On Commitment and Self-Awareness

April 23, 2014

Okay dear audience, so I realize that I have already posted today. And that there is a mountain of work to do with my name all over it. And yet, as I was procrastinating by re-reading some of my past posts, I ran across a post that brings up a point that I am helpless to resist addressing. 

Remember back in November when I wrote the post, "On Bedrooms As Mood Rings"? If you want to see what I am talking about, follow the link below:
http://contemplateandruminate.blogspot.com/2013/11/on-bedrooms-as-mood-rings.html

Anyways, not only is my room still a perfect reflection of my current mood (read: my room is a complete pig sty at the moment), but I found my ending comments about snagging a boyfriend to be quite thought-provoking. 

Dear audience, I think I might have a boyfriend. 

How do you not know whether or not you have a boyfriend, you might ask? Beats me. I can't explain it either.

It started in my Aikido class this semester. We met in class and occasionally chatted afterwards while walking out to our cars. Of course I, being the oblivious noob that I am, failed to realize that he had been walking me to my truck every day for the past three weeks until we had already gone out on two dates. 

He asked me out to a Thai restaurant for lunch that Saturday. I said that I had to work all day, but could we do dinner? Sure, he said. 

He was ten minutes late because he chose to walk all the way from his apartment. I was playing out scenarios in my head of how to cope if he stood me up. Could I get one of my friends to show up on short notice to make it look like I had meant to meet them here all along? He came around the corner and I felt a huge weight lift off my chest. 

I ordered fried rice because ethnic food and I aren't always simpatico and rice is a gift from the gods. He ordered some kind of noodle dish because he is half-Thai and it reminded him of visiting his mother's family in Thailand. 

We talked about high school sports and television shows. Roommates and family. Star Trek episodes. I was delighted that I could be as geeky as I pleased without wondering if it would scare him away. 

He walked me to my truck, and I asked if I could give him a lift to his apartment, as it was 10 degrees and pitch black outside. He said sure. 

I played Lana Del Rey on the stereo in an attempt to appear cool. In hindsight, I should have just put on my classic rock. I chattered away like some kind of demented rodent, dropping words like "man hater" and "eighth grade" in the same breath. He smiled and didn't jump out of the vehicle into oncoming traffic, which I took as a good sign. I parked in front of his building and told him I had a great time. And that would have been the end of it. Except...



The next Friday was Valentine's Day. 



Class that week felt like a time warp back into middle school. 

Do I make eye contact? Is he watching me as I beat the crap out of this guy? Crap, is my makeup sweating off? 

He waits for me after class, walks me out to my truck again. It still hasn't occurred to me that he has been doing this all along. That comes later. 

I convince myself that we were just hanging out. I've been asked out on a couple of dates before, nothing serious. One date, then it's done. It happened with an Abercrombie model once. 

Expectations lead to disappointment. Best to be like Denmark and appear pleasantly surprised when people exceed your excessively low standards.

We reach my truck. He asks if I'm doing something Friday night. No, I say, but Friday is Valentine's Day, right? 

Yes.

We keep it fairly casual. I even wear jeans. We decide on dinner at Mackenzie River Pizza. I arrive five minutes late, not wanting to awkwardly stand out front by myself waiting for him to arrive. Punctuality sacrificed on the altar of insecurity. 

We end up waiting for a table for thirty minutes, which is fine. We talk some more, about school and books and family and life. We are outside, but it begins to rain and we go back inside. 

We finally get a booth and slide in to separate sides. I end up talking to the waitress because I can't handle the indecisiveness. We order a pizza and talk some more. I can hear the waitresses talking to one another, talking about something "cute" and "adorable." I convince myself that it is another couple at a different table. Denmark, remember?

We order a Mac Lovin', a large, gooey chocolate chip cookie heated in a small cast iron pan and topped with vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup. I become territorial. 

Cross this line and I will stab you with my spoon. 

He chuckles. I stick my spoon into the cookie. 

I'm dead serious, I say. Don't ever come between me and my dessert. I usually try to be nice when I am on dates, but you eat my half of the Mac Lovin' and I will not hesitate to stab you with this spoon. 

He told me later that that was the moment when he finally relaxed. Apparently he wasn't completely sure that I had thought it was a date. Silly man, it was Valentine's Day.

The waitress comes with the check. She gives us a grin. Here's your check. However, the man that was sitting at that table over there earlier thought you two were the cutest couple and paid for your pizza, so all you have to pay for is the Mac Lovin'. 

Fancy that. Apparently I am cute enough to get free pizza. Or, half a free pizza, as he was quick to remind me. He gave me the rest of the pizza anyways though. 

Then came pool and bowling. I find that he has taken both bowling and billiards classes. I lose. It's okay though, I find it entertaining to become indignant and insist that next time I will whoop his butt. 

We go out to our cars, end up talking for another two hours. The windows steam up from the vapor coming out of our mouths and I turn the heater on and off. On and off. We talk more about our childhoods and high school and other people we have been interested in. I can't say dated. He can't really either. 

He turns to me, says, what would you do if I kissed you right now?

Silence. 

Hum. Hum. Huummmmmmmmm. Well, if you were, which you probably shouldn't at the moment, then I may or may not hit you in the face, not on purpose though. How lucky you are that I am currently strapped into a seat and pinned behind a steering wheel. 

I am overcome with the irrational urge to run off into the night, as fast as I can. Never mind the fact that it is almost one in the morning. I look out the window, avoiding eye contact. 

I, um, I... Well, I've never, erhm, kissed, well... Anyone. Before. So... Yeah.

Insert spastic facial twitches and hand motions. General unattractive-ness. On my part of course. Because we have already established that I am a noob. 

And then he says, 

The grass is slow, but the buffalo is patient. 

Oh, the wonderful, painful, amazing cheesiness. What's a girl to do but laugh? And deflect. 

I come up with a compromise. I will promise to work on it. For now, a kiss. On the cheek. 

And then for 15 more minutes I proceed to stall. And during that 15 minutes he mentions that the day he first asked me out he was so nervous that he wasn't physically able to give blood. Elevated heart rate, and all that. 

Dang. What's a girl to say to something like that? Thank goodness for darkened vehicles that hide unwanted blushes. 

Eventually, I say, 

This is ridiculous.

And lean over and brush my lips against his cheek. 

And so ends my first date on Valentine's Day. 

After this we hang out once a week, see each other in class, walk to our cars together. But life is busy and school is stressful, and we never really hang out like we did on Valentine's Day. And I am okay with this. Because you never realize how much you love being single until someone is actually interested in you. I am such a commitment-phobe, dear audience. Some part of me wonders that if I had realized that he was walking me to my car all that time, if I would have actually said yes. If I hadn't convinced myself of the utter casualness of it all, could we have made it to a point where we are both sitting in my truck at one in the morning and he asks to kiss me and I don't run away?

Somehow, I don't quite think so, dear audience. 

Even now, it occurs to me that it took over two months for me to be able to write anything about this on this blog. This completely anonymous, insignificant blog. 

So do I have a boyfriend, dear audience? 

I'm not quite sure.