Turbulence: The Worcester Diaries

[DISCLAIMER: Sometimes, the majority of the time, when I write, I do it very informally, sitting or sprawling on my bed. My room, as I’m sure many young people in cities across America can sympathize with me here, is abysmally tiny. No—if I were to ever be incarcerated, my bedroom in this apartment will have already trained me for it. I have about 12 by 6 feet of bedroom, complete with funky wall angles that eat up more room, leaving me with about 10 cubic feet of walking space, total, plus extra-long twin bed, desk, bookshelf, and closet. My dresser is in my closet. My desk is a flat space for important things to rest on. My desk’s chair is where my purses, Uggs, slippers, and often-worn lounge clothing live. This leaves my bed to be where I sleep, and sometimes multi-task entertaining, watching movies, eating, doing homework, working, and writing. (If you were wondering, sex falls under “entertaining.” I’m trying to bring some class to this place.)

Because of this, I rarely use my desk. The only time I actually EVER write at my desk is when I’m feeling particularly unproductive, scattered, uninspired, and unprofessional. The Desk whips me into shape. It makes me feel all Carrie Bradshaw because it’s in front of a window. (I believe in good desk karma.)

I am writing this, after it has sat open in Microsoft Word on my desktop for 2 weeks in bits and pieces, at The Desk. I’m sorry it’s taken so long. You have my heart-felt apologies. Now do you see what I’m working with here?]

I’ve been getting naked a lot of different places lately. Two weeks ago, on the 5th, it was in Worcester alongside Minister Brook Road, which from now on will be The Road I Got Naked On The Side Of, and not so much The Road Perfect Lives Off Of. (I’ve always been one to eclipse things that my men do with things that I do. Hence, one of the reasons I’m going to study abroad in Italy at the same college in Florence that Legs did. I want Italy to be nice, and not associated with him anymore, and mine.) This also may be why I, although not someone it really takes a lot of convincing to strip down in the first place, was so blasé about dropping trou right next to the swimming hole on a fairly well-trafficked road. Also, I was feeling a little reckless at that point.

Yesterday, it happened again, on a different road next to a different swimming hole in Worcester that also happens to be another road Perfect lives off of. However, this road was far less trafficked. And Perfect was actually in my town, and not his. Safer. (Granted, and I mean, hello—it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Or anything the people I do swimming with haven’t seen before. If you can’t tell, I was raised in a Naked House.)

July 5th was the first time I saw Perfect since before The Conversation. Alli, Cait and I had gotten bored with Lake Champlain, and were hungering for some river water. Cait offered to take us back to her hometown of Worcester, where the water is cold, the rivers are clear, and the waterfalls are abundant. Also, where Perfect lives. (Cait doesn’t know about Alli and my little adventure. There was some wonderful play-acting from the peanut gallery about being surprised about certain things. Oscars could have been won.) Cait’s been going through a rough patch in life lately, so when she called me the night before our excursion and I couldn’t do anything to help her or figure out what the right things were to say, I grappled for about five minutes with the idea before saying to her, “You know, I’d love to, but I really don’t know what to say to help you. When you went through this before, Perfect was the one who helped you through it. We’re going to be in Worcester tomorrow—do you either want to call him and see if he can meet up with us, or do you want me to text him and let him know what’s up?”

“Are you sure?” Cait asked, always sensitive to the feelings of others, in her own distress.

“Yeah,” I said on an exhale. “We have to see each other sooner or later, and it might as well be tomorrow. You really need him, so I can deal with it.” What I didn’t say was that I knew in my bones that it was the longest since meeting each other that Perfect and I had gone without seeing each other, and I was ready to end that streak. Also, I needed to see him in person to figure out if the weirdness that I was feeling over text and message was for real, or just imagined.

“I’m calling him right now,” Cait told me. “I’ll call you back after to let you know what he thinks and what’s going on tomorrow.”

Five minutes later, my cell rang again. Cait was almost border-line laughing. “He said the same thing you did,” she told me. “It was the whole, ‘I don’t know if she wants to see me, but we have to see each other at some point, and since we’re both your friends and you need us, it might as well be now.’”

Frankly, I wasn’t so surprised. For two people who are so opposite physically (if you want proof other than the written, that picture heading the “Perfection, Or Lack Thereof” post is of Perfect and I. He’s hulking and dark and manly, and I’m small and blonde and feminine. There, at least. He brings out the girl in me;) and in the way we deal with things, Perfect and I are startlingly similar when it comes to the way we approach things about each other. We’ve always been on the same wavelength, from the very beginning. I think that was the magic of the ‘click’.

