Date #8

"You want to know why things won't work out with Date #8?" I said to Mel, "It's because he's an overachiever. I don't need any of that ambition driving me down."

Date #8 is a marathon runner. Only 1% of the population have completed a marathon. I'm on Week 2 of my Couch to 5k program. Again. Because I quit the first time.

I had already cancelled on him once. After an uneventful phone call (During which, he said, "Tell me about you." I was overloaded with so many facts and figures about myself that I was so overwhelmed that I just stammered.), I accepted a Saturday day date with him. A look of my calendar confirmed that it was the weekend I was going out of town for the birthday party, so we rescheduled for this week.

It hadn't snowed since last Sunday night, and almost a week later there was still snow on the ground. I've never seen that before. The water pipes in my building had frozen and burst on three separate occasions, leaving me without water for 24 hours each time, and the newest occasion happened to be Saturday. I had to go out on a date using no water.

Luckily I had showered the night before when I got back from the gym. I pulled out a box of baby wipes and my flat iron and went to work. I brushed my teeth and washed my face with iced tea. Used double mouthwash. I had kinks and cowlicks that even the flat iron couldn't straighten, so I convinced myself that bed head was still in.

My mother called, wailing. She had been dating her doctor for the last year, but there has been no communication for the past 2 months. Her prescription ran out and when she went to fill it, the pharmacist told her it would be $300.00. She needed a generic prescription written and she didn't want to call her gentleman caller who hadn't, um, called.

I looked at my watch. I needed to leave the house in 20 minutes to meet my date and I'm in the midst of my own crisis of sorts. But I sat there and listened to her. It's tough sometimes being the strong one. I went through therapy to get my act together, and instead of other people getting their acts together, they lean on me. My mom should have ended things with the doctor a long time ago (last May in my opinion when he didn't acknowledge her birthday) but she's still hanging on. Moreover, she hasn't found a new doctor, which is kind of illegal in the medical world. He could face disciplinary action for dating his patients.

I hurriedly walked into the wine store. I was late and the water still hadn't been turned back on in my building. Date #8 was shorter than me. I knew that going into meeting him, but it's another thing to be face to face with it. Or face to nose.

There are two kinds of short. Adam, Christopher and Valdosta fit into the first kind of short. They are the same height as me barefoot, but then I'm taller in heels. That kind of short is acceptable, because they still have broader shoulders, bigger hands, larger heads; I still feel smaller. The second kind of short, such as Date #8, is when they are littler than me. I was in boots so I was taller than him, the same way I would have been with any of the boys from the first category, but my head was bigger. I'm weird about the size of my head; I can't date anyone with a smaller head than me. It just makes me feel so beastly.

Our date was a wine tasting, which hit the spot considering the drama of the morning. But we walk up to the table and the owner of the wine shop stops my date. "Hey [Date #8]," she said. "It's good to see you back here today."

I was unimpressed. That must be his first-date thing, to take them all to the free wine tasting by his house.

I didn't even have time to take off my coat. We went straight the to table and got our first glasses. There was empty seating all around, but we stood right by the pourer. I took off my coat and held it. The was a coat rack behind him and a simple food spread behind me, but we stood at the front of the table in the way of everyone.

Unlike me, Date #8 is quiet. Not just shy, but quiet. There were awkward silences, but I didn't feel like performing, so I would just ride them out with him.

He asked me how I was doing with my running. He told me the entire story of how he got into running (to recover from a kickball injury of all things) and that he was training for the Ironman for his 35th birthday.

"Did you play kickball last year?" I asked.

"No, they didn't have it last year," he said.

"Yes they did; I played," I countered.

"I meant the Clemson alumni didn't have a team last year. I only play kickball with people with whom I have something in common," he answered.

I took a swallow of my wine. The people who play kickball are typically middle class college graduates in their mid-twenties to thirties. That's a lot in common. "So you only have things in common with people who went to Clemson?" I charged. Because he's living in the wrong state for that to happen.

"It's just nice to have a common ground."

I thought of Schmoozer. "You know, we had a few free agents who signed up on our team—guys who didn't know anybody and just took a chance. One of them became our really good friend and now he's a member of our group. I'm glad he took that risk," I prodded.

Date #8 shrugged.

"Do you have any pets?" I tried again.

