It's Saturday, I've barely slept and when I have slept, my dreams range from the strange to disturbing. On the bright side, I'm able to console myself with the fact that although I am a personal failure, my professional life is class. Can't win 'em all, eh?
Yesterday, I went to the library. The library is my Tiffany's (see - Breakfast at Tiffany's ). It was all going splendidly until I checked out more books then my frame could support and had to text my friend to come meet me in the Paris Bakery on Moore Street with his man-muscles to save me from myself.
"Jeez, get enough books?" he asks. "This was me restraining myself" I replied with complete honesty. He then takes me through an area of town I've never been. "Where are we going?!" I ask, looking around at my unfamiliar surroundings.
"Beerhouse, I told you" he replies. "I thought that was you just giving "the pub" a quaint name. There's an actual 'Beerhouse' we're going to?" I ask. Although that conversation sounds like the beginning of a tale that ends with "... And they were never seen again...", our destination is real.
I immediately fall in love with the place. It's got a nice vibe and was hipster free. It's menu is a tome. To top it off, they have board games. And a very springy chair that was akin to resting on a yoga ball. It was awesome.
My friend brings back drinks for us and Jenga. I tell him how I've never played Jenga before and he looks at me in total disbelief. This disbelief soon disappears when I manage to lose on my second block removal. We play until I win, talking and laughing and teasing. It's wonderful.
A little later, I go to meet up with someone. I'm nervous. Earlier in the week, I had told this someone how I feel. I had written a blog post about them (then drunkenly told them, I am hoping that there will be a day when I won't cringe at that fact). I had then been crushed when the response I received was basically "Thanks, but no thanks". It has been a while (and by while, I mean a couple of years) since I wore my emotional heart on my sleeve with no idea how it was going to received. I cocoon myself from these things so that when an occasion arrives that one has to say "I like you", I am doing so with the knowledge that the person I am saying that to feels the same.
Normally, I would not make any exceptions to this safety measure. So why now? Maybe because my feelings go a bit further than the "I like you" bit. Maybe because I decided 2014 was going to be my year of action following the horribleness that was 2013. Maybe it's because I was dropped on my head as a child and never fully recovered; I'm not entirely sure. All I know is that I did make the exception and while many things, such as cheese and wine get better with time, rejection doesn't.
So, there I am. All nervous and jittery and trying to quieten the voice in my head that is screaming "You're an absolute IDIOT!". Now, trying to sustain a conversation where you appear together and collected is difficult enough when all of this is going on. You know what makes it even more difficult? Resisting the urge to kiss the guy you're talking to.
It was ridiculous. The desire to kiss him was ever-present. It's moments like these that I am very grateful that I never make the first move with men because I'm sure his reaction would've been "Euw, what are you doing, get off me!". As our rendezvous draws to a close, it is extremely difficult to think of anything else except my mouth on his, arms wrapped around his neck, bodies pressed together.
I go to the bus stop, head spinning, heart sick and feeling utterly confused. I politely decline social invitations to The Pav and nearby friends houses. But my friends are so good and know me so well. One of them calls, asking me what was going on, that I didn't seem myself. I'm fairly reluctant to even talk about it (there's only so many times a gal can mortify herself in one week), but he presses on so he gets an overview of the situation.
His initial reaction is one of surprise that I even put myself out there. "You don't do that!" he says. "I know I don't do that!" I reply. "Clearly, I should not have done this!".
"Nah, you're definitely right for doing it" he argues.
"How on earth do you figure that one, Einstein?" I reply.
"Because you never do. Look, we've been friends for years. I can count on one hand the number of times you've gone out on a limb for a guy like this. You're usual MO is when you really like a guy, it scares you and you run away. Which is what you did here, but at least you eventually said how you felt."
I mull this over. "So basically you're telling me it's the journey and not the destination that's important?"
"Yeah, pretty much. That and it's also highly entertaining for me. And I want to meet this guy so I can bottle whatever it is that's making you go weak at the knees. I could make money!" he replies, laughing down the phone.
"Hanging up now!" I say. "Thank you, you're awesome".
"Not a bother, darling" he tells me.
Less than ten minutes later, he calls me again. I answer the phone by saying if this is him calling to torture me a bit more, I will knee him in the nuts when I see him. But I'm cut short by a familiar melody playing down the phone. It's the chorus to Lana Del Ray's "Young and Beautiful" being blasted to me. Just when I am about to ask him if he has completely lost his senses, he begins to croon along with the song. "Wiiilll you still looooove meeee, when I'm no longer yooooounng and beautiful? I know you will, I know you will, I know that yoooouuu wwwwiiiiillll!"
My laughter starts off at a normal level but before I know it, I've been induced into a belly-aching, hard to catch my breath, spasm of giggles that I am utterly powerless to. "Oh My God" is all I can manage in between fits along with the occasional "What is wrong with you"?!". He continues to sing along for another two verses before he runs out of steam. "Alright, talk to you later!" he ends the call with.
In the aftermath, I think of how lucky I am to have friends like these - ones who try to impart romantic advice to me while playing Jenga or doing bad karaoke down the phone. Ones who, when they see I'm sad, just want to make me feel better. I tell them all the time, but I really do love them. And even if it is only temporary, they took my mind away from the consuming I-am-crazy-about-this-guy-and-have-a-constant-urge-to-kiss-him.
Crap. I just jinxed myself. Off to have an argument between my head and my heart. Wish me luck...