[Dating Papers]

Yesterday, I had one of the best rowing practices I can remember.

We were doing four-minute, full-pressure pieces. The stroke ratings were medium-low because we’re getting ready for the head race season (longer races against the clock—they average around 3 miles, but the lengths are variable). We were rowing two minutes at 24 (24 strokes per minute) and two minutes at a 26. We did five pieces total. And somewhere during the third piece, I hit my stride. I was sitting up tall, I was rolling up early (feathering the oar correctly), I was slow on the slide. I wasn’t skying, I was getting good compression. And I was laying on the pressure. It felt like I’d jumped up a level. Then, we were in the last ten seconds of the piece and…

WHAM! My oar handle thwaps me in the chest and my whole oar is parallel to the boat instead of perpendicular to it.

The boat stopped while I recovered my oar. The rower behind me started to give me advice on how to free it, “You need to turn the handle…

I said, “Please don’t! Not now. It’s bad enough to catch a crab…” I wish I hadn’t snapped at him, but he should have kept his mouth shut. I’ve caught a crab before, though it’s been a long time.

Catching a crab can hurt, though, luckily, I don’t have a bruise. Mostly, though, it hurts your pride. You are supposed to be in charge of every second of the stroke and, somehow, it got away from me. I have no idea what happened.

It’s been years since I crabbed. Years. Even during the one race were our equipment was crap and the oars weren’t pitched right, I didn’t crab. I was in control.

The last two pieces went well. My form was still solid, the pressure was still high. And my confidence? Just a little tiny bit bruised, but unbowed.

*From wikipedia. Crab: A rowing error where the rower is unable to timely remove or release the oar blade from the water and the oar blade acts as a brake on the boat until it is removed from the water. This results in slowing the boat down. A severe crab can even eject a rower out of the shell or make the boat capsize (unlikely except in small boats). Occasionally, in a severe crab, the oar handle will knock the rower flat and end up behind him/her, in which case it is referred to as an ‘over-the-head crab.’ Mine was an over-the-head-crab, though I didn’t lie down–I kind of wiggled to the side as the oar moved behind me.

Grateful for: perspective.

Drop me a line.

What do you do when you get a song stuck in your head? Do you play it over and over? What if the lyrics are in a language you don’t quite understand? I play it over and over anyway.

Maybe it’s bad/dangerous, but I’ve taken to listening to my music/radio shows on the bike ride to work. I know the route well, where the dangers lurk, I keep the volume low so I can hear the road sounds…I really missed the listening time that I used to have on my walk to work.

Yesterday, Sandra Dee asked about Garret, the rowing guy, in the comments. He sent me email on Tuesday in response to my message to him on Friday. I’d asked him, very casually, if he wanted to get together again after practice. He says yes in the email, but he’s not at practice/ out of town this week. He suggested getting together next week. Lame! I responded, “let’s check back next week.” Me=equally lame.

Next, I have an unconfirmed plan with an internet guy this Sunday. We talked on the phone Saturday afternoon and it was a good conversation. I don’t have much hopes for him as a prospect, but I’m sure it would be fine (not painful) to meet him. I want to cancel but I’m having a hard time finding the right words. A white lie may be in order.

Finally, my dad is making a last minute trip to NY this weekend and he wants me to come up. I’d see Dad and B1 and family, which I always enjoy. But the timing is terrible. I have many Saturday commitments and I couldn’t leave until the evening. I would need to come home on Sunday night or maybe Monday morning. It wouldn’t be much of a visit and it would get me all off schedule. I’m considering it anyway.

Oh, wait, did I leave something out? Yeah, sorry.

I have a date with Owen on Friday.

Did I mention that I’m in a really good mood?

Grateful for: music.

Drop me a line.