And so on the 5th, I woke up, had an orgasm, ate fruit salad, did laundry, and worked out so that I would be glowing, toned, clean, and fresh when I saw him. I wore the teeny green bikini that was my mother’s when she was my age, one of my good luck charms. We got to the Mills about twenty minutes before Perfect, and I was sitting on a rock in cut-offs and my bikini when he appeared emerging from the trail down to the river behind me.

What was it like seeing Perfect again for the first time since we called it off? Oh, lord. I said before that it would be a success if I either didn't burst into tears when I saw him or tried to scale him like a very sexy tree. So I guess it was a success as I did neither, but for starters, the Earth dropped approximately two to five feet from beneath me, like it always does. If there is one thing that remains constant with that boy, it’s that every time I see him, it always feels like the earth drops out from beneath me. It leaves me a little short of breath, a little anxious, and more than a little nervous. The rabbits that always gnaw on my stomach lining went into flurried overdrive like they always do about him. With other guys in my past, there were cute, sweet butterflies of nerves. With Perfect, they were replaced by much larger, much more ravenous, much more solid rabbits. Then it became apparent after the initial “hey,” “hey,” “what’s up?” “not much,” that the weirdness was omnipresent and effusive. I realized that a lot of the bravado about being ready to see him again was just that, bravado. Seeing him, actually seeing him, standing there in the afternoon sun in green shorts and a guarded look made me turn unsure and off-balance. There was some shifty eye contact, and some very brief face-searching on both our parts. He looked tense, guarded, and a little bit unsure. I’m not sure what I looked like to him, but I’m pretty sure awkward and trying really hard to keep cool would top the list.

I was nervous; he was shielding. Though I may be adept at keeping most of my feelings and emotions to myself, when it comes to romantic things, I am an open book, hurling my feelings around through the air. I may not ever say the words; I may not ever be the girl who can talk about her emotions or what she wants or needs to whoever she’s with, but if you’re even passably good at picking up vibes, you’ll know how I feel. I’m not talking freaky-deaky paranormal bullshit here, even though I do believe in all that. What I mean is reading good, old-fashioned body-language, noticing small details, and opening yourself up to what feelings another person is projecting. I do believe it’s called “empathy”—you try to feel what the other person is. I am a very empathic person—when it comes to relationship feelings, I can’t wait to pass them off to the next person and try to lighten my load. I think this comes from being single so much, so often, for so long. I’m so used to having to live with myself and try not to hurt my own heart that when I meet someone like Perfect, I can’t rip my own heart out of my chest and hand it over to them fast enough. I tend to trust men to take better care of my own heart than I do. It doesn’t tend to work, as evidenced, but, I keep doing it. Someone once asked me if this is why I “fall in love over and over and over.” But I don’t fall in love over and over and over. To me, I have been in Love once. That’s capital Love, not “oh, I love you too. I love being with you and I love spending time with you. I mean Love as in, “I would move mountains for you, I would have your children, I would die for you, I feel like you complete me and I can’t be without you.” To me, that is Love. Love is not a word that I pass around freely. It seems like a lot more people are willing to just toss it out there. I’m trying to keep the meaning of Love sacred. What I do tend to do, however, is to fall for a guy hard, and fast, with all of my heart and head and soul. I never do anything half-assed.

The one time our eyes actually met for an extended gaze, I was shocked by what I saw there: hurt, and wariness. I wanted to reach up and grab him by the shoulders to shake him while screaming, “I’m not the one who did this! I was willing to hang on! You were the one who jumped ship! All I want is things to be normal; why won’t you be normal? I need you to be normal!”

Thankfully, he brought one of his best friends, John. I’d actually met John for all of about ten seconds previously at U-32’s high school graduation. It was a fly-by introduction—Cait got a hug and a “how are you?” and she pointed Alli and I out to John by our names. I rapidly realized that Perfect’s decision to bring John was a very good one when another ten seconds after he appeared behind Perfect, he looked from Alli to I and went, “Hey! I remember you!”

As normally out-going and effervescent as Perfect normally is, so is John. When it became apparent by his standing apart and lingering minutes standing on the various concrete jumping obstacles that the Mill has to offer suicidal swimmers that Perfect was not going to be his normal out-going self, John stepped up to the plate and jumped in to join Alli and I in the pool of water beneath the falls. He’s an easy conversationalist, instantly likable, and easy on the eyes to boot. (I think the word that comes up most often when I talk to someone about him is “adorable.”) He is someone I would really like to kidnap and stuff in a closet and keep them around for bad days when I need an instant pick-me-up. The kid has a great aura. (Excuse the New Age-ery.)

