Once I dated this runner who was in incredible shape-- he must have had a body fat percentage of 2% and his heart beat about 40 times a minute. So of course, he made me feel self-conscious about my own weight. And after we broke up, I declared to the universe, “I just want to date a fat guy.” Frustrated after several dateless months (this was before my move to the big city), I also vowed to go out with the next boy who asked. Hearing my declared challenge, the universe tested me by almost immediately sending exactly what I’d requested. I guess the moral is to be careful what you wish for.
So on Thursday night, almost as soon as I’d told Harper how my sucky week was making me want to rescind the moratorium on making out and as soon as I had written “Now who’s going to make out with me. . ?” I got a text.
“In the city at a meeting. Running late. What are you up to later?”
It was 10:30. What I was up to later was sleeping.
I knew what he wanted, what he was going to want. I was supposed to be angry at him for being flakey at plans, for bailing on my birthday dinner. I was supposed to not hook up with him until I made myself at least talk to him about what we’ve been doing for the last six years or so. I wasn’t supposed to be kissing anyone at all. But I was pretty sure that I wanted exactly what he wanted.
He massaged the knots out of my back. He was warm in my bed. And everything else was. . . amazing. I’ll spare you the details, but you should believe me.
And the sleeping-- the actual sleeping-- is perfect. He holds me. He for-real holds me all night, which is only annoying when my leg is itchy and I wake him up untangling myself to scratch it. He holds me until 5 when he cuddles me awake, and. . . well. . . nevermind.
And he casts the usual spell. Thursday I got in bed lonely and sad, but Friday. . . . Well, Friday I’m in love.