Last night, at rowing, I had to cox. The coxswain (often shortened to “cox”) sits in the stern and steers the boat. She encourages (yells at) the rowers during a race or gives auxiliary instruction during a practice. Ideally, the coxswain is a small person because you want to minimize the extra weight you have to row around and the seat for the coxswain is very narrow. Our club doesn’t have a “dedicated” coxswain so the rowers have to take turns. Sometimes, someone will volunteer, but if not, there is a rotation. It’s been months since I coxed so I was planning on taking a turn this week. For a while, I’ve only been able to practice three times a week—that’s the minimum number of times I want to row a week. This week, I knew I could make it to four practices so I figured I’d cox once and still get in three practices.

I don’t remember if I’ve mentioned Betsy, but she’s someone on the team who I really like. For a while, she was sculling, but last night, she was back with our group. She was very friendly and I was pleased. In the past, I’d engaged in some gentle teasing and joking asides with Betsy, but I wasn’t sure if she thought I was funny or annoying. Last night, she made some jokes of her own. And she asked me if I’d stroked. (Why are so many rowing terms near-double entendre?)

I’ve always wanted to stroke, but I’ve rarely been selected for the job. The stroke sets the pace for the boat. She sits in the stern (which feels like the front of the boat) and the other rowers are behind her. The stroke has be steady and have excellent technique. It’s a tough position and a lot of pressure.

I’ve always considered myself to be a technique rower. I’m reasonably strong compared to non-rowers, but I’m definitely below average strength for a rower. As a competitive rower, I had two things going for me: consistency (I never missed practice) and technique.

After my first year of competitive rowing at Chapel Hill, I went home to Seattle for the summer. I joined an intermediate team (much like the group I row with now). When the coach found out that I’d spent the last year in a collegiate rowing program, he put me right in the boat. I also told him I wanted to change sides—I’d been a starboard, but I wanted row port. Fine, he said. And that summer I became a port. I also became the stroke of my boat. At the end of the summer, we rowed in a small regatta at Greenlake and my boat won our race, with me at stroke. It’s the only race I’ve ever won. The ribbon is on my fridge at home.

When I got back to Chapel Hill in the fall, my switch to port guaranteed me a spot in the boat, as I’d anticipated. (We’d had a shortage of ports at the end of the school year—I took a gamble on who would return in the fall.) It also opened the possibility of a move to stroke. My coach knew I wanted it. We had three eights that fall. I sat four in the “B” boat. The coach planned to move me to stroke in the spring, when he would likely combine the B and C boats after some rower attrition.

Unfortunately for me, we didn’t have two eights in the spring. Only nine rowers and one coxswain came back. I sat six in that boat—it was basically the A boat rowers and me. I stayed at six all spring. The ninth rower who didn’t have a seat in the eight was also a port. (Why I was in the eight and she wasn’t deserves its own post. Short version: she was stronger, I was more reliable. Reliable was rewarded.) She had a seat in the lightweight four, our winning-est boat. I liked sitting six and I was only a little disappointed that I didn’t get to stroke my own boat. The coach even apologized, but I understood.

The next year, there was a new varsity group (the returning novices from the previous year) and only a few of my varsity class were left. I was in a four with three of the new varsity women. And, finally, I was stroke. Unfortunately, our new coach was a macho ass and spent almost no time coaching us. I had very little experience in fours or stroking. After our first regatta, where I stroked a terrible race, I’d had enough and I finally quit the team. I hated the coach and I needed to finish my MA thesis.

I must have told some of this to Betsy, because when she saw me on Monday, she was hoping I’d gotten a chance to stroke. I told her, no. Rowers more experience than me were around and that it was only right that they stroked. Then I looked around at who was on the dock that day and I said, “Well, if I were going to stroke, today would probably be the day.”

Betsy said, “You should!”

“We’ll see. If Mary or Chris is here, one of them will stroke.”

“Oh, but you should!”

When the coach arrived, her first question was, “Who wants to cox?’

Betsy said, “She does!” And pointed to me.

The coach said, “You know, you have to cox, just for saying that!”

I had to laugh. I said, “It’s ok. It’s my turn anyway.”

