The Deed is Done

The deed is done, but I didn’t get to do it like I wanted.  He texted me one evening with kisses and cuddles, and I had to gather my courage.  I told him that I wanted to talk to him and not text.  I guess he didn’t like the idea of voices either because he insisted that texting was the same as talking.

I took all of the blame; really it is my fault because I am just not into him.  It was hardly taking one for the team.  I told him every excuse possible, like throwing darts and hoping one would stick.  I am not so good at darts.  Listing issues with past relationships, my own selfishness, and commitment problems, I tried it all, everything but me actually admitting that I didn’t think of him THAT way. I even said he deserved better, and his only response was why.  I dished out some compliments for him, but he just kept trying to fix all the issues.   Finally I felt like I completed the task.

As with any break up, I considered that maybe I didn’t try hard enough to make it work.  I closed my eyes trying to think of my original complaints.  All I could see was his huge lips and tongue flopping out of his mouth; a giant monster trying to slime me.  After our words, I tucked myself into bed and heard yet another text.  Questioning details of our conversation, I assumed it was someone else.  Nope, he wanted to tell me that when I am ready he wants to “cuddle more and more and more.”  I rolled my eyes and covered up.  The pling of my phone goes again, he reminds me that he is also recently out of a bad relationship, and we could help each other.  I turned off my phone.

The next morning, in the world of technology, I got online.  He has sent me a message on my Facebook, luckily not on my wall but a private message.  It says that after his night at the bar at 2 AM (a real gentleman HA!), he is thinking of me and wants to kiss me all over.  This was my sign to turn up the mean; was I the only one part of the “conversation” last night?  I replied that I don’t need the kissing right now that I am confused and not ready.  I don’t hear back from him for a day or two.  I am thinking that message must have hit home.  Until I realized he has posted HIS NAME “wants to be spending his time with a certain blonde hair blued-eyed girl.”  His friends had posted all kind of random responses to his post.  My sister has even posted a witty “You want to hang out with me?”  He has replied that she is taken and that won’t work.  The final post was “Be careful what you wish for.”  I so wanted to list my own response, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction that I am reading his post.  It would give him the wrong idea.

My job now is to avoid him, I guess.  I have no other choice.  Even without contact, he is still ever-present.  I still think I did the right thing.  My BFF tells me that if I really liked him I would like his “cuddling and kissing all over” comments.  She is normally always right and knows me better than I know myself at times, but for now the comments just disgust me.  I just need to be alone….without guys for now.  I am not desperate.  I do not need to date.  My life is full, and I don’t have to go out with someone I don’t totally like just to have a free dinner.  Better luck next time.

The Nice Guy

I really want to find a great guy.  To the naked eye, one may think that I sabotage every possible relationship that comes my way but really that isn’t my intention. Okay, I am nearing my late thirties so that already implies all kinds of issues.  Still, I have a decent job that I try hard to like most of the time; I have friends that keep me just busy enough to not be needy, and I own my house. I have never been married and don’t have children.  I am completely self-sufficient.  And I am perfectly happy without a relationship; it would just be a nice addition to life.  I’m a catch!

I want someone in the same place in their life.  There are several types of guys in the world.  Very clearly though it is made up of nice guys and bad boys.  I hear woman say all the time that when they decided to date outside of their comfort zone that was when they fell in love.  It is such a great idea, and it sounds so easy.

An acquaintance of mine somehow decided that I was worthy of dating.  He started off instant messaging me on Facebook. Oblivious to the purpose of his actions, I spent those first couple months trying to figure not how the hell I even knew him.  Halloween was approaching, and he asked me about my costume.  I offered that I was dressing as a favorite superhero for my little nephews.  He suggested he also come as a superhero so we could be a pair.  It was at this moment I realized his purpose was not just to be friendly.

