Everything I want to write is so clichéd.  Except for my surprise.
 
I didn’t expect to feel like this again.
 
My relationships from the past two years have been (mostly) fun.  But they haven’t really been relationships in my mind.  It’s what you call something when fuck buddy gets stuck in your throat.

Emotions were exchanged for pragmatic.  Wants forgotten for needs.  I don’t regret it.  I doubt I’d understand the difference between wants and needs in a relationship so well otherwise.
 
But I had started to wonder if I had somehow broken myself.  Perhaps the record had skipped one too many times.  I am both relieved and annoyed to find that isn’t the case.
 
I’d forgotten how scary it is to give someone my heart.  How exhausting it is to be hurt by little things because I want him to understand me better than that.
 
How wonderful it is when he shows how thankful he is that we met.  How breathtaking it is when he soothes the hurt and makes me better understand myself.

When you interrupt major fooling around with, “I have something important to tell you,” there is a limited amount of acceptable ways to follow it up.  These include:
 
1)       I love you.
2)       I won the lottery and will keep you in school tuition for a dozen Ph.D.s in return for that cute way you scrunch your eyebrows.
3)       It was a false positive.
4)       My parents decided not to visit.
 
I suppose we could think up some more.  But more importantly, there are phrases that are strictly prohibited.  Such as, oh I don’t know, off the top of my head…
 
I didn’t bring any condoms.

“I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as attractive as you.”
 
What I should have said: Thank you, how sweet.
 
What I said:  You don’t get out much, do you?
 
“You are welcome to come along [and meet my aunt/cousins].”
 
What I should have said:  Thank you, how thoughtful.  Unfortunately, I am busy that day.
 
What I said:  AHHH!  Are you INSANE?  NO!  Why would you SAY something like that??
 
“Is everything alright?”
 
What I wanted to say:  No.  I’m completely overwhelmed here.  We can barely see each other more than once a week and show up for dates hours early or late depending on traffic.  You also seem to possess real emotions and I am evidently a robot with the emotional maturity of a six-year-old.  How the fuck can this work?
 
What I said:  Yes.

She was happy to bring them the check.  She wanted them gone.
 
Not their fault of course, but they had turned into her toughest table of the night.  The kitchen pulled their entrees before their appetizer.  Then the woman had found plastic in her pasta.
 
They had been polite and congenial about the whole matter, but it didn’t help her fluster.  She wanted to close out their ticket, wipe the table, and be one order closer to closing.  Her mascara was starting to weep from the heat.  Every time she spread her hand wide for a tray, pain radiated in an almost delicious manner up her arm.  It felt decedent, to spend energy and attention noticing such a minute issue.
 
She was about to plop the check right in the middle of the table – company policy, plus she wouldn’t be surprised if the woman was paying as she was the one to speak up over the kitchen errors – but found herself blocked by their arms.
 
She stepped back.  They hadn’t noticed her.  They were holding hands across the large blond oak table.  The woman had to lean almost out of her seat.  Thumbs were stroking and their eyes were locked.  The smiles on their faces were naked.

She started to tear up.  Her hand went to her mouth.  All of a sudden they looked so much younger to her.  And she wanted to keep them forever, in her pocket to take out and look at on days she was blue.

“I bet it would be nice to date a woman who is showered when you pick her up for a date.”
 
“I guess.  I wouldn’t know.”  At least both things were said with a smile.

 
Remember the picture of my dirty ankle from a few weeks back?  Well, the last two weekends that has been the state of my ankles when I opened the door for ST.  Scheduling volunteering and dating on the same night is proving a tad difficult.
 
This week I did slightly better.  At least the rug did not have a week’s worth of cat hair ground into it.
 
In my mind, dating a woman who can’t seem to schedule basic hygiene would be a bit off putting.  But he seems pretty content to grab a book or watch TV (I’ve introduced him to House.  My exact words were, “Here.  This is my ideal man.  Consider it research.”) while I make myself presentable.
 
But let’s face it, a lot can be forgiven for a girl who’s dirty in the way everyone thought reading the title.

Remember I mentioned some things coming up in the next few weeks to mess with my schedule?  I worked a twelve-hour day yesterday, I’m taking today off to support the sanctuary in a re-zoning meeting, and my cats all get their dentals tomorrow.

