I'd just like you all to know that I was going to make Roman numeral number nine VIIII. I'm a fucking moron.
Alright, so, with the Harvard guy, I'm now in a spot where I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up dating this guy, but I'm still pushing away hardcore. This is the longest I've gone holding out on sex since my ex-laxer dumped me two years ago. Dude had to wait four dates. FOUR. And he did. And kudos to him, because there are some pushy fuckers in the world who really don't know what "I'm not in the mood just now" means.
Despite this, I was still having major issues. Like, this was right after I found out soccer hottie had a girlfriend, so I was all "GOTTA GIVE UP THE ATHLETES" and shit. Little did I know four months later I'd still be planning fuck vacations with him, but whatever. And I was still struggling with the hair situation. I am so God damn shallow, but it was SO hard going from soccer hottie who has good hair (see, I told you it wasn't Larry) to this dude. It was a total ego killer.
He pulled out every big gun. I mean, dude came in every night to visit me, he held my hand, asked me questions, wanted to spend every free minute with me. And I still just couldn't get into it.
Finally, one night in September, New York, and more specifically Queens, was nailed by some freak fucking tornado. I was bartending up at an Italian restaurant on 65th Street on the UWS when it happened. The LIRR, which I take home every night was totally shut down. Penn Station itself was shut down. There was NO hope of me getting home anytime soon.
So when he called me, how I didn't immediately take him up on his offer shows how not into it I was.
"Hey, I just got out of work, where are you?" he asked.
"I'm sitting in Penn Station wondering how long it'll take for people to break out into a fight over the last bag of popcorn."
"You can't get home?"
"Nope," I said. "I'm stuck."
"Why don't you come stay at my place?" he asked. "I'm getting a car right now, I'll come pick you up."
Now, to be fair, it wasn't just him. I didn't want to see him because I hadn't shaved my whole nether situation in a few days, and I'm a total stickler with that shit. I also stunk like Peroni and just hadn't hit that point of comfort with him yet where I was cool with letting him see me on my not so great days.
At first, I said no. And then when I realized I had no hope of getting home for at least eight hours, I called him back.
He came and picked me up on 34th Street outside Penn. I was exhausted. That whole day just sucked major balls, I had been at work since like 9:30 in the morning.
We got back to his place and I think the first thing I said was "I HAVEN'T SHAVED SO I'M JUST GIVING YOU THE HEADSUP". Why I thought this kid would give a shit if I had some stubblage going on, no idea. He had witnessed my hangover which honestly is the worst thing in the world. I crawled into bed with him and we watched the Hangover.
We talked about everything. Our lives, what we liked about ourselves, what we didn’t, our past relationships, our biggest fears, our favorite movies, our biggest turn ons and turn offs. I mean, it was scary. In a week in a half I had told this guy more about myself than I had told some of the athletes I had been fooling around with for more than a year. I had gone from pushing away his advances, unwilling to give in to the idea of dating a normal guy, to welcoming the normalcy of claiming his favorite sweatshirt as my own. I suddenly realized what I had found here, was probably unattainable with most of the athletes I had been with. That I didn’t even know what I was looking for throughout that time, that only with Christian had I really figured it out. I was basically being really really fucking gay. And I can say that because my best friend is gay, and he'll totally agree with that statement.
“You’re basically everything I’ve ever wanted. No big deal.” He text me one night when I was on the train home. I stopped to think if I maybe could feel the same way about him
So what happened? In one single moment, I had accepted my fate. That I would not be the girlfriend or wife of an international soccer player. That I would not be at the Stanley Cup cheering my boyfriend on. That I would never witness my husband pitch a no hitter. Instead, I accepted that I could be happy without all of that. That I could be happy, living with my Ivy League graduate, talking about football and Daniel Day Lewis movies, laying in bed on rainy days and begging him to call in sick. I accepted that I could be happy having someone look at me every day the way he had been looking at me. That I could eventually come to truly believe that meant more than the reputation on the field or in Sports Illustrated. And that I could probably deal with his hair.
After two weeks, I started to think I had found myself in something I hadn’t had for nearly two years – a functioning relationship.
Chalk it up to feelings of false security, because fuck was I wrong.