I agreed to go out with the sweaty guy again. On a hot day. To the botanical garden. He has allergies.
This sounds irrational but it was actually well thought out because all I want to do is see/touch/kiss/fall in crazy love with Foreigner 2.0.
Sitting in Sweaty’s girly convertible, wandering through the budding spring blooms, riding the shuttle filled with 812 Asian children, consuming a cheeseburger topped with onions is not conducive to French kissing. I was right. He kept his tongue in his mouth. Thank you Jesus.
It truly was a gorgeous day with Dallas and White Rock Lake in the background. Afterwards we went balcony chilling and enjoyed some food and beer. I was highly paranoid I would somehow run into the object of my obsession…my brand new grey haired European. Totally irrational because I am pretty sure he was on a plane flying back from the West Coast.
So while my date seemed fully engaged in me and our planned activity, my mind was off daydreaming about rocket man. Fluctuating between precarious melancholy and a feverish anxiety.
Why am I not here with him?
Why are there so many beautiful girls in Dallas?
Why am I so old?
I will never be happy.
Etc.
And then I would think about our date…
It was my 32nd birthday. I walked into that Mexican restaurant 5 minutes late and there he sat at the bar. With a glass of water and looking down at his phone. Tilt, tilt, tilt goes the world’s axis. Pounding. Oh god it’s the best feeling in the world. That date that lasts 6 hours. For me it is the best drug in the universe. The romance dance. The flirting. The talking. The guessing. Does he like me too? I think he likes me…maybe?
He said “Look at me Jess – you can get 2 pieces of cake”. I had my head down studying the choices and just couldn't decide between the chocolate Kahlua or Tres Leches. I looked up into his eyes and lost feeling in my body. I melted into a malleable gift for him to do with what he saw fit. And oh boy did he ever.
We were there for 3+ hours. The wait staff kicked us out. He invited me to a bar for one more beer. I think the fire department could have called and said my house is burning down and I would have ignored the call and followed him to that dark booth. I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world (I get it Rhianna, I really do).
We talked about politics, films, travel, books, and he quoted fucking Noam Chomsky. He told me I have beautiful eyes…so blue and those cheekbones. He told me how he brought his daughters to see Santa in the North Pole. Seriously? Skiing in France. Really? I wanted to leap across the table and bite his lips when he started in with his views on idealistic free market socialism. Do you want me to take me clothes off right here? Because if you don’t stop, I will.
I made him laugh with stories of AK-47’s and refrigerators and Cindy Lauper. Yes, I drove away from Duluth to start my new life in Texas listening to Time After Time. So what?
He smells so good. Spicy.
He is animated when he talks. He kept leaning closer and closer with his hands until they touched mine. And I desperately held on with my pinky finger. Let go. And then the hands come back again and again until they are finally fully holding mine. Rubbing my arms. Oh the goose bumps and that warm, slow sashay of physical desire that wells up from the belly.
And then he kissed me. With such force and passion and need. And I saw stars. Before the seeping green tea with blood orange was even cool.
Will I see him again? Unlikely. But heaven help me, it was a perfect fucking birthday. Most people go through their entire lives and not experience a night like that. I have been blessed to have reveled in several. In that moment I am utterly alive, every nerve and emotion vibrating. I may not be built for marriage but I sure can rejoice in my ability to feel transcendent lust.
I think this pretty much sums up my complete indifference about nice sweaty guy.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Definition of Insanity
I just did the math. It has been 20 years since my first real kiss. I am ANCIENT. And the pattern has repeated over and over again since I was 12 years old.
That first kiss ended with the boy running. Literally running away from me. Down the stairs, out the door, and onto his bicycle. I tried to run after him. Nothing has changed since that warm autumn evening nearly 2 decades ago. The boys running away these days usually don’t have their sneakers on and their Trek bike waiting outside so their escape plan is usually a more covert affair…with the same end result. Me standing there with tears in my eyes, my hair askew, and an overwhelming urge to find them and scream WTF.