So what was it like watching Perfect, the first time I’d seen him since we called it off, dive head-first off of things into churning water in apparent suicide attempts? Here I was, watching one of the few guys that I actually deemed worthy of potentially being the father of my children (i.e—I was willing to have sex with him. I felt clarification was needed. I like to protect the few men that hold the chromosomes I would consider meshing with mine. It’s biology, baby. It’s just natural,) jumping off of a concrete bridge 40 feet that sloped out above the churning and rocky water. I may have screamed once, I’ll admit it. Even though he’s been doing this since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, I still got the feeling of “I could watch him die right in front of me.” Waiting for his wet brown head to break the surface felt like one of the longest-held breaths of my life. Both John and Cait also agreed, and they’ve been watching him do this for years. I’m pretty sure the only thing in my head during that time was a desperate repeated mantra of “oh please oh please oh please oh please.”

It’s the waiting for people to surface that always takes the longest.

Growing up fuck-nuts crazy and jumping off of things like the Mills have given Perfect a sort of Superman complex that is completely at odds with his emotional self, which is what really drives me nuts. The cliff-diving, wheelie-popping, discus-throwing, weight-lifting, tree-hauling, adrenaline-freak, while willing to put himself through all sorts of potential physical damage, is so cautious of emotional hurt that he refuses to take chances.

At the beginning of Perfect and I, Alli made the premonition that I would break his heart. I countered with a vehement “no, he’ll break mine.” Neither of us turns out to have been right, but the fact still stands that both parties involved know it’s a possibility. Perfect saw this and made his decision about what to do, which was the right one. I’ll even admit it. He saw possible heartbreak in his future, so he let go now while it was easier. Maybe it’s the masochist in me, but when I looked into that same future and saw that it could fall apart at some point, I thought, “ok, whatever. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I can hurt myself again—I lived through it the first time; I can live through it a second time.” Myself, I’m of the school of thought that feelings should conquer all—if you feel something, you should fight until the end of the earth for it. This is how I live my life—very focused. I see something, I want it, I find a way to get it. Perfect is more of the "things-just-come-to-me-and-I-assess-them-and-make-logical-decisions" way of thinking and living. I think this makes him the wiser one, but I also think this makes me to one who stands to gain more in the end.

But then the strangest thing happened. We were all standing on the sandbar, chatting as John told us about his new girlfriend, who was actually a girl he had previously dated a few times before. Cait asked him how it was going, and he admitted that he really liked her.

“So are you going to keep dating her?” Cait asked.

“Yeah,” John said, a cute and shy grin on his face.

That was promptly wiped off when Perfect, in the most un-Perfect voice I have ever heard come out of his mouth, butted in with a “But only until college.” That was it. Final. Perfect said it, so it was going to happen that way. And that’s when I knew, hearing that voice and those words, that what Cait had said was true—Perfect had gone to Baby Mix for advice, and Baby Mix had nixed me. I got the Kiss of Dating Death from the best friend due to the best friend’s own fucked-up long-distance relationship. Because in Baby Mix’s world, if it didn’t work for him and Cait, it wouldn’t work any better for me and Perfect. That was Baby Mix talking out of Perfect.

Now, I know you’re thinking I’m fucking crazy. I know you’re thinking I’m one of Those Girls who just can’t understand why they’ve been broken up with an grasps for straws and excuses and possibly answers. But you haven’t met Baby Mix. I have. I’ve spent HOURS talking to both Perfect and Cait about him. I spent HOURS of my birthday talking to the man himself, trying to prove to him that I was a good girl for his best friend, whom goes to him for everything and values his opinions and thoughts above all else. (When Baby Mix says “jump,” Perfect asks “how high, and would you also like me to orchestrate some music to go along with it?”) I would know a Baby Mix statement coming out of a complete stranger’s mouth. And the hard truth of the matter is it’s because Baby Mix and I are so alike. We’re both cunning, calculating people who spend more times planning and plotting in our heads than most people ever do. I actually knew, within moments of being introduced to him by a very nervous Perfect, hoping for the best, that Baby Mix and I weren’t going to get along because we are so similar, as you often know with people like you. You generally can’t tolerate them. I see Baby Mix as cold and self-serving, and he probably sees me the same and as his greatest threat to his best friend and their time together. (It also didn’t help that Perfect was staying at Baby Mix’s place during this time and was seeing the hours and hours of texting we were doing, combined with the fact that the next day, Perfect ran away to my apartment and me for over five hours, leaving Baby Mix behind. I’m sure he loved that.)

John, to his immense credit, didn't back all the way down, instead sputtering a little bit and shrugging, giving a “Well…uhhhh…” while Cait looked at Perfect, as horrified as I was, and leaned into John to comfort him with a “Just see what happens—you can always try long-distance.”

Perfect remained stony. In other words, Perfect remained a (not so) miniature Baby Mix. I have never, ever, not even during our dissolution, liked Perfect less.