At the Halloween party, I knew I would see him.  I had tried desperately to memorize his Facebook photographs so I could identify him.  Perhaps I am too nice or too naïve, but my purpose for this was only to be nice and not because I had strong feelings about dating him.  I thought it was only polite to know his name when he came up to speak to me.  We did meet.  I did recognize him.  We talked about thirty seconds.   It was over.  He wasn’t for me, and this was decided easily in these few seconds.  I don’t know how I know this, but I feel it.

Later that night, my sister and her husband met up with the fellow. He mentioned to my dear sister that he thought I was the most beautiful girl he knew.  My sister, who is my biggest fan, wanted to immediately complete another disastrous fix up.  She suggested that she calls me right then and there; since of course I was probably still at the Halloween party.  Not the brightest crayon in the box, she does this feat with his phone, basically allowing this acquaintance that I couldn’t place for so long to have my phone number. When my sister calls this one time that Halloween night, I ignore the unknown call after midnight.  I also ignore two additional calls from this same number later in the night, not from my sister.

This should have been my sign to just stay away.  But no, I am naïve or too nice, or I just really want my sister to be successful with one of her fix ups.  She encouraged me with stories of how nice the man was and how pleasant he was when she worked at the local golf course.  Insisting I should keep in mind the lovely things he said, she asks me to give him a tiny chance.

I have never been someone who had to be married, but I thought it was just a novel idea to date someone who might just be crazy about me.  I had just left a relationship with a boy that appeared to be “bad” on the outside but really turned out to be plain lazy.  I figured this was my opportunity to date outside of my comfort zone.  I would actually attempt to date the nice guy. What did I have to lose?

It wasn’t long before this nice guy sent me a message on Facebook.  He wanted to know if I would allow him to make me dinner.  I told him I would consider it, and he began to list these extravagant dishes he could make, surely just showing off.  It took very little time for an actual date to be set.

However, I didn’t want to eat alone at his home for our first date.  After all I had not long ago realized that he was a very distant acquaintance, the most basic Facebook friend…simply just knowing his name through other people. Let’s face it, girls, we need to be smart even with acquaintances.

I suggested a drink, which turned into a quick dinner. I had already had plans with my sister that night, so it seemed like a comfortable first date to include her and her husband in part of the date.  It would make it more casual.  The morning of the date, he makes me pick the restaurant, something I dread.  Our plans included playing a quick hand of cards with my sister and brother-in-law.  It was your basic first date.  Nothing special.

At the end of the night, he boldly went in for the kiss.  I was trying not to make note of the fact that he was an oddly shaped man, but it is with this kiss that I am no longer unconscious of his size.  His lips were aimed dead center for me from across the car, and it appeared that I may be kissing the lips of a caricature of Fat Albert.  Warning sign, probably three or four, ignored again.

He continued to be thoughtful though.  He asked me on another date over the following weekend.  He was actually pretty good about calling at the right times yet giving me my space. That is, of course, until two nights before the date. He was losing a poker game and began to text me for good luck.  I wished him good luck, and he said something to the effect of a kiss being lucky.  Again insanely nice or naïve, I returned his text with a “kiss kiss.”  It was like an invisible “on” switch.  I think he wanted me to text dirty to him.  I attempt to play aloof and change the subject, but he wasn’t letting up. Finally after extinguishing several topics, I succeed in changing the subject.

It is at this point my niceness or naivety turns to stupidity.  He calls the next evening as I am returning from a night out with the girls.  Headed out with a friend, he asks to stop by for a quick hello and a kiss.  I decide that I only have a few minutes before I had to go to bed, I had an early morning the next day, and I would let him come by for a quick minute.  I had an out after all.

The quick minute turned into fifteen minutes of kissing on the couch.  There were no feelings whatsoever, warning sign number six; all I could think of was if he was ever going to stop kissing me with that same monotonous movement with his darting short yet chubby tongue.  I must be a bossy kisser.  I attempt to move my head or slow him down, only to find myself fearful of being sucked down his throat by his vacuum cleaner lips.  Finally it was over, and he left. Now I only had twenty-four hours to dwell on the fact that I would be in this same position the following night after our second date.