Date #8 went off on a 20-minute diatribe about how he lives in an apartment and how he thinks people who live in apartments and own pets are cruel. Dogs are for houses. Crate training is unethical. I smiled through the whole speech because I knew exactly how this conversation was going to play out.

"So do you have any pets?" He returned.

My profile picture is me hugging my dog.

"Yes, I have a dog. She loves her one-bedroom apartment," I quipped.

He gulped. "What kind of dog?"

"Siberian Husky."

His eyes got wide. "That's a big dog." The wheels in his brain were turning: such a big dog for such a little apartment.

"She takes up three feet of space, usually under the tables and bed," I remarked. I felt myself become agitated over his diatribe. My dog loves me and wants to be with me. It explains why she's happy to leave my parents' houses and yards and go home with me. She's 10 years old and can only nap in so many places.

After the wine was gone, he asked if I'd like to walk around the store with him. Sure, I'd love to look at picnic baskets in the dead of winter. Only the store owner struck up a conversation with him, so I was left alone to stare at the picnic baskets. I debated just walking out of the store and making a run for it, but my dodgeball league plays about 10 steps from the store and I couldn't risk running into him again.

He walked me to my car and gave me a hug. "It was nice meeting you. I'll call you," he said.

"It was nice meeting you," I said back. I got in my car. 45 minutes. Huh, that's a new record.

I called Mel and asked how long I had to wait before I closed out the match.

Unanswered

Text message received Wednesday, 10:03 p.m.:

When am I going to see you again?

It's from The Hungarian. Hmm. My newest mission was to get back out there and date. I tapped my nail on the screen of my phone.

Is this a date request or a booty call?

Let's call it a date. I'll call you Friday and we can work out the details.

Interesting. Okay then, I typed.

But there may be some booty involved, he added.

No. No. No. I haven't heard from him in six weeks. He does not get to assume he's going to get laid.

Not guaranteed!

Why not?

Because I haven't heard from you in six weeks!

So?

I left it unanswered. I am a person, not a vagina. He was making me feel less than what I already felt, not more.

The next morning, he sent another text: Booty still not guaranteed?

I never responded. He never called.

***

Christopher has resumed calling. I deleted his information awhile ago, so I picked up the phone when I didn't recognize the number. He was drunk; I was at work. It was 5 o'clock on a Tuesday.

Once again he was rambling about his new job and about all the money he was going to be making. He told me he could move anywhere in the U.S. He told me he was considering Texas or California. Yup, he said he was moving to San Diego in three weeks. I didn't believe him, but just gave him the cursory mmm-hmm as I typed at my desk.

"I am so happy, babe," he slurred.

The use of babe made my skin crawl. "That's great for you," I said, completely uninterested. And then I hung up the phone. I didn't pick up when he called back.

And now the 4 a.m. phone calls have resumed. Being woken up completely bewildered when I have work the next morning really pisses me off. Of course they don't happen when I'm at Valdosta's. When the late night phone calls didn't work, he started sending me e-mails. All unanswered. He had me and he treated me like he didn't even want me.

***

S's step-mother has begun calling me again, leaving messages. All unanswered. I haven't spoken to her since probably May of last year, so I know something must have happened with S for her to start calling me again. If he had died, she'd probably tell me on the voicemail. However her voicemails don't indicate death so I can't be bothered. And really that's the only news I can stand to hear about S.

It's never who you want to call, is it?

A rose by any other name

I smell of Valdosta.

He has a sweet smell, sweeter than mine. I remember the first time I noticed it, I was in my closet folding clothes and I picked up my gray alma mater t-shirt I had worn to sleep in at his place. I couldn't place the scent originally. Later that day, I pulled my coat out of my front closet and put it on. As I zipped it up, the same sweet scent wafted around me and it hit me that it was him.

I spent last night at his place. We ordered Chinese, drank a bottle of wine and watched that Spartacus show on Starz. I watched the main actor, looking for tell-tale signs of lymphoma, which is the reason he's leaving the show. Valdosta leaned towards me, "That's what I'm going to look like by my 30th birthday."

I chuckled. "I'll look better." I've been quietly going to the gym. Nothing motivates me more than a little competition. Unfortunately, the competition is entirely one-sided. Valdosta's New Year's resolution was to get into shape and I knew I had to follow.

"I can tell, " he said. "You look good." He patted my knee, "Time for bed, baby."

