Stay of Execution

What I'm Thinking About

It's the college sailing season, so a lot of what I'm thinking about is logistics: have we picked up the van, is there gas in the motorboat, I need to order this part, what's the breeze going to be like on Wednesday, don't forget to call this person back, etc.

I'm thinking a lot about video, and how to take good footage and then what to do with the footage to best use it as a teaching tool.  The college has some pretty cool equipment and very cool software that lets you do motion analysis, mark up the video and highlight things, but I haven't learned how to work it yet.  I'm still learning the basic stuff, like where the buttons on the camera are, and how to insert the little cassettes.  I have some footage and I've been viewing it to isolate some moments that demonstrate movements, right and wrong.  It's very time intensive.  So I'm mulling a lot about video, and how to incorporate it this season as a coach.  I am not yet able to drive the motorboat, film sailors, and watch critically at the same time, let alone do all that and make sure the drill is running right.  So there's a lot to figure out. 

I'm thinking about food, what to eat and how to stay healthy.  I keep forgetting meals, and then eating junk.  I remember last year, how often I pulled through a drive through after practice, desperate for something because I'd forgotten to eat.  That's not how I want to live.  So I'm thinking about shopping lists, packing myself healthy lunches and dinners and snacks, when to shop and how to prep so when I come off the water and I'm tired I can eat something good on the way home, then make a quick and healthy dinner before I sit down to watch video or plan the next day's practice or respond to emails. 

I'm thinking about Mr. Next Big Thing, most of the time. Sometimes I'm thinking about the fact that I'm thinking about him so much, and alternately worrying and grinning.  This is not like any relationship I've been in for years.  For someone who writes about my life here on the Internet, I'm really pretty emotionally guarded, pretty fond of my independence and my wide ranging social circle, pretty reluctant to get too attached to any one person.  But somehow that's not the case with him.  t feels terrific, and it makes me realize just how walled off I have been.  To those who tried to date me in the past, I'm sorry.  I'm thinking about logistics with him, too, because he's 800 miles away, and sometimes I have to talk myself down because I'm worrying about things that are too far away.  He comes here in October.  We'll see what happens then. 

I'm not thinking about: my car (a used Jetta I bought from my mechanic last week), what I'm reading (Nabokov's Pnin, which I am underwhelmed by), or all the friends I'm out of touch with.  Or very much else, truth be told. 

Speaking of Bloggers

Looks like Mike, the proprietor of Buffalo Wings & Vodka is closing up his blog.  It's a sad day for all of us. 

I've been reading that blog for a long time, and knew just from the voice that I would like Mike.  Over the years we've exchanged some emails and chatted via instant messenger from time to time.  I've seen his wedding pictures.  We've talked about collaborating on a writing project.  Did we have a conference call with Jeremy, or was it only a three-person chat session?  I can't remember, but in any event, for a person I've never met, I have a pretty strong sense of Mike's personality.  He's in my tribe; we'd be friends if our paths crossed.  I still hope I'll end up wandering through Texas one of these days and we'll be able to have a beer together, and when I do I know it will be easy, and fun.  I believe that somehow this medium can capture a human voice pretty truthfully.

So that brings me to my story.  This fellow, Mr. Next Big Thing, he's a blog reader.  He had his own blog, for a time, and so he was on my radar screen a couple of years ago.  We exchanged emails from time to time, and mix CDs as part of a blogger-music swap back in the fall of 2004.  Turns out we like the same kind of music, and so from time to time after that we would email or comment to one another or even drop something in the mail.  Nice guy, good person.  If our paths ever crossed, I knew I'd enjoy him. 

And then we started communicating more and more, this spring and summer.  It got to be almost daily, and then it got to be several times a day.   He wooed me skillfully, and steadily, and I didn't really recognize it until it was too late.  By the time we spoke on the phone the first time I had a big crush; by the time we hung up I was captivated.  It was absurd; I didn't know what he looked like, beyond the picture he sent for the birthday party, and a couple of others.  And he lives too far away, in a place he loves about as deeply as I love Maine.  But every time I freaked out he was gentle and steady and reassuring, and so the courtship continued, and I got even more ensnared. 

And this weekend he flew to Boston to meet me.  It's the most improbable, irrational, romantic risk either of us has ever taken.  So far, so good.   

All Requests: Relationship Rules

You people, you lovely people.  I'm always surprised when I get "Dear Abby" type questions on request day, about your career or your love life.  I don't know how to make it more apparent that I am fumbling along on some unpredictible mix of gut instinct, a pull towards what I know, and the occasional wild unjustified risk.  So far, the recipe hasn't yielded impressive results, although this afternoon it was hard to imagine a happier life. 