Oh, but the Lord does work in mysterious ways!  I awoke with little sleep and a field trip to find myself sick as a dog.  I struggled through the day, and with my niceness restored, I got ready for my date.  When he came to pick me up, I was nearly unconscious on the couch.  The nice guy that he was led me back to bed and went on our date alone.  He insisted he would return with some food after my nap.

Sleeping peacefully for at least three hours, I awoke realizing he had not brought the food.  I decided to text him and tell him not to bother because I was going to go to bed.  What I really intended to do was put on my rattiest pajamas and wipe Vaseline all over my chapped face.  I proceed to do so and climbed into bed.

Luck was not on my side, he texted minutes later to say he was on his way and wanted to take care of me.  He could think of nothing better than cuddling with my disgusting infected self.  Delirious, at this time, I didn’t have the energy to fend him off.  He comes, he cuddles, he rises early, and he departs after of what must have been at least two hours of him waiting for me to wake; I never left my bed.

I spend the next couple days sick in bed. He calls and checks on me.  As I return to my normal state, I get back to my life.  I realize that I am reaching that familiar point in all my failed relationships in which I overanalyze everything the guy does.  My lips instantly chap just at the thought of him. This a common practice for me as I talk myself out of dating him.  I begin to see the warning signs more clearly.  His comments about cuddling and kissing continue; I proceed to laugh about him with my friends.  I make note of his shrinking size; for some reason when I start to dislike boys they tend to get shorter than me.

Unfortunately I blame this behavior on the fact that I am nearly in my late thirties and single.  I do this every time. After discussing it with a couple friends, they encourage me to give him one more shot.  He is a nice guy!  I just fear commitment; he deserves one more chance.  Of course, I know this last chance will be the toughest of all. I have to push all these flaws out of my mind.

Thus begins the date process.  The day before the date, he calls for a good night kiss.  I turn it down and immediately turn off my lights in my house with the excuse I am going to bed. His return text responds that he understands, and he will have trouble sleeping now.  Immediately I go on the defense and hint that he should get over the disappointment, I am going to bed.  He returns smoothing over the situation stating that his trouble with sleep will only be caused by him dreaming of me.  Instantaneously, I pray for an illness, if only I would have skipped that flu shot!

Now I am really trying not to dread this upcoming date.  One more chance is all he gets, I promise myself.  Still being considerate, the next day I text him to be sure of the plans.  He has no ideas just that he has to do a promotion at a local sports bar at 9:30.  I plainly state that I would like him to be decisive and choose, and that I like when guys make plans.  It just solves the problem of that awkward conversation at the beginning.  On early dates, no one wants to suggest the restaurant.  You get into the “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” conversation that is purely pathetic.  Regardless, I like it when a gentleman makes the plans.

I mentioned to him that he could quite possibly prepare the dinner he had talked about.  I guess I was pretty sure at this time he wasn’t going to chop me up.  He didn’t care.  No matter what I recommended I couldn’t force him into any decision.  Bored with the insane debate, I finally chose a movie and the sports bar food.  It is with this annoying quality that I begin to criticize every tiny detail about him.  It is a quite exasperating habit that I possess.

First of all, this man has been sending me texts about being chilled and wanting to cuddle (totally true and totally gag me with a spoon); he is wearing a short sleeve shirt.  Because I am now finding myself very argumentative, I make note of the short sleeves.  He acts as he has never been cold his life.  He is clearly an inch shorter than me now.  By the end of the night he will be six inches shorter.

We arrive at the movie theatre.  I am reminded that he is a nice guy opening doors and paying for the tickets and snacks.  We settle in our seats, and this is when I realize he smells of a mixture of heavy cologne and maybe cum.  I arrange the popcorn between us and attempt to breathe through my mouth.

The movie begins, the popcorn is finished, and he put his arm around me.  I can tell he wants to kiss me or something.  I feel him staring at me, yet every time I look his way he asks dumbfounded, “What?”  I avoid the kissing, free myself of his arm, and push away the smell.  I wonder if I am imagining it all.