Between the suicidal diving, brooding and ice-cold water temperature, (guaranteed to give you hypothermia!) Perfect and I managed to maybe say five complete sentences to each other before he decided it was time for him and John to leave. Bereft of our men, Cait and Alli and I decided that was our cue to leave as well. As we all walked back to the car, John kept the conversation going while Perfect toweled down and hopped in his 4Runner. Come to find out when he complimented my Civic, which NEVER gets complimented being the Plain-Jane of the car world, John works at a Honda dealership. When the words “Let me know if you ever need expensive parts and I can get them for you at my discount,” came out of his mouth, I knew he was one of my new Favorite People. John is my white knight in shining Honda armor. Him, I love. He promptly responds to Facebook messages and is optimistic and charming and eager. His best friend, the one who now can be surly and unresponsive and cynical, is the one who drives me crazy.

---

A week after this less-than-stellar encounter, I was over at Cait’s and finally managed to speak up and ask for some help with the whole “what’s going on?” thing. Generally, I tend to try and not exploit Cait and the trust that Perfect puts in her by talking to her about things, because I know that like a five-year-old, unless expressly told not to repeat something, Cait will regurgitate it to the first person who asks. Which, sometimes, works in my favor. I’m sure it works not in my favor a lot of the time when Perfect talks to Cait.

Seated on her kitchen floor, both a little inebriated, I managed to finally say out-loud, “So. Things have been kinda weird between Perfect and I lately. You saw it at the Mills. What’s going on with that?”

Cait, always a beautifully cheap date, looked me dead in the face. “He’s not over you. He’s realized that the feelings that he had for you were a lot stronger than he thought and he still feels them. He’s having a hard time.”

I didn’t know if I wanted to dance on the rooftop or rip the shelving behind me apart by hand.

“He’s not going to get over you if you guys keep texting and talking and seeing each other,” she continued. My first thought was, apparently the “hostage relationship” thing works, to mixed results. My second thought was, keep texting and talking and seeing him and possibly rattle the teeth in his head around until he admits his mistake and fixes it. Or, at least, it’s time to have a civil conversation about “what we both feel.”

“Are you over him?” Cait asked suddenly, looked much more sober than she had a minute ago.

I didn’t answer.

---

The next day, I jubilantly sent Perfect a few casually flirty texts, which he responded to promptly and similarly, talking about when he’d be in town next. (To see Baby Mix, the relationship-ruining fucker. No, really—I can be civil to him in person, and really, I try. He means a lot to Perfect, ergo, he should mean a lot to me, and he does: I value his thoughts on me, and I value his friendship with Perfect. But he’s screwed-over one of my best friends in a long-distance college relationship, and now helped screw me over with some biased statements about long-distance college relationships. There are some hard feelings involved.)

After some continued nice texting and planning, despite Baby Mix and all, I now realized I had the upper-hand, and something that Baby Mix couldn’t control—Perfect’s feelings. I'm feeling like I need to write something like "He's Just Not That Over You." Hello, truth.

---

Yesterday, Alli, Cait, Cait’s boyfriend Justin and I all went back to Worcester to go swimming at another place called the Pots, complete with two deep swimming pools, four waterfalls, and a natural stone water-slide. I like to now call it “Heaven On Earth.” John, who has kept in touch with me since the day at the Mill, was planning on meeting us, but a family dinner came up. Perfect was back in Burlington visiting Baby Mix. So Alli and I scrambled over rocks and trees and pine needles and stones and water, and Cait and Justin cuddled on the rocks. Alli and I, an original native backwoods Vermont Girl, got back to nature, while Cait and Justin got back to basics, otherwise known as first and second base. We had a perfectly lovely time, and Alli and I found the place we were searching for that makes summer feel like summer. We’re planning on heading back this weekend, maybe to meet up with John and/or Perfect.

In the meantime, I’m getting very familiar and comfortable with Worcester and Montpelier. Worcester reminds me very much of Tinmouth, where my best friend lives, and I’d always spent at least half of every year there through high school. I now know where I can get gas or food, where the house with the cool mural is, and what two roads I can take to go swimming or get to Cait’s old house, Perfect’s house, or John’s house. I can now find my own way from swimming to the Dairy Crème with no directions asked. My stomach, sometimes like my vagina, is my compass. And the supreme fact of comfort—I get naked there, which we have decided needs to be a new tradition, even if swimming isn’t involved. (I’m one of those people who can’t stand to stay in a damp bath suit, so I would rather shuck it off on the side of the road and change than marinate in it for the drive home. Mold, people, MOLD.) Especially if Perfect and I get involved again and visiting becomes a common thing, (re: we really need to have that talk about the lingering feelings on both sides,) I foresee some very interesting introductions to people, maybe sans clothing, because I’m that strict with tradition. Thank god I’m not that shy.

