[Dating Papers]

Owen called last night. I’d sent him a series of amusing and then increasingly perturbed text messages. The last one said, “Mad at me?” Yes, I am that crazy.

He said, “Hey, I noticed I’d missed your messages and your call…”

I said, “Yeah, you did.”

“My phone was charging in the other room and on vibrate.”

We chatted for a while and it was good. I need to talk to him more than anything during the week. If we could have a couple of good conversations, I’d happily trade those for a sleepover.

I said, “You know, when I’m sick you should keep the phone closer. What if I needed you to come over here and take care of me?”

“What? Why would you need that?” He said.

“Because I’m sick!”

“You needed me to come over?”

“Well, no. I’m not that sick. But I could have been.”

“You don’t need that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re grown-ups.”

“Are you kidding? You’re kidding right?” I said.

He said. “No. You’re kidding.”

I said, “No. I’m not kidding. That’s the whole point. That’s your job.”

“That’s my job?”

“Yeah. If I’m sick, you have to take care of me.”

“I didn’t…”

“I know you didn’t expect me to come home early on Saturday. But you weren’t sad that I did, right?”

He said, “Boo hoo. No, I was glad you came home.”

“Good. So, what if I were so sick I couldn’t leave the house? You wouldn’t come over?”

“If you were that sick…I’d probably take the day off and stay with you.”

“Well, that’s not…that’s sweet.”

“But, usually, what can you do? I don’t usually take a sick day…I don’t mean you shouldn’t have…”

I said, “No, no…I know what I need to do. But I think it’s just nice to have some one take care of you.”

“But what do they do? Bring you food? Rub your head?”

“Yes. But mostly it’s for the company. If you stay home all day, not talking to anyone, it gets lonely. Maybe you don’t know because you’ve never lived alone. It’s nice to have someone around.”

“It’s good to have someone to drive you to the hospital.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. But that’s not really my point.”

“I know.”

“So that’s my job, huh? If you fire me, what kind of unemployment do I get?”

“Unemployment? You have to give me some time to think about that. I haven’t worked out the metaphor that far.”

“Damn.”

Owen seems to think it’s a sign of immaturity (or weakness?) to ask for help when you’re sick. Or just feeling low. Yet, I’ve noticed that he likes to take care of me–he’s made sure I don’t grab hot pot handles, I don’t get lost, I have enough to eat. He’s cooked for me and generally looked out for me–without me having to ask. My instinct is to comfort those who are sick. I’m rather indulgent of sick boyfriends and I’ve rarely received the same kind of attention in return. I can’t live without it. I do think it’s the whole point of a committed relationship–the care taking, the looking out for each other, and the sex. That’s your boyfriend job: when I’m sick, offer to come over. I’ll tell you if you need to or not.

With Owen, since I cut short my Saturday night to take care of him, I assumed that he would know it was what I wanted. Owen didn’t ask me to come home early on Saturday. In fact, he told me to stay out. He was sincere. I, however, didn’t want to stay out–I was worried about him and I needed to go home and comfort him. Being out when he was sick made me miserable. Would he have felt the same way? Maybe not. But if I asked him to come home and comfort me, would he be willing to do that? I think so.

It’s funny, though, yesterday I wondered if I should tell Owen how important it is to me that he make the offer to help. I’ve had this happen many times in relationships: I was a fantastic caretaker when my boyfriend was sick and then received nothing similar when I was ill. (I’m thinking of occasions when I had a fever and was unable to function or leave the house.) I tried to remember if I ever told those other boyfriends what I wanted. I assumed because I did for them, they would know to do for me. I don’t recall ever having such a conversation with a boyfriend. I realized after talking to Owen that they may simply not have known what I wanted–because I never asked. At least Owen knows. And I know to tell him what I need.

I need him to coddle me a little when I’m sick. It cheers me up and makes me feel better. Just because he doesn’t think it’s necessary–well, that doesn’t matter–he can do it and I’m pretty sure he can do it uncomplainingly. It’s what I need. And I need to be able to do it for him. Maybe he doesn’t need that–but as long as he doesn’t mind, we’re ok.

Perhaps I’ve been making all kinds of wrong assumptions all these years. There is a lot more to talk about than I thought! How interesting.

Grateful for: learning something new.

Drop me a line.