The rest of the date is downhill from here.  We arrive at the bar, he does his work, and we eat our food.  I thank Saturday Night Live for having my favorite band on this very night, and I attempt to hint that I would like to be home for it.  Soon the promotion is over, and he literally sucks down a brownie sundae in seconds and we leave.

He wants to stop by his house to check his furnace.  He is sure he turned it off.  I know this is probably his alternate purpose; he really wants to check his house before staying over at my house.  His house is actually decorated like a nice guy’s house.  It is outfitted with embroiled pillows and knickknacks. He has art expressing the words love, hope, and home.  Yet, he has little plaques here and there blessing golf with witty sayings about the 19^th hole and prayers for a good game decorated with swirls and flowers. It reminds me that he refers to his mom as “Mother.”  Perhaps he really just wanted to show me his house.  His furnace is forgotten and we’re off.

At my house, we pull into the drive and I get out.  He looks at me with pleading eyes and asks if he is invited in.  It seems like an obvious answer since we just stopped at his house, but I play the game with him, not nearly as nice as I had been.  I continue to put him off and become more argumentative as the night goes old.  I sit as far away as my couch will allow.  He asked if I am sleepy, as he sits next to me with his eyes closed.  I can tell he is moving closer with each breath.  This is when I decide that in order to get rid of him I am going to have to be even more direct.  “If you are sleepy, you should go to bed.”

“What?  Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked with beseeching eyes.

“No, I am just saying that you don’t want to fall asleep on your way home,” I hinted matter-of-factly.

He sighs and closes his eyes again.   I make no move to notice him and continue to watch Saturday Night Live, like it is the early nineties and still a funny show.  He eventually gets the hint and makes more movement towards the door.  Leaning in to kiss me, I realize that I can’t avoid this last one.  It is awful and unmoving; unfortunately my lips were already in the wrong spot.  I break from it, and he goes in for another kiss.  I grab his shoulders and rest my head on his shoulder avoiding the kiss and hugging him.  He leaves seemingly disappointed with his tails between his legs.

I hate breaking up with people.  I hope he got a little of the hint.  I hope if I avoid a few calls and stay busy maybe the whole incident will be forgotten.  He seemed mature.  Of course, it has only been twelve hours since the date, and I have already missed one call.  I wonder how much work this is going to be.  My last relationship took months to end.  Please, if I could just be lucky this once.  Please, let it be over quickly and painlessly.  Two dates isn’t a relationship.  Please, let him see that although I may very well be the most beautiful girl in his mind, good looks don’t guarantee a connection.  Surely, he wasn’t any more impressed with the kissing.

Nearly in my late thirties, I try to learn something from every relationship.  Sometimes the lesson is forgotten in the heat of passion, but I can only do so much in the name of education.  My lesson here is to trust my intuition.  I should have seen the early signs that he wasn’t for me.  If it takes more than a month to break up with him it is my own fault.  Next time someone picks me up, I am not going to date them just because they are a said “nice guy.”  Remembering that my singleness is blamed on multiple issues, so are single thirty-something men.  My first impression is normally correct; I must trust my initial judgment.

Bully in the Past

To choose to be a teacher isn’t so unique. Of course, I wanted to make a difference in someone’s life. I have always wanted to help change someone’s life for the better. I thought this was always my goal. Clearly it wasn’t.

To choose to be a teacher isn’t so unique just because I was picked on when I was in middle school and high school either. Upon moving to my uppity community in middle school, I found myself without friends, knowing only my little brother, and thirteen. I was a young teenager trying to fit in. Entering middle school alone is social suicide; the cliques were already full. Girls used to tease me about my “secret” crushes. The boys would taunt me with strange vocabulary words and make me guess their meanings; mostly the words were dirty words, or so they said they were, as they laughed at my stupidity. The stupidity really came from me because I still wanted to impress these people.