Betsy said, “No, no, I can do it if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s ok, really. I was planning to take a turn this week anyway.” I walked into the boathouse to get the cox box. A couple of minutes later, Betsy ran into the office and said, “I’m so sorry! I thought she said stroke! I wanted you to stroke, not cox! I can cox, really, I don’t mind.” She seemed distressed.

I was amused. “No, no, it’s really ok. It really is my turn. Anyway, we don’t get to volunteer to stroke. And Chris is here, so he always strokes.”

The coach walked in and said, “That’s right, you don’t get to volunteer to stroke.”

Betsy said, “But sometimes…”

But no. You can refuse to stroke. You can’t request to stroke. After you are a well-established presence on a team, it is barely acceptable to suggest that you would be willing to stroke. I told my old coach that I’d changed sides and stroked a winning race over the summer. He got the message.

I’ve stroked once since I started with my current club and I was slated to stroke a four at a regatta in June, but the boat was scratched. Eventually, if I’m consistent, if I continue to improve my technique, if I keep showing up, I will get a chance to stroke. But probably only in a women’s boat. Why? Because I’m short! All those tall men would have a hard time following me, even if I have the slowest slide in the world. Then again, we won’t know until we try.

I didn’t mind coxing too much even though I can’t steer a straight course to save my life. I considered not hitting anything a triumph. And tonight and tomorrow and the next day, I’m rowing, as is only right.

Grateful for: opportunities.

Drop me a line.

Note: everyone is doing lovely, touching September 11th posts today. I’m not. I wrote something last year and I don’t have more to say this year. I find it painful to hear the stories all over again, but who doesn’t? Instead, I’ll continue with the regularly scheduled light-weight, but important to me, posting.

Saturday night, Pele and I went to a big party. It was quite a scene. Even though we were early-ish, plenty of folks were there when we arrived. Pele said later that it was the Hill-staffer party she never went to when she was 25. I don’t know if that’s right or not because most of the people I talked to didn’t work on the Hill, but I did overhear (and avoid) a few people talking about politics.

When we got there, we saw Owen. He is the fellow who approached me the night we met Frank–the one who made a beeline for me. He had a new haircut and was looking cute–I wasn’t sure it was him when I first saw him.

The crowd was diverse mostly due to Frank’s ability to meet and retain friends. Frank is a schmoozer but totally sincere and likeable. While he paid a lot more attention to me than I expected, I was under no illusion about his romantic interest. There wasn’t any–on either side. He did hug me several times and said to a bystander, “She gives good hugs!” How could I not be flattered?

Pele and I did our best to mingle, moving from one part of the house to another. After an hour or so I found myself alone in the kitchen and I spotted three good-looking guys. They particularly caught my eye because they were obviously over 30, unlike almost everyone else there. One of them got me a drink and another, Mark, engaged me in conversation. Pele came by and I waved her off (am I rude or what?). Mark and I chatted happily for 20 or 30 minutes when I saw that he was wearing a wedding ring.

I said, “You’re married?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

I thought, “I can’t believe it. What is it with me and married guys?” But I didn’t say that. Instead, I kept talking to him, though I felt compelled to give him a hard time for flirting with me. He denied that he’d flirted.

Things get a bit hazy after that (I’d had 2.5 drinks). I talked with Pele. I talked with Mark and his friends. And I talked with Owen.

In fact, I did quite a lot of talking with Owen. I would turn around and there he would be. It occurred to me that he was interested…still interested. And that he wasn’t married. So what if he was young? I turned my attention to him. The rest of the evening was either me finding him or him finding me. Or us standing next to each other and not saying much.

And yet, by 2am, I was in the front yard and I was kissing Owen. He had to go into the house for a minute, and when he came back he said, “You know, I ran into that married guy you were talking to before…he said, ‘That Jamy chick really digs you.’”

“Really.”

“I said, ‘I figured that out when she kissed me.’”

“That’s hilarious! What was he thinking?”

“I think he was trying to help me out.”