Recently I saw this play again.  It reminded me I had this in the archives somewhere.  It’s dated August 11, 2004, which means it was created prior and that’s when it was transferred to my laptop.  I have a strange feeling, despite my great filing process, that I might have shared it already.  If so, please consider me in re-runs. 

“I love you, you’re perfect, now change.”
 
Somewhere, there’s a compromise.  Isn’t there?
 
Between falling for blue eyes or brown, between asking for love-making to be more attentive or the afterwards to be shorter.  It isn’t always about him calling too frequently, is it?  Or her not reaching over to unlock the car door?
 
At some point, you really do think someone’s perfect, don’t you?  And you don’t want them to change. 
 
I always thought falling in love with someone for their faults as much as their strengths was bullshit.  Perhaps because I couldn’t love W for his, and he almost relished his distaste for mine (I believe, in part, because he was ecstatic to have something to complain about). 
 
Certainly I’ve been called cute for my eccentricities and neuroses from time to time.  But I don’t think anyone’s ever cuddled up due to my feet-skin picking habit. 
 
I’m starting to realize I’ll never be perfect. 
 
I’m always going to overstep the boundaries of “too much mothering” (Do you have enough money for lunch?  Please stop mixing pills and liqueur.  What did the doctor say?).
 
I’m never going to be able to put me before him one hundred percent of the time.  Nor will I always put us before others.
 
Maybe it’s less about finding someone who opens doors and more about someone who doesn’t care if you forget to do the same.  If someone’s going to love me because I’m not perfect, the one big thing they’ll have to accept is that not being perfect drives me absolutely insane.
 
This has all been brought on not so much by the play, but by Love, Actually.
 
The little boy, running through the airport.  In tandem with the crowd seeking the Portuguese woman at the restaurant so the Englishman can ask her hand in marriage right there in front of everyone.
 
Can they really be the same?  Can an adult really love as open and pure as a little kid? 
 
Can you really resign yourself to the possibility of total, utter heartbreak?  Can you really believe that love is worth it?  Another person?  Yourself?
 
I want someone to love me like that.  But can I request it when I’m unsure of my ability to reciprocate? 

I have been so torn about explaining my relationship with TG here for many reasons.
 
1)       To do so isn’t fair to TG. 
2)       To do so isn’t fair to ST.
3)       To give into the feeling that I owed an explanation meant I was no longer writing, but journaling.  And I am uncomfortable with that idea.
4)       In order to explain the entire situation, I would have to delve into TG’s privacy.  I won’t do that period.
 
However, since I’ve made this place very much about my romantic life, it seems some sort of something is in order.
 
If I had my way a long time ago, TG and I would have been an exclusive couple and I never would have met ST.
 
TG and I work so well together that I ignored this little glitch and have been very happy with our relationship.  While I didn’t necessarily want to date other people, it seemed the healthiest thing to do.  I knew that unless he changed his mind, things would eventually end.  It wouldn’t be right to deny myself meeting other people who felt differently.
 
I haven’t written about most dates I’ve had this past year.  They never lasted past one.  (TG in part has set the bar pretty damn high.)  It seemed cruel to use them as fodder for my blog.
 
Enter ST.  He made it to the second, third, fourth…
 
Though it was obvious he wanted it, there was no way ST would bring up exclusivity with all the issues he would be asking me to accept.  But it was hindering us.  He wasn’t going to be able to open up and trust me without it.  And the same went for me; feeling I had to hide parts of my life made me close up about everything else.
 
So, I’m taking a chance.  This is what I think is best for me.  However unhappy TG is with this turn of events, he admits, “it’s essentially a situation of my own making.”
 
One thing ST will have to accept is that TG is still a part of my life.  I will not let such a great friend go without a fight.  TG has indicated he wants that as well.  Yet another reason why he is one my most favorite people on earth. 
 
TG, thank you so much.  For your humor, patience, strength, and support.  Thank you for being careful with my heart.  I am so lucky that you came into my life.

“Something you said Saturday night confused me.”
 
“Oh?”
 
“You mentioned how I am different from other women because I do not demand 10,001 commitments.  And you made it sounds like a compliment.”
 
“Maybe demand is the wrong word.  I have been trapped before.”
 
