Stolen words

Somehow I was hoping you would be next to me when I woke up.

[This was a text to me. From Him.]

Give me a minute

I can't deal with this juggling. One man and one man and one man. And me.

I think I'm done with The New Guy. It's time to make a decision. The Decision. I'm not interested. I'm not. But I kind of am. I'm not interested enough. But I'm interested enough to not make a decision. To be indecisive. I'm not sure what to do with him. Where to categorize him. I like him. Enough. But.

I am in love with Mr. Right. But suddenly, suddenly, because we're in love, I crave all this time to myself. Time to paint my nails and watch girl television and veg. Time to accept text messages from The Doctor and wonder why The Married man hasn't e-mailed me back. Time to do my obsessive things.

It's wonderful.

Except that I'm mixed up. I love the constant flow of men, the space to myself, the love. I want to be in love. I want to have my space. I want the constant flow of men?

Love letter, part III

Get your shit together. Come visit me.

I wouldn't hate it.

(Romance. I know.)

A love story

It felt different. It feels different.

Mr. Right and I had a talk. We talked about us. About how we're dating other people. That it's not fair to move here and then finally date each other. We had years before [each separately] moving here to date each other. And we didn't.

And now we're here. And I told him, "I love you."

And he said, "I love you, too."

But don't get me wrong. We're not dating. We're still seeing other people. We're in love. We're seeing other people.

(The hard part about seeing other people? I don't love other people. I love him. The hard part about loving him? Scared to death I will mess it up.)

Barometric

On a scale of one to looking-for-trouble-and-crushed-dreams: me showering off the smell of Mr. Right so that I can meet The New Guy for drinks. Is there a barometer for this?

Snail mail

Alright. Alright. Now I'm just being stupid. I'm doing stupid things. I'm drinking a little too much, using the information I know, and sending emails.

I emailed The Married Man. Maybe I should change his pseudonym. Because, again, he's not married. But he is taken, and it is wholly inappropriate for me to email him.

I've got to stop drinking.

And also Google mapping exactly how far he went out of his way to walk me home. Two and a half miles out of his way.

Boys with girlfriends

So. So. Here I am. Pajama-ed. Pajama-ed after having been walked home by that boy who has the girlfriend who I hoped to see at the mutual friends' birthday party. Pajama-ed and still assessing. Obsessively assessing. He stood too close to me all night. We traded silly dance moves. He walked me home.

I'm trying to see the bigger picture here. The he-has-a-girlfriend picture. I just get so distracted. It doesn't feel tawdry, or inappropriate, it just feels like we're talking, like we're hanging out, and like we're attracted to each other.

Attraction. Causation. I'm not that smooth. I didn't put the moves on him. I didn't think to. I was just talking. Allowing him to walk me home. Walking and knowing full and well that even the walking was wrong.

How do I do this? How do I move to a new city and have difficulty finding a job, but no problem whatsoever finding men to line up? Seriously? Seriously?

This is a level I've never hit before, me feeling like I can't control this, like things in common don't matter, like this attraction doesn't even make sense, like nothing makes sense, except that I like him. I get a feeling about him. I just feel differently. Holy hell. What does that mean?

I know better than to be friends with boys with girlfriends.

The space between

The exchange via text last night between The Doctor and me:

Hi Chicago,

Come see me please.

Thanks,

Seattle

Hey Seattle,

Wish you were here.

Love,

Chicago

In other news...

I met a guy a few weeks ago, a friend of a friend, a friend of a friend who has a girlfriend, who doesn't understand my humor, who may have a drinking problem. And he fascinates me. This is the attraction part, the chemistry, the unexplainable bit, the part I can't control for a second, even though I'm not (and would not) actively pursue this relationship-ped man, I can't help but feel drawn to him (trite expressions will only work in this case).

I can't put it into words. I can't make it make sense. I can't make a pretty statement and have all the loose ends put into place.