(In months to follow I ended up chasing this particular boy down the street with a knife (long story). At least that wasn’t a pattern to I chose to replicate.)
Now I have done my share of running. I usually find the architectural blueprints of any bar, restaurant, public park, stadium, house, etc that I may be trapped in with any potential suitor. How can I get out if I really want to? Really need to? Plenty of men have loved me or at least thought they did and I decided to turn away, shut down and never answer my phone again. I have done it with such cruelty that it makes me weep for my now terrible karma.
BUT I have had my heart broken in wicked, bone crunching, molecule altering ways. Sometimes I become terrified (and sometimes relieved) that it may be too late to share my life with someone. My secrets, pain and darkness are too deep to ever fully reveal to another person again. The stakes are too high to open up my heart to another person, let love in, become vulnerable only to have hot lava poured over my soul when they don’t want me anymore. I don’t know how many times my heart can re-grow from a hardened molten rock.
I keep picking the broken boys. The beautiful boys. The rich and interesting artistic boys. The fucking smart boys I can never really have. Out of my reach. Or the boys so full of pain and confusion that I want to wrap them up in my arms until they feel ok. But they never feel ok. And then I resent them. They disrupt my schedule, my routines, my life that looks extremely squared away when you are just looking in my windows. Not so much when you open the door and come in. Most don’t ever get past the entryway.
Why can’t I just fall for the nice boy? The boy who emails my mom. The boy who brings me chocolate. The boy who brings my dog toys? The boy who doesn’t care that I am a crazy, cranky bitch who tends to veer toward the negative and push them away with all my might. And they still fight for me?
I probably reject them because they love me. There must be something very, very wrong and undesirable about them to make them settle for me. So I hate them for their kindness and realness. Sad.
Or maybe I reject them because I want it all. I want the guy with the accent who reads 3 books a week. The guy with money who orders my food at the restaurant and then feeds it to me. The guy who opens up my car door. The guy who can play 5 instruments. The guy with the bed like a cloud and super white sheets. The guy who can discuss politics and religion and has traveled the world. The 6’4 guy with women hanging off him like Christmas lights. The guy with passion for his career bursting from his gorgeous, rock hard chest. Like the Dos Equis guy. The most interesting man in the world. All the rest of them are boring.
But I ain’t the most interesting girl in the world. Far from it. So I want these men because I can’t have them. Is it simple human nature or is it because they are safe? They won’t ever get past the entryway because they don't even visit my neighborhood.
That first kiss ended with the boy running. Literally running away from me. Down the stairs, out the door, and onto his bicycle. I tried to run after him. Nothing has changed since that warm autumn evening nearly 2 decades ago. The boys running away these days usually don’t have their sneakers on and their Trek bike waiting outside so their escape plan is usually a more covert affair…with the same end result. Me standing there with tears in my eyes, my hair askew, and an overwhelming urge to find them and scream WTF.
(In months to follow I ended up chasing this particular boy down the street with a knife (long story). At least that wasn’t a pattern to I chose to replicate.)
Now I have done my share of running. I usually find the architectural blueprints of any bar, restaurant, public park, stadium, house, etc that I may be trapped in with any potential suitor. How can I get out if I really want to? Really need to? Plenty of men have loved me or at least thought they did and I decided to turn away, shut down and never answer my phone again. I have done it with such cruelty that it makes me weep for my now terrible karma.
BUT I have had my heart broken in wicked, bone crunching, molecule altering ways. Sometimes I become terrified (and sometimes relieved) that it may be too late to share my life with someone. My secrets, pain and darkness are too deep to ever fully reveal to another person again. The stakes are too high to open up my heart to another person, let love in, become vulnerable only to have hot lava poured over my soul when they don’t want me anymore. I don’t know how many times my heart can re-grow from a hardened molten rock.
I keep picking the broken boys. The beautiful boys. The rich and interesting artistic boys. The fucking smart boys I can never really have. Out of my reach. Or the boys so full of pain and confusion that I want to wrap them up in my arms until they feel ok. But they never feel ok. And then I resent them. They disrupt my schedule, my routines, my life that looks extremely squared away when you are just looking in my windows. Not so much when you open the door and come in. Most don’t ever get past the entryway.