Today is a sick day. I’m home. Well, at this moment, I’m at the coffee shop. The brand new coffee shop that opened a mere block, not even, from my front door. I can see my building from where I’m sitting, it’s that close. Too bad the coffee is for crap. The owners are nice and friendly, though, and persist in giving me free slices of very thin, dry cake, so I will come back.

I have not much to say since I’ve spent the entire day, until now, on the sofa watching tv via the internet and part of an old movie on dvd. I also ate, drank tea and IM’d, briefly, with Pele. Owen sent me an email saying he hoped I was feeling better (yesterday I told him I was getting sick). I responded that I wasn’t better and that I was staying home. Haven’t heard from him since.

Maybe I can complain about Owen? He is not perfect in every way. He did not volunteer to rush over and hold my hand and make me feel better. Isn’t he supposed to know that’s what I want? What kind of boyfriend doesn’t know that? Eh, truth is, I’m not very sick. I’m tired and worn out, but not sniffling, sneezing or coughing. I don’t even have a fever. However, boyfriend does not know that! I could be dying over here…at the coffee shop…with my dry cake and cocoa.

Oh, sigh. I’m giving myself the rest of the day for my pity-party and it’s back to “work” tomorrow.

And I did get the work done yesterday what I needed to get done. I even brought work home, which I did not do. There is a limit, after all.

Grateful for: a break.

Drop me a line.

I’m not feeling well but I dragged myself to work because there is something I must absolutely get done today. Yet, I haven’t actually started work on that task. Instead, I’d rather wallow in my lethargy and dream about going home and climbing in bed. Ah, sweet, warm, cozy bed….

If I can’t actually get any work done, at least I can write for the blog. I wanted to put something up last night, but I was beat. For no good reason since this weekend brought record amounts of sleep–at least since I met Owen. And, yes, that is good news because I did not wake him up or fuss at him at any time regarding sleeping habits and we did spend the night together on Friday and Saturday.

Friday, as I wrote, I had the day off and spent it well. When I got home, I was able to do some relaxing. Then I started dinner. It wasn’t anything fancy, but I went ahead and set the table with pretty linen place mats and candles and I opened a bottle of wine. I tried to pick some appropriate music and I ended up putting on Edith Piaf. Music was playing and the table was set when Owen arrived just before 7pm. He liked the music and took me in his arms for a few impromptu dance steps. It was very sweet and a little embarrassing… and I know that makes no sense because only Miss Tabitha was there to witness us and she already thinks I’m crazy. I had to break free from the dancing to check on dinner, but Owen guided me through a few more steps before we ate…I started to relax and enjoy myself.

We sat down to eat and we were both pleased to be there, together, enjoying a meal. The wine was good too. (Thank you anonymous party guest who brought it as a present who knows how long ago.) I was a little nervous because we hadn’t talked since Wednesday morning and I still felt bad about my behavior. I brought it up over dinner. He had received my email and I apologized again. He nodded and gave me a wry smile and said, “If I’d been more awake, we would have had a real fight.”

I said, “If I’d been more awake, I would never have started that in the first place. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“You know I really need my sleep. I’m grumpy and I snap at people if I don’t sleep enough…so it’s important to me.”

“I know. And I know…I know you were withdrawn, but that it wasn’t because of me. I overreacted. I’d like to say it will never happen again…but at least I know what was going on.”

“It was a really hard week. It was the first time I’ve been at work without [the guy who was fired] and it was really hard.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sure it was tough.” Pause. “So, do you forgive me?”

“Of course.” And he took my hand. I think we’re ok.

After dinner, we watched a movie. It was pretty dumb but we enjoyed it. We went to sleep early.

In the morning, Owen slept while I puttered around getting ready for my regatta (not a big deal–an end of the season scrimmage). He’d decided to go straight home and shower, etc. there. I was ready by 9am and I roused Owen. When it was time to go, I couldn’t find my metrocard. I was riding my bike but I needed to find the card so I wouldn’t go crazy wondering all day where it disappeared to. Owen was very patient, “Where are the pants you wore yesterday?”

“Hanging on the door, but I already checked there.” He checked again anyway. Then it hit me, “Aha!” I’d placed it on top of a pile of papers that I’d moved off the dining room table to prepare for dinner. I’d tucked the pile in a bookshelf. I plucked the card off the pile. “That’s what I get for cleaning up!” We laughed and headed out together.

