Have you ever noticed that sometimes taking a step forward makes you feel as though you’ve taken a step backward? Or three? Or like you’ve grabbed your skirt and run away screaming and flailing?
I’m screaming and flailing.
I spent Saturday evening with Ryan. Things have progressed (slowly, as always), but still, it was a good week. We texted when I got back from Indiana–nearly every day. Lunched together on Thursday. And he remembered to tell me about Joan’s Summer Solstice party (she–in her devilishly sneaky way–had already invited us in person but sent the formal invite via mail for BOTH of us to Ryan alone). He gave me the details, and when I asked if he was going, he hedged for a moment, and then said he was. Great, I said, as we parted at lunch–your job is to pick me up. He smiled and agreed.
On Sat, I texted for details, which he had already emailed me. We fixed a time. And he showed up, looking delicious and casual (love that!) in shorts and a great shirt. And flip-flops. Oh! To be done of AJ! That was oh-so-perfect.
The first moment was awkward (as is always the case), but by the time we were on the road, all was well. There was another half-hour of awkwardness at Joan’s house, as we arrived (first) and had to get used to other people seeing us together. Ryan, who is a delightful conversationalist, is also standoffish (which I’ve mentioned before …), so though he COULD be great in crowds, he generally chooses not to be. He’s quiet. And he was. We eventually slipped away into Joan’s house for a self-guided tour (he LOVES facilities, after all), which was lovely. We snooped into rooms and closets and storage. After that, we loaded up on food and sat down to eat. And then we started to talk. That is, talk for REAL. And that was that. Constraint disappeared. The other 40 people in the yard disappeared. Everything disappeared.
They eventually forced us over to the lawn for the program. It began with Piper doing an interpretive dance (she does one every year), and I can’t deny that it was hard to watch her. Hard, not because it was bad–Piper is a beautiful red-headed child of about 7 years–but because the shameless, un-self-conscious enthusiasm of childhood embarasses my adult constraint and uber-self-awareness. I sat there, forcing myself to watch, and wondering whatever happened to the childlike courage I used to have–to try anything. Do anything. And not care about who was watching. And I was preternaturally aware of Ryan next to me–I could almost feel the heat of his body radiating out to my shoulder, though our arms were not close.
As the evening progressed with various and sundry people reading poems, singing songs, playing music, I watched Ryan. I watched when Delilah (the dog) came to his foot, and he petted her with abandon. Strange to see that. She adored him, and I watched his egregiously long lashes brush his own cheek as he looked down at her (what is it with men getting such long lashes and women not??). I watched his broad hands, and sensitive fingers. I watched the muscles in his shoulder under his shirt. I watched his brow furrow, and I watched his face. And I wished I was Delilah right then.
When he realized what Joan had wanted in asking us to bring a “celebration” to share, he lamented not bringing his favorite poem. I urged him to ask Morgan to use the Internet and look it up, which he did. But he couldn’t find a good copy of it. I, on the other hand, had written a short essay. But was too chicken to read it. We sat on the back row, leaning carefully into each other, watching everyone else and not sharing.
Ryan checked his watch multiple times.
I told him earlier in the day that if they started chanting or made us do Yoga, we’d slip out the back. He took me seriously. I knew he didn’t want to be there. He felt constrained to come. He moved a BBQ earlier into the day in order to make it.
But he was there, and I was there, and why would I let that chance pass me by?
One blond sang a song I knew from my childhood–I sang along with the chorus. Ryan was amazed I knew the song, and I was amazed I could sing with abandon next to him. Morgan handed out family instruments, and we sang the chorus to a song he performed. I shook the maracas, and Ryan played the tambourine. He didn’t sing. He didn’t sing. I believe he suffers from the same thing AJ does–if he can’t do something perfectly, he won’t do it. But he shook that tambourine, and we both laughed.
The program ended a smidgen before 9:30. There we were, in the backyard, on the grass–he hates bugs, he doesn’t like groups of people, he doesn’t even love grass. He had things to do at home. I thought he’d get up and leave.
That was 9:30. At 11:00, Morgan flipped the lights off in a not-so-subtle hint to send the remaining guests on their way. We sat still and talked until the lights came back on. Morgan turned them off again. We took the hint. We got up and gathered our stuff and said our thanks to Joan & Jim. And then he walked me to the car, opened the door, and we went home.
In my driveway, we talked some more. It was 11:30 when I walked through my door.
Walked, that is. Didn’t float.
Nope, I didn’t float, despite nearly 5 hours with the man I adore. Despite the sheer joy of having sat in the backyard, leaning into him and playing with the tambourine on his lap while we talked about anything and everything. My last failed relationship. His last failed relationship. What he wants in a woman, what makes him tick. Hopes, dreams, fears. Both of us lamented, out loud, the fact that we were revealing far too much about ourselves.
And on Sunday, it showed.
I think we freaked ourselves out. How ridiculous is that? He didn’t freak ME out, and I don’t think I freaked HIM out. But we freaked ourselves out. It’s hard to make yourself vulnerable. And we did it.
Ohhh. It felt good at the time. It felt good to be casual with him. It felt good to sit in the dark and watch the light fall on his face. It felt good to see him smile and laugh and talk freely. It felt good to talk to the real Ryan. It felt good to know that everyone in that yard knew better than to talk to us–they might as well have been trees for the attention we paid them. It felt good to know he was opting to stay and talk instead of leave.
And the things I learned. And to finally start to feel like I was part of his life.
Why then the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I went to bed? What was that?
I’m scared. I’m scared of him. I’m scared because the more you get to know a person, the more you see how they are independent. You have no control over another person. And when they stretch from the 2-dimensional caricature of them you’ve created in your head, into the real 3D version that they are–together with their feelings, their fears, their desires, their needs–they are scary. They become as real as you are.