So there you have it—the good, the bad, and the naked. A lot has happened in these past few weeks that has either cleared some things up or made others more complicated, but hey—I have the facts, and whatever happens, happens. Sometimes, surprises can be good, like Perfect and I again being mutual with the feelings, and sometimes, they can be bad, like the whole Baby Mix advice debacle. To wrap this beast of a post up, men need to stop surprising us. I know we women always bitch about how we want them to, but really—when they actually start to, it throws us for a loop. Another male friend who was previously given up for a lost soul started being decisive—even doing things like making reservations. Clutch you uterus and hold on for dear life, ladies. The men—they are a-changin’.

XOXO

Girl About Town, Cont.

So, it's a lovely Saturday afternoon. You know-- Saturday afternoons in the summer, when there's tons of stuff to do, places to go, people to see, all sorts of free entertainment in downtown Burlington like art shows and waterfront festivals and free music, and it's finally stopped raining long enough for sunlight to be seen through the puffy white summer clouds. It's the kind of Saturday summer afternoon that makes couples rejoice and single girls believe in romance.

What am I doing while I should be frolicking in sunlight and trying to entice men with my tanned limbs and sun-kissed hair?

I'm going to go see "The Proposal" with Alli. That's right-- I'm going to go sit in a dark theater this afternoon with my roommate, split a large bag of buttery popcorn, and all for the price of a regular ticket because I am so cheap and so broke that I am literally cashing in my hoarded Susan B. Anthony coins my family used to give me on my birthday for gas and groceries. (And, the occasional movie, apparently.)

I have already exhausted all of my summer keep-busy/have-fun hobbies and events. In this past week alone, I have taken myself out for a bubble tea and chocolate reading date at Sapa, went to lunch at the Skinny Pancake and dinner at Asian Bistro in the same day, went with a friend to Yankee Tattoo as she got inked, went for a wander down by the waterfront with Madison, went to North Beach two days in a row with Alli, went to the gym twice (and it closes on the weekends or I'd be there again), spent my Thursday night playing beer pong and meeting new people at Justin's, went for an exploratory drive on 127, had an over 2-hour texting conversation with Perfect yesterday, and tomorrow am going back to Worcester to go swimming at the Pots.

I am running out of ideas to keep myself busy and (relatively) out of trouble, and there could not have been a worse time for this to happen. Why? Because Perfect is in town, less than four miles away. I am removing myself to a movie theater to try and resist the temptation to text or call Perfect and say something like, "So, I'm really, really bored and you're in town, so why don't we meet up because I have this blog that's kind of coming into it's own and unfortunately because of your decision a month ago (exactly today,) I no longer really have a love life, which is something I'd like to discuss with you, and I figure hey! A really awkward but needed "this is how I feel" conversation would really spice things up and give me something to write about you for the rest of the world online to see. Sound like fun?"

Perfect does not know about this blog. Nor does he know, (I think, I assume, I kind of hope,) that I write about him. I figure though, it's a casualty with dating a writer-- you have to assume it will happen. He knows what I do; he's read some of my articles I wrote for "Moss on the Moon." No one has supported this fact better than Stephen Stills of Crosby, Stills and Nash, who once stated: “There are three things men can do with women: love them, suffer for them, or turn them into literature.” I believe the same is true vice-versa the genders.

So instead of making further Bad Life Decisions, I'm going to a rom-com. I'll let you know how it was later.

Being a woman, though, and having a very active imagination paired with a memory like a steel trap for random facts, I remembered right after I signed on for this endeavor that Perfect and Baby Mix (AKA: the Best Friend since knee-high and training pants) usually like to go and catch a flick together on their weekends together. And we happen to share the same theater in common, compliments of living in the same town. (Baby Mix and I, that is.) Instantly, this makes me think about how awkward it would be to run into them in the (very, very slim; in fact, microscopic) chance we all decided to go see a show at the same time. But still, with most things in life, I apply the 50-50 Rule: despite all the chances, it all boils down to a 50% possibility-- they either may be there, or they won't be. I love the 50-50 Rule. It makes almost anything seem possible.

And then, right after the "What If They're There?" daydream comes the "What If They're There And Furtively Holding Hands?" daymare. Now, bromance is nothing to kid about, and no one loves a good bromance quite like I do. I am also the last person who should be ridiculing a close bond between two friends of the same sex, as I myself have been at the receiving end of lesbian rumors because of how close (and possibly, how explicit) Madison and I are together. I also, obviously, have nothing against gay people. However, I HAVE had an ex-boyfriend who ended up being secretly gay (guesses, people?), and I obviously really, really like Perfect, so this is something that would crush me. He and Baby Mix are so close and so secure in their masculinity that they joke around about being gay lovers all the time, but really, if I were to stumble upon the truth in Essex Outlets Cinema, I think I would die right there, on the cartoon move-reel carpet, spilled Nerds, Snow-Caps, crushed popcorn, and all.

