I'll Tell a Story; Paint You a Picture from My Past

Photo: David Zapatka

Every night, I have this crisis of confidence. So I write. People tell me it's good stuff. People tell me to write a book. I guess it's the one thing that I've stopped doubting, even if the NYT and the New Yorker opted not to publish me. I don't know, I just don't feel like that's my fault. Which is odd. I think everything is my fault. But I think I'm a good writer. I've said that for a lot of years now. I guess after you say it a few times, it becomes less something you have to think about and more something you just are.

Today was good. It was launch day. I couldn't think of a soul who would care to see my spec pages. It's how I spend more time than anything else in my life and I don't know anyone who is actually interested in it.

The strangest thing happened today. So, when I was 23 or maybe 24, I made my first online dating profile. That was what 2009? Yikes. I'd given up on organic even then. Probably because the only men not afraid of me in person were "confidence of a mediocre white man" types. A man who sees me and knows his own value with accuracy gets a little intimidated. So, Plenty of Fish, circa 2009. He owned a video game shop. He was bald. Listen, sexy bald men are totally a thing. His love language was teasing me. But he had the hots for me so bad. It was mutual. He was as smart as me and quick as me and witty and hysterically funny. He had these large, dark, luminous eyes so deep you could drown. I've always been a sucker for beautiful, damaged eyes. He always called me on my bullshit. But there was always this really tender side to him. We talked for months. I just enjoyed him. Anyway, things obviously never went far or I'd surely hate him by now and I do not. We just kind of fell out of touch.

I still remember the Alabama in his voice. Lord, low and slow and damn sexy. One of my earliest reassurances that a drawl doesn't make one stupid. Come to find out not long after him that the exact opposite can be true sometimes. That exclusively Southern experience can make you smarter. At least wiser. And sometimes lead you earlier to self-awareness of the negative. You go where you will from there.

He messaged me out of the blue on Facebook around 2014. I don't think it was a long conversation by our standards. And then nothing. Until today. Again, out of the blue. And not gently, absolutely the same as he always was. "Did you get married and unmarried since we've spoken?" Well, yes, it's been nine years so...yes. Picked right back up where we left off. He tells me "Believe it or not, you're one of my life's big regrets." Oh, darling man. Why would that be hard to believe and also, you aren't the first. Or third or fifth. Back at 23, I probably didn't know then and hadn't started telling them that they would get to this exact place. I come with a disclaimer now.

I usually leave them on read. I mean, isn't that the cruelest thing I can do to anyone who hurt me? And honestly, I do mostly leave the ones who hurt me alone. I ain't walking back into heartache. I know better than that.

We picked right up where we left off. He's close to 45 now. My gods, we got old. And it was so fast. He's even softer now. So am I. I am so grateful for the look backwards. So grateful for the things I remembered of him. I'm grateful for the memories he brought back. Me telling him a tiny bit about Jay, standing on Nanny's back porch. I remember that moment so clearly because it was vulnerable of me when I had a hard time being vulnerable. That reminder helps me know that I was always open. Perhaps more than I ever should be. I wouldn't change a thing.

Showed him a few paintings and referred him to my pair of blogs and showed him the new logo for the business cards I ordered yesterday. He seemed impressed by that one painting that I did from my heart. I wish people didn't love that one so much. I'll never see it again. That's probably best after reaching into someone's mind, reportedly. He told me about his shoulder reconstruction and some other health issues he's been fighting. I was there not long ago and I just tried my best to reassure him that he would come out on the other side better than ever.

Maybe we won't speak again for nine more years. And that's okay. He likes me as an idea and I have had that up to here. I am real. I am not some manic pixie dream girl crazy pussy cryptid goddamn doe to take down. I'm not a trophy to hang on the wall above your headboard. I hate every damn man who ever treated me that way and I hate myself for letting them make me feel that way. But I do kind of appreciate the messages I get pretty regularly, to the same tune. That they wish they had done better. Wish they hadn't let me slip. 

Two long phone conversations from the road last night. One from New Orleans headed south. I have made a good friend, I think. Makes me think hard. Frequently rotates things so that I can think differently. I would never have expected that from someone that young. But maybe that's exactly why it works. A whole other generation of different ways to think. A whole other country of origin, despite our not-so-distant roots being basically the same. Just a friend, I think. Safe.

The other one from Dallas, Georgia. That one truly is an anomaly. I guess what we do is take what we're given at the time that it's given and appreciate the circumstances that led us there. And I do. I'd never have met him if I had not been on my way to my sister's house a few weeks ago to help her. So maybe it's karma. Maybe it's kismet. But he better stop sending me Caamp songs and telling me how much he loves Moreland.

He's kind. A friend says I manifested the fuck out of him. Maybe I did. But let us not put the cart before the horse. The thought of something serious makes me have an unattractive urge to pace and fidget. Friends for now. And he's respectful of that. I think we'll see a lot of each other, in well-lit, public places for a while.

Too much bad wine. Three glasses is officially too much if I don't eat well. And launch days always get me either too hyperfocused or too anxious to eat. I never think about food until my stomach growls loudly enough for it to yank me out of the zone. But the launch went off without a hitch. Some days are just like that.

I wonder if I'll get out of this existential phase any time soon. Or if this whole self-exploration and reflection will just be who I am now. Maybe that novel will be my midlife crisis. Am I too young for a midlife crisis? Too old? I guess it just depends how long I plan to live.

So, here's to weird Wednesdays. Here's to gentle affections that aren't focused on getting laid. I'm too old for that. Here's to growing friendships that are real.