I’m sitting here, leg wrapped in six-inch gauze (size matters when gauze is concerned) , bad episodes of Sex in the City on cable, when the texts start. My Young Lawyer, the Decade Guy from last winter, whom I have stayed friends with, begins drunk texting. Flirting? A little. Apparently my Linked In photo is “sexy pants” and he had drunk a few too many beers. He tried to fish for a few minutes until he obviously passed out next to the phone.
While watching SITC, I wonder, am I as frustratingly vapid as Carrie Bradshaw? Her rants make me bleed from the eyes. I find the Manola’s and chemical peels akin to torture. Yes, but then I body wax, and I write poetic prose to stockings and garters. I obsess over Jewish cock and the perfect tush on the man I found myself so stupidly in love with. I smirked inside when I found out that Geek’s mom is technically Jewish, making HIM technically Jewish. Sure, he throws my game of averages off a bit, but in the end, it’s a theory and it’s not the theory I am after. It’s the round little tush on Type Geek that makes me want to throw him to the floor everytime I see him.
Okay, Type Geek is complicated and secretive. A bit emotionally locked down. But, comparing him, analyzing him, dissecting him or expecting him… none of that does him justice. Sitting here, I think of him, sleeping restlessly the night before delivering his big brother’s eulogy and I see him, vulnerable and bare. When he apologized tonight, for an error in judgement, a part of his past he left untold, it came with such honest sincerity, that I wondered if this was the same man whom I couldn’t get to acknowledge my presence in January, let alone apologize for the impact of that ignorance. Sure, he might revert to past behavior, or he might not. Maybe my walking away, only to realize how much I didn’t want to walk away, combined with my professions of true acceptance of who his is, combined with his brother’s illness and recent death, have left him realizing that we do in fact need other people in our lives. Even if we only let them into our emotional foyer, it’s better than keeping the door closed on them. I hope that someday I get a tour of his emotional house, but I am not depending our situation on it. My love for him is in spite of it, not requiring it.
At this hour, 2 am, I have one leg elevated, while a laptop warms the other thigh, on a couch that looks like it was dragged from a dormitory rec room, with a heavy heart as I consider what my Geek is facing in just 8 hours. I wish I could be there, but it isn’t my place. My heart is there. My heart is with him, wherever he goes.
So, is he my Mr. Big? My Aidan? My Berger? Perhaps what sets me apart from the Carrie Bradshaws is that in my humble world of dating, those men aren’t the reality. I’m not sure. I know that I never loved that show. My Pastry Chef roommate loves it. I catch him watching it, perhaps this is why he is single, because he watches political commentary and Carrie Bradshaw…and he is a vegetarian. Sigh. His views on the world are quite obviously skewed. Maybe all our views are skewed. Who is the baseline though? What is the baseline for emotionally receptive yet not vapid? Mysterious but not shut down? I’m not sure. I’m not sure of many things these days. I do know this, that I NEED to feel like I matter. Now that Geek is slowly coming around to that, I need the rest of my life to fall into a conga line of his lead.
Thanks for listening to my tangent this evening, my senseless musings during this senseless time. Goodnight everyone, if you could please say some thoughts for Type Geeks family in the late morning today, as they have Older Geek’s funeral, it would mean a lot.
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