Again-- the 50-50 Rule applies here: either they are, or they aren't. I am willing to stake the rest of my meager savings that they aren't, but still, it's something that makes me panic. Right up there with the possibility of being 40 and still single. Because my boyfriends turn out to be gay.

See? I'm such a total woman-- over-active imagination and the ability to turn worrying into a professional, full-contact sport. Now excuse me-- I have a dark and air-conditioned theater to remove myself to, far away from all the happy couples PDA-ing in the parks, and the temptation to either call Perfect or go for "a little drive". Pay no mind to me. In about twenty minutes, I will be replaying the "Sex With Mr. Perfect" movie-reel inside my head, and will be realizing that there is no possible way he is gay, or in love with Baby Mix any other way than really deep and abiding bro-love, like my Bitch-Hitches with Madison and Nora. Because a man who asks you if you like RECEIVING oral and obviously loves loving the snatch I don't think would be capable of the same enthusiasm for dick. Really. (By the way-- best oral of my life. Just needed to get that brag out there. Unfucking believeable. Oh yeah. Totally not gay.)

So enjoy the nice weather for me. And if you see a really massive, attractive guy with shaggy brown hair and a perfect toothy white smile lurking around with another really tall guy with long and wavy blonde hair, probably pulled back in a ponytail, who looks like Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom miraculously copulated on the set of "Pirates of the Caribbean" and holding hands, please-- don't tell me. No, wait, scratch that-- tell me. No, better-- ask them who's the bottom. Morbid curiosity.

XOXO

This Isn't A Hostage Situation, This Is A Relationship.

I have a friend about whom an inside joke is often passed around about. It deals with the fact that while we know and remember well when her relationship with her ex-boyfriend ended (and believe me, I know and remember that night well. I was pulled out of having sex with Legs when his room phone rang and he answered it with a mystified look on his face and handed it over to me, saying “Um, it’s for you,”), and we know that she knows that it ended—there was enough crying and grieving for this fact to be very obvious—but since then, she’s stayed so close and friendly with her ex that it causes us to roll our eyes and say poignantly as she trots down to his room night after night, “She got the memo, but she’s forgotten she ever read it.”

What I’ve decided to try is not that. Oh no. I got the memo that Perfect and I had a conversation about what we were doing and where it was going, and we both agreed that jumping ship now was logical seeing as he’s going away to college for the first time in the fall—dear reader, have I ever mentioned he’s six months younger than I? Well, he is, and deferred a year to boot, which would make him a lowly freshmen and me a lordly (ladyly?) junior—and doesn’t want to start a relationship that he doesn’t know could survive the move, 3 and a half hour drive, and emotional tension of not knowing where your significant other is, who they’re with, or what they’re doing at all times. (I get the feeling he could care less about things like that for the most part. I, unfortunately, live, breathe and survive for these not-so-small details. After being cheated on once (thank you, Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend of six months), I’m very partial to knowing these things, and along with my penchant for jealousy and the fact that Perfect attracts female friends to himself like a walking, talking tower of muscular honey to their lusting, loving, besotted bees, this all seems logical for our non-continuation.)

Logical, I am not. Unfortunately, he is so practical and linear in his thinking that you could probably align your new Ikea bookshelf’s levelness with his thought-process.

What I propose instead is holding this relationship or whatever we have (had?) going hostage. Yes, that’s right—I’m not just going to take this laying down. I’ve heard the phrase, “it takes two people to be in a relationship, but only one to end it,” before, and for the most part, I agree. Our decision was more or less mutual—him more mutual, me less. He was the one that laid down the “I don’t want to start a relationship right now” line. I was the one who tried to compromise by waving the “can we back down to just having sex?” flag. Thankfully, he called my bluff and raised me an “I don’t think we can just do that. I’m past that point in my life.” I settled with his “let’s continue to keep in touch and visit and stay friends.” What I was thinking was, “what do you suppose the land-speed record for getting you back into my bed will be?”

I figure if anyone can hold a relationship hostage, it would be me. I am a master negotiator since childhood (being an only child and spoiled rotten will do that for you). I am used to getting what I set out for and not used to taking “no” as an acceptable answer and see no reason to start now, especially as this is something I genuinely care about. Who should be afraid of a little relationship pain? I am a big girl (actually, I’m rather petite, but you get the point). He is a big boy (literally). I’ve been through the worst—being completely and absolutely deserted by the man I loved after he took what he wanted from me and graduated, moving to Maine and days filled with waiting tables and smoking weed. Perfect was cheated on by the first girl he seriously dated, and left by the first girl he loved for another guy. We’re both no strangers to heartbreak. Which makes me wonder why two strong people should be afraid of something like distance and possible work to get what they both want.

