Do we call it quits? Do we demote ourselves to something less serious? For all the pressure we've been putting on this relationship, we still only see each other once a week."
"I've been feeling it, too," he replied, "and I know you have. Do you want to sit down and talk about it?"
So we're getting together on Wednesday. What the outcome will be, I'm not positive, but my guess is that I'll be single again soon. And maybe I'll be single again for a while. Maybe I won't find my other half this year, or next year, or until gray hairs begin to sprout from my head. Still, it's worth it. I have to at least give myself the chance.
And yet, a wife grieved her husband that day. Children grieved their father. I said goodbye to a man that I have loved and respected and looked up to all of my life.
1st very young cousin [stacking brownies on her plate]:
I saw you crying in church.
Me:
I was. I was sad.
2nd very young cousin [looks up at me]:
Why were you crying?
1st very young cousin [matter-of-factly before returning to her brownie stack]:
Because Papa died.
When I was in middle school, I read a book called A Summer to Die, in which a girl loses her sister suddenly to leukemia. I have a distinct memory of finishing the book, walking down to the living room, and sitting down on the floor next to my mother, where I sobbed into her shoulder for what felt like hours. I have always been a crier, and losing someone has always been a thing unfathomably sad to me. How do we ever get past the sorrow that comes with the irreversible absence of someone we love? How do we ever forget how much we miss them?
I have never dealt much with death myself. Before Friday, I'd been to one funeral and two memorial services in my twenty nine years of life. But the people I lost were so far away--physically or emotionally--and I saw them so rarely, that death felt more like a break-up, like a friendship that had faded with time. My friend Matt died a few years ago, and I've visited his grave at Arlington, but sometimes I still think about him as thought he hadn't, as though he might still send me an email out of the blue tomorrow with stories of Navy flights and parachute practice.
My grandfather was an active part of my life, though. Anytime anything happened in Baton Rouge, we would at least stop at his house: holidays, football games, hurricanes, baby showers, you name it. And he would come down to New Orleans, too, for events here: graduations, weddings, and more. I saw him at least once every other month; more often if I was lucky. And now I won't. And I wonder how things will ever be as happy as they were, as love-filled and joyous as they were.
Yet, for all the tears that fell on Friday, there were just as many laughs, just as many smiles. There, gathered in the church and at the cemetery and in his home, we shared memories and told jokes. We made fun of siblings who couldn't remember people's names and great aunts who asked intrusive questions. We laughed as children handed out fake bills from a printing calculator, and as my cousin worried that her twins would be born on Hitler's birthday. We laughed as he would have, surrounded by the people that give our life meaning and keep us going. And I suppose that that is how sorrow fades: in the faces of the people who look like him, who act like him, who carry his heart in their heart. There, his memory and strength live on.
As we parted ways Friday night, different members of the family came up with plans to see each other more. Beach trips were suggested. Invitations to come to this city or that city offered. For all the sadness of the day, we were reminded how blessed we are to be part of this family, to have people as special as those packed into the kitchen and dining room that evening.
When my great aunt came up to say goodbye to my grandmother, they expressed how lucky they were to find such wonderful husbands. Both married more than 50 years, they'd found men who were strong and caring and perfect for them. "They never said a cross word," my father said of his parents in the eulogy that afternoon. "I asked my mother about it once, and she said, 'He may have thought about it once.'" Driving home that night, I realized just how many examples of strong marriages I have around me: my grandparents, great aunts and uncles, my parents. Even my older brother has married a woman that simultaneously betters him and adores him.
Saturday, as I spent the afternoon with "Jack," I felt the last threads of our relationship unravel. On the outside, traipsing through the French Quarter in rain boots and jackets with daiquiris in hand, we seemed alright. But as he played poker at Harrah's, I scanned facebook on my phone. As he talked to a friend, I watched a band perform. As we ate, we grasped at things to say.
Meanwhile, the small things are becoming big things. I nag; he avoids. "I'm sorry for getting upset at you earlier about the soap," I said at one point. "Let's not talk about it right now," he said, as though knowing that it wasn't really about the soap. Between the schedule conflicts and the lifestyle differences and the lack of passion to make up for all of it, I don't really want to be with him anymore. I've put the break up off for a long time now, hoping that things would get better, or maybe just avoiding the discomfort of having to say something he might not like to hear.
"Something has to change," I told him on the phone today. "It's just not working. I don't know what the solution is: Do we call it quits? Do we demote ourselves to something less serious? For all the pressure we've been putting on this relationship, we still only see each other once a week."
"I've been feeling it, too," he replied, "and I know you have. Do you want to sit down and talk about it?"