The regatta was fun. My mixed eight, which was six women and two men, rowed a great race. We were together, kept up a good pace the entire piece, and sprinted our hearts out. It was a great way to end the season. I stuck around for the post-racing barbecue and then I headed home. I tried to nap, somewhat successfully, and then took a shower. Later on, there was a party for the end of the season, near where Owen lives. The plan was to go to his place and hang out before the party, go to the party, then spend the night at Owen’s. Because the party included awards and announcements, I was going to get there first and Owen would come about an hour later.

I got to Owen’s house around 6pm and we snuggled up on the sofa and watched tv. I mentioned that I needed to eat. But he’d already eaten! I said, “What are you, 65? Eating at 5pm.”

“Sorry! I don’t have much food here. I could make you a sandwich…”

“I guess I should have picked something up. I didn’t think about it.”

“Do you want a sandwich?”

“Sure. That would be great. Can I have it on toast?”

“I guess so.” Smart aleck! He made me a sandwich. How sweet was that?

I asked him if he wanted to come to the party earlier and he said, “I thought you said it was going to be boring.”

“It is. But if you want to come with me…”

“Do you want me to come now?”

“It isn’t a test. You can come later, it’s fine.”

“Ok, that’s what I’ll do. When should I get there?”

“Around 9:45 or 10. We should be done with the announcements and all that by then.”

I took off early enough to stop by the store and buy some beer. But I couldn’t find the store so I called Owen and asked him where it was. He helped me get there and I gave him better directions to the party since I found it while wandering aimlessly.

I got to the party a little before 9:00pm and said hello to the handful of people I knew. Because my group rows in the afternoon and everyone else rows in the morning, I haven’t met many folks outside of my circle. It was a good turnout, though, and it seemed like it would be a good time.

Then the awards started. A young woman who rows in the morning is starting to do stand-up comedy and she was the MC. Oh lord, that was a bit of a painful experience listening to her 15 minutes of stand-up before the awards even started. Long evening coming right up.

Around 9:30, I checked my cell phone and found this message from Owen: I just threw up

He hadn’t been feeling great earlier in the evening but we didn’t think he was sick. Guess we were wrong. I found a quiet room and called him. “Are you ok?”

“I don’t feel so great. I’m sorry I can’t make it.”

I said, “Of course you should stay home. I don’t need to stay much longer.”

“No, you stay and have fun. Socialize with your friends.”

“Ok, but…do you need anything?”

“I don’t know…”

“What about some ginger ale?”

“Oh. That sounds good.”

“Crackers?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Ok, I’m bringing you some ginger ale and saltines. I shouldn’t be any later than 11.”

“Don’t rush. I’m fine. I’ll leave the ringer on loud so I’ll hear it when you get here.” (You have to call his cell to get into the building.)

“Ok, please, yes do that. I’ll see you soon.”

I went back to listening to the speeches and tedious comedy bits and I couldn’t stand it. It would have been impossibly rude to leave but I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wanted to go take care of my sick boyfriend! Not that there was much I could do for him but I was very done with the party.

I wasn’t able to make a break for it until 10:00 pm. I said goodbye to my few friends and I almost ran out of there. I picked up the ginger ale and crackers and got back to Owen’s before 10:30. He was a little surprised to see me–but happy too. I poured him some ginger ale but he was so out of it we went to sleep before he could drink it all.

Because of the early bedtime, I was wide awake by 6:30am. I didn’t wake Owen but I was restless. At 7:30, I got up and went to the living room and read for a while. Around 8:30, I poked my head in Owen’s room and he said hello. I got back in bed and we talked and cuddled for a while before getting moving. He seemed fine–much perkier than the night before. We never did figure out what was wrong with him.

We actually went out to breakfast and, because I had the flexcar, I took him and the roommate grocery shopping. I tell you, those are two of the fastest shoppers I’ve ever met. I spent a couple more hours of that miserable, wet Sunday watching football with them and then I got on the metro back to DC to meet my book group. It’s been ages since I made it to book group and it was fun to see those folks. It was a good meeting and I’m glad I read the book.

I was completely exhausted by the time I got home but I couldn’t figure out why. I’d slept fairly well both Friday and Saturday. This morning, I had my answer: I’m getting sick. Boo!

I’m still here at work and I’m still unproductive. I’m going home soon. I wonder if I have a boyfriend who will take care of me. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?

Grateful for: a completely reasonable weekend.

Drop me a line.

