~Monday, November 30, 2009
I was sitting on my couch last night, charity knitting in hand and my secret love of TLC Sunday-night documentaries on TV. This week's documentary was the 650-lb Virgin.
The no-longer-650-pounds-but-still-a virgin laid on the massage table for his very first massage. As the masseuse rubbed his scarred skin, he asked, "Do you have any dating advice?"
She immediately preached on the necessity of dependability. "If you say you're going to call, call. If girls can count on you for the little things, then we know you'll be there for the big things."
Yellow yarn knotted across my fingers, I shook my head vigorously. I'm so glad that point made it on TV!
She paused, then said,"Be the person you want to date. If you want a nice, caring person, then you be nice and caring. Be the person you want to date."
I don't know if I have ever had that thought, but I do know I have never had that thought so articulately. Be the person you want to date. It was enough to make me stop and think. Am I?
So, dear reader, are you being the person you want to date?
~Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Christopher officially entered his late thirties the other week. With all these feelings that I harbored towards him for years, I felt like I finally had the chance to let him know how special I think he is.
We started with dinner at a fondue restaurant. I paid the extra cover so we could sit in the special seating by the jazz band. Inside the restaurant is an old ship a la Pirates of the Caribbean. The VIP seating was a cabin on board the ship. As we crossed the plank to board, real crocodiles laid below us.
We settled on the cheese fondue with bread, veggies and apples. At first we were all romantic and fed each other off of our skewers, but a misjudgment in spacial dimensions on my part led to Christopher with a face smeared in fondue. And then the games were on. He tapped my nose with the warm, melted bread before feeding me. I knocked his bread off of the skewer and then stole it. It was so immature, but it was so fun.
The jazz band was fantastic. They weren't too loud to inhibit conversation. The music was always pleasant and the classic songs were romantic.
After dinner, I planned a small activity but kept it as a surprise. Christopher asked for a hint, and I told him it was something we do a lot.
"Sex?" he grinned. And then he was convinced that I was either taking him to a strip club or a sex shop.
My innocent, 7-year-old mind was thinking of Wii bowling. We must play that game 5 hours a week and I planned to take us to a real bowling alley. But it didn't help that the bowling alley is located in the red-light district, and Christopher noticeably brightened as we started passing Asian massage parlors and ghetto strip clubs.
I scoffed at him, "You're nasty. You think if I'm going to take you to a strip club, it would be one of these?"
And really, as we pulled in the bowling alley and he figured it out, he wasn't disappointed, but he definitely did not show the same enthusiasm as he did earlier.
Christopher quickly forgot about his $20 lap dance and got into the spirit of bowling. We're competitive with each other, but one thing he does that I love is that he always roots for me, even if it will mean that I will win. I had been having difficulty with the 10-pound ball and the aiming with the thumb concept, but when I bowled a second strike in a row that put my game above 100 for the first time, I heard him cheer for me.
Afterwards we drove back to my place where I presented him with his favorite ice cream in ice-cream cake form and sang him happy birthday. He took the time to think of a wish before blowing out his candle. I opted for a funny card with a sincere message, telling him that my days are always better when he's around. I signed it love and left it open for him to interpret it how he likes. For his presents, I gave him two hoodies, one from each of our universities. He loved them, but I think he really loves the one from his school. I have a feeling mine will end up at my apartment or only worn when his is dirty.
He said it was the best birthday he had in years. He said the card was beautiful. He said I was his best friend and his best girlfriend. That he's never met anyone as thoughtful as me. I asked him if he felt special, and he said he did. He asked if he ever made me feel special. He said he hoped he could return the gesture on my birthday, but doubted he could be as thoughtful.
He said things. He said almost all the things.
~Monday, November 16, 2009
Hour 2 into Braveheart, which also coincided with hour 4 in the morning, I was ready for bed. Chrstopher paused the movie long enough to turn down his bed for me and I collided into the pillows. He turned the bedroom TV on for me even though I told him I was too tired to need it. He then kissed me goodnight, turned out the lights and closed the door.
Hour 6 in the morning, I awoke to a lit bedroom. Christopher was standing at the base of the bed. "Where's the TV remote? I can't find it."
"Just press the button on the TV. We'll find it tomorrow," I mumbled.
"No, help me find it now."
I sighed and pushed back the covers. And then I did what I always do when I lose a remote in bed. I laid on my stomach and dangled my head under the bed.
I didn't see the remote. What I did see, however, was a pair of women's stockings. I reached under and grabbed them. Silk. Nice. I've never owned a pair of silk stockings in my life.
"You forgot these," I said flatly as I flung them at Christopher.
He spread them out across the bed. "Ooohhh," he whispered.
I abandoned the remote search and flopped back under the covers annoyed. Heavily annoyed.
"These are old," he started.