So we're getting together on Wednesday. What the outcome will be, I'm not positive, but my guess is that I'll be single again soon. And maybe I'll be single again for a while. Maybe I won't find my other half this year, or next year, or until gray hairs begin to sprout from my head. Still, it's worth it. I have to at least give myself the chance.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
My Old Man's Old Man
December 18, 1924. The oldest of seven children was born into the world, pushed out of his mother's womb, into a era of glimmer and shine and prosperity. It was the mid-point of the well-known "roaring twenties," but chances are, les années folles probably didn't touch his family much in New Roads, Louisiana, a small town along the False River north of Baton Rouge. There, his father ran the local general store.
By the time he was five, the stock market had crashed, and the Great Depression set in. By the time he was nine, war was happening across the Atlantic. He graduated high school as valedictorian and went to LSU at the age of 16. Two years later, he joined the Army and ended up in the Ardennes, fighting German soldiers in the Battle of the Bulge, a month-long contest that began two days before his twentieth birthday.
My grandfather loved history, and he loved reading books about the war, but he never talked about his own experiences to me much. I guess there are some things that a person simply cannot bear to recall. I will likely never understand how he felt or what he went through. I have not seen my friends killed before my eyes. I have not suffered through a cold and terrible winter, fighting for my life and the lives of people I had never met, just a month out of my teenage years. I have never shot a man.
He returned three years later to take business and law classes, graduating LSU with a law degree, only to take over the family business and run it well into his later years.
He married my grandmother--probably the smartest choice he ever made in a life of smart choices--and they had seven children. My dad was the youngest son, also a lawyer, also a scholar, also a good and kind man.
December 18, 1985. On the day he turned 61, a granddaughter was born into the family. She was named after his wife. She was the oldest daughter of his youngest son. And she was absolutely enamored with him from the start. He was kind and funny and caring and made terrible jokes (where her father undoubtedly got it from). When she went to camp, he would write her letters, and inside of the envelope, without fail, would always be a stick or two of gum. Her grandmother always wrote a few lines, but he was the writer, the conversationalist. He was the storyteller. Every Sunday night, he would call her father to talk, and if she picked up instead, he would ask her about her life, her school work, her writing. In ninth grade, she wrote a terrible poem and got it published in an anthology of other unwanted poems by people willing to pay for printing, and she gave him a copy. He kept it in his bookshelf-lined living room for years, on the bottom shelf where everyone could see it. In college, he would send her cards. When she traveled abroad, he would tell her about the places he'd been, about the time he was in France for the war. Never any details; just that he'd been there, too.
They didn't talk on the phone much, but every 18th of December, she would call him. Every year. Without fail.
[ring ring]
Papa: Hello?
Her: Hi, Papa! Happy birthday!
Papa: Well, happy birthday to you!
They would both laugh, and she'd undoubtedly see him that weekend for a shared celebration of some sort: a dinner, most often. Sharing a birthday with him was always an honor, even when it meant that no one else remembered her birthday, overshadowed as it was by the celebration of another year in his long and happy life. The thing is, he never forgot about it. They always called each other. It was an unspoken agreement between them, a granddaughter and her beloved Papa.
December 18, 2013. He'd begun to have trouble with his memory, and when she called, his wife had to remind him about the shared birthday. December 18, 2014. She called, and he didn't seem to recognize who she was. It seemed to be just another birthday call from someone he couldn't quite place. He'd been called and wished happy birthday all day long. Why should this call be any different?
I cried that day, as I hung up the phone. On my birthday--our birthday--my favorite day of the year. Phone still in hand, I mourned the loss of my grandfather as I had known him: his jokes and smiles, his curiosity, his endless knowledge, and the unique bond we had between us. That day, I realized that I would probably never get to make that phone call again.
But I will celebrate his life every December 18th as I celebrate mine, loving that day as I know he did. And in each day of my life, I will strive to be as endlessly knowledgeable, as loving, and as strong as he was. I will try to be everything he knew I could be, and everything that he knows that I am. I will replay all the best memories: the way he'd unbuckle his belt and shake his pants off (and Gran's response: "Oh, B!"), the time he showed me a real and large rabbit hopping away from the house on Easter morning, LSU games in the stands, sitting in the massage chairs at his store, making fires in the fireplace on Christmas, trips to the beach in the summer.
It has been a sad day today, full of tears and nose running and averted eyes, but he would have been glad to know that I laughed. And taught. And wrote. And played. He'd be proud to know that I was strong, and prouder still to know that I was doing all the things he once loved to do.
I miss you, Papa. I'll see you on the other side.