In seventh grade, walking down the hallway after school I was stopped by a particular boy. Even twenty years later, I can remember it clearly. He was probably flirting, but I couldn’t allow it. He wanted to flick my bra strap. I dodged his reaching arm and even participated in a small bout with him stumbling around the hall. I ended up kicking the boy in the shin. I loved him. I loved him even after I returned home later that evening as I pleaded with my mom to buy me a bra.

Needless to say, I didn’t win the boy over and I spent most of my middle school and high school career trying to impress boys with anything I could. Because of these “traumatic” teenage experiences, I don’t really remember many people from grade school. I have blocked them out of my mind.

Now with Facebook and an occasional return visit to my hometown, I have been contacted by a variety of old classmates. I wonder why they remember me so well. I wonder why they want to be my Facebook friend now when before they either used me for sexual conquests, or wouldn’t give me the time of day, or sadly, both. Even today, I still want to be their friends a little inside; I accept their friendship requests, and I pretend to recognize them when I cross paths with them. I can fake it for them, for me.

Recently some of my fellow band mates (marching band, not a lame garage rock band) posted some old photos from some band competitions. I flipped through the pictures laughing at my perm and trying to guess each person’s name when I realized that I was tagged as the wrong person. I don’t know why my feelings were hurt. I don’t remember even a quarter of the people I should. Why would it bother me for them to mark me as a color guard member rather than a band member? I decided to retag all my photos, so as to correct the person’s mistakes.

The next day I got a friend request from another person in the photo; obviously he saw my new tags when he explored the photos. It was a boy who grew up next to me, a few blocks down the road in the same neighborhood. I remember him quickly and immediately, and not because I thought he was cute or athletic in school. I remember him because he was someone we picked on in the neighborhood.

Just when I thought that I was the one who was tormented, I recalled my brother and I setting up elaborate haunted scenes in our backyard. See, this boy, in the eighties, was sure he was a Ghostbuster. (This is probably not a suggested practice for any seventh grader.) My brother knew this short little Indian boy liked me, too. My brother knew that the boy trusted me because I was his “friend” at school. With my brother and a few of his friends, we would lure the poor boy in the yard and taunt him with unrealistic ghosts. He was pretty gullible. One time I remember even being tried to a tree by a ghost. The boy always would come to my rescue. Another time we convinced him to search the shed only to lock him into it.

One afternoon he bought me a five pack of lifesavers for me and tried to get me to kiss him. I didn’t. I believe the incident ended with my sister and brother opening and closing the door in his face. Eventually he left, and we split the lifesavers. In retrospect, I don’t remember enjoying them.

I teased the boy in school. I used him for laughs with my girlfriends. Eventually some of the band girls actually influenced his sister against him. He would have given any of us a dollar or a homework assignment just for a little smile or a simple compliment. We made sure everyone treated him the same way.

I was a pretty big loser myself in middle school and high school. I knew and know how it feels to be picked on and used. Why did I do this to this poor boy? Why, of the very few things I remember about being a teenager, do I remember this so clearly?

Actually the adult boy still wanted to talk to me. Oddly, he didn’t remember much about me. He didn’t realize my picture was tagged incorrectly. He didn’t even remember I had a brother. Still, I nearly apologized for my rude immature behavior twice. I didn’t. I probably would feel better right now if I did. Even as he complained about how much he disliked living in that school district, I couldn’t take one for the team and apologize for my actions.

Now, as selfish as it is, I can only think about is what makes so many people remember me so well? The only reason why I remember this poor forsaken Ghostbuster is because I taunted him through school; I helped make middle school and the start of high school miserable for him. I picked on someone else just because people picked on me. Did I really even have this much power?

I have wanted to change someone’s life…make a difference. I could have done that twenty years ago. I could have stepped up and actually been his friend. I guess, in a way, I am a teacher because of this time in my life. I want to make students that were like me stronger, so they will be brave and stick up for others. I would like to make everyone more tolerable of one another. Is this even possible? I might be able to still change one person….