We talked a little about the first night we met. He joked that he’d separated me from the herd. I laughed. He said, “I saw you and thought, ‘there’s someone who will talk to me.’”

“And I did. But then you kind of faded away.”

“I knew Frank had your number.”

“So, you could have gotten my number from Frank.”

“But you didn’t give me your number.”

“You didn’t ask. Frank asked. And he called me! But it was about sailing.”

Owen said, “I know it was about sailing.” I had to laugh.

We kept talking and I realized that I really liked him. He now has my number.

I have to tell you, over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been up to some crazy antics (not for blog consumption). I can’t even begin to explain my own behavior. It was like I had to get something out of my system. I had to push hard enough at my own boundaries to break out of my funk. So I could look at things differently, perhaps? Whatever it was, I do believe it allowed me to be open to Owen. For that, I am grateful.

Grateful for: possibilities.

Drop me a line.

I recently read Breakup Babe: The Novel by Rebecca Agiewich and I quite enjoyed it. The book is structured as a series of blog posts interspersed with the author’s behind-the-scenes reflections. These reflections include her feelings about blogging, writing in general and other parts of her life that are too sensitive to post on the web for the world to read.

Other bloggers may read the book and feel as I did, that it reflects their own feelings about blogging. How, even when you have a tiny readership, as soon as the comments come, you feel obligated to keep telling your stories. Rachel, the heroine, has stronger relationships with her friends than her readers, but she has the same dread of negative comments as I do. The blogging theme resonated so strongly for me that I’m not at all sure how non-bloggers will find the book. Maybe it would provide insight to those who don’t understand why people write personal blogs—or why we continue to do so after our privacy is compromised.

The plot of the novel is entertaining and is launched by a breakup (surprised?). Rachel is devastated and angry and uses the blog to vent her frustrations. It helps but, ultimately, harms her. There is a great payoff involving every blogger’s worst fear (I won’t give it away) and it’s well done and entertaining.

I found myself wondering where the line was between the author’s real life and the novel. Since it is based on a nonfiction blog, I kept wondering where and how the author fictionalized. This was something of a distraction from the story, but I suspect other readers may have the same questions.

I wasn’t sure what kind of ending I was hoping for. Did I want Rachel to find a boyfriend or learn to be happily single? Ending with a boyfriend would have satisfied my wish fulfillment, but the happily alone outcome might be more truthful. I was quite pleased with the author’s decision. I believed the ending—it wasn’t pat—and it was satisfying.

Overall, the book is a quick, fun read in need of a little editing. I’m impressed, though, with the author’s efforts. I would be lucky to do half as well.

I woke up this morning feeling hung over. I don’t get hungover. Even if I did, I only had one beer last night, many, many hours before bedtime. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Maybe it was lack of sleep.

Generally, I’m a champion sleeper. Head hits the pillow and ten minutes (or less) later, I’m asleep. Unfortunately, when I stay up late, I still wake up around 7am, so I can be sleep deprived. More rarely, I can’t fall asleep, but that’s usually due to travel the next day. Sometimes I have restless nights where I don’t sleep well and I wake up in the middle of the night, usually to fall back asleep.

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been having a lot of those restless nights. Altogether, I’m not feeling quite myself, though, technically, I’m getting enough (or near enough) sleep.

My plan this morning was to go to yoga at 9am. I was awake in time, but I felt crummy. I was starving and I wanted waffles. I weighed my options and the scales firmly came down on the side of waffles. There is a neighborhood place that makes very good waffles (but everything else needs about 5-10 minutes longer on the grill).

Before I left to get the waffles, I checked the “network interface box” for my landline. I haven’t had a dial tone in over a week. It’s funny how little it matters. Since I use the cell so much, I didn’t notice right away. I do have DSL and it’s working fine, so I figure it’s an outside the house problem, but they still want you to check this box. I’ve been putting it off because it’s dark and/or rainy when I’ve had time to check. I checked all four lines and NO ONE has a dial tone. I guess none of use our landlines. I’m going to get to wait around for Verizon to show up next Saturday morning. Fun.