By the time he was five, the stock market had crashed, and the Great Depression set in. By the time he was nine, war was happening across the Atlantic. He graduated high school as valedictorian and went to LSU at the age of 16. Two years later, he joined the Army and ended up in the Ardennes, fighting German soldiers in the Battle of the Bulge, a month-long contest that began two days before his twentieth birthday.
My grandfather loved history, and he loved reading books about the war, but he never talked about his own experiences to me much. I guess there are some things that a person simply cannot bear to recall. I will likely never understand how he felt or what he went through. I have not seen my friends killed before my eyes. I have not suffered through a cold and terrible winter, fighting for my life and the lives of people I had never met, just a month out of my teenage years. I have never shot a man.
He returned three years later to take business and law classes, graduating LSU with a law degree, only to take over the family business and run it well into his later years.
He married my grandmother--probably the smartest choice he ever made in a life of smart choices--and they had seven children. My dad was the youngest son, also a lawyer, also a scholar, also a good and kind man.
December 18, 1985. On the day he turned 61, a granddaughter was born into the family. She was named after his wife. She was the oldest daughter of his youngest son. And she was absolutely enamored with him from the start. He was kind and funny and caring and made terrible jokes (where her father undoubtedly got it from). When she went to camp, he would write her letters, and inside of the envelope, without fail, would always be a stick or two of gum. Her grandmother always wrote a few lines, but he was the writer, the conversationalist. He was the storyteller. Every Sunday night, he would call her father to talk, and if she picked up instead, he would ask her about her life, her school work, her writing. In ninth grade, she wrote a terrible poem and got it published in an anthology of other unwanted poems by people willing to pay for printing, and she gave him a copy. He kept it in his bookshelf-lined living room for years, on the bottom shelf where everyone could see it. In college, he would send her cards. When she traveled abroad, he would tell her about the places he'd been, about the time he was in France for the war. Never any details; just that he'd been there, too.
They didn't talk on the phone much, but every 18th of December, she would call him. Every year. Without fail.
[ring ring]
Papa: Hello?
Her: Hi, Papa! Happy birthday!
Papa: Well, happy birthday to you!
They would both laugh, and she'd undoubtedly see him that weekend for a shared celebration of some sort: a dinner, most often. Sharing a birthday with him was always an honor, even when it meant that no one else remembered her birthday, overshadowed as it was by the celebration of another year in his long and happy life. The thing is, he never forgot about it. They always called each other. It was an unspoken agreement between them, a granddaughter and her beloved Papa.
December 18, 2013. He'd begun to have trouble with his memory, and when she called, his wife had to remind him about the shared birthday. December 18, 2014. She called, and he didn't seem to recognize who she was. It seemed to be just another birthday call from someone he couldn't quite place. He'd been called and wished happy birthday all day long. Why should this call be any different?
I cried that day, as I hung up the phone. On my birthday--our birthday--my favorite day of the year. Phone still in hand, I mourned the loss of my grandfather as I had known him: his jokes and smiles, his curiosity, his endless knowledge, and the unique bond we had between us. That day, I realized that I would probably never get to make that phone call again.
But I will celebrate his life every December 18th as I celebrate mine, loving that day as I know he did. And in each day of my life, I will strive to be as endlessly knowledgeable, as loving, and as strong as he was. I will try to be everything he knew I could be, and everything that he knows that I am. I will replay all the best memories: the way he'd unbuckle his belt and shake his pants off (and Gran's response: "Oh, B!"), the time he showed me a real and large rabbit hopping away from the house on Easter morning, LSU games in the stands, sitting in the massage chairs at his store, making fires in the fireplace on Christmas, trips to the beach in the summer.
It has been a sad day today, full of tears and nose running and averted eyes, but he would have been glad to know that I laughed. And taught. And wrote. And played. He'd be proud to know that I was strong, and prouder still to know that I was doing all the things he once loved to do.
I miss you, Papa. I'll see you on the other side.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Don't Worry, Be Happy
Me: I feel like we argue a lot. We don't have much to say that doesn't end in argument.
Him: I don't know. We disagree, but it doesn't bother me that much. I mean, we talk for an hour at a time on the phone; we don't usually disagree then.
Me: Yeah, but that's mostly complaining about work.
Him: I do complain about work a lot. I'm sorry.
Me: That's not what I'm saying.
Him: No, but I really should avoid over-sharing about work. And I'll stay away from topics that I know rile you up.
[pause]
Me: I wish I had more relationship experience. Maybe then I'd know what we're supposed to talk about. We can't talk about politics--or religion...or science--because we'll argue about it. We can't talk about music or movies or books because we don't listen to or watch or read the same things. I mean, what do we have in common, really? And after more than four months of dating, we still only see each other once a week. Our schedule is against us, too.