So, I got that memo about the whole “no-more-sex” thing. I also received the one about staying close. And I definitely read, underlined, and took notes on the one where we both agreed on the same things: our mutual “clicking”, enjoying spending time together, and being together. Here’s where I’m ready to negotiate with Mr. Perfect: I will refrain from initiating sexting. I will refrain from wildly ripping the clothing off of his body when I see him, like I have the strongest urge to partly because he’s down-right delicious and partly to prove that the sex we had was not the best I can give, by far (this is the fact of our treaty that probably irks me the most, no lie. He has an idea about how I go about sex that is completely different from the normal, sober and absolutely fabulous way it really is). I will allow a few more days or hours to pass between our texts and messages than I have previously. I will appear to back down, a bit.

BUT.

I am not going to be persuaded into this peace-treaty so easily. I am not going to back down and lay down. My middle name shall no longer be “Doormat”—I will not say “welcome” to all stipulations. I’m going to fight for this. Part of this comes from the fact that although I’ll admit this was the easiest break-up ever, possibly because it wasn’t “I’m just not that into you” but “I’m into you but I don’t know if we can do this without getting more hurt in the long run,” as well as partly being because after going through what Legs put me through anything short of being shot at point-blank range by a lover wouldn’t sway or shock me. Another large part is because of the fact that after more-or-less surviving the horrible relationships and break-ups of my past, I do not blossom to new relationship candidates horribly quickly. Sure, ok, my legs may spring apart like a well-oiled nutcracker, but my secrets and fears and desires and thoughts are slower in coming. (Much slower.) Because of this unfortunate fact and the short time-span Perfect and I spent “together-ish,” he is not aware of the fact that I’m quite possibly the world’s hardest worker inside of a relationship I think is worth it. Or even passably worth it, if the relationships of the past are anything to judge by. I’ve done distance like between his house and my apartment before—although then it was my house and the Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend’s apartment and a half-hour away, not 45 minutes away. I can be that girlfriend that makes other guys sigh and consider trading in theirs for. I travelled to frisbee tournaments and doled out Icy-Hot, Gatorade, and kisses. I stay equal if not more active in the sex-drive groove of things. I road-trip to visit with the best of them because I actually enjoy driving. I accepted custody of dogs on weekends with all the gravity of a divorced mother. I buy condoms and usually go Dutch on dinner. I love and appreciate football and action movies. I played Boyfriend-Catch-And-Fetch-Express to those of which didn’t have cars. I hid weed on my body and in my personal possessions so that it could be sold and distributed more easily. I cook for Guy’s Night—and I cook in the first place. I bake like a fiend. I snuck favorite treats into cars and lockers and gym bags. I swallow, for Christ’s sake. But does Perfect know any of this? No. So guess what? Perfect is going to learn some of this, whether he thinks he is or not.

It’s genius and more than a little sneaky. If done right, Perfect will never even notice that while we had that “what are we doing, where is it going, and how is this going to work out” conversation that ended in a “let’s be friends for now” clause, he’s actually still in exactly the same thing he was in previously. Sure, the invitations to visit won’t be based on my naked body and The Party Shower in my apartment, but there will be invitations to things like clubbing and sailing and beach days and nights, clothing optional for the skinny-dipping man. (I can also think of no better things to tempt a self-professed “love to grind” dancing man back into temptation and my bed than going somewhere dark and hot and sweating it out pressed together on the dance floor. And you better believe I’ve got moves.) And ok, so I won’t be participating in blatant sexting anymore, but I’ve got a vocabulary a mile wide that contains many words with innuendo-filled meanings that a young guy can’t help but notice and think about.

Can you hear my evil chuckle, reader? I live for this sort of thing.

Perfect himself is showing some promise as far as being a happy hostage is concerned. Playing the Perfect Gentleman as always, he called Cait the day after he and I had our conversation to ask her how I was because he didn’t want to contact me before I contacted him first, not wanting to risk upsetting me or pushing in on my reflection time. (Cait, for her part, as much as I love her to pieces, did not really aide in my plans when she told him I was “fine, a strong girl, and going to find something new and exciting.” Not quite the message I would have wanted him to get as I’m not quite “fine” and certainly not looking for something “new and exciting” yet.)

(Attention for an important Side Note: It should be noted that despite the well-meaning but misplaced comment above, Cait is an invaluable source for information on all things Perfect. Being the one who set us up and has been one of his closest friends for the past few years, her knowledge is where I go to for insight into his behavior. The skinny-dipping text message incident that drove me bonkers? “Well, it doesn’t seem like him to say something like that to make you jealous, and he always goes skinny-dipping, so I don’t think it’s a big deal.”

