You'd think someone who bragged about star sightings would know who the hell they were stalking. Think again! After sending some of my LA pics to my friends, one of them alerted me to the fact that my Peter Krause (below) sighting was a fraudulent one. It was actually some guy name Geoff Stults (above) of Seventh Heaven.
I never watched that show but with his beard it was a relatively easy error. No one else who claimed to be a fan of his and saw the pics in my camera corrected me either. Nonetheless, it's embarrassing.So the chiropractor came in from Chicago this weekend. He flew in Saturday and out on Sunday. I did something I never do. I went to the airport upon his arrival and with him for his departure. The first trip was because I couldn't wait the one hour it would have taken him to arrive at his hotel. The second because he was in town so briefly and I wanted to maximize our time together. I wasn't pleasantly surprised when I met him. It was more of a "Is that you?" kind of thing. And it was awkward. Here, we had forged this bond over the past few weeks, going as far as naming our unborn children and now I was face to face with the man I had prematurely described as "The One!" I mean talk about build-up. One astute observer had reminded me that the definition of insanity is repeating the same actions in the hopes of a different outcome. I mean really. If that doesn't describe me to a T, I don't know what does.
So we had a nice time. He is really funny. I know I said that about Boston but this guy really is funny. I'd give some examples but every time I do, there's that awkward pause or fake laugh that signals a "guess you had to be there" response. But I didn't hear from him all day as I did prior to the big reveal. So I was feeling anxious. But rather than going on a texting spree or anything else self-destructive, I did something against my usual instincts. I exercised restraint.
I met up with my friend Dave who is my "scary movie buddy." Dave is a drummer by night, works in corporate America by day and quite charming. A couple of years ago we decided to enter a relationship that consists only of reunions centered around the latest horror flick. This is usually accompanied by dinner. Almost all of our selections have been underwhelming. "Saw" left us scratching our heads, "Lady in the Water" was just annoying and tonight's selection, "Pan's Labyrinth" wasn't even part of the correct genre. But it was a good one.
Afterwards, we ducked into a French restaurant in the East Village. I filled Dave in on the latest in the man department and after listening to the saga of Boston and now the angst rising up with Chicago, he asked, "Are you panicking?" This is usually where I get defensive but with Dave I didn't feel judged. "I'm going to be 35 this year," I said. He said I was a walking contradiction in terms of being professionally grounded and stable but a spastic idiot as a singleton. I had berated Larry when things fell apart with Boston because he told me to stop "looking so hard for a man." I just didn't feel like I was "looking." I mean I didn't troll bars or the internet (well, not like before) and was coming out of a two month dating drought when I happened to meet Boston. But with Dave looking at me earnestly and making an objective assessment of the sense of desperation that had so clearly snuck into my consciousness, I was suddenly aware. I keep saying that letting Mo go is an example of my refusal to settle. If I was really so desperate to get married and have the whole kit and caboodle, would I have walked away from a dentist poised to propose? Yes because scrambling for sanctity of marriage doesn't absolve me from the sins of scintilla, as in recognizing the minute particles, aka "quirks", that make up a person's, well persona. Just because I didn't want mediocrity then doesn't mean I'm not willing to capitulate when presented with a less offensive, tho equally questionable prospect now.
And it's not that there's anything about Chicago that's a deal-breaker. He's witty and smart and I'm attracted to him but I can't seem to get out of fifth gear. The advice Dave offered was twofold. "Chill out" which is in order. And "if you start getting all crazy, get out because that means something's off." OK, that something is most likely me. My roommate concurred and when Chicago finally called tonight and I missed his call, she encouraged me not to play games. But I was irritated that he went from calling me on his way to work in the morning to not calling all day then leaving me a perfunctory message, "I guess I'll talk to you later." What the fuck? I was also feeling a bit sick to my stomach because the perception that a guy is pulling away usually sends me into a neurotic tailspin as evidenced by the recent mayhem that ensued with Boston. I was fighting the urge to be me, to call and lay my cards prematurely on the table with inappropriate comments like, "So are you in or out?" My mom suggested perhaps I not begin my future conversations with disclaimers such as, "This is where I board the crazy train." How about I not get on this time?! Let's see what happens when the Love Pariah actually takes a more traditionally feminine role, i.e., not chasing the male prospect like a hunter his prey. Perhaps allowing the suitor a chance to wear the pants? Hrrmph! OK, I'll try.
