You just know
16 February 2009
Filed under Uncategorized
Tags: dating, happy endings, love, Mr. Right, romance
I’ve been avoiding this post. Partly because I’m hesitant to admit it in writing, but mostly because I’m afraid that when I do, it will sound cliche and ordinary.
But Kitty says that I must, that after writing about all of the struggles and frustrations of dating, I owe it to myself, or at least to her, to write about something that keeps me grinning and that makes all the past struggles worth it.
I’ve always thought that ‘love at first sight’ was a bunch of bollucks. How could you possibly find yourself in love with a man you’ve never spoken to? That you made eye contact with at an opportune moment? Ridiculous, really. But I have always been a bit intrigued by the variation my mom uses.
“How did you know that Dad was the one?” I would ask her.
“When you meet the right person, you just know,” she replied. This did not quite answer my question, but it had enough romantic mystery for me to accept it.
I’ve pursued love, wondering what it was like. Created it out of nothing just to know the feeling. I’ve been dragged into love, and I’ve loved people who haven’t yet learned to love themselves.
But this is different. On our first official date, I traveled to Boston on Dec. 12 to be Jon’s date at a Christmas party. As I rode back to New York City, I replayed the weekend in my head, and the phrase ‘You just know,’ kept ringing through my thoughts.
He’s smart, funny, ambitious, compassionate, and in my mind devilishly good looking. But I could say that about a number of guys. It was something about the way we interacted, in conversation, on the dance floor, snuggled up on the couch. When I think back on that weekend, I mostly remember laughing. I was either smiling or laughing the entire weekend, and I think he was too.
I immediately came home and began a list of reasons why I love him, worried that by the time I had assured myself of actually being in love with him, I would be too caught up in the overall feeling to be able to pin it down to specifics.
And then of course, he conveniently adheres to all the qualities my mom silently requires: Catholic, from a similar type of family, parents aren’t divorced, has a college degree, has a full-time job, has career goals, has a social life.
He is a man I would want to come home to after a long day at work. A man I’d love to go out dancing with in Manhattan on a warm Saturday night. A friend I could stay up talking to all night. Someone I can take home to my friends and family, with the hope that they will love him as much as I do.
We’ve fallen in love, just as I knew we would after that weekend in December. And we’ve been in exactly the same place in the relationship every step of the way. From the moment we met each other, to our first date, to where we are now, two months later. I have to wonder if there’s something in that ‘Love at first sight’ thing after all. Not sight with your eyes, but a different sort, a sight that comes from your heart, a sudden recognition between two people who will make each other happy.
Now if only we lived in the same city… (don’t worry, we’re working on that one.)
Typing to type for me
I need to write. I feel like I haven’t written in so long. I type just because I think that I should, and not because I want to type.
I think that no one wants to read a love story. But I love reading love stories. Especially the weird ones, the ones that never should have happened. The ones that last a week, but it’s a week of forever.
And writing has a mind of its own. Why not let it flow.
I had an absolutely fantastic weekend. I told my mom about it over the phone, I’m not even good at talking really, and she laughed. And I laughed. And she laughed some more. So it’s a good story. But I’m afraid to write it because I think I’ve been boring my few readers.
This is an exercise of flow. As noted, I only have a few readers, so rather than write for them, I’ll write for myself.
Imagining happy endings, far far away
3 December 2008
Filed under Uncategorized
Tags: dating, happy endings, romance, unattainable
My imagination gets carried away, but only when there’s no chance of the romantic plot becoming reality.
I have a date on Thursday. He’s polite, handsome, an architect. We sat next to each other on a train and struck up a great conversation about books and the economy. He lives nearby and he’s perfect on paper. But I’m not really interested.
Instead of planning what to wear or wondering what I should order, contemplating whether Architect will be a good kisser…instead of that, I’m wondering when Boston will write me another email.
My imagination is only interested in inaccessible men. The Poet – my Cary Grant character with a musty library and a love for bourbon and coffee – He was too old for me and I knew it. Tall, Dark Handsome is simply unattainable by the nature of who he is. Boston, he’s too far away.
So I imagine Boston here, laughing at me with my winter hat on, but no socks on my frozen feet. He smiles, I laugh back, the plot thickens with all that stuff girls love about chick flicks. But if he were actually here, I’m afraid I might be a lot less interested.
Clearly I hate the idea of settling down right now. That’s what writing this has led me to understand. But I’m keeping the option within my grasp, just one obstacle away and everything could be perfect. As long as my imagination doesn’t get too dependent on obstacles.
A quill, a pen, a text?
Sitting in Starbucks, writing my Grandmother a letter, I realized how much I loved etching each word, careful that my handwriting was legible, leaving a print of myself somwhere between the paper and the pen.
I thought of the text message I had received the night before around 2 a.m., “U up-ish?” and I decided that technology had made dating a lot less romantic.
Oh would that he write me a letter! I thought with a laugh. Wishful thinking. Even letter writing has been reduced to Microsoft Word documents. And soft journals or diaries, precious drafts of novels with lines scrawled out and notes cramped into the margins, have been replaced by, well, blogs like this.
Granted, I would guard my Backspace button for all I’m worth, but when it comes to romance, shouldn’t there be a little sacrifice of time, a little careful etching? Or at the very least, a little thought and wit thrown in.
And no, I was not “up-ish.”
Parisian romance
17 February 2008
Filed under Uncategorized
Tags: boundaries, damien rice, fling, France, music, Paris, raspberry beer, romance
Because of him, I listen to Damien Rice.
We were drunk off of raspberry-flavored beer, and sneaking glances at each other on the lawn in front of an ancient cathedral. The lyrics of “Blower’s Daughter” ran through our heads and despite our love of tradition and history, neither of us wanted to step out of the breeze and glaring sun to enter the static and musty church.
“Volcano” vibrated through the sunrays that followed us down the cobblestone streets of Brussels, and we chomped down on chicken from the local market. Later that night, we caught the last train back to Paris, and “Delicate” played into my ear, which was lying on his shoulder as I drifted to sleep.
Some people belong in our lives, even if they only step in for a while, because they make us grow, and they help us see things that only they could see. He taught me that I could be bewitching. He taught me to loosen up, to pee in the bushes of a French park at midnight, to romp around topless in the Mediterranean Sea at 2 in the morning, to run with him through the Parisian streets in pouring rain, laughing and singing, and stomping through puddles in flip-flops on a hot July evening.
Our relationship was a delicate one, one that could only exist as it did in Paris. We left others behind that summer, and when we returned we realized that we had gotten ahead of ourselves.
I still listen to Damien Rice. Remembering our dinners together in Europe, I cut my pizza with a knife and fork when I’m at a restaurant. And I think of him every time see Chimay in the liquor store. But he remains a musical memory.
He pops up every once and a while among our mutual friends — we smile at each other in acknowledgment of the role we each played in shaping each other’s lives and in agreement that we did well to move on while we were ahead.
“And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We’ll both forget the breeze
Most of the time“
