validation

I know I like attention. That’s why I’m writing this in the first place. I want you to read this and think about how talented and clever I am, and how, even though you’ve never seen me, you’re sure I’m pretty.

I like attention from boys. I shouldn’t use it to validate myself; I know that.

But if I know that, why am I talking to Brian?

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Thanks. You, too. Any fun plans?”
“Not today, tomorrow. You?”
“No plans. And no boys, really.”
“Really. I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m simplifying.”
“Down to just one boy.”
“No. Down to none, maybe. There’s just one boy I need to talk to.”
“Is it me?”
“What would I need to talk to you about?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are confusing.”
“Sorry.”

Brian doesn’t live here. I’ve known him since we were 14. And he got married in October. And he didn’t tell me; I had to ask him about it (twice) after he changed his relationship status on Facebook.

Seriously. I’m simplifying.


~beatrix

missed chances

I have every intention of talking to Simon tonight. I’m going to do it. Get it over with.

I am not like this.

I am going to do it.

But Brian sends me a gchat message. I don’t want to deal with that tonight. And I need to wash my hair.

When I send Simon a message, he’s still at work. And the kind of conversation we need to have isn’t really the sort you want to have in a cubicle.

And because it never rains, it pours, and it never pours, it thunderstorms, Tal texts:

-Hey cutie! How are you?

It’s so easy to flirt:

-Good. Thinking about me?

He’s good at it, too:

-Often and fondly. Miss me?

I lie:

-Always.

He knows it:

-Flatterer.

But he calls me beautiful; that’s something.

This is what I don’t need in my life.

And I miss my chance with Simon. Again.



~beatrix

kiss dodging

For whatever reason, there’s a short list of things I’ve been eating lately: oatmeal, cous cous, yogurt, grape tomatoes, oranges. And when Coop asked what I was having for dinner, I told him three more things off the list: pita, hummus, and mozzarella.

Cooper: You need to start dating again.
Me: You mean I should start dating for the food?
Cooper: If I were a girl I totally would
Me: It’s just so exhausting. And you have to do things to your hair so much. And then there’s only so much kiss dodging you can do.
Cooper: You’ve got to put that in your blog or I will-- “kiss dodging”.

I have a confession: I love internet dating. I should clarify: I love free internet dating.

But I don’t think I’m quite ready to start back. I’m simplifying.

~beatrix

simplifying is hard

“Guess what? I’m going to Boston this weekend.”

What was I doing? I just could not stop talking.

“I haven’t had wine in a long time. Wait. That’s not true, I had mimosas yesterday. But that doesn’t really count because it’s champagne.”

But I could not talk about what I was supposed to be talking about.

He must be so confused. After all, I’d sent a Rather Dramatic Email. It said I needed to talk to him, but it wasn’t urgent or scary. Which, I’m sure the poor guy knows, in girl-speak could mean any number of things. And I’d mentioned that I was only sending the email to make me talk about things I could never talk about when I was with him, because I liked being with him and never wanted to ruin that.

We started talking about moving and his new place.

The email had ended, “I promised myself I’d try to simplify my life this year, and I think that means being honest with myself and the people around me. So I’m trying.” He must be terribly annoyed or terribly frightened.

He finally brought it up, “You know we can always talk.”

I tried, but I just couldn’t say it.

“Just tell me. You don’t have to be articulate.”

“I know,” I said. “I don’t really know what I want to tell you.”

It was a lie. I didn’t know what outcome I wanted , but I had been outlining the conversation in my head all day.

And he must know everything already, right?



~beatrix

simon

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.

~beatrix

please try not to act crazy

This is a conversation I wish I could have with a boy, namely Pete, but I‘m sure I could use it more than once:

I’m sorry I’ve called you twice and texted you three times and sent you a facebook message in the past 30 hours, but the truth is that I think I might kind of like you. But don’t panic, because I’m not sure. But I was weird last time I saw you and now I want to show you how not crazy I am, but every time you don’t answer or don’t respond I’m pretty sure I’ve ruined it. And I’m tired of ruining things. So this is just what I look like when I’m trying.


~beatrix

let's just take this slow

When I was 15, I had my first boyfriend. The first time he kissed me-- the first time anybody kissed me-- we were sitting on the floor in his bedroom. We’d just watched Top Gun, and he’d fast-forwarded through all the sad parts. We spent years making out in that bedroom, with no music or tv so we could hear the house alarm beep or someone starting up the stairs. He wasn’t allowed to close his door when I was over. Later, after he got a car, we’d hook up on new streets where they were building houses but no one lived yet. It was fun. From that first kiss, everything was terrifyingly, excitingly, beautifully new. Every new move was tentative, careful. From that first kiss, it took us 20 months to make our first (awkward, clumsy, emotional) attempts at having actual sex.

When I was a kid, my dad told me I ate like a fat person because I always saved my favorite part for last. It’s maybe not the healthiest thing to tell a 13-year-old girl with plenty of food issues already, but it is true that I’ve always been a savor-er. I eat sandwiches in concentric circles so that my last bite is the perfect, juicy inside piece. I eat muffins from the bottom up, so that I’ll be left with the good part, not the stump. When I read books I really like, I find that I check how many pages are left so I can reassure myself that it’s not almost over. I like anticipation. I like the build-up. I don’t like for things to be over.

So I miss the way things were when I was 15: when my bra didn’t come off at the same time as my shirt. When making out was its own activity. When we saved things for later, for next time. When letting a boy kiss me was not an invitation for him to take off my pants.

I know I can’t have another first kiss. And I know that 20 months is five times longer than I’ve dated anyone since the boy who fast-forwarded Top Gun. But I miss how fun things used to be. I miss all the tiny steps.


~beatrix