While the city was snowed in, Val utilized his time to decorate his bedroom. His diploma now hung on the wall. So did a gold-framed mirror and an M.C. Escher print. I had left a hair clip on his bedside table a week and a half earlier, and I saw it in its same place. I know him now, and I know when I'm not there, he sleeps with a body pillow. I untangled his sheets and saw the pillow inside the bed. I remade the bed and shivered as I crawled in.

He crawled in behind me and wrapped his arms around me. "I missed this," he whispered. "Cuddling with you." He brushed my hair off my neck and kissed the nape up to the tips of my ears. He squeezed me tight.

"I'm used to sleeping with you now," I whispered back. It's true. I miss his shoulder when I'm sleeping alone. "Are you used to sleeping with me yet?"

"I'm getting there," he said.

He's getting there.

And now I'm sitting at my desk at work and I smell of him. This morning I went home and changed clothes, but I didn't shower, so his smell must be in my hair. I like that I smell of him.

This is why I wrote at the very beginning that I'm toast.

Puke and Rally

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Dream On

I have nightmares pretty frequently. They still circle around my years spent with S.

For instance, a couple of weeks ago I dreamt that I was living in low-income government housing because I was still with S and he had driven us to the poor house. He was dealing drugs out of the apartment and Rivers Cuomo (that's right, the singer from Weezer) broke in and stole all of my stuff. Every last item. Including my dog. He had sold my clothes to the thrift store, but I was scrambling to raise enough money to bribe Rivers to ransom my dog back to me.

Last night I was in Valdosta's bed having another nightmare. It was the first one I've had while he's been physically present. We were in the classic spoon position: his front against my back. I was using the arm he slipped under my neck as my pillow. Our forearms were indistinguishably tangled across my heart; I couldn't tell where he stopped and I began.

The dream I was having was unclear. S was in it. So was Valdosta peripherally. The problem I was having was that I was frightened. I had woken up to some degree. I opened my eyes and saw the mess of hands in front of me. I knew it was a dream. I was aware that Valdosta was sleeping softly behind me. But every time I closed my eyes, I could feel them roll into the back of my head and feel myself being sucked back into this dream where I was so frightened.

The cycle would repeat: open my eyes and adjust them to Valdosta's dark bedroom, close them and feel scared. However, the longer time elapsed, the more terrified I became, even if I was awake. My heart pounded incessantly to the point that it ached in my chest from beating so hard. I began thrashing and kicking. I told myself that Valdosta was behind me and everything was okay, but I couldn't shake the intense fear I felt.

Being awake but reacting from my dream was such a loss of control for me that the fear began to form the beginnings of an anxiety attack. My heart pounded so hard and so fast that I was legitimately concerned that it was going to stop beating out of exhaustion.

Lying in bed, I tried to think of how to slow my heart down. Valdosta hugging me from behind obviously wasn't working. My heart needed to be compressed; it needed pressure on top of it.

I punched Valdosta in the arm. "You need to roll over," I said much more harshly than I intended. Soundlessly, he obeyed. I formed the reverse-spoon and molded myself against his back. I smooshed my face into his shoulder blade, and then because I didn't want to be a big inconvenience, I wrapped my arms around his arms instead of draping them across his stomach. I squeezed, felt relief in my chest and fell asleep.

Valdosta eventually shifted. I woke up again, my heart no longer in pain. Where I had grabbed a hold of him was a wall of sweat from such intense contact. It extended from the nape of his neck down to the backs of his knees. I was damp from it. Well, you kind of brought that upon yourself, I thought. Valdosta rolled onto his back and I took my position on his shoulder.

At 6:30 a.m., his alarm went off. I woke up feeling relieved that both the night and the dream were over.

"I did not sleep well last night," Valdosta said. "I was hot."

"That one's on me," I admitted pitifully. "I had a bad dream."

Valdosta rolled towards me and we lay face to face. Then he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me to his chest. He squeezed tightly. Any residual fear I felt evaporated. My heart was compressed.

"Huh," I said. "All I had to do was tell you."

A Side of Tongue

So, um, I'm still dating Memphis.

I saw him the Tuesday before Christmas, the day after I went ice skating with Valdosta. I barely returned his texts and the poor thing wasn't even sure I was going to show up at his place at all.