Often I feel like I squander my unexpected days off…this one, I didn’t even realize it was a holiday until about a week ago. I’d made a doctor’s appointment for the morning and I decided to keep it. I figured it would be a good way to get me out of the house. I got up ridiculously early and did some light housework. I put away the rest of the summer clothes and put out the winter clothes. I did laundry. I cleared off the dining room table and filed. I balanced the condo accounts.

Then I headed to the doctor. I knew the visit would be easy–I had a blood draw on Wednesday and Kaiser helpfully emailed me the results. I’m in great shape! Perfect cholesterol and good everything else (most of which I didn’t understand). On the way, I stopped for a little pastry at Breadline.

After the doctor, I called Pele we had a nice chat and confirmed lunch plans. I had a few hours to kill and I drank some coffee and finished my book (I actually read the book group book this month!). The Renwick was nearby so I got my art on. I didn’t love the art but I enjoyed watching 15 minutes of a biographical video of the artist, Ruth Duckworth.

I walked from the gallery to meet Pele in Chinatown. I stopped at H&M on the way and bought myself a cheap pair of striped winter gloves and a cute bag that I probably don’t need. Oh well, at least I don’t spend a fortune on my bag obsession. Going into that place really made me feel old, though. I don’t understand how people wear half the clothes in there!

Lunch was tasty (sushi!). Pele and I had a good long talk–we had some catching up to do. After lunch, I hopped on the bus and now I’m home, waiting on a grocery delivery. Later tonight, Owen is coming over and I’m cooking him dinner.

A very good day, indeed.

Grateful for: a day off.

Drop me a line.

Oh boy. What can I tell you? Just when I thought I was happy, comfortable–settled even–I take another detour to crazy land.

I had a nice talk about it with Nancy, who has become my closest confident on all things Owen, and she agreed that I’d been crazy. But she also said, “You handled it like a champ. You contained it, you resolved it and it’s ok now.”

But is it? Maybe. I hope.

Last night, I went out with work friend MB. It was a long-delayed visit to H St. We had a drink and a snack and I happily texted with Owen while we were at the bar. When we left and MB returned a call from her mother, I called Owen. He sounded low and unhappy. All he would say was, “I had a terrible day.” I was so sad! MB and I decided to head to Cap City to meet other friends for election-returns-watching. We waited for the bus and I said, “You know, I might just go home. Are you ok on your own?” MB wasn’t sure, but I gave her directions and she gained confidence.

I jumped off the bus at my house and hopped right on the computer. I’d decided to use the Flexcar to go to Owen’s house. I called him, “Can I come over?”

“Um, sure, if you want to.”

“Do you need anything? What if I bring a beer?”

“That would be great!”

I got there in about twenty minutes. What Owen didn’t realize is that I planned to spend the night. I reserved the car until 9am and planned to get up early and drive home. He said, “Isn’t it too expensive?”

“No, there are ‘free’ hours between midnight and 7am.”

“Really? They don’t charge you at all?”

“Nope. So I’m going to spend the night, if that’s ok.”

“Of course it is.”

He quizzed me a little about why I came over, but other than that, we didn’t do much talking. It was odd that I came over on Tuesday night when I expected to see him on Wednesday for dinner at my house, but there I was. We sat cuddled up on the sofa and watched tv. Around 10:30pm, we went to bed.

Where did things go wrong? Some time in the night, Owen said, “I can’t sleep if you’re touching me.” And I was pissed. I was offended. I moved to my edge of the bed and harrumphed myself back to sleep.

It’s not exactly news that Owen can’t sleep cuddled up. I can’t sleep that way either. It can take a long time to sleep well with a new bed partner and we’re not quite there yet. It doesn’t matter so much on the weekends when we can sleep late, but Owen needs his eight hours. He desperately needs them. I prefer eight hours, but I’m good on seven and if I only get six I can still function. Owen needs his eight hours or he’s a wreck, which I know very well. I also knew that he was feeling low and that I couldn’t expect much from him. I knew it, yet, when I didn’t get whatever it was I thought I needed, I freaked out.

Way too early in the morning (6:30am?), I had to talk to him. He was barely coherent and super annoyed that I wasn’t letting him sleep. I was ready to leave in a huff, but I knew that would be a mistake. As I tried to explain that I felt rejected, I realized that I sounded like a lunatic. It was so wrong. But I felt so bad. I didn’t know what to do.