“Trapped?”
 
“Yeah, like when one day it’s going to the movies and the next she’s asking what I want for our 50^th wedding anniversary.  What we want to name the second kid.”
 
“I see.  Because I had been thinking yesterday.  I was thinking that maybe…I…didn’t want to…date…(cough)…other people.  And I was thinking that you would like that.  But then I remembered what you said and I wasn’t sure anymore.”
 
“I would like that.  I would like that a lot.  I just don’t feel I have a right to ask that because I can’t offer anything more right now.”  *
 
“But you’re never going to be able offer anything more.  This is it.”
 
“True.”
 
“So…it seems either we can make it work the way things are or we can’t.”
 
“A fair assessment.  It would be nice to know you only want to spend time with me.  It would be a relief that you were saving your time for me.”
 
“….”
 
“….”
 
“….”
 
“….”
 
“…I’m trying to say something.  The commitmentphobe in me is holding back.”
 
“I figured.  I heard the cough.”  **
 
“So I think…maybe that’s what I want to do.”
 
“I’ve got a warm fuzzy feeling right now.”
 
“Are you sure that’s not a pit in your stomach?”
 
“No.  It’s definitely higher.”
 
“Good.”
 
*He works insane hours, and shift to boot.  He has mentioned several times that he thinks it might lighten up after this or that, but finally on Saturday I cut through the bullshit and got him to admit he loves his job so much there will always be something.
 
**I get this throat tickle when talking about relationships.  I call it my commitment phobic cough.  I also flap my hands around like a penguin attempting flight; you just can’t see it over the phone.

For lack of anything better or more creative, his name is ST.
 
He was given the chance to name himself, as well as the chance to tell me not to write about him.  He declined both, saying I could call him whatever I wanted and write whatever I wanted.
 
“I think it was Caesar who was known for saying, “Better to be hated than never remembered at all.”*  It’s not EXACTLY what I’m shooting for, but the sentiment behind the statement is the same.  Memorable is a good start.  So if you write something that isn’t complimentary about me, I’ll simply accept it as part of the deal and get on with it.”
 
*The closest I’ve come to this was, “It’s better to be hated than ignored.”  And it was attributed to Hunter S. Thompson.  I am going to have to school this boy in literature.
 
He’s not reading here yet.  But I suspect he will soon.  I know I’m of a different opinion than a lot of people in this arena.  Perhaps it’s because I’m so closed off in real life.  This is one way I can safely open up a bit.  I mean, I let strangers judge me based on my writing, why not the men in my life?
 
ST and I met over a month ago.  He is the charming southern accent I got to know that Sunday afternoon.
 
I had no real high hopes for the date, except we seemed to be on the same wavelength in how it should play out.  Meet up for an activity early enough to do more, but don’t plan anything else.  I’ve been lucky in trusting my gut and the first dates I’ve had in the past year has been at the most a bit of awkward silence.  I’ve definitely had dates that I didn’t want to extend, but none I absolutely felt I must cut short.
 
The first thing I noticed was that he is cuter than his picture.  (What else is the first thing I notice supposed to be?  I did not bring along my X-ray goggles (heh.  I wrote googles.) so that my first impression could be of his great bone density.) 
 
He’s thinner than my usual type, which amuses him because he says he’s overweight.  He needed a haircut, which meant he had little curls corkscrewing through the back.  I liked it.  I haven’t seen it that long since.  And evidently I am over dating tall guys.  I don’t think I’ve had a date with someone over 5’9” since the new boy.
 
I thought the museum would be a good idea.  It definitely was fun and interesting, but I hated how we couldn’t really talk.  I forget it’s not the Art Institute where the shear size and volume of people allows you to at least murmur without the entire room overhearing.
 
There is a courtyard/garden area (I saw the Chihuly exhibit there) and we took a break at one point to sit out there and talk.
 
My only interest was the Aperture at 50 exhibit, but he wanted to see the whole museum.  It was a little cute and a little annoying.  On the one hand, wasn’t he supposed to pay attention to me, not the art?  On the other, it was fun to see him really enjoy himself.  And nice that he didn’t just *say* he was interested in the museum to agree with me.
 