All this by way of prefacing the next request, from LW:

**Here's the request: What “relationship rules” that apply to “normal” relationships also apply to dating a lawyer who works 7 days a week (but leaves the CrackBerry turned off and in the car when we’re together)?  Is there a secret to dealing with the CPA/Lawyer – twice divorced? What “normal” relationship rules can be tossed out the window? Other than knowing he's short on time and constantly thinking of work, what else do I need to know in order to progress the relationship?**

I obviously can't answer this.  I can't answer this in the specifics of your case, and I can't answer it generally.  So I'm punting and answering a question you didn't ask, about what "normal" relationship rules can or should be tossed out the window in general. 

Methods of Communication

Talking in person
Talking on the phone
Telegram
Carrier pigeon
Smoke signal
A banner towed behind an airplane
Note wrapped around a rock thrown through a window
Letters sent by US Mail
Email
Podcast
Instant Message
Telephone text message
Telephone "multimedia" message
Voicemail
UPS or FedEx delivery
Fax
Instant messenger away message
MySpace page
Writing a book
Skywriting
Flares
VHF radio
Glancing, gazing, winking, smiling, blushing, raising an eyebrow
Buying a drink
Touching
Sighing
Yawning
Music
Singing telegram
note in a bottle washed up on shore
Tail wagging
Note folded in a tidy square and passed during 6th period
Sandwich board
Yard sign
Graffiti
Advertisement
Waving
Sign language
Bumper sticker
Customized license plate
Dropping a footnote
Weblog post

What am I forgetting?

Question

What's the most improbable, irrational, romantic risk you've taken?

How did it turn out?  Do you regret it?

The Best Part, The Worst Part

The best part of the wedding was how I befriended Uncle Chris, a Greek relative of the bride's, in his late 80s or early 90s.  Somehow he got to telling me about how he started learning to sing opera, about seven or eight years ago, and performed a hunk of La Traviatta at his church.  I said, "will you sing for me?" and he agreed.  So while most of the guests were drinking wine on the outdoor deck, or dancing to "Brick House" and "Love Shack" in the main reception hall, I led Uncle Chris across the lawn and down the front walkway, where we were shaded by two big trees and the noise from the dance hall was muffled.  I sat down, and he stood up, and told me about the part he would be singing.  And then he sang to me, his voice wavering and soft at first.  He stopped, and apologized.  I had my teeth capped a few years ago, pure vanity, and now the saliva in my mouth, it's no good.  Keep going, I said.  This is the best La Traviatta I'm going to hear all night.  He laughed and started again, and this time his voice was more confident.  He gestured at an invisible son, who he was rebuking in song.  I could hear the emotion in his voice.  I leaned forward to listen.  But he begged off again, soon.  I'm too old and phlegmy, he said.  I thanked him and we walked together across the shady lawn back into the brightness of the reception.

The worst part of the wedding was letting go of a long, low grade mutual crush I've had on the groom for these last 18 years.   It's not even that, really.  It's letting go of the idea of his admiration of me, the youthful vision of what I once was.  I was young and beautiful and unguarded and brave, once, full of curiosity and a bold inquisitive adventurousness.  The groom met me then, and I captivated him, and the letters we've exchanged over the years remind me of that self.   I'm afraid I'm not those things anymore.  I've grown old and not so brave.  I am tired, and tender, and I've got all these walls around my heart.  I'm afraid that nobody who meets me now can see that girl in me, quite the way the groom once did.  So the worst part was saying goodbye to a part of myself, to what once was, what might have been, and what never will be again.   

No Time To Write

I've been a little bit gloomy, lately, which is why I've been quieter than usual around here.

I'm off to Wedding #2 of the season.  It's a man I always thought I might marry, actually.  Well, not ever seriously.  But somewhere in high school that vague daydream landed and it never really left, fully. 

I went into an old drawer of letters from my high school days.  I used to write prolific letters, the old fashioned kind, in the mail, and I have piles of those I received, banded in rubber bands.  I was rereading some this morning, from people I've forgotten I was ever that close to. 

Have been thinking about smart men lately.  There's a thread tying all of this together, somewhere.  I'm not sure I know what it is.  It's something to do with smart men, I think, and my cautious fascination with them.

Dear [ ],

I got a splinter yesterday, and last night as I tried to get it out I got angry at you. The last time I removed a splinter it was yours.  We were at your place, and you held out your hand to me.  Can you help me with these? you asked.  It took me by surprise. 