Owen to got up at 7:30, which ended our “conversation.” I was dressed and went into the living room. Roommate, Barry, was up and excitedly reported the returns to me–most of which I didn’t know, since we’d gone to sleep before the accurate counts came it. Owen overheard and stumbled into the living room to get the details. He looked at me, sadly, and I stood up to give him a hug. He moved back to the bathroom and started to brush his teeth. I stood next to him and said, “Look, can we just pretend that I’m not crazy?”

He gave me the raised eyebrow and nodded.

“Tonight–don’t worry about coming over. You need to get some sleep.”

“Ok.”

“And we’ll do something this weekend…on Friday.”

“Yes, definitely, Friday!”

“But we have to do something at home because I have a regatta on Saturday and I have to get up early.”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“You can come over–I have a movie.” I gave him a big hug and I skedaddled home in traffic and rain.

I felt like a complete lunatic. Talking to Nancy helped. I said, “But what do I do now? I think I have a handle on it, but should I send him an email?”

“Sure, send him a note and make sure he knows you don’t think he did anything wrong. He’s probably just confused with your mixed signals: needy–not needy–needy–not needy.”

“Oh lord, what is wrong with me? Am I trying to wreck things?”

“Maybe, but everything is fine. He’s crazy about you. It’s fine. It will be fine. You handled it.”

“Ok, if you say so.”

I wrote him a nice note (I think) and he didn’t write back. I trust that means nothing–simply that he’s having another lousy day and no response was necessary (it wasn’t).

I will get it together. I am capable of distinguishing a change in his feelings for me from a bad mood after an exhausting day. I sure as hell can’t stand much more of this craziness. It’s too hard, too confusing, too tiring. It must stop.

Grateful for: the end of craziness.

Drop me a line.

I have Owen’s explicit permission to tell this story.

He said, “Are you going to put it on the blog?”

I said, “Are you sure it’s ok for me to write it?”

“It’s so funny! Why wouldn’t you?”

“Um, because it will make you look like a complete goofball.”

He said, “But I AM a complete goofball.”

“Ok, sure, but you do realize that you will eventually meet some of the people reading the blog. Like my brother. Do you want my brother reading this stuff?”

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I do.” Or do I?

Let’s see how this goes. And, B1, Mom and Ilena, if you are reading…well, I don’t know what!

Our plan for Friday was simple. I would go to Owen’s house straight from my happy hour. Owen was going home right after work–he was tired from a long week and wanted to relax. Late in the day, though, he sent me an email saying that a friend of his got fired and they were going for drinks after work. He would keep me updated about the timing. Fine.

When I got off the metro to meet the folks for my happy hour, I had a message from Owen. I called him back and we decided that it would make more sense for him to come to my place because I would get there earlier than he would get home. Fine.

I joined my friends and we had a good time. My phone did not have reception in the bar and I went outside to call Owen around 8pm to see if he knew how much longer he’d be out. He was with his friends in far away Rockville, drinking (drunk, in fact), and didn’t figure on leaving for at least an hour. I said that I would probably not get home until after 9pm either. Fine.

I rejoined my friends and continued to eat and drink (moderately). We left around 8:45 and I when I got home I sent Owen a text, letting him know I’d arrived. Up to then, I still thought I would see him that night. But when I hadn’t heard from him by 10pm, I started to have my doubts. I called him and he was very drunk and still in Rockville. I asked when he planned on leaving. Soon, he said. He put me on the phone with his friend, Stan (not the one who was fired), and we talked for a few minutes. When Owen got back on the line, I was annoyed, “Look, I’m sorry your friend got fired, but you have to make a choice. I deserve some consideration too!” Owen said, “But my friend was fired! Oh, I miss you!” I was exasperated, “You know, I think you should just go home. Just forget it.” And I hung up.

As you may know, It’s very unsatisfying to hang up on someone via cell phone. In this case, Owen called back about five minutes later and didn’t seem to notice that I’d hung up. I could hear Stan shout in the background, “Dude, did she hang up? Did she totally hang up? Ask her, man, ask her!” But Owen didn’t ask me. Instead he said he was leaving soon and he’d get to my place by 11:30pm. I wasn’t thrilled but I said it was fine. Fine.