After that, I rode my bike, lazily, to the diner, had my waffle, then rolled slowly back to the coffee shop where I now sit.

You might be wondering, was I up late because of my fantastic Friday night date? Sadly, no.

First, my date called around 5pm to tell me he had a hole in his pants. This was part of the reason our first date was canceled. He said there was something about me that causes his pants to split. I don’t know why, but the conversation left a bad taste in my mouth. He also wanted lots of directions to the meeting place–dude, please, use the internet! He suggested that I direct him there when he got closer. Yikes.

We were supposed to meet at 8pm, but he called at 7:30 to say he was running late. Luckily, I’d gone home after work instead of wandering and arriving at the place at 8pm. I told him, “I’m sticking at home until I hear from you.”

He called around 8:30, just as I was wondering if he was going to stand me up. Honestly, I would have been about 3/4 relieved–with the remainder insulted. What can you do?

I went to meet him via bike. It was a deliberate move, designed to ward off a ride home. I know, I know.

So, what went wrong? The guy was good looking, personable and a super nerd. At one point he said, “I just didn’t grok the God thing.” Oh my. (If you don’t grok “grok” you need to read some Heinlein.) Then it came out that he was a regular church goer and that I’m Jewish. I don’t know if that was a problem or not.

We sat and ate and talked for about two hours. We settled up (he paid because he canceled our previous date, I happily accepted) and he said, “I need to walk around.” But as soon as we hit the sidewalk he said, “My car is over this way. Where are you?”

“I’m over there…” I indicated the opposite direction.

He said, “Ok, it was good to finally meet!” He gave me the full hug and walked to his car.

That was that. So, what? Am I disappointed that a guy I didn’t want to spend any more time with didn’t want to spend any more time with me? Am I that vain? No, not really, just surprised. But there was no connection; no need to prolong things. He sure talked a lot, didn’t let me finish my stories…I’m sure he was nervous. And I got quiet. I think if I get quiet on a date it is not a good sign.

Sometimes I meet someone and I’d like to give the guy a chance even though there isn’t instant chemistry because I have a good time. And then there are guys like last night’s date where I’m sure I never want to see the guy again. Even though there is not one single thing wrong with him. I don’t even want to be friends. Oh dear. I feel bad about that.

I don’t regret the date in the least, though. I wanted to meet him and now I have.

Grateful for: waffles.

Drop me a line.

I’ve seen a few movies recently and I keep meaning to write about them. My movie review site is lying fallow…and yet I can’t work up the energy to write full, detailed reviews. Instead, I’ve decided to post short reviews.

One note before I begin, when I saw “Snakes on a Plane” it inspired me and C-money to ponder inventing equally descriptive names for all other films. It’s not as easy as it sounds. Most other films are not as “high-concept” as SoaP and the descriptive titles are rather long and unwieldy. However, that won’t stop me from trying. Thus, at the end of each short review, you’ll see the film’s “SoaP title.” If you think mine are lousy, suggest your own in the comments.

Oh, one more thing. I have a date tonight and I promise to write about it as soon as I have time. Also, I sent Garret a lame email today indicating lukewarm interest (full text: I had a good time the other night. Maybe we could do it again next week? You know where I am most evenings. ). Yes, yes, I suck.

On to the exciting short reviews!!

The Illusionist: pretty, charming, entertaining. Striving for substance, but never achieving it. Ultimately hollow. See it, but don’t expect any deep meaning. It wants to be deep, it just isn’t. Jessica Biel is surprisingly (and pleasantly) more watchable than anything I’ve seen her in before. Ed Norton and Paul Giamatti are pros, as usual. (Aside: why are we asked to believe that Ms. Biel (24) is the same age as Mr. Norton (37) (they are childhood sweethearts in the movie)? No wonder women are afraid to show their age. Men playing late 20’s are actually in their late 30’s, while women playing 30-somethings are invariably younger.)
SoaP title: My magic is real. Or is it?