As for the whole distance-relationship thing not working? Cait gave a decisive snort. “He probably talked to Baby Mix about it. He’s the only person Mr. Perfect really talks to about his feelings. Baby Mix probably told him it wouldn’t work and to dump all home baggage before leaving. He probably said, “Look at what happened to me and Cait.”” If you can’t tell, that was one hell of a long-distance break-down and break-up.

And possibly most telling, this gem: “You two clicked. That can’t be denied or taken away. He wouldn’t have slept with you and visited and texted and kept so in touch if he was just leading you on to dump you. That’s not Perfect. But if he’s having feelings that he doesn’t think will work out in the college scheme and get him and you more hurt later, yeah, he’s going to try to do the best by both of you, even if it isn’t what either of you really want right now.” And that I won’t deny—he’s done right by me. I’m the one who’s a sucker for the trying things that probably won’t work. Closet masochist, anyone? Or not so closet…)

These above “feeling” related insights and the instance of the caring enough to check in even if he can’t do it first-hand are the reasons why I’m not ready to give up on this thing yet, even if Perfect thinks he’s helping me and himself out. If he’s got the right feelings now, and I’ve got the right feelings now and we’re in the same place, why not? So, yes, maybe it may not work out. And yes, maybe we will get a little banged up and emotionally dented and hurt in the long run. But you know what? I’m willing to try, and try hard. As a dear friend of mine once said, “We’re big fans of trying real hard.” Another one of my closest friends, Emily, herself the veteran of a two-and-a-half-year relationship still going strong that was a year of distance between Pennsylvania and Vermont, has given me the thumbs up in trying the distance thing. “If you let a relationship happen, and it’s good, who says it can’t make it the distance in college if you’re willing to try?” she says. Perfect’s worth the trying, from the little I’ve learned and felt and seen in our month. And I like to think that if the boy has any sort of feelings like that for me, I’m not one to correct his assumptions and set him straight. He can get on with him and his feelings and his bad self and actually do the leg- and time work to discover if I really am worth it or not. Just trying is a beautiful thing. I’ve learned some of my best lessons in life just trying. I highly suggest it, not just to him, but also to you, too.

Today, when I texted him—the most seemingly cliché text ever: “Hey. How are you?”, four three-letter words that tried for nonchalance while still feeling heavy—for the first time since we talked that fateful night, he responded later within seconds of getting coverage, per usual. (God love Verizon for letting you know the instant when other members have received a text. It’s almost better and certainly less creepy than a personal GPS unit imbedded in your lover. Again with the “knowing where and when” thing and its importance to me.)

“Good, you?” he responded. (Actually, in his text, there was no comma between the two words, but it hurts my writer’s and writing tutor’s eyes to even imagine leaving it that way, let alone typing it. We’ll forgive him, though—he’s dyslexic and not a huge fan for writing or good at it by any means. One imperfection I actually find endearing when it’s not his only choice of punctuation—the exclamation point—unwittingly on his end screaming at me from my cell phone’s screen.)

Due to the late hour—11 PM—and his habit of going to bed at the unreasonable hour of somewhere between 10 and 11 PM that being an early-morning hours night-owl I just can’t fathom, I responded as lightly at first as possible before hitting the real point. “I can’t believe you’re still up, hahaha. I’m ok.”

“Good! Yeah, we were out late.” (I like the assurance of good-feeling to my well-being, and I’m taking the “we” to mean him and his best friend and other half, whom because of his appearance made my roommate remark that he looked like the young offspring of Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp shall henceforth be referred to as “Baby Mix”, whom he is apparently staying with for the weekend. Any further guesstimations on the “we” make my head hurt and stomach clench uncomfortably. Also, they’re very unfounded, where as Baby Mix is well founded as he’s Cait’s dreaded ex and she likes to have Perfect keep her informed as to where Baby Mix is and what’s going on to remain as far away from him as possible. Ah, the tangled webs we college students weave with our high-school romances and continuing friendships.)

Realizing I had nothing more to really say to Perfect, short of “I think we’re making a massive mistake and don’t you know I’m willing to work at this?”, I opted for a Little White Lie. “I’m actually getting ready for bed—I’m trying to get to bed sooner and wake up earlier. And by ‘earlier’ I mean around 9:30. Can I text you back tomorrow? I’m turning in.”

“Sure, that’s fine. Night!” (Again, no comma in actually text, but you better believe it’s legit because of that exclamation mark.)

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I promised. “Goodnight.”

Overall, a nice start to the “we’re going to keep things normal starting with communication” part of our deal and my plan. Basically, I’m mostly disregarding what we agreed on and angling for a relationship to happen anyway (out-of-the-blue to him until the day he wakes up and goes, “Wait…I think…”), and will try to make it work when he goes to college. I’ll keep you posted on how the rest of this hostage situation goes, of course. Until then, good luck with your own “trying” endeavors.

XOXO.