(Again, for myself, I do not really go to the museum except for special exhibits.  Growing up in Chicago has made me a bit of a museum snob; not just the Art Institute but also the Field Museum and MOSI.)
 
I almost kissed him in the room of Pre-Columbia art.  But he’s not as extroverted as most guys I date and that makes me shyer around him.  I’m forever concerned about saying the wrong thing, coming off too rough and demanding, etc. when the other person is quieter than me.  He keeps saying he’s been holding back to be polite, but I don’t think he used the word Fuck in front of me until just last week. 
 
(We’d been watching The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and it turned into making out on the couch.  When he chastised me that I was missing the movie, I promptly turned back to the TV.  “Um, I was fucking with you.”  “Uh huh.  And now I’m fucking with you.”  I kept my eyes on the TV until I started to drift off to sleep.  I believe he learned a lesson.)
 
I was glad he wanted to extend that first date, and we walked for an hour or so around the neighborhood.
 
As he walked me to my car I could feel the heat in my face.  Here’s the thing.  I hate a first kiss to be at the end of a date.  HATE it.  It’s why I consider kissing someone in the B section of Barnes and Noble, during an opportune moment of audience participation at Howl at the Moon, or in the Pre-Columbia art room.
 
I don’t know why.  I like to be the one who initiates the first kiss.  It just sets the tone that I’m going to be the one calling the shots physically.  Also, I like to get an idea of how someone kisses as soon as possible and in a non-serious setting.  It takes the pressure off and you have some time to decide if you’d like to work more kissing into the rest of the evening.
 
So I was a bit relieved when he didn’t kiss me.  He’d been sick, and it didn’t to pass it on.  But he made a point of saying that he would have kissed me.  Somehow, that was the perfect ending.
 
We can only see each other about once a week.  It’s slow, harder to get to know him.  More than once I’ve contemplated whether there’s any point.  I don’t mind casual relationships but if that’s what I’m going for, I’m looking for something easier than an hour commute.
 
And if it grows into something more?  Well, all the problems still exist.  I’m putting a little trust into the idea that once I am a student it might be different.  And he swears up and down his work schedule will lighten up in the next two months.
 
(I am not holding my breath.  I have resigned myself to the fact that many of my problems in relationships stem specifically from personality traits (such as workaholic) that I find attractive.)
 
He’s…different.  Usually when I say that I mean, “I really want to like him, I really should like him, but I just don’t like him.”  I definitely do like him.  He’s a different different. 
 
It is unnerving how well he observes and reads people.  Just last night I mentioned in passing how I am clumsy and sort of bump into things unconsciously and move on.  He replied, “Yeah, I’ve noticed that twice.”  I wanted to ask, “What two times?  What was I doing?  Did I look stupid?”  It is weird to feel someone else is more aware of me than myself.
 
 Other things he notices both calm me and confuse me.
 
 “On some levels you seem to be emotionally closed off.”
 
Well, yes.  Circle gets the square.  It’s nice someone cares enough to notice.  But once noticed, what the fuck do I do about it?  I AM emotionally closed off.  That and a quarter will buy you a newspaper.  I am really not up to any huge improvement projects in my psyche.  I think I’ve learned a lot about myself and come to pretty stable and happy point.  I have no desire to go mucking up in that. 
 
I wonder though… I wonder if the thing “different” about him is simply how two people usually get to know each other.  I wonder if I chose these situations so that I don’t have to open up…I wonder if that will change…

 His email had promised:

“I can come pick you up in my unglorious truck, we’ll do the Strawberry Festival, get something to eat somewhere in the adventure, and I’ll take you home, weary but thrilled.”  
 
He didn’t disappoint.  I even got a stuffed animal Stewie out of the deal.

“You know what caught my interest within the first five minutes?”
 
“What?”
 
“The little streak up here.”
 
“My witch’s streak?”
 
“Yes.  Not so much that that you have it, although it’s unique.  But you don’t try to hide it.”
 
“I’ve been going gray since I was thirteen.  I’m used to it.”
 
 “I thought, ‘there’s someone who is handling life gracefully.’  Everything is temporary, but looks more than anything else.”
 
To be honest, I have been thinking of dyeing it.  But when I wear my hair down it’s almost impossible to see.  You have to pay pretty close attention to me to notice it.
 
That’s what caught my interest.