I have a lot to tell you about. So let’s start strange…. no, let’s go in order, because these things happened in this order and I’m worried they won’t make as much sense out of order. None of the three of you that read this cares, huh?
I was walking to my car when I saw Dawn out front, so I ambled across the street with my dancing shoes in hand, and I got to meet Cadence. She’s adorable. A couple of little teeth, a lot of dark hair, and a very calm demeanor… fits all the requirements I have for liking a girl. Mmmm hmmm. I should’ve given Dawn a little bit more of my social attention, because suddenly I felt strange enjoying the sight and presence of a >1-year-old. Single men aren’t supposed to like babies, and dag-gum, I’m still diseased with the single-itus. So I hurried off in my car, trying to think of neither of those enjoyable girls, and onto my next venue of cute girls… Pizzicato, of course.
And she was there. Cute Pizzicato girl. If I were Midge, she’d be abbreviated CPG, but it makes me think of some reproductive clinic or government agency program, so I like to think of her instead as a full contigent of all three words. She took my order. We flirted. She wiped some tables down near me. We could’ve flirted. She thought I was leaving. I flirted. I was really leaving. She flirted. I flirted more. She shook my hand.
WHAT?! Midge says it’s fine, that she just wanted to touch me, but when I think about her I touch myself, and it’s no big deal. I was really just doing that to quote the song, not to gross you out. So now what? Where do you go from the handshake? (I saw a very lewd and logical transition… use this paragraph/last sentence as reference point #1) It’s a dead-end sort of social expression. You don’t go from handshake to hug. Or even handshake to phone number unless you or they sell something (use this as reference point #2). Touch me? Yes! But walk over while I’m seated, gently rest your hand on my shoulder/back, and ask me how everything is. I’ll tell you “Great,” and I’ll mean it including the hand touching. A wink would do more for the sexual tension, chemistry, and direction than a handshake. Like I said, it’s a social dead-end, and I’m needing to turn around with this one, or scale a wall. But I think she likes me. That’s hot - like pizza that burns your mouth because you can’t wait to eat it. Ho - ot!
I left Pizzicato confused, but a little giddy. I got to the dance, and Lindsay sees me, so she sits down (across the table). What does she decided to say right away? You’d think you’d start with something simple, distant, neutral - “I’m staying busy,” “I’m really sad summer is half over”, “I have a birthmark that I’ll have to show you later,”… you know, those sorts of things. No, she says, “Yeah, my boyfriend broke up with me.” We obviously need further explanation here.
I met Lindsay at the first dance I went to after Tameka dumped me. I met her, and since I had just jumped in and out (no connotation) of dating one girl, I was perfectly assuming I would get to at least jump into things with the lovely Ms. Lindsay. Well, we’ve obviously never dated. We’ve been safe and distant friends, and random dance partners.
Issue a). Lindsay is amazing. My brother once saw a picture of her, a random dancing picture where you could barely see her, and he commented how cute she is. Yeah, even in a bad picture she’s super cute. Tada! She’s not only beautiful, she’s so sweet. She’s got the cake-maker soul - her steps seem to leave little powdered sugar prints. (Midge is making the “gag me” sign with her finger) This girl is seriously just as kind-hearted and pure and gentle and nourishing as can be held within the bounds of one (again, beautiful) human body. And, she’s a college grad, a piano teacher, thoughtful and perfectly at ease in conversation. And she loves Jesus. I’m quite convinced. Not in the regular church-goer way, with mostly a mental assent towards heaven once in a while. She seems like some other girls I know - able to just totally give herself to Jesus, the Son of God, the second member of the Trinity. She’s like Allison and Annie… just amazing and sensative to things I cannot even fathom. I’m saying this to make a point. Here is Lindsay, on this pedestal I have in my head.
(Imagine doing the Wile E Coyote super-fast rush down a nearly unending cliff to reach the bottom of, nearly, Hell, and…)
And here eimi. (I’ve been helping Dave with some Greek, and some of it is coming back to me) We’ll consider this issue b). I am dirty, in deed, thought, and heart. I have a cripple leg and bloodshot eyes. I don’t always smell like boys are supposed to. I often choose to be dirty, and sometimes I just am. I don’t think I’d be better off astringently clean, anyway. I’m not a pureheart. I’m not white linen walking. I think of dirty jokes and try not to look down my boss’s shirt or pause when Cute Sarah is walking the other direction down the hall. I would sell my last bits of virgin experience for some porridge (here I wanted to make a joke, so you see, I’m not joking). I’m neither cute, nor sweet, nor the undoubtable in love with Jesus. In a word, I am not worthy of the sort of girl that things of Lindsay as a role model. I type the word shit from time to time. This is the place where I wanted to use reference point #1.
This is why I couldn’t ever feel right with Lindsay.
So after Lindsay left the dance, I sat with Sarah and we talked about owning a dog (not together), and we danced, and we left (not together).
What was strange (the thing I talked about at the beginning) is the phone call I got when I pulled up to my house around 11 pm (PST). Area code was out of Montana. It happens a lot because I’ve never changed my Wytanahodada number (why would I?), so plenty of people call looking for somebody that lives in Missoula, and I’m not that somebody. I answered the phone last night.
“Hello?”
“Hey, why aren’t you here?”
“Well, I didn’t know I was supposed to be…”
“Yeah, you should be here, it’s great.”
“Where exactly is ‘here’?”
“Huh?” Noise in the background. Suddenly, the phone hangs up. Oh well. Or so I thought. Not much later, my phone rings again. Same number.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, who is this?”
I said my name. “I’m in Portland, Oregon.”
“I’m not. This is a Montana number.”
“I know that. I used to live in Missoula.”
It really took a long time to say very little, as you can see. But, the girl I was talking to, who seems likely to be drunk, liked talking to me, so we chatted for a little while. Her name is Linda, and she’s from southeastern Sweden. She likes kayaking and snowboarding with friends. She wanted me to look her up on Facebook. As if I’m already not drowning in a deluge of friends already. Couldn’t find her, anyway. We parted as much unknown to each other as when we began.
It was evening and morning, the second day.
I got a text message this morning. I can’t even tell you what it said, for personal reasons, but that girl was really drunk, I think, and it may just make a good story some day down the road. But no Facebook friends. Now I want to have some drunk Swedish girl calling me accidentally. That’s why I can’t be with Lindsay.
I told Elisa about CPG…. I can’t do it. Cute Pizzicato girl, and Lindsay, and Elisa laughed at me. Somewhat because I told the story funny, and somewhat because I deserve gentle social mockery. She says that she doesn’t know any more gentlemanly, kind-hearted, sweet and innocent boys than me, so I sound perfect for perfect Lindsay. It’s true, actually. I know few men that fit all of those categories (which go on to include cowardly and self-doubting) so well as my poor morning mirror face. So, I just sent Lindsay a message, and we’ll see where we go. And I’ll try to do more than shake Cute Pizzicato girl’s hand.
I’m too tired to keep going. You must be exhausted, because all of this is stuck in my head just waiting to get out, but you have to do the work of putting it in your head, with spelling mistakes and rambling and confusing sentence fragments and ideas that go nowhere and sentences that go on and on. I’ve got important, non-sexual stuff to talk about tomorrow. But don’t hold your breath.