February 15, 2011

"The Real Thing"


We’re approaching that shit-or-get-off-the-pot place, that fish-or-cut-bait place—the juncture where I’m supposed to have it all figured, or at least pretend to know what I’m doing. Because we’re nearing that oasis where most couples fall in love, and the tension is growing like speakers being turned all the way up—the buzz is in my ears as I inhale next to the mike, my breath echoing into the ether.

I have, of course, been here before, but the last time I faked it. He said it first, and I knew I wasn’t, so I took six or seven days to look deep inside my heart. I considered our first date, how we picnicked with wine glasses and a cold chicken salad. He had a black belt in Aikido, loved to cook, and massaged me so deeply I was bruised inside the next day (something that only happened once in our ten-year stint).

Okay, I shrugged, I love him.

And much like this moment now, I feel love for the guy I’m dating. But I am not ‘in love’ with him. I wonder what that even means, if I’ve ever visited that Shangri-la, if I’d recognize the landmarks seeing it again. Because much like a Novocain-ed tooth, my heart can’t tell if it’s loving that way. I love a lot of people. I’m lucky like that—family, friends, even my ex—I want what’s best for all of them, finding joy in pockets that people my life.

So what’s the difference between that and romantic love? I hate to be cynical, but I think it might have to do with higher expectations. While others can be flawed but still accepted, in-love-ness means we want someone who’s just enough like us that we can stand to spend the rest of our lives with them and just different enough that we don’t become completely bored. I won’t settle for a man who doesn’t meet my standards, but I’ll still love a friend who’s neurotic. But I don’t have to wake up to her clothes on the floor, her voice in my ear, her dishes in my sink.


Last night was Valentine’s and despite my apprehension, the guy I’m dating cooked a delicious meal, baked cookies naked (he has a super cute bootie), and gave me roses. We watched a movie while he massaged my feet—something he does whenever they’re in his lap—then went to bed. It was perfect. And I’m giving him all the signs that I’m falling—my offerings of affection include Feng-Shui charms, rosemary, thyme, mint, and a leafy plant; books, poems, and TED video links that make me cry. I want to be known, I think, want to get-to-know, too.

But this knowing might be terminal. And he keeps asking me if I’ve been accepted to the three Ph.D. programs I applied to—these options for my future that likely would not include him. He likes it here, and won’t move for me for sure. Practical, I assume he’s biding his time trying to figure out if I’ll stay for long enough to love me. I watch him pull back from giving too much, rationalizing the waste if I end up moving. The last time he picked me up, there was nervous energy in the air, and I felt the reverberations of restraint. That night I looked less into his eyes as we talked, wary of the onslaught of emotions I’m not ready to deal with just yet.

Because this time I don’t want to fake it. And yes, however much I don’t want to admit it, I have been to Blissful Loveland. It almost killed me. I got the tattoo, and not just the T-shirt. I spent my entire marriage plus the four years previous trying to salvage what was left of myself after the loss of that love. And even though I’m finally healed, finally ready to try again for real, I’m not ready to speak aloud “I love you.”

And I don’t know what it will take to get there—something I hope I won’t have to figure out until I’m sure I’m staying put; when we’ll both have to mike up and hope the speakers don’t screech or blow. Because maybe I’m reading him all wrong. Maybe he likes fucking me and that’s where it ends. Maybe he’s bored with my bland childhood, rolling his eyes inside at my lame stories about being abused and loved and abandoned compared to his mini-drama of a life story, replete with kidnapping, car chases, and terrorist attacks. Yes, it’s possible that he’s waiting ‘til we’ve reached our logical conclusion, aware that the pressure is building, and mapping out a way to let me down easy.

And if that’s the case, my falling won’t be an issue because I am not there yet. I need to see more, understand more. And he needs to offer it because I can’t know how he feels unless he tells me. And however much I’m assuming about what’s happening now, my educated guesses couldn’t ever come close to hearing exactly where he is. Actions may speak louder than words, but I am a writer. Without the words, nothing makes sense.

Besides I don’t think the leaving me is likely. Because even though I don’t know exactly why he likes me, I finally am sure he does. And I think it has to do with my enthusiasm and hope, the way I believe I’m blessed, how I know I always get what I need, even if I don’t always get what I want. Plus someone tells me I’m beautiful every day, which must mean it’s true most of the time. My tits are real, my body is beautiful, and so is my smile. Simply put, I am loveable.

Still I wonder about that moment, wonder about the ramifications—how things will change afterward. Am I ready to relinquish my singleness, especially since it’s so new? Am I done having my own time to myself, doing laundry for one, going where I please when I please for as long as I please without having to check in with anyone? And what will I gain with in-love-ness that I didn’t have before? Will loving him make me a better person? How?

Because I’ve had stable love and, yes, it gave me confidence, but that’s not disappearing. And I’ve given of myself, sacrificed my friends to make ends meet, taken care of someone else who couldn’t take care of himself, and shared my travels, laughter, and thoughts. I’ve been tender and compassionate, loving and brave. I’ve practiced compromise and imagined another perspective, made distinctions between where I end and others begin, ultimately doing the difficult thing of getting rid of my ex and deciding I wanted to be alone.

And yes, that was because I wanted to have a partner rather than a backpack. And yes, it was also because I wanted to have a baby with a man who wants to be a father. And yes, I wanted a confidant who was not convinced god is dead, who had the gumption to risk everything to make a difference, who was idealistic but not naïve. My guy is all these things and more. But he’s not perfect. Neither am I.

And even though I don’t know if I’ll ever fall in love with him, I am willing to accept and love this perfect moment for teaching me exactly what I need to know right now: that this time I’m not going to be rushed or pushed, not even by my self. I’m not going to pretend, hail Mary-ing it, and hoping it turns out to be the truth. Instead, I’m going to wait until he sweeps me up romancing me into falling, so that next time I’ll stay forever.