Thursday, October 23, 2014

Can you decide not to be as horrible as usual and actually have that happen? Or does that just exude forth, uncontained??

I sat next to Conference Guy and checked in with myself. This was our first "official" date after turning a budding friendship into a romance via text. He has this calm, nice way about him and I found myself feeling easy and relaxed the whole date. I was almost normal! (I can be weirdly skittish sometimes when fleshing things out so, like a lunatic, I have to keep checking in. Do I want to be here? How do I feel?)

We had a wonderful dinner, he even brought me flowers (FUCK I left them in the car, goddammit, they may as well be half a mile away) and at some point he even came to sit next to me so we could be closer to each other rather than all the way across the table, and I was so happy.
Everything was great until we went outside and stood by my car and got quiet, testing out what it felt like to be in each other's presence. I felt like I was in high school again. Suddenly shy.
Him: This is like a dream!

Me (giggling): Like freefalling. I found this animation of Homer Simpson falling down a neverending flight of stairs.

Him: Um, do I remind you of Homer Simpson?
We laughed and then got quiet again and he began smoothing my hair with the utmost tenderness, as if he were handling a rare, precious butterfly -- my hideous hair! -- and his eyes were beaming with unreserved adoration and affection, and I suddenly got self-conscious: how could he possibly look at me like that and enjoy what he saw? Didn't he see the lines in my face? That my smile is crooked? My awkward stance?

And that's when I realized, that's it. That's what's fucking going on, that's my problem.

I don't honestly believe I'm pretty or special or worthy.

I don't know how to be cherished.

I don't know how to receive, I only know how to give.

Dammit and now I CAN'T fucking go out to the car and get the goddamn flowers because I'm sitting here crying, realizing this, and I don't want to face my roommies who are now piled up in front of the tv studying and watching the latest ebola news. "Just chillin'" I'll say, zipping out the front door, but all the lights are on and they'll see. Suuure, you are, they'll think.

Isn't it just so much better if I shut this budding thing down? If I never have to worry about opening up or sharing my insecurities or ugly-crying in front of him, isn't it just better if I shut it all down?

But I'm not going to. I'm going to give this a chance, as terrified as I am.

I won't tell him I'm scared. I won't reveal that the confident-seeming fun girl he "fell" for at the conference is really a bag of insecurities, and I will try not to cackle my unsexiest laugh to ruin the mood while flinging his compliments away with clever retorts about my hideousness. I will try not to do any of these things.

I will try.

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