Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Scared of history

For most of the past week, I've been feeling calm and happy and relaxed. There have been a couple of reality-check moments when I have told myself, "be sensible, talk is cheap" but he has allayed most of my fears with his sweet words and sincerity.

Today, I had a moment of petrified terror. He was telling me how he was unable to listen to Hinder's Better Than Me for a few days after I left but now it makes him happy. So I listened to it and I was overwhelmed by "I told myself I won't miss you but I remember what it feels like beside you" and started crying. Then he said something that made me laugh and I was crying and laughing and soggy and snotty. It was lovely.

Then the baggage voice in my head kicked in, "you don't love him", and then my heart retorted, "don't be ridiculous you foolish girl". Honestly, is it possible to have been hurt so many times that your brain attempts sabotage any future happiness? I fully understand that I can't possibly know if I love him yet. But I'm happy. Me, happy. I've spent the last four days alternately shaking my head at how crazy the whole situation is and quietly marveling at the full circle return to 13 years ago.

I wrote this several weeks ago, the day that I booked my flight...

I knew a guy in high school. Okay, we dated. It ended up being extremely convoluted (surprise, surprise). But the important facts are that he was super sweet, fun, intelligent, a perfect gentleman and a superb kisser. That is neither here nor there but it was important in a first boyfriend ever. Well, not ever, but the first that really counted for something. My parents HATED him. Well, at the time it certainly seemed that they did. When I look back now, my mother hated him. Because she hated everyone. My dad was just trying to keep the peace as usual. To a 16 year old, I was just angry and confused and disappointed. They never even gave him a chance.

They said that we were "culturally different". It's true. We don't look the same (that is a euphemism for being of different races -- Bend It Like Beckham, anyone?), but he did worship the ground that I walked on. He also taught me how not to dance like a solid gold dancer. Ah, Red, Red wine, where are you now? I don't remember meeting him or talking to him and was, at first, mostly perplexed about the whole thing. Why was this boy interested in me? Why was he looking at me like that? And why is my body doing such strange things when I think about him. Such was the naive, sheltered life of a little Indian girl. It was lovely and sweet and oh-so-high-school. Long phone conversations and missing yous. (Hmm, note that earliest serious relationship was long-distance!) Romantic and soft and innocent and wonderful.

And I was a total bitch to him. I am so horrified and ashamed and mortified of the way that I treated him that I can't even begin to put it in writing for all the world to read. It was the beginning of very bad behavior that would last... oh, look, until NOW.

I am truly amazed and humbled that he is still friends with me. That we had sushi many years after I dumped him cruelly. Twice, less than two years apart (oh dear God, who was that girl?). That we still correspond almost daily over IM. And, after nights spent drinking and partying, he still drunk dials me over Skype. Inviting me to run away to a deserted island with him. Most of all, that he invited me to come and visit him. And stay at his new condo... in the BAHAMAS!!!


So, history lesson is over. In exactly 29 days I will be packing my bathing suit (and mumu) on a plane to a tropical white sand beach! He doesn't actually have the condo yet, so I may end up sleeping on the beach. But I hear it's above zero degrees down there so, provided I don't get sand in ahem, I'm okay with that. I don't have any plans for the week yet. Except sitting on the beach, napping, drinking, dancing, fishing... and, of course, meeting the parents. I must remember to take them each a gift. In 13 years, I never met his parents. He said his mom is really looking forward to meeting me. I can't think why - perhaps to give me the lynching I so well deserve.

I really must go to bed so that I can get up early and work out (bikini, bikini, bikini, stretch marks, cellulite, flab GROSS) and then go learn how to run a gel, have lunch and go to class, all before noon. Voila, instant motivation. Bye bye procrastination.

29 days...

Must find some additional motivation to get me through the next 35 days. The last time we did this (12 years ago, in high school), I performed so miserably on my final exams that my teachers asked me if something was wrong at home. I doubt I will get the same consideration this time around.

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