Anticipation
This is from my archive folder, written around the end of April. Three days before ST and I said we loved each other for the first time.
I remember that day, that outfit. He actually wasn’t quite at my condo when I got home, and I was pissed about that. I didn’t want to have any time to pace the floors, growing more and more nervous.
I am amazed that I ever felt this way around him.
I’m wearing the nicest outfit that has graced my cubicle this year. Black pants that hug my ass and swish the exact amount around my ankles. Blue button-down shirt that actually fits my body instead of hanging off it. My favorite black sandals, clicking through the hallways.
And all of this is just because someone will be there when I get home today.
I’ll admit, I feel I’m flunking the relationship portion of all of this. I don’t know what I want, can’t read what he wants. The minute I label something exclusive and admit somewhere in my dusty brain that I want it to have a future, I become a paranoid, insecure mess. Which of course is exactly the type of woman people crave to be around.
You know, a guy hates to know that he makes a woman feel nervous and cranky. But at the same time, it is sure is nice to know that you’re important enough in that special someone’s perception that they can get nervous and cranky over how the two of you interact.
What’s even nicer than that ego boost is the feeling you get when you realize that you’re both walking on the same eggshells, seeking approval, seeking love, willing to give it yet ever so cautious to accept it, as though it might might be some counterfeit offering. Quik-Marts have a marker to test their $20 bills; we have only time and trial to test other people’s hearts.