I don’t know what is going on in his head. No one else knows either. I can’t turn to Shan, or any of my other friends for reassurances anymore (not that I didn’t try–sorry bout that, Shan!). He’s his own person, and I see now that he’s the only source for information about HIM. It doesn’t matter if other people think he likes me. It doesn’t matter if other people think we have chemistry. It doesn’t matter if other people think we’d be a good match. There is no more comfort in what other people think. It only matters what he thinks and what I think. It’s no longer a group effort–it’s just us.
He’s a real, live person. And he is carrying around my tender heart in his hand. I don’t think he even knows it. I know I’ve gone through this process in the past with other men. But either my memory fails me, or this careful peeling back of the onion-skin layers of me and him is different this time. I don’t recall ever feeling as exposed and scared as I do right now. I don’t recall feeling so aware of him as a person–a thinking, feeling, rational, irrational, fearful, bold, tired, lonely, smarter-than-me person.
I don’t even know what to do with myself. I’m not panicky. I’m not giving up.
But I’m reticent. I’m afraid. I’m wary. I’m exposed.
On Sunday, he watched me from the stand at Music & the Spoken Word. He smiled at me. But he didn’t talk much by text. He didn’t come down afterwards. At church, he didn’t sit with me. He DID come to class, and volunteered to read, but he probably read my reaction to him improperly. That is, I don’t react to him when I’m teaching. I can’t. I have to pretend he’s not there. I have to blur my eyes and not look directly at him. He makes my heart leap inside me–if I paid attention to him, I couldn’t teach. I couldn’t talk.
He left after class–told me I did a good job, but didn’t linger.
I sat with him at Ward Prayer, and we talked. I needed that. I couldn’t stand to sit through Relief Society. I was so afraid that he had pulled back completely. That he wanted nothing of me. But those 10 minutes in the chapel were delicious. We were comfortable. We laughed, we talked. We were fine. And then he had to home teach, and that was all I got.
Sunday night, I texted him. No response NECESSARY, and no response was given. But still. Is he getting used to having me around? Or is he getting SICK of having me around? Am I comfortable with either?
If I’m this much of a basket case, how much is HE suffering? IS he suffering?
I want to still have hope. I really do. But it’s hard after exposing yourself that much. I don’t know if he likes me. I know now that he has friendships with other girls–long-standing ones. That’s fine, but perhaps that’s all he wants with me? Perhaps I’m just amusing to him? We dance around the topic of “us”. It’s the elephant in the room. He HAS to know how I feel–I’m not shy. I talk with him on the assumption he knows and understands. And he answers the same way. It’s the elephant in the room that we’re both genteely ignoring. When he dropped me off, he said “see you tomorrow”, and I responded, “most likely at the broadcast.”
Of course, he answered. You’ll be just one of my fans there. That is, if you’re coming to see me, which–of course–you’re not. You’re just coming because you love the choir and have for years.
This is what I told him via text months ago when he accused me of coming just to see him.
I laughed, and answered–you know perfectly well that me coming has everything to do with you. We both laughed. I slammed the door, he revved the engine, and that was that.
He knows. Of course he knows.
Then why doesn’t he put me out of misery and tell me that I’m not his type? Tell me that there is no hope for us? That he’s not interested? That it would never work? That he’s not ready to date?
There were moments on Saturday that gave me hope. Little jewels in the conversation that I reached out, caught and polished to place in the growing collection of my heart. Facts dropped that made my heart leap–he re-read our first email conversation recently (the one from Easter 2007) and related it back on the drive home. The way he remembers random details like our first conversation, or text messages from months back. His fear that I’m leaving the ward. The fact he doesn’t like petite girls. The way he frowned and said he doesn’t want a woman who has a lot of shoes, and the instant turn-to-me-and-in-the-same-breath question, how many shoes do you have? His interest in my life. His questions of me. The way he opened up. His candor in talking about himself. He even likes the way I dress. Yes–I think I counted three sincere compliments from him that night (from a man who doesn’t compliment much). The way he brought me food, opened my door, watched me.
I want to hope.
But this morning, I woke up fearing that I’d find an email from him in my Inbox. One of those infamous, kiss-off emails; that he just doesn’t like me; that I’m not his type; that I need to leave him alone. Nothing yet, but I can’t deny that I’m checking my email a lot.
Shan thinks I’m thinking too much. So does Craig. So do I. But still … where is this going? Anywhere? I won’t be his friend for four years before pushing him to date me. I can’t do that. Will he ever move? What is his catch? Why doesn’t he move? What is he thinking? Does he see ME? Am I sending mixed signals? Do I qualify on his list of characteristics? How can we simultaneously be so wrong for each other, and yet so right? What do I do now? Do I wait? Do I back off? Do I stay steady? Do I take my toys and go home, protecting my heart? Do I even want him?
How do I keep hoping in him?
Do I keep hoping in him?
I asked God to take him away if nothing is going to happen. To stop it now while I can still recover some dignity, some fraction of my heart. Before I’m totally lost. I’m breathless. Scared. Waiting to see what happens. Hoping I’m over-reacting. Hoping he just needs time or space or some kick in the butt from above to get moving.
He’s 35. I’m 33. Neither of us have been successful at love. What’s different now?
So I keep telling God I trust Him. And I try and remember that Ryan is different from me (and we both agree that we’re VERY different). And I try to think about other things. And I try to trust Ryan a bit more. And trust myself. And trust God. And in the background, I keep reminding myself that “if not Ryan, someone better”. And try to keep my heart from screaming, dancing, jumping, weeping, begging.
In the meantime, my shingles hurt.