I just get a feeling. I don't want to make eye contact with him. I worry I will give myself away. I don't know his last name, so I just spent more time than I should admit Googling him using what I think may be his e-mail address. I'm not even sure.

And this is me not so secretly admitting that I hope to see him tonight at a mutual friends' birthday party. There, I've said it.

It's just like cracking an egg

Maybe it's time for me to buckle down and do this. Describe this. Get to the root of it, get to the point. Tell you the truth. Tell myself the truth. Or some version.

We sleep next to each other most nights, curled up against one another, holding hands. It's not about sex (mostly). It's comfort. Nearness. We go out of our way to do little things for each other, him cooking for me, me folding his socks when he leaves his laundry at my house. Laughing at the absurdity of the things we say, kissing when we get tired of talking. Discovering all the places in our neighborhood that have cheap beer and good cheese. Watching crime shows together until he falls asleep and I creep closer and breathe him in. I touch his knee all the time.

I can't decide who reminds me of who because he did this thing to my knee - that thing that looks like you're cracking an egg - and I thought of The New Guy. But when I see The New Guy next will it remind me of Mr. Right? Because they both do it. Is it humorous that it's not even sex? I don't have sex guilt. I have knee egg cracking guilt.

Beginning of the end

I'm trying to sound like I know something, like I understand the rules here, like it all makes sense to me. It doesn't make sense to me. The kissing I get. It's the bit in between. He leads his life. I lead mine. And I have no idea where this is going, this sporadic contact, this beginning, or is it a beginning? That's just it, maybe. I always just assume it's a beginning when in reality, maybe it's not a big deal, nothing much, just dicking around. And maybe it's giving away too much to admit to this, but I can't ever tell. I always give too much of myself, think it's something, when it's nothing.

The more you say the less you say

Perhaps as a general update, a general reminder that I am here, I am participating in this social experiment of kissing, of telling, of anecdotes and reminders and humorous gone-wrongs. I am here.

There may just be too much to say.

Life's a dance

The New Guy. Should I give him a name? Will he continue to be New? Will he continue to be in the picture? It's all up in the air right now. I'm not sure where we stand, what may happen. We're doing the dance.

The one where I'm not sure how to act sometimes [all the times], sometimes where it feels like there's a space between us, where the things we say probably don't mean a thing. It's the space between the words, the movement between us, the smell of him on my skin. All these words feel trite and unnecessary. Why, there's no need, when I can still smell him on me, can feel the space of the words between us.

And then, oh here I go, coming home from the New Guy, and there sits Mr. Right's laundry. There it is. Left over from the previous day when we had grand plans to drink cheap beer and do our laundry together. The plan got scrapped. His laundry remained. So here I am, folding his shirts, breathing in the way they still smell like him even after I've washed them.

It doesn't add up. I can't leave the New Guy and then find myself smelling Mr. Right's freshly laundered shirts. Bizarre circumstances aside, this doesn't add up.

Indecisive

The New Guy is back in the picture.

This is me, not making a decision.

It couldn't be

Wait. Is this me making an informed dating decision?

What?

Territorial

Is the new thing drinks dates sex done? Is this the new standard?

And is it normal for me to think that maybe I'm falling in love with my best friend? Is it normal that maybe we're normal, that we are in love, that it's been a long time coming, that I don't want to convince myself but maybe, the thing is, it's too late: I'm already in love with him.

And is it normal to think I'm already in love with him but let me first see if the New Guy calls?

Um. I've got a couple of things to sort out.

Who said it was ever smooth? It's a big leap, deciding you love your best friend. It's in my hands, it's always been, and now I feel faced with this: our future. It's contingent upon me and I know that I'm holding the cards, I know I am, and that's what makes it so hard. I'm scared to lose my best friend. That we give it a go and we lose it. We lose it all. I feel culpable.

But it wouldn't even be different between us. He would still understand me in strange and perfect ways. We would still laugh. Ride the train. Talk about the things we talk about. Go to dinner parties together. Cook obscene breakfasts together. Take naps and hold hands.

