I’ve come to realize my heart is always with the possibility of “we,” schematically speaking. As of late, I’ve spent a considerable amount of time focusing on not repeating the mistakes of relationships past.
Last week I composed an open letter to the me, I use to be. Oddly, I don’t remember writing most of it, in that I poured myself out to the two of you that humor me in my
manic cathartic rants (Thank you mother and Gram — your subscriptions are greatly appreciated and not at all awkward). Yet, when I’d finished regurgitating my thoughts for the cyber universe to see, to my surprise the residue of it all conceived a new strand of what the hell are you doing chagrin thoughts. Consequently, as per usual, I had too much to think last night and in the process concluded that ambiguity breeds contempt. May I expound?? …
INTERIOR – POSH, LONESTAR NIGHTLIFE VENUE – 1AMA portly 4o-something man passes Pretty One (apologies in advance for referring to myself in 3rd person a pet peeve of mine), who is sitting on trendy white leather ottoman sipping bottled water (I’m fasting from the booze, or at least I was last evening). He slows his walk to an easy stroll in an effort to establish his version of “sensual” eye contact and greets Pretty One with clammy hands and poly-blend ensemble that reeks of Sex Liger cologne. “I’m
For the next twenty minutes, Hershall in his monotone Lonestar dialect annoyingly recited the remains of his day. Starting with the ten hour botox class he’d been in. I knew I wasn’t attracted to him instantly. For starters, he reeked of Ready for the World (yes, he smelled like an 80s R&B band) and Glory Days frat boy — a few of my least favorite things. And he was old. Not so much old in the the way that an ageist might consider, but old like your dad rapping along to a Drizzy Drake and Little Wayne cassette (yes, cassette — again, he’s old).
He also lacked a certain authenticity, which I find essential in communicating with members of the opposite sex. He was very “say bay-bee this” and “say bay-bee that.” I hated it. Yet, I couldn’t seem to pull myself away from this train wreck of an educated Deuce Bigalow. What can I say … it was either talk to him or watching twenty something girls grind on one another to “Like a G6.”So I went with Hershall.
Confession: I am a horrible listener. Tell me anything, and hand to God your secret is safe with me — because I’m probably going to forget it three minutes later. Chalk it up to years of alcohol consumption or maybe I don’t go all in for someone I’m not invested in. At times, I am an empty vault — its my cross to bear.
As a result, Hershall, feels comfortable divulging The Life and Times of Dr. H, which began with his occupation (he’s a physician) AND his shellfish allergy AND his fraternal membership (insert well known historical fraternity here — which, coincidentally my father is a member of). I mention these things, because I gathered that in Hershall’s world, he’s kind-of-a-big-deal. “I’m a physician” and “a member of Blank Alpha Blah” were my cue’s to officially be impressed and therefore taken with him. I wasn’t, on either account. You lost me at hello. I’m not the girl that swoons at the guy with comma, M-Period-D-Period at the end of his name.
I suppose it’s worth mentioning here that I don’t impress easily, and if that sounds somewhat bitchy, then fine — I’ll own it. Caption me, being a bitch. As you know, or should know by now, I’m a Southern girl. I come from a huge Southern family and that basically equates to one thing at the end of the day. We’re not afraid to call bullshit. And last night, I called bullshit on Hershall (in my mind). I believe my lack of interest registered with him when I declined his second invitation for brunch the following afternoon (today).
So we’re sitting there and I’m mostly pretending to listen … pretending to listen … Until he reaches for my left hand. “You are very beautiful, Lovely One” (yes, — he totally forgot my name) “Why aren’t you married?”
For those of you who are single, and even my married guys and dolls — this is a question that I’m oddly indifferent about. I make no qualms about my desire to at some point or another settle down and marry. I could definitely be Pretty One-HisLovelyWife. Duly noted. However, the answer to this question, often manages to escape me. I mean, is there an answer that makes sense?? I honestly don’t know. I can’t propose marriage to myself, so what other options do I have?
“Hmmmm” I grinned. “I’m not really sure how to respond to that” I shrugged.
“Are you seeing someone?” he asked.
“Hmmm” again I grumbled shaking my head, yes. “Yes … yes, I think so” I added.
“But you’re not married?” he said squinting his eyes, his expression puzzled in disbelief. “Right” I said. There I’d sat judging Hershall, this 40-something man, bringing his best 80s A-game and in an instant after 2.5 ambiguous answers, I transformed from the judger to the judgee. I wondered if perception is reality, how then — did he see me.
INTERIOR – POSH LONESTAR NIGHTLIFE VENUE – 1AMA “moderately” attractive woman sitting alone on trendy white leather ottoman sipping water is in desperate need of being saved by me (The Physician & Old School Fraternity Guy). She coyly avoids making eye contact in an effort to lure me into her web of desire. It’s a good thing I remembered to layer Sex Liger over this poly-blend blazer and sateen shirt before leaving my house. And again in the car. “I’m
I am not the one who’s embarrassed to be called Ms. I wear the title proudly and if fancied myself a seamstress I would stop.look.and bedazzle a rhinestone cowgirl “S” on the right lapel of a cashmere twin set I have yet to purchase, Lavern and Shirley style. Schlamil, Shlamazel … I’m single!
I’d be lying if I said the dream of me erupting into a “Let Single Ring” grandiose speech hasn’t entered my mind a time or deux. I read an article this morning in the Times Weddings & Celebrations (its my sports pages – what??) where a bride asked her now husband, on their third date “Are you bad news? If you’re bad news don’t call me. I think I could like you but I want marriage and babies. I don’t have time to waste on a French fling.”
Bravo! I tip my stilleto to her courage. This is a woman with chutzpah. A shero after my own heart. As brave as I think I am, I’m not sure if I could ever make that bold of a statement to someone I was involved with — at least not on the third date. That’s like date 7ish conversation — yes? no. But she did. I gather because she came to realize early, what I only recently discovered last night/early this morning.
As I exited the event I called NsSA. It was late, and I figured he’d be snoring and drooling on himself as he says. We haven’t spoken in a few days and maybe in the back of my mind I had questions about this and that. Mostly this. Though, I think its unfair to bring any of this to him at the moment. At times as sure as I am that I do care about him I wonder if we would have chosen each other again if the opportunity presented itself.
There is also the distance in time and space in addition to differences of opinion, perspective and backgrounds. I come from a family of huggers, he a family of hand shakers it seems. All of which are the perfect ingredients for ambiguous soup. Though, on some level we both harbour an appetite for
seduction destruction. And if by chance he happened to find himself on the receiving end of female Hershall’s inquiry — how then might he respond? Yes.No.Maybe.Shrug.
For me there is the idea of a lifestyle with the right person that I would not so ambiguously adore — a future at this point I’m not sure I have any control over. I am not the author and finisher of my own fate; a task I’m elated to willingly release. I am not sold on the idea of the soul mate, a discussion I plan on addressing in the near future. However, I do believe at appointed time a new Hershall will ask a question to which I will smile and just say yes.