Invincible: low-key, working class drama. Decent acting, no rah-rah hero worship. Only one unnecessary montage set to sappy music. love interest is actually integral to plot. Needed more character development. Stupid Disney. I still liked it. Didn’t cry as much as I expected. That is to say: not at all. Also, I’ll pretty much watch anything with Marky Mark in it, but is it my imagination or is he looking a little rugged these days? I’m just sayin’…
SoaP title: Bartender plays football

Snakes on a Plane: it delivers. Perfect balance of serious hard-ass attitude from SLJ, matched by complete idiocy of secondary characters and a sense of humor about the subject matter. Some poignant early scenes lead to tragi-comic mass death on an airplane that is beset by the twin horrors of an electrical storm and a cargo hold full of…well, I don’t want to give it away. Not for the squeamish, the violence is cartoon-ish enough not to be terribly offensive and only occasionally shocking. I got one actual scare from this film, which is rare for me, and plenty of good laughs.
SoaP title: duh.

Last, a movie-related item: I often visit The A.V. Club for their movie reviews. Today, I found this entertaining article on Cinematic Reasons to Skip School. It is a list of twelve films with teens as subjects/main characters. To my delight, the first one on the list is Lord Love a Duck, one of the few DVDs I own. I made Pele watch it once and she remarked, “That is one of the oddest films I’ve ever seen. I can see why you like it.”* Um, thanks?

*Misquoted for comic effect.

Grateful for: movie time!

Drop me a line.

Wednesday night, I went out with Garret, he of the internet and rowing.

We decided to do something after practice. Even though this is the third time I’ve gone on a date directly after practice, I’m not crazy about it. I’m sweaty, my hair is a mess and my clothes are nasty. In rowing, you get wet—from sweat, from the river, from splashing. You also get dirty because the dirt on the boat rubs off on you when you carry it. Your legs get greasy from the tracks, which transfer their lubrication to the back of your shorts or your body. Your calves get cut and bruised by the tracks. If you wear long pants, they will have holes at the calf. Your hands blister and callus. Your hands are dirty from the oar handles and carrying the boat. It’s a messy sport.

Since my date was going to look as icky as me, I didn’t worry too much. But still, I like to dress up a tiny bit on a date. When I met David the first time, after practice, I put a skirt on over my rowing shorts. When I met this guy, I actually changed clothes. In both instances, I considered myself barely presentable. I almost said something to Garret about how I usually wear a skirt on a first date but I remembered: low key.

When Garret arrived at practice, he caught my eye and said hello, but didn’t stand next to me. To which I say: good! I was embarrassed. I kept looking away from him. We were joking around with the coaches a little and I noticed that Garret laughed at my jokes. I tried to make some eye contact with him, so as not to be rude.

We were in the same boat, but he was in bow and I was way up in six-seat (yay!) so we had no contact during practice. You know, that’s one more thing to worry about. I’ve been in two-seat a lot recently. What fun if I’m two and he’s bow (one) and he gets to look directly at my ass for an hour? Oy.

Anyway. After we wiped down the boat and took up the oars, folks were chatting a little and slowly leaving the boathouse. I stalled around waiting for Garret so we could leave the at the same time without it being too, too obvious. He was clued in enough to make it not a big deal (but in my smoothness, I forgot my water bottle…can’t win ‘em all). As he headed to the street I said, “I’m on my bike.”

He stopped and walked to the bike with me. “Oh. I can give you a ride…we can put it in my truck.”

I hesitated and said, “Um, sure. Is it a truck? Let’s see if it fits.” His truck wasn’t a truck; it was an SUV and it was full of crap (well-hidden crap). I said, “Why don’t we just meet there? It’s just as fast for me to ride my bike.”

He said, “Ok. Can we go somewhere not so loud? And…” He plucked at his t-shirt, “…not too….”

I laughed, because I looked far worse, but at least I wasn’t the only one self-conscious about my inappropriate date attire. I suggested a place and in about five minutes, I met him there.