I stayed in the living room, watching tv, covered with a blanket. I wanted nothing more than to get into the bed and under the down comforter, but I was afraid that I wouldn’t hear the doorbell if I went to my room. I fell asleep for a while and I woke up around 11:15pm. I had a strong feeling Owen would not be coming over. At 11:30pm, he called. His words were slurred and his voice was deep, “I’m in Rosslyn…I’m in Rosslyn.” I was puzzled. What in the world was he doing in Rosslyn? It’s not on the way to his place or mine. He sounded terrible. I pictured him roaming around the metro system, lost, passing out, getting sick–who knows what. I said, “Is your friend there? Let me talk to your friend.” Stan came on the line and I said, “Where are you?”

He said, “We’re near the Shady Grove metro.” They had never left the original bar.

I said, “I don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t have a car, I can’t come pick you up.”

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to do.”

“I don’t want you to put him on the train alone. He can’t go home alone. There’s no way he can make it to my place. You have to stay with him. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take him to my house and he can sleep on the couch.”

“Good. Yes. Take him to your house. Thank you.”

I talked to Owen again, “Look, Stan is taking you home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He said, “Ok baby, you know I love you right?”

I said, “Yes, yes, I know. It’s ok. Go get some sleep.” I hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. It was Owen, sounding less drunk, “I’m at Stan’s house now. I’m on the sofa.”

“That’s good.”

“I really wanted to see you tonight and do the couple thing.”

“The couple thing?”

Owen explained, “You know, the couple thing, where we fall asleep together and I have my arms around you and hold you.”

“But you don’t like to fall asleep like that.” I said.

“Well, ok, but we could do that until I fell asleep. I really wanted to do that.”

“I know, baby, I did too. We’ll have lots of chances to do that.”

“We will? We will. You know I love you, right? I really do. I really care about you.”

“I care about you too.”

“I love you baby.”

“Ok.”

“Are you still scared?”

“No, I’m not scared, I’m just not as drunk as you are.” I laughed. “And I’m kind of pissed.”

“Oh, ok. Don’t be angry. I love you.”

“Yes. Ok. Why don’t you get some sleep and I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

We hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. It was Owen. We had another short conversation where he told me where he was and that he loved me. “I love you. You know I love you, right?”

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. Guess who? I was having a hard time not laughing through Owen’s further declarations of love.

After that, I turned off my phone. I did not sleep particularly well but I was also not terribly upset. First, I was angry. Then I was worried. Finally, I was amused. Luckily, amusement won the day.

I don’t want to be the woman who is a shrew because her man doesn’t come home when he said he would. Ideally, he would have canceled when he decided to go out with his friends–but he still wanted to see me and didn’t anticipate going overboard with the drinking. The circumstances were exceptional–it’s not every day someone gets fired–and Owen kept me in the loop so I never felt ignored. I don’t want to excuse his behavior and he needs to cut back on the drinking (he agrees)–but the four “I love you” calls at fifteen minute intervals made it impossible to be upset.

Some context: Owen has said “I love you” to me before. He was drunk the first time he said it, but not the second time. I told him I wasn’t ready to say it. I explained it further when I saw him on Saturday, “It’s not that I don’t feel it, it’s just that I want to know that the feeling is going to stick around before I say it.” (It’s been two months, people. We all know two months is nothing. It’s fun–and hopefully it will last–but who knows?)

He said, “I say it when I feel it. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. But…but…this is why I wait. When you say it…when anyone says it…it sets up expectations. Expectations that I might not have otherwise, about the future, about what will happen with us. So if we break up in a couple of months, I’ll be even more disappointed if I’d said it and didn’t feel it anymore. I’d feel like even more of a relationship failure than I already am.”

“Poopy.”

“Goddammit! I’m trying to say something important here, could you be serious for a MINUTE?”

“Oh, fine. I’m serious sometimes.”

“Sure you are. But does any of that make sense?”

“Of course it does, but I still don’t feel bad about dropping the L-bomb.”

“The ‘L-bomb’? Are you kidding? That really is a generation gap.”

“Heh. I guess it is.”

We did the couple thing a lot on Saturday and I amazed myself by not being angry or upset or frustrated or anything bad. I just didn’t have those feelings. I was very happy to see him and we had a great time hanging out–first with some of my friends and later on our own. We went back to his place Saturday evening and watched a movie. I fell asleep on the couch (in his arms) and he had to wake me up to move me to the bedroom. “Get up! It’s time to go to sleep!” I left early-ish on Sunday to go to do a fundraising thing with the rowing club.