Him: You know, this is exactly what people say when they're breaking up.
Me: I'm trying to have a conversation, not break up.
Him: Well, you're really good at these almost-break ups.
Me: Well, maybe this is an almost break up. We've got to change something.
[pause, he throws a fake grin my way, kisses me]
Me: We haven't resolved anything, you know.
Him: Sure, we have. We learned that you think this is worth working on.
It was a strange discussion. A positive one: I was heard, and he was talking. But one that clearly demarcates a shift in the relationship. Whether that shift is positive or negative, I'm still not sure. I'm not sure if by clearing the air, we're closer to or farther from breaking up. I feel better today than I did yesterday, but how long will that feeling last?
Him: You have summer off. It's almost summer. We'll be able to hang out more then.
Me: Summer is still two months away, and it only lasts two months. We can't rely on summer to fix all of our problems.
Him: But maybe by spending more time together, we'll get to know each other and see what we like in each other. Plus, summer lasts three months, right?
Me: Not for teachers.
My therapist says that the first months of a relationship are the honeymoon period, that we should be completely infatuated with each other at this point. I know she's not just throwing mumbo-jumbo my way. I've been there. Two weeks into dating my college boyfriend, I said "I love you" and he said it back. He gave me his sweatshirt, and I wore it every day. We saw each other multiple times a week. We kissed in the branches of trees we had climbed and wrote love letters/emails to each other. We jumped at every chance to be together.
"Jack" and I are not in love. We are not infatuated with each other (or at least I'm not). Our age and lack of extensive free time may preclude some of the niceties I described (oh, college, how I miss you), but the fact of the matter is, this is not a honeymoon. I don't know if that's because it's hard to be infatuated with someone you see only once a week, or if it's because we're simply not meant to be. Probably a combination of both.
I went into last night completely planning on breaking up with him. I had spent an entire weekend in Atlanta (gleefully bonding with my two beautiful nieces) and not thinking about him at all. And when I did think about him, it was almost as if we'd already broken up. I felt like I was single already. There was a sense of relief in the freedom, and a reluctance to do the actual breaking. Because "Jack" has been left behind and left out so much in his life that it breaks my heart to break his.
In the two times that we've had serious, potentially conclusive conversations, he has stiffened and shut up. The sit-down we had after his birthday--which he assumed was a break up--was really just me talking and him sitting across from me, defensive in posture. Hearing my words, but really just waiting for me to say goodbye.
"Why do you clam up when the talk turns serious?" I asked him yesterday, as we lay side-by-side on his bed, stockinged feet on the floor, eyes looking up at the ceiling.
"Because I've been hurt before," he replied. "And I figure, you'll either talk yourself into staying or talk yourself into leaving."
"Everybody's been hurt before."
"I know it's probably unhealthy, and fairly narcissistic, but it's how I cope. ...Do you want to go in the other room and talk?"
"No," I responded before he could get up, pulling him close. "Because you'll sit on the opposite side of the room, cross your arms, and stop talking."
"True," he said, and then paused before continuing. "Why do we need to have an adult conversation, anyway?"
"Because we're adults," I said. "This is what adults do."
And that's probably where our downfall lies, in what we see in ourselves and in our age. To him, being 29 means having plenty of time to figure things out and catch up. In his world, 29 is young and stupid, and he's a mess, but it's okay. He's happy. To me, 29 means almost 30. It means adulthood. It means seven-year careers and taxes and house renovations and serious relationship conversations and self-knowledge. It still means young--and fun--but for me, happiness takes a different, more organized path. I strive; he wanders.
Him: What do you see in me, anyway? You're perfect and responsible and an adult. Why do you even like me?
Me: I could ask you the same question. I mean, I'm all those things--okay, not perfect, but responsible and more adult than I probably should be. I'm like a 75 year old trapped in an almost-30 body. Why bother?
Him: I do sometimes wish that you could stay up later. That you were more free. But then I see you, and I remember how much I like you and how much I missed you. And I guess I'm hoping to corrupt you a little bit, too.
Me: What? No. [jokingly pulling away]
Him: You're probably hoping I'll be a little better, too.
Me: I don't care. I just want you to be happy. I want you to be happy, and I want me to be happy.
Him: So be happy, Rebekah.
That's what I'm trying to do.
Him: I don't know. We disagree, but it doesn't bother me that much. I mean, we talk for an hour at a time on the phone; we don't usually disagree then.
Me: Yeah, but that's mostly complaining about work.
Him: I do complain about work a lot. I'm sorry.
Me: That's not what I'm saying.
Him: No, but I really should avoid over-sharing about work. And I'll stay away from topics that I know rile you up.
