So a lot of things happened since the last time I wrote, not least of which, obviously, is that Jack got married to a woman literally young enough to be his daughter (which means, inversely, that her parents are like five minutes older than Jack, which I personally think should inspire some concern and/or make her father want to kick Jack’s ass, but what do I know except I have a father) – but that’s not the point. My only point in bringing that up right now was to let you all know I didn’t jump off a building when Jack got married. In case you were wondering.
Also, I didn’t show up and do anything psycho. I had a dinner party instead. It was great.
The next day a former co-worker (former to me; current to Jack and Gwyneth) posted some pictures of the wedding on stupid Facebook, and when I caught a sudden glimpse, I actually covered the screen with my hand until I could scroll safely past them.
Social media suck. Moving on…
Javier is now a fair to middling threat to what’s left of my stability. I’m pretty sure that, in the immortal words of Sandra Bullock’s character in Miss Congeniality, “He liiiiikes me, he wants to daaate me, he wants to kiiiiss me…” And he’s fairly, albeit subtly, consistent. So subtle that I didn’t realize until I looked back through my text messages that I’ve gotten one from him pretty much once a week since June. More lately. Usually inviting me to meet up for a drink, but lately more pedestrian and conversational. A few days ago, while my friends Matt and Jeannie were in town visiting from Indiana, he asked me when I’m free for dinner.
Free for dinner…? Do men ask women that if it’s not a date?
I told him I thought I might be free Tuesday. But I didn’t hear from him about it after that about it. Other things, but not that. So I figured there was no plan. Until he called me, somewhat out of breath, Tuesday night at 7:30 or so, all apologetic about just leaving work and not having had time to cook anything…
Wait. COOK? Was Javier going to COOK FOR ME?
Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa, here, buddy. That definitely sounds like a date. That sounds like a fifth date, minimum.
Oh, hey. Are we dating? No, right? We’ve just been… what?… socializing and chewing food and swallowing wine in each other’s presence. Right?
Why is this so confusing?
When I told him (in a series of answers to questions – not all at once as it appears here) that I hadn’t thought we had any plans because there had been no further discussion, and I had already eaten dinner and was halfway through a drink, and I had a lot of reading to do for my class that needed to be finished by the next day, so no, I couldn’t join him for a drink or some food at the neighborhood place… he seemed kind of dejected and embarrassed.
I might have liked that.
He said he’s busy on some day or days I don’t remember, but he would call later in the week and maybe we could make plans.
But look. There is still the matter of the girlfriend – no idea the exact nature or agreed-upon construct of that relationship – and still the matter of my really so not wanting to get in any kind of mess again. Suuu (as he would say with his Colombian accent), if/when he follows up, there’s going to be a gentle but clear advisement: I don’t date men who are dating other women. No judgment – maybe that’s cool between them and that’s fine – but it doesn’t work for me. Not to mention I’m not really into dating anybody right now, though apparently I’ll make an exception if he ditches the other chick.
So I’m not currently convinced I stand for what I say I stand for, you know? “Oh, I’m not dating anyone for now. Except if he likes me and is available.” WTF, me.
Also, I successfully fought the urge to apologize and make sure I hadn’t embarrassed him. Because that’s my usual please-love-me way of doing things, and remember how I’m done with that? Because I am. And you have to make plans if you want to have plans. That is not an unreasonable thing to believe. I’m not mad or anything, but I’m also not hyper-available.
I will tell him all of that after the free dinner. Obviously.
Speaking of the homework I mentioned a paragraph and some sentences ago, it turns out I’m a sucky graduate student. You guys, it is so hard to remember which classroom I’m going to, let alone remembering to actually bring my books or print out the materials I need. I’m lucky I remember I have class. I do my homework – I haven’t forgotten that – but maybe because I work at the institution I’m attending, everything all runs together and suddenly I’m a complete idiot when it comes to details like room numbers. And bringing books. It’s like… when I was an undergrad, that was pretty much my whole purpose. I’m in college. This is what I do. I have a job-job, but this thing is central to my life. This is my bookbag. My books are in it. The ones I need. I pick up this bag and I walk to the class in that building, in that room. I do this for several classes per term. I always remember.
Now, it’s more like… Wait… what time does class start? Where are my keys? And then I forget to even ask myself about anything else until I show up and it’s Dammit, I forgot to print the syllabus AGAIN. And bring my books. But I have my business cards…
There have also been new developments with Miss Ella, the neighborhood soft-in-the-head old lady, but I’m tired and need to sleep now, so I’ll save that til later. Here’s a hint: I haven’t heard or seen her in days.
Oh, and also my dad has prostate cancer. I found that out Sunday night. But only a little bit of cancer. They caught it super early because he’s been diligent since his father died – no mass, no enlargement, just one sample out of 12 with a malignancy after a long watch of PSA levels that spiked to a number indicating cancer. He’s having the surgery. He’s informed of the side effects. He and my mother are fine about it.
Life is so totally weird.