When he got there, I pointed out that I’d arrived first and he seemed a little surprised, “You did! Huh.” I think he’s a slow processor.

I said, “I can always park right in front.” He smiled.

Dinner and the conversation went well, except that I couldn’t shut up. We talked a lot about rowing. I learned a little bit about him. He asked questions and laughed at my stories (when appropriate). He was humble and interested in what I had to say. He’s cute and likeable. In fact, I like him. But the situation is so awkward. Why couldn’t I just have met him at rowing? Dammit.

We were at dinner a good long time, partially because the service was slow, but also because the conversation was easy. When the bill came we split it down the middle, which seemed appropriate given the circumstances. I figured he wanted to keep things friendly.

We left and he waited while I unlocked my bike. We strolled together to his car, as he was parked on my route home.

When we got to his car, we talked a little bit about how odd it was to meet each other at practice. I said, “You didn’t know it was me on the dock, did you?”

“Oh no! It wasn’t until later that I started to wonder…” We laughed.

Then I said, “See you at rowing!” I could swear, his face dropped.

He said, “Uh, ok.” And then he reached in for a little half hug. I laughed nervously. He told me to ride safe and I peddled away.

Today, I was thinking about it, and I realized that I gave him the impression that I’m not interested. Well, I’m not sure if I’m interested. I’d like to get a chance to like him. It’s difficult under these circumstances. I mean, if he asked me out again, I would say yes. But I’m pretty sure that I need to do the asking since I gave him the brush with my “see you around” attitude.

I don’t know if I’m up for this, but maybe I’ll suggest that we do something after rowing next week. That could be fun. Keep it casual, go slow and see if anything develops.

No dating ‘06 is about to commence. Right after my Friday night date…

Grateful for: no angst.

Drop me a line.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about Al, my Marine, because of David. I’ve told the short version of the Al story twice in the last week. When accused of being picky, I used to say, “Hey, I dated a Marine!” To be fair, he was in the reserves, but you’d think he was active duty the way he talked about it.

What can I say about Al? I’ve written about him, in story form and in journal form, more than once. It used to be too painful to tell the story. Now, sometimes, I tell the whole thing from start to finish. I suppose most of my closest friends have heard it. But it’s long, detailed and exhausting.

Our romance was ill-fated from day one. We were an odd couple—his friends were shocked that someone like me would date someone like Al. Why? Class differences perhaps? If so, I didn’t perceive them. Mostly, I perceived that Al was an asshole. I got that pretty quick—but that’s never stopped me before. He was also a joker, larger-than-life and charismatic—which are qualities I find desirable, though not essential, in boyfriends.

I actually wrote a vignette about Al on this here blog. Here’s the relevant portion:

When I was 19, a guy I was seeing told a story where he mentioned a girl’s weight, “She was 1XX pounds, so you know it was a tight squeeze in that car.” 1XX was how much I weighed.

“Do you think that’s a lot?”

He looked at me and said, “Is that how much you weigh?”

“Well, almost. Close enough. ” I said. There was a long pause. “What do you think about how I look?”

He said, “You have a very pretty face.”

Who knew that telling someone she has a very pretty face could be quite so insulting. I wish I’d broken up with him then. Live and learn.

Hmm…you’d think that story is why Al is on my mind, but it’s not. (Al certainly never gave me a lecture about diet and exercise. He was not so slender himself.) The reason Al comes to mind is that he is probably the guy about whom I harbor the most regrets. (You’d think that would be Tom…but it’s not! I’m just full of surprises.)

The way things ended with Al crushed me. It took almost a year to recover. I was so down about it that when I managed to drag myself out of the house and a guy would talk to me I’d say, “I had a bad experience.” Actually, that’s what I feel like saying now. I want to tell people about David. I want to say, “I had a bad experience.” It’s like a fucking grey cloud of doom.