"Mrmph." I know. I know they are old and I know he isn't cheating. I know all of this.
"I know who this belongs to. I haven't seen her since November of 2007."
"Hmph." I know all of this because this isn't the first time I've found another woman's calling card stuck somewhere in the bed area.
In college, it was in Poet's bed that I removed an entire green tank top that was stuck between the wall and the bed while I was making it. It belonged to a neighbor that he used to sleep with and was now close friends.
After college, it was black panties. Black panties always look skanky when they aren't yours.
I was cool the first two times. Understanding like a supergirlfriend. This time I was not. I inquired as to why he hasn't cleaned under his bed in two years, and then told him I didn't think he was being very empathetic. He told me he didn't do anything wrong. He slept with a girl two years before me; I couldn't possibly be upset. I ignored him while he apologetically spooned me.
For me, it was more than the silk stockings. It was the bubble bursting. Right or not, I held him to a higher standard. Christopher was now like all the other boyfriends who inexplicably don't clean around their beds. He's capable of hurting me. He's capable of leaving me.
And, god, with him I just didn't think it was going to be this way.
~Wednesday, November 04, 2009
"I have to fart right now but I'm holding it because I love you."
I lifted my head off of Christopher's lap and looked at him and smiled. Not only did I appreciate the not farting with my head in such close proximity, but he said those three words in succession when he wasn't on the phone with his parents. And I was the only person in the room. I think. I'm not sure where the dog was.
"I mean, I like you," Christopher corrected.
"Are you serious?" I exclaimed. "You're just going to take it back?" I sat up and threw a pillow at him.
"I'm not ready to say it yet," Christopher spoke quietly. His brows furrowed and I think he was talking to himself. He straighted up and looked at me. "Hey, Medium is back on. Turn up the volume."
"Do you love Medium? Or do you like Medium?" I teased.
We laughed and as I adjusted myself back in his lap, my knee popped loudly.
"Was that your knee?" he asked.
"Yeah." I made googly eyes at him, "Do you love my knee? Or do you like my knee?
"I hate your knee!" he laughed back at me. "I love you as a person," he tried.
"Eww, that's what people say about their grandmas!" I squealed.
"What? No they don't." He paused for a moment, "Look, I lovelike you, okay?"
And that's the status as of now. Lovelike. It's the first time I ever heard that sentiment. On one hand, I'm kind of disappointed he didn't own his slip up. However, on the other hand I'm kind of glad the memory of I love you wasn't over a fart. I made a pact with a friend at work that neither of us would be the first ones to say it; we were going to wait for the cues of our men.
And so I continue to wait.
~Tuesday, November 03, 2009
The first time I read his response, I laughed at the utter ridiculousness of it. Then I read it again and noticed the veiled threat of the last sentence. Fuck you and your family and I hope you don't see any of mine because it won't be pretty. If he is acting this way sober, then this is his true nature. I know firsthand that he isn't all threats and no action. There have been a number of incidents besides the car one.
I used the private number my therapist gave me for emergencies. I told her I was frightened of the threat and considered it real. She trusted my judgment, saying I was now able to see him for who is really is instead of the person that I loved. She said I needed to do whatever it took so that I would feel safe. She advised contacting the rehab center and reporting that I received a threat from him and to forward them the e-mail. She said they would hold him accountable for his response. She also told me to contact the police and file a police report on him since he has a history of hurting me.
I called Christopher when I got home from work. I asked him to come over and watch TV with me. Told him he could have sole possession of the remote control. Maybe that's weak of me, wanting to be with him that night so I wouldn't feel so scared. I never told him about the letter nor the e-mail I received back. Christopher was so not understanding of the relationship itself that I knew he would be even less understanding of my attempt at closure.
The e-mail doesn't surprise me. It's pretty indicative of how he spoke to me. However I was surprised to discover the effect it had on me was the same. The first time I saw it for what it was, but with each subsequent read of it, I began to doubt myself more and more. Did I say something wrong? No, I had it approved by a mental health professional. My intent was not to blame him, but explain the effect of his actions on myself, although that concept might be a little too intellectual for him. But the doubt of myself continues to grow, exactly how I explained in my letter. It's just like when he would tell me that no man would ever love me. It sounded absurd the first time he said it, but when you hear something over and over and over, you start to believe it. Kind of like how some children begin to believe their own lies that explain missing parents. My daddy is a secret agent. I am unlovable.
The next morning I woke up with Christopher's arms around me. His body was pressed up against mine. I lazily got out of bed and slowly started getting ready for work, just like I do every morning. I dropped Christopher back at his apartment, just like I do when he sleeps over on school nights. My new life had resumed, despite the miserable pause I had the day before. I didn't feel the crushing need to file a police report to protect myself anymore. It was literally a new day. He was my yesterday.