Why can’t I just fall for the nice boy? The boy who emails my mom. The boy who brings me chocolate. The boy who brings my dog toys? The boy who doesn’t care that I am a crazy, cranky bitch who tends to veer toward the negative and push them away with all my might. And they still fight for me?
I probably reject them because they love me. There must be something very, very wrong and undesirable about them to make them settle for me. So I hate them for their kindness and realness. Sad.
Or maybe I reject them because I want it all. I want the guy with the accent who reads 3 books a week. The guy with money who orders my food at the restaurant and then feeds it to me. The guy who opens up my car door. The guy who can play 5 instruments. The guy with the bed like a cloud and super white sheets. The guy who can discuss politics and religion and has traveled the world. The 6’4 guy with women hanging off him like Christmas lights. The guy with passion for his career bursting from his gorgeous, rock hard chest. Like the Dos Equis guy. The most interesting man in the world. All the rest of them are boring.
But I ain’t the most interesting girl in the world. Far from it. So I want these men because I can’t have them. Is it simple human nature or is it because they are safe? They won’t ever get past the entryway because they don't even visit my neighborhood.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Online Dating - 2nd Edition
Ok, I am going to commit to doing this for real this time. Write about my dates. Yes, I am back at it again. Seems exceptionally stupid after I just reread the blogs that I had posted. So here we go.
Date #1 - He did not look like his pictures. I got out of my car and he was standing there with a plant in a plastic bag. All I could think was darn it...can't I just take the plant and run? And he seemed so little. And he brought me to a shitty sports bar. I got a little tipsy and it gave me a headache. I inexplicably have seen him a few times since. Playing CatchPhrase in his garage is not a good time.
Date #2 - Floor seats at the Mavs with a good looking doctor. Enough said. But he didn't try to kiss me in his car when dropping me off at the valet and he hasn't called me since. Clearly I am not as hot as I used to be.
Date #3 - did not happen because he left me terrible voice mails and a text that included calling me "CLASSLESS COMPLETELY CLASSLESS" Yes, in all caps and spelled incorrectly. I am sure he kicks his dog for fun.
Date #4 - so sweaty and nervous. Him, not me. I ate an entire Chimmechanga and didn't even feel bad about it. His sweaty armpits, hair and coughing attack was even less sexy than my 1500 calorie consumption. We are going to look at tulips and listen to jazz this weekend. I don't know why.
Date #5 - so sweaty and nervous. Me, not him. Knocked my socks off. And made my mascara run from laughter. The rest of the makeup was kissed away. Grey haired, hazel eyed foreigner 2.0. I'm fucked. More later.
Date #1 - He did not look like his pictures. I got out of my car and he was standing there with a plant in a plastic bag. All I could think was darn it...can't I just take the plant and run? And he seemed so little. And he brought me to a shitty sports bar. I got a little tipsy and it gave me a headache. I inexplicably have seen him a few times since. Playing CatchPhrase in his garage is not a good time.
Date #2 - Floor seats at the Mavs with a good looking doctor. Enough said. But he didn't try to kiss me in his car when dropping me off at the valet and he hasn't called me since. Clearly I am not as hot as I used to be.
Date #3 - did not happen because he left me terrible voice mails and a text that included calling me "CLASSLESS COMPLETELY CLASSLESS" Yes, in all caps and spelled incorrectly. I am sure he kicks his dog for fun.
Date #4 - so sweaty and nervous. Him, not me. I ate an entire Chimmechanga and didn't even feel bad about it. His sweaty armpits, hair and coughing attack was even less sexy than my 1500 calorie consumption. We are going to look at tulips and listen to jazz this weekend. I don't know why.
Date #5 - so sweaty and nervous. Me, not him. Knocked my socks off. And made my mascara run from laughter. The rest of the makeup was kissed away. Grey haired, hazel eyed foreigner 2.0. I'm fucked. More later.