But the bad experience was the only way I ever managed to put things with Al to rest. The “bad experience” happened when Al and I were 22. I’d known him since I was 19. We didn’t spend much time together over those three years (perhaps a couple of months total? Perhaps less?), but every time we did was memorable.

I know I shouldn’t regret what happened. I should be GLAD that I finally recognized that any involvement with Al would cause me misery and heartache. That I had to cut him completely out of my life. I did that…but I feel like it’s taken until now to see how important it was for me to have that bad experience with Al. At least I knew the answer: it would never work. And even though we didn’t have closure, I did learn my lesson. No more Al.

I’m afraid I also took that lesson to be “no more risks.” I’m trying to unlearn that one.

When I take those risks and things don’t work out? It’s ok. I’m not a bad person.

One of the hardest things for me to risk is acting the fool. It is the one thing I’ve never gotten used to. Forget having my heart broken—sure, I’m not happy about that, but I’ll recover. But acting stupid? Losing someone’s respect? Having my pride injured? I can’t take it. It kills me. I takes me forever to recover.

Why was I devastated the second time things didn’t work out with Al? Because it ended exactly the way the first time ended—and I was furious with myself for making the same mistake twice. I felt the fool. (The first two times were when I was 19, within months of each other.)

The last time I was involved with Al, I didn’t fool myself. Each time we’d tried to date, Al disappeared. Poof. No call, no word, no nothing. It happened twice and I thought I was done with him for good. The last time, there was no pretense at dating—I ran into him by chance, he took me to a party, drove me home and I invited him in. We spent the night kissing and he didn’t even take his shirt off. I didn’t think he would go poof again, since all I wanted was an invite to his New Year’s Eve party, not his eternal devotion. I managed to pry the invitation from him, but he ignored me at the party and I was pissed. I didn’t hear from him again.

A month later, I was told that Al had been sent to Iraq. I was shocked. Dazed. I found out how to contact him and started writing him a letter the same day. He was gone for three months and I sent him six or seven letters. He wrote back and I still have his letters—all six of them, poorly written and impersonal though they may be. The day he got back, he knocked on my door at 2am. I was happy to see him, but not as happy as I thought I’d be. Perhaps because I knew what to expect? That night, I said to him, “What happens when you need to leave?”

He said, “I’ll handle it. I won’t leave. It’s my problem.”

“But…when you need to leave, just tell me.”

“I won’t leave.”

“Yes. But when you need to leave, it’s ok. Just let me know. I need you to let me know.”

We saw each other one time after that. And then…poof.

I never heard from him again. I was destroyed. My friends thought I was crazy. Even I thought I was a little crazy. I knew I was overreacting, but I couldn’t help myself. I felt so low, so discouraged. I felt used, taken advantage of. In all those years, we’d never slept together. But after he got back, we did. I was like I’d had a one night stand against my will. I was ashamed. It wasn’t what I wanted.

I had a long talk with a stranger soon afterwards, a young guy who I never met again, and I told him the whole story. He said, “But didn’t you want to be with him?”

“Yes, I did. But now I feel terrible.”

“But you shouldn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His words helped but I couldn’t shake that terrible feeling. I would go out and I couldn’t be cheerful. I decided that if going out made me more unhappy than staying home, I would stay home. Of course, I did start going out again and not quite a year after the last time I saw Al, I met Joe (my best boyfriend ever).

But why? Why should I regret it? I did what I wanted to do. I had write to him, see him when he got back, hope that whatever it was we had would finally get a chance. I couldn’t not hope, even though I knew, I knew, it would never happen. I wanted to be with Al. I realized that it was doomed. I accepted that and I moved on. There is nothing to regret.

What I hope to do, how I hope to live, is to stop restraining myself from pursuing what I want because it won’t be good for me. Nothing I want is good for me. At least I can try and enjoy what I want. As long as I’m not hurting anyone (deliberately) or acting maliciously, I don’t see why I shouldn’t try and get what I want.

Then again, you find sometimes, you get what you need.

Grateful for: wanting.

Drop me a line.