[pause]
Me: I wish I had more relationship experience. Maybe then I'd know what we're supposed to talk about. We can't talk about politics--or religion...or science--because we'll argue about it. We can't talk about music or movies or books because we don't listen to or watch or read the same things. I mean, what do we have in common, really? And after more than four months of dating, we still only see each other once a week. Our schedule is against us, too.
Him: You know, this is exactly what people say when they're breaking up.
Me: I'm trying to have a conversation, not break up.
Him: Well, you're really good at these almost-break ups.
Me: Well, maybe this is an almost break up. We've got to change something.
[pause, he throws a fake grin my way, kisses me]
Me: We haven't resolved anything, you know.
Him: Sure, we have. We learned that you think this is worth working on.
It was a strange discussion. A positive one: I was heard, and he was talking. But one that clearly demarcates a shift in the relationship. Whether that shift is positive or negative, I'm still not sure. I'm not sure if by clearing the air, we're closer to or farther from breaking up. I feel better today than I did yesterday, but how long will that feeling last?
Him: You have summer off. It's almost summer. We'll be able to hang out more then.
Me: Summer is still two months away, and it only lasts two months. We can't rely on summer to fix all of our problems.
Him: But maybe by spending more time together, we'll get to know each other and see what we like in each other. Plus, summer lasts three months, right?
Me: Not for teachers.
My therapist says that the first months of a relationship are the honeymoon period, that we should be completely infatuated with each other at this point. I know she's not just throwing mumbo-jumbo my way. I've been there. Two weeks into dating my college boyfriend, I said "I love you" and he said it back. He gave me his sweatshirt, and I wore it every day. We saw each other multiple times a week. We kissed in the branches of trees we had climbed and wrote love letters/emails to each other. We jumped at every chance to be together.
"Jack" and I are not in love. We are not infatuated with each other (or at least I'm not). Our age and lack of extensive free time may preclude some of the niceties I described (oh, college, how I miss you), but the fact of the matter is, this is not a honeymoon. I don't know if that's because it's hard to be infatuated with someone you see only once a week, or if it's because we're simply not meant to be. Probably a combination of both.
I went into last night completely planning on breaking up with him. I had spent an entire weekend in Atlanta (gleefully bonding with my two beautiful nieces) and not thinking about him at all. And when I did think about him, it was almost as if we'd already broken up. I felt like I was single already. There was a sense of relief in the freedom, and a reluctance to do the actual breaking. Because "Jack" has been left behind and left out so much in his life that it breaks my heart to break his.
In the two times that we've had serious, potentially conclusive conversations, he has stiffened and shut up. The sit-down we had after his birthday--which he assumed was a break up--was really just me talking and him sitting across from me, defensive in posture. Hearing my words, but really just waiting for me to say goodbye.
"Why do you clam up when the talk turns serious?" I asked him yesterday, as we lay side-by-side on his bed, stockinged feet on the floor, eyes looking up at the ceiling.
"Because I've been hurt before," he replied. "And I figure, you'll either talk yourself into staying or talk yourself into leaving."
"Everybody's been hurt before."
"I know it's probably unhealthy, and fairly narcissistic, but it's how I cope. ...Do you want to go in the other room and talk?"
"No," I responded before he could get up, pulling him close. "Because you'll sit on the opposite side of the room, cross your arms, and stop talking."
"True," he said, and then paused before continuing. "Why do we need to have an adult conversation, anyway?"
"Because we're adults," I said. "This is what adults do."
And that's probably where our downfall lies, in what we see in ourselves and in our age. To him, being 29 means having plenty of time to figure things out and catch up. In his world, 29 is young and stupid, and he's a mess, but it's okay. He's happy. To me, 29 means almost 30. It means adulthood. It means seven-year careers and taxes and house renovations and serious relationship conversations and self-knowledge. It still means young--and fun--but for me, happiness takes a different, more organized path. I strive; he wanders.
Him: What do you see in me, anyway? You're perfect and responsible and an adult. Why do you even like me?
Me: I could ask you the same question. I mean, I'm all those things--okay, not perfect, but responsible and more adult than I probably should be. I'm like a 75 year old trapped in an almost-30 body. Why bother?
Him: I do sometimes wish that you could stay up later. That you were more free. But then I see you, and I remember how much I like you and how much I missed you. And I guess I'm hoping to corrupt you a little bit, too.
Me: What? No. [jokingly pulling away]
Him: You're probably hoping I'll be a little better, too.
Me: I don't care. I just want you to be happy. I want you to be happy, and I want me to be happy.
Him: So be happy, Rebekah.
That's what I'm trying to do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)