You had everything: tweezers, a sharp needle, a match to sterilize the needle.  You sat by the window, where the light was good, and I squinted at the soft heel of your palm, muttering and trying not to hurt you.  It's harder to take out someone else's splinter than your own, maybe, because you can't feel the pain and in your imagination it's much worse.  I hated the idea that I was hurting you, clumsily chasing the tiny sliver embedded in your skin.  I winced inwardly as I worked the deep one out.  There were two of them, and I got them both.  You never flinched.  You sat, quiet and brave, reassuring me that I was doing a good job. 

Last night, alone, I didn't have anything.  If I have a sewing kit I don't know where it is.  I buy a new one every six months at the drugstore and immediately forget where I stow it.  I got an old blunt pin, the back end of a brooch, and didn't bother to sterilize it.  I couldn't really see where it had gone in, or hold my hand in a place where I had a good line of sight.  I had to pull back the skin on my pinky with my thumb, awkwardly, while I stabbed around at it with the other hand.  I was clumsy and ineffective.  It stung, and I kept giving up, then realizing it would hurt more if I didn't take it out.  I got mad at you, mad at the memory of me taking care of you.  I was mad because I was alone, and mad because I wouldn't have noticed but for the intrusion of your memory.

I've learned lately that I am not very good at asking for help.  It's not just asking for help, a friend corrected me.  It's accepting help, being helped.  I'm no good at that.  Last night as I poked dully into the flesh of my finger I thought about how nice it felt to take care of you.  What surprised me when you asked me to take out your splinter was how simple and intimate it can be to trust someone else with small things, flesh wounds.  It wouldn't have occurred to me to ask you, then.  And now, when it might have, you're not here. 

I wish you were. 

But I did get it out, eventually, without anyone's help.  And it only stings a little.      

Scheherazade

All Requests: How To Stay Friends With Your Ex-Boyfriend

Anonymous Girl writes with this request:

How have you managed to stay friends - good friends- with your ex'es?  How do you put aside the feelings?  (I am trying to manage a friendship with an ex - its new - the trying to be friends part, not the breakup part,  and I feel like he is just a reminder of a failure, that I wasn't [___] enough - insert word of your choice: pretty, thin, fun, interesting, etc.  Which is funny since I initiated the breakup.  But I guess some part of me, as ugly as it is to admit, wanted him to confess that our time apart had made him realize how much he missed me and I guess it has just been hard for my ego to realize he might just be over me.

Hmmm.  A good question -- one I've tried to answer before.  I am fairly good at this, I think, although I don't know if anyone is 100% good.  I think there are two parts to the question.  One is, how do you get over somebody, really and truly over them?  How do you create a narrative that explains the end of your relationship that doesn't mean that you're a failure (not thin enough, cute enough, fun or interesting enough)?  And the second part is, what rules of etiquette or deportment can move you from a romantic relationship into an easy friendship without strain? 

I'll answer the second question first, because I think it's more straightforward. 

This is Unfashionable

This is unfashionable to say but I am sort of dreading the onset of wedding season.  I've got five this summer, with a sixth in the fall.  And I want to go to each individual wedding -- I'm looking forward to seeing what they'll be like and to celebrating with my friends.  I know there will be lots of fun memories created, lots of eating and drinking and dancing and laughter.  But in the abstract, there's a cumulative weariness about the prospect of all of these weddings.  The transportation, the expense and the stress of choosing a gift (or the guilt of postponing that part, and its reminder of all the gifts I'm still behind on), the worry about what to wear, which dress, which necklace, which shoes, which bag.  The fact that I'm not bringing anyone with me to any of these weddings, and the anticpation of a pang of envy during the ceremony when I listen to heartfelt proclamations of enduring love.  A whole lot of cocktail party conversations.  I can schmooze pretty happily, but sometimes it tires me out.  It's nice to have someone to retreat to, to compare notes with, to pull onto the dance floor for a break from putting on a public face. 

I don't want to be the kind of person who beats myself up over other people's joy.  That's not the way I view the world, as some kind of zero-sum game.  But it's hard, during these pageants that celebrate couplehood, partnership, loving commitments, not to have a little bit of longing.  It's hard not to hear a little voice asking myself, why can't I have this, too?  And I feel like I can't acknowledge that pang.  It's not happy, or sparkly, or friendly -- not something you can mention at a cocktail party.  I feel like I need to hide it, laugh it off.  And doing that makes me feel even lonelier, more isolated.  It's tiring.  It's not how I want to be.  I want to be able to be exuberant, delighted, without any shadows.  I don't want to wander to the bathroom to be alone for a little while, to recharge for more lighthearted conversation.