I’m so damn happy when we’re together, I can’t believe my good luck.

Grateful for: my goofball.

Drop me a line.

Remember how lots of you told me to get Owen’s email address? I knew it made sense, but I never did anything about it. I wasn’t sure that I preferred email communication over other methods. Actually, I have a preference for the phone, then email, then text message. Owen’s first preference seems to be text, but it’s too temperamental and very limited in the amount of information that can actually be communicated.

So, on Wednesday, Owen sent me a text asking for my email address. I sent it to him. A while later, he forwarded me an invitation to a party (a party to which he’d already invited me). He’d already given me most of the party details, so I’m not exactly sure why he sent it, but I liked the thought. Perhaps he wanted to make it 100% clear that I was invited. I wrote him back about a couple of unrelated things and he did not reply–but that did not bother me.

On Thursday, he sent me another email–a forward of a funny mp3 with no additional message. I responded with “ha ha ha” and that was it. No big deal, but nice to know he was thinking about me.

Friday rolls around and, while I know we have some plans on Saturday, I have no sense at all about how the weekend will shape up. I don’t like to get into this easy pattern of assuming I’ll spend the whole weekend with Owen. What if he has other plans and I’m not included? (Did you just hear yourself? Craaaazy.) More importantly: what if I stop making plans with my friends based on that idea and I never see them again? Bad, very bad!

Then, around 11am, I get an email from Owen: what are you doing tonight? Was I pleased! I do have plans for a happy hour tonight and I invited him. We correspond back and forth a few times in order to pin down the details for this evening and it was completely painless. This email thing is working out well. Who knew?

Everyone except me, apparently.

Grateful for: email.

Drop me a line.

When I was growing up, both of my parents worked full-time, which meant that until I was 11 or so, I went to some kind of day care after school. I was fine to be home alone for a few hours by age nine, but I would get bored, so when I was in the fifth grade, my dad found an after school program for me at the downtown YMCA in Knoxville. I only remember three kids from the program: Kathy, John and Brian, John’s little brother. I also remember the counselor–he was a bearded, gruff man who didn’t seem suited for his job. We all liked him a lot and he treated us like little adults and didn’t monitor our behavior very closely.We used all the facilities at the Y, which meant we swam and did some rudimentary gymnastics. We also went on a few field trips to Tyson’s park and took at least one illicit and very short ride on our counselor’s motorcycle.

When I arrived on the scene, all the other kids had been coming to the program for a while–at least long enough that their relationships were already established. In particular, John and Kathy were a couple. The problem was, as soon as John and I met, we fell for each other. I didn’t do anything about it. He had a girlfriend and he was younger than me. I was in the fifth grade and he was only in the third grade.

Kathy knew what was going on and she was not pleased with either of us. I felt bad about the whole thing. John wanted to hold my hand, but I wouldn’t let him, because of Kathy. We saw each other every day, but not for very long, so our time was precious, and Kathy was always there. One day, Kathy pulled me aside and said, “I know you didn’t mean for this to happen so it’s ok. I’m not angry. I know you like John a lot and you couldn’t help it. We can all be friends.” That let us come out in the open and we were able to hold hands, at least when the counselor wasn’t looking, though I’m sure he knew very well what was going on. We took this all very seriously and I remember how it felt: very serious.

The first time we kissed was at Tyson’s park, which contained some lovely, complicated play structures. We sat, cross-legged on the ground in a hidden enclosed space, looking into each other’s eyes. John said, “You’re beautiful.” I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t really believe him. I blushed. He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. We heard the counselor calling and we ran to the van that would take us back to the Y.

John wanted me to tell him I loved him. I couldn’t say it. We had swimming lessons and John and I were alone for a moment in our “class” room after everyone else went to the locker room. He said, “I love you.” I was silent. He asked, “Can you say it?” I stood there in the dark, the lights turned before we left the room. He walked to the door and I stood by the wall, my mouth open, but without words. I whispered, “I love you” but I don’t know if he heard me. I didn’t know it would be so hard to say.

Once, later, my dad took me to John’s house for what I think we would now call a “play-date.” I don’t think our parents knew that we were boyfriend-girlfriend. The little brother hung around for most of the day. But we had a few minutes alone in John’s room. He said, “You’re my main girlfriend.”

I said, “Really. You have other girlfriends.”