I think I'm using the New Guy as an excuse to not look at the situation for what it is. Or am I? He's a nice guy, we had decent chemistry, but. But. Alright. He's a novelty to me. I think that's it. Uncharted territory. Why am I so damn interested in charting territory?

I always thought a man would sweep me off my feet. I thought that I would finally become the person I want to be when the perfect relationship came along. When the perfect man came along. And I know that I'm a work in progress, always will be, will keep getting better, but The One has been with me sitting at my kitchen table drinking until dawn getting into fights on my front porch falling asleep next to me looking at me looking at him for two years already?

Am I even making sense? Do I ever make sense?

Pumpkin Soup, by Kate Nash

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCr81kVTdqE&ob=av2e

When Harry Met Sally. Or something along those lines.

Okay. I'm no longer the victim here. This is me. Making very conscious decisions. Me drinking too much and falling asleep next to Mr. Right, me waking up to him, me touching him, me thinking about The New Guy?!

What kind of self-sabotage am I getting at?

Make a decision. Make a decision. It's like I have nothing better to do than toy with the emotions of my best friend. But then. But then. I'm not trying to make him feel bad. I'm not trying to make myself feel bad. But maybe I shouldn't drink bloody marys and then confess something vaguely like "I love you" and then fall asleep pressed against him. Maybe I shouldn't hold his hand sometimes. Maybe I should tell him that all those nights where I'm awfully vague about my plans? Those nights? Yes? Ohh, yes, I'm dating Someone New.

I'm throwing up my hands while I type which we all know is not at all conducive to forming actual words. I will make sense of this. I will. I will.

Back up

Listening to Ryan Adams these days and jotting down my line up, lining up the men, moving on and weaving a tangled web. Spending my morning talking to The Bartender and caring about him, wanting to sit next to him, to hold his hand, to kiss him and not have to pretend for a moment that it's not exactly what I want. Spending every moment with (oh, pseudonym, don't fail me now!) Mr. Right, Mr. Exactly Right. Mr. Does Everything Right and Loves Me and Wants the Best for Me and Cooks for Me and Rides the Bus with Me and Holds My Hand. Except this scenario takes convincing for me. I don't really want this scenario. And then there is Someone New. There have been dates and it's beginning to feel the same, the line up, the back burner.

The end is near

I smell like someone else in someone else's bed in this other city that is becoming more and more mine. I can hear The Bartender call from my old life in the next room.

In recent developments

Woke up. Thought immediately of The Newest Development. I don't want to liken it to anything, it was its own thing, it had its own moments, but fine, I'll say it: it was a lot like the first date with The Doctor. The Doctor who is a really good guy, who is chivalrous and calls when he says he will and doesn't want to play games (despite me having a mild panic attack daily over him and what'shedoing what'shethinking whyhasn'thecalled).

This new guy, our first date, he held my hand and walked me home. And he's funny. He kept up with my strange humor and winding tangents. Thinking about it, me thinking about my latest love interests, walking to this date with this new man, I was thinking of logic versus spark. It's the spark I want, it's the spark that I feel is necessary, that I had with The Bartender, but with The Bartender, I fear that's all we would have had, no common ground except sometimes: daydrinking. (Which isn't really a foundational common ground if we're splitting hairs here.) So now I'm trying not to focus so much on some damn magical spark and instead on humor, words, attraction, goals. What a novel idea!

This may take some convincing

We touch shoulders. He takes my hand. I kiss his shoulder. Bury my head under his chin while riding the bus. Drink cheap red wine and end up kissing at my kitchen table.

But don't get me wrong. We're just friends.

It's becoming more difficult to even convince myself.

Truth

(Just because I knew I was falling in love with the wrong man didn't mean I wasn't falling in love.)

Keenly aware

I'm not sure how to say this the right way. I don't know how to describe this new understanding within myself, this new part where I have a date with this new guy but I already feel like it's not A Big Deal, where he will merely be for my kissing enjoyment.

This does not make me slutty. This makes me aware.