He cooked me dinner, which was hot. Apparently I like sitting on a bar stool and watching the man do all of the work. It was good food too, and that may explain his weight. I don't know if I'm just used to looking at Valdosta or if it was his clothes, but Memphis looked easily 15 pounds heavier from the last time I had seen him. He had gone from chubby to the kind of fat where he suffered from slap-face disease—he perpetually looks like he's just been slapped in the face.

He offered to open a bottle of wine, but I declined. Then he opened his fridge to grab some ingredients for his salad dressing.

"Ooh! I'll take a Yuengling," I said, spying the carton on the shelf.

He looked back at me, "You said you didn't want anything to drink."

"That was before I knew you had Yuengling," I beamed.

He grabbed the bottle from the fridge and popped the top. Then he took a swig out of it to enjoy it in front of me. I didn't say anything. I was tired from work and didn't feel like playing games. When he saw his game wasn't working, he grabbed another beer from the fridge and handed it to me. But anytime I made a joke or teased, he'd point to the door and tell me to leave. It was funny the first time, but by the fifth time, I was considering it.

Dinner was good. The boy can cook.

Afterwards we move to his couch. He leaned in and began kissing me. Normally I am able to be present in the moment and with the person, but I felt like I was being disloyal to Valdosta.

Memphis uses a lot of tongue. I'm a fan of the tongue if it's done right, but Memphis uses it with every kiss. My mouth began to fill with saliva. He used so much tongue that my body thought I was eating again.

I pushed him off of me, "I'm full."

"What?"

"Nothing."

He paused for a moment. "I was hoping we would go further tonight," he said.

He had already rounded second base; how much further did he think it was going to go? My entire relationship with Memphis has been dinner. That's it. We go to dinner, or like tonight he made me dinner, and then he'd drop me back at home. We don't hang out. We don't communicate between dinners, which is largely my fault. It's like we're in our 50's and he's my companion. So was he thinking dinner and sex? Dinner and a hummer? I don't know!

"Not tonight," I responded quickly.

Memphis shifted uneasily. "You don't know how hard it is to put yourself out there like that and then be rejected."

WHAT? SO AM I SUPPOSED TO PUT OUT JUST BECAUSE YOU ASKED?!?!

"I didn't reject you, Memphis. I said 'Not tonight.'"

He couldn't distinguish the difference. To be honest, I'm not sure there was much of one.

Memphis tried. He told me that he liked me and wanted to spend more time with me. He wanted to talk to me in between our dinners.

"It's just... you always give me such a hard time," I answered. He looked at me expectantly. Finally, I was honest. "I called you when my grandmother died. You didn't answer and that was fine. But when I did hear from you again, you were all 'Why did you call? Why did you call?' I told you, but you wouldn't let it go and the way you asked was like you thought it was a booty call and maybe if you kept asking my answer would change. I was like, She's still dead"—Memphis put his head in his hand and groaned out of embarrassment when I said this—"You made me feel really uncomfortable and made me wish I had never called you about it."

He responded apologetically. He told me he couldn't believe that a pretty girl would call him and he couldn't figure out why. And when he found out it was about my grandmother, he said he was honored that I would call him. He never actually admitted the thing about the booty call, but I know I was right. He said in the future for me to call him out on it.

"But what do I say? 'You're making me feel uncomfortable?'" I genuinely asked.

"Just say, 'You realize that you are sounding like this'. But you have to say it nicely or else I'm going to get angry and defensive."

I immediately knew I'd never be able to sugarcoat it the way he wanted me to. What I don't understand is that he dishes it out so aggressively, but he can't take it. At all. He wants me to be all sensitive around him while he points to the door and orders me to leave. It's an annoying an unfair double standard that I'll never be able to abide by.

I took the ending of the conversation as a cue for me to leave. He asked me to stay longer, but it was after 10 p.m. and I had to work the next morning. I felt better about things after our little talk and I left his apartment feeling optimistic, but then Valdosta showed up on Christmas day.

And Memphis is nowhere near Valdosta.

New Year's Eve

"You know what they say, the way you spend New Year's Eve

is the way you'll spend the rest of the year."

-- Hailey Nichol, The O.C.

I chose not to spend New Years with Valdosta. Or rather, I chose to spend it with my friends. Valdosta could tag along or he could not: those were the only options in my book. He accepted a party invite to his best friend's girlfriend's apartment.

New Years was intimate this year. It was just Harvey, her husband, me, Schmoozer and Swayze. For the first time the guys outnumbered the girls.