John said, “A couple, but you’re my main girlfriend.”

“You don’t have any other girlfriends. I’m your only girlfriend.”

“No…I mean…”

“Well, you’re my main boyfriend then.”

It’s funny how early we start to play these games. First, I felt hurt, then bemused. Because it was John and me and neither of us was interested in anyone else. We couldn’t be.

At the end of that year, I was moving to DC and we were both very said. Even so, there was no talk of writing or otherwise staying in touch. He wrote me a note in my autograph book that said, “I love you, I will miss you.” I still have that note.

I stayed in touch with my best friend Carla for several years after moving and she passed some messages and at least one letter along to John (they ended up attending the same school the year after I moved). But that was it. I never saw him or talked to him again. That memory does make me a little sad. What was he, two years younger? Three? Meaningless now. I wonder if that kind of attraction lasts. If I saw him again, would I recognize him? Would I still feel the same pull?

The last time I wrote about a grade-school boyfriend, someone asked if I would want to find out what happened to him. My answer was no. If you asked that about John, the answer is easy and different. The first time I was on my own back in Knoxville–it was during grad school and I was there for a regatta–I looked up John’s name in the phone book. I wasn’t sure if it was him, since he was a “junior” and I didn’t call. Almost, but I didn’t. Maybe I should have.

Grateful for: knowing the value of those words.

Drop me a line.

When I told Owen I had Night of the Living Dead on DVD, he suggested that we watch it at his house on Halloween night. He invited a couple of (female) friends to join us. He informed me later, “The whole thing was kind of a test.”

I said, “Oh great, another goddamn test! Just what I need.”

“Yeah!” He laughed. “This one was good because I’ve talked quite a bit about you to Lucy but hardly at all to Mary. So it will be interesting to see what they think.”

“Well, I liked them. They seemed nice. I mean, why wouldn’t they like me?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see what they have to say.”

“Do you really think they’d say mean things about me? They don’t seem like the types.”

“Oh, but they are. They totally are.”

“Really. Well maybe you don’t need to tell me what they say. Unless it’s good.”

Of course, it’s not like I don’t care what my friends think about Owen, but I assume they will like him because I like him and and because he is likable. I figure the same will be true with his friends. So far, I’ve gotten along with all of them–but, until last night, I’d only met the guys.

I said, “You know, I knew it was a test. You already told me.”

“I did? When?”

“It was a couple of weeks ago and we were out at the bar. You said, ‘The real test is when you meet my female friends.’ And then you invited me home for Christmas.”

“I said that? Oh.”

But it’s not like I wouldn’t have been on my best behavior anyway. Not only do I want to make a good impression on his friends but I don’t want to embarrass him. Owen should be commended for his good taste in choosing me as a girlfriend–and I wouldn’t want to do anything to screw that up! Damn straight.

Last night was also our first mid-week sleepover. It went rather well. It was a friendly, social evening, due to the movie-watching event. Owen had pizza and beer for us to eat and was a good host. I brought Halloween candy. Amusingly, when we put the movie in, Owen and I were sitting on opposite sides of the room–we each blamed the other for sitting so far away. He said: I couldn’t sit on the couch with you and Mary! I thought, “Why not?” I resolved that awkwardness by getting myself some water halfway through the movie and relocating next to Owen. We proceeded to hold hands, lean on each other and generally engage in all kinds of quiet cuteness (no kissing!) that I find terribly annoying to be around. Oh well. Hope the other guest didn’t hate me.

After we were on our own, he ran down the morning shower schedule for me–which seemed to leave very little room for me to take a shower. Well, I could take a leisurely shower if I planned to leave after Owen and Barry (the roommate). I grumped about that in the morning, but I managed to squeeze in a quick shower and also leave at the same time as the guys. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t comfortable hanging around the house on my own. Getting out with them also got me to work at 8:30, a more than reasonable arrival time.

Also, I was mildly grumpy for much of the evening. It was almost like the grumpiness from the weekend carried over to Tuesday. So frustrating. Owen was a good host and fun to be around, as usual. Yet, I felt slightly off–like he wasn’t paying enough attention to me? Nah, that wasn’t it. Like, he should have been doing something different…but even in the moment I could see that I needed to be doing something different–but what? Maybe something like relaxing and enjoying myself and not worrying so goddamn much about nothing? Yeah. That might help.

Grateful for: a good night.

Drop me a line.