This seriously makes me feel sick. It’s my freaking inbox for the love of God and all things digital. Get out. Right Now. It’s the end of you and me. It’s worthy of Jo Jo lyrics, damn it.
For all my shite and complaining and well thought out, even better articulated, statements and theories about how much I hate being unglued when I’m dating… It’s all a bunch of bullshite. Liking someone, really digging someone, sucks. ‘Cause with the excitement and toe-tipping nerves comes anxiety and a reflection of some person you hardly recognize. But you know what? It’s really really exciting when someone comes along that makes you unglued, as messy as it is. You feel more alive.
Seriously, this is why I don’t date. Wait, I just stopped to read that. "Don’t date." I’m so full of shitee. I do date, albeit wretchedly. I do indeed "date." That word is nearly as bad as mole. It makes me think of a shriveled up fruit people pick out of their food. I have a date with a fig on prune street. Ew, Dad, that just came out.
When I like someone, they know it. I throw it at them like a hurled disc. Sometimes, I get anxiety like you read about in medical text books. My body becomes a stomach; I feel nothing else. I imagine things, over-analyze, and I become someone I cannot stand. Why?
I have so much going for me, but sometimes, man, the minute I sensed something wouldn’t work out with someone I wanted things to work out with, I became ill. I hate the idea of not getting my way. I hate that the only way I can control the situation is by not controlling it all. I know that’s what it’s all about. Timing. Letting things unfold, softly. And I hate that I don’t know if I should write this using the past or present tense. I hate it, and I love it.
He asks, "Can I call you right back in two minutes?" and I convince myself when I hang up that I will never hear from him again. I have to be okay with that. Not meant to be. I make it not meant to be before it even gets its chance. Confidence, or lack thereof, has only a very small part in this play. It’s like, "third paperboy" in a list of credits.
Chances are, it won’t work out. Love, like baseball, is a game of losses. You come up to bat a lot, and you hit it out of the park so rarely. Still, you’re a superduperstar even when you lose most of the time. I know I’m not a loser at love, but sometimes it pretty much feels that way. Sigh. Yawn. Vomit. I’m tired of listening to myself.
You not only took the step and put yourself out there, you told your friends about him. Shit, even your family knows. You hadn’t planned on telling anyone you were "in like," but they heard it in your voice. “Wow. I haven’t heard you this excited in… well, wow.” You can’t take that back. You can save face in front of the guy if it doesn’t work out, but your friends and hopeful family… they’re onto you. They know that was really hard for you to do… to let that guard down, but you did it. You swear you won’t do it again, like drinking ever again when you’re really hung over. I could say something now about always being hung over, but I won’t.