Before the boys arrived, I talked with Harvey and her husband about Valdosta. I shared that we still haven't had the DTR yet. Harvey's husband was very adamant that if he was sleeping with someone, he wouldn't want her to be sleeping with other people. I smirked and said that's why he's married and all the other boys are not. Either way, neither Valdosta nor I are sleeping with other people; we're still in the awkward limbo of dating and relationships. I don't want to say anything, mainly because I already did too early and I don't want to look desperate.

A couple of weeks ago, Government Mule was quick to advise to not pressure him to commit. At his Christmas party, Schmoozer had given me some great advice. He had said that girls tend to take the reigns and plan all of these activities for the couple to do together. He shrugged. "What do they need me for then? It makes me feel useless."

Valdosta does a great job of taking the lead. I don't call him ever. When I leave him in the mornings, he always makes a list of the upcoming week and our pending activities and days that we're both free. So I'll see you Thursday, he'll say. For a movie at my place? Instead of trying to control things, I'm letting Valdosta have the lead. It's not really something I've done before, but I'm confident that when he's ready, he'll say something.

"Relationships tend to work out when they're easy," Harvey said in a rare moment of seriousness. "Dating my husband was the easiest thing I've ever done."

I sighed with relief. For now, it is easy. But it's also easy for married people to give advice. Neither of these people have dated anyone outside of college.

Then Harvey's husband scolded me for my New Year's plans. "It's okay to not spend every moment with us," he said. "Eventually you guys are going to have to compromise on how to spend your time."

"No I won't," I said. "All of Valdosta's friends are coupled up, so I automatically win because I have the fun friends."

"Maybe he's looking for someone to do the coupled-up stuff with."

I scrunched up my nose. Just then Schmoozer and Swayze walked in the door. The conversation was over. We drank wine, played beer pong and watched Ron White.

Harvey poured the champagne and we counted down. "2010 was the best year of my life!" I cheered.

Harvey's husband was taken aback. "Very cool. I've never heard anyone say that ever." I guess the possibility of the new year overshadows the accomplishments of the previous year.

The new year rang in, kisses were exchanged and the champagne was drunk. I typed out a mass text message to my friends that couldn't be there. Because it read, Happy New Years! I love you! I did not send it to Valdosta. My phone vibrated from my back pocket.

"Hey, baby! Happy New Years!" said Valdosta from his party. I stepped into Harvey's foyer to hear him better. "Everyone here is kissing and it made me think of you, so I'm calling to give you a phone smooch!"

Harvey ran into the foyer. "Happy New Years, Valdosta! Baahhhh!" she screamed into my phone. "Bahhhhhhhhh!"

"Okay, I'm ready for my phone smooch!" I giggled.

"Oh, you're going to make me actually do it?" he asked.

"Yup."

"Just for you." He made kissing noises into the phone. "I'll give you a better one when I see you." He asked me to come to his party to meet his friends and he sent me the address. I guess Harvey's husband was right.

I left Harvey's house in suburbia and headed back into the city. Valdosta's party was in Midtown. Amazingly enough, I found free parking on 3rd street and walked four blocks to the skyrise. Valdosta was waiting for me outside under the building's awning.

"Valdosta!" I cried as soon as I saw him.

It was 1:45 a.m. and the streets were lit like daylight, but it seemed like we were the only people in Midtown. The ball drops in Downtown. He opened his arms and gave me my New Year's kiss. I love the look on his face every time I meet him; it's a mixture between surprise and excitement. The only other one who greets me like that is my dog.

He took my hand and led me into the building. The party was thinning out by then, but I got to meet the main players in Valdosta's life, the ones he had told me about. His friends consist of a few guys he's known for eons. To my relief, they seemed normal.

We stayed for a glass of champagne and said our goodbyes. I took Valdosta back to my place.

He groaned while he slipped into my bed, "Your bed is almost as comfortable as mine. What are your New Year's resolutions, baby?" he murmured.

"I don't have any," I said honestly. "I think my birthday list is enough."

He scooped me up and brushed back my hair, planting kisses on the nape of my neck. "I'm going to get in shape," he whispered. "I want to be in the best shape of my life for my 30th birthday this year. I'm so glad I got to see you tonight, baby."

"You are?"

"Yeah."

"Me too," I answered.

"Let's watch movies tomorrow."