Not So Blonde

4 minutes

I have lots of different thoughts dancing in my head. Let’s see where this post takes us, shall we?

I got hit on by a 17-year-old. Okay, I’m only guessing at the age because its not like I asked Isaac (he was wearing a name tag) for his ID. He was the cashier at the grocery store and the convo went a little something like this:

Isaac: *sniff sniff* What’s that smell?
Me: *thinking -fuck… did I forget to put deodorant on AGAIN (that’s a joke)* Um, I don’t know…
Isaac: Is that your… perfume?!
Me: OH! Yes. It’s actually my lotion.
Isaac: That’s your lotion? It smells like…
Me: It’s supposed to smell like cake.
Isaac: THAT’S IT! It smells really good. Like cookies. And cake. And frosting!
Me: Um, thank you. Hehe… *handing over money*
Isaac: Now my checkstand is going to smell like you. *flirtatious grin*
Me: *blush* As I snatch my change back and walk away.

Why didn’t he just say his checkstand will smell like baked goods? Why’d he have to say it would smell like ME? Why am I blushing when the cute Puerto Rican obviously under-age cashier, blatantly hits on my way-over-30 ass? R always says in 20 years, I’m going to cheat on him with the gardener.

Okay, so a) R is going to have to marry my ass if I’m going to stick around for 20 damn years and b) where the hell did the gardener come from? We rich or sumthin’? Got some secret reserves I don’t know about?? Show me the money, R. SHOW.ME.THE.MONEY.

R’s hours are irritating the hell out of me. Like, if he was making bank (he’s not, temp jobs) I’d be all for it. And I guess I can’t bitch too much since he is doing SOMETHING, but, and this is pathetic… I can’t sleep when he’s not here.

It might partially be due to the fact that I don’t lock the dead bolt in case R has to come home and that just freaks me out, y’all. I’ve caught myself having dreams a couple of nights where I can hear someone (a hoodlum) picking that bottom lock (you can’t see the dead bolt from the outside). I sleep like shit, I hear things, I curse R’s schedule, I go to work, I’m tired as hell (more than usual) and I never see my boyfriend. This sucks. Can someone give the man a (normal) job, please?

R is always tired, always. I get it. I try and be understanding, I let him sleep whenever he’s laying down, I have cooked more than I ever have and I’ve washed more tupperware I even knew I owned. This morning, he comes home for his short nap in between jobs and I roll over on him. I wanted a big hug. Just to lay. A hug and a lay. Sounds naughty. But I really wanted a damn hug. That’s it!

R says: Ugh, baby. Get off. I have 4 more minutes to sleep.

Ugh, baby… get off? That’s nice. Why don’t you ugh, baby get off your own dinner? Ugh, baby get off your own breakfast? Ugh, baby get off your own lunch? Ugh, baby get off your own laundry? Ugh, baby… get off?! Pfft. I was annoyed about that all day. R lets shit fly out of his mouth sometimes that make me want to hit him. Get a clue, dude. Better yet, give me the phone numbers to these girls you dated before me that were SO cool with your big, fat mouth and let me hear how THEY dealt with it. That’s mean. But, damn. Get off?!

I found an ex on myspace today. Laurie can skip ahead since I was chatting with her on IM during this whole ordeal. Hey, girl! *wave* I don’t remember what Laurie and I were talking about but something made me do a search by the ex’s name. I can’t even tell you the last time he and I spoke. It’s been years, people. I’m thinking… at least 4, 5? Long time.

I typed his name in, never expecting to see anything but Tom saying - can’t find that shit, sorry! - because Lord knows dude was always way too “cool” for any type of net activity. His profile pops up and my jaw dropped. My IM to Laurie looked something like this:

omg
omg
omg
omg

Laurie’s like - wtf? WHAT WHAT?

There are 2 people from my past that I wonder about from time to time. I was single a long time (a damn decade) after my divorce before “settling down” with R so I think 2 people is a conservative number (for me). I don’t think of either as “the one that got away” or “ohhh, I wish we were still together”. But, you know, maybe wonder how they are, how they’re doing, wonder if they’re happy, what their kids look like, if they think of meeeee (tell me what song that’s from and I’ll love you forever. Not that I love the artist that much but just, ya know, that you’re WITH me like that. Awesome).

One of these “involvements” ended badly but I can still catch him on TV (I’ll tell you about that some time, what an asshole) if I’m so inclined but the other, the one on myspace? He wasn’t so bad. Laurie asked why we stopped seeing each other and I didn’t really have an answer. Why? Um, I don’t know. Isn’t it funny that you can’t remember stuff like that? Something, I’m sure, was so devastating at the time and the memory of it is gone. I told Laurie, well… it just didn’t work out.

This guy and I had an on and off again long distance (love those, don’t I?) relationship for about 2 years. He came to see me in Portland, in Phoenix, back in Portland, I saw him in his hometown. I wasn’t really seeing anyone else in that time and I didn’t ask if he was, I didn’t want to know.

Weird, I know. I’m not usually like that. This guy, though, was different. He was beautiful. He was the “pretty one” in our relationship. I remember going out with him and women would stare. Like I wasn’t even there, just, durrrr… he’s cuuuuuute. Girls acting as if they had no sense at all. Hello? I’m here! With him! Whore!

I remember one time when he walked off the plane for a visit and him laughingly telling me a flight attendant had asked for his number after giving him lots of free bottles of alcohol. I didn’t know what to say. Oh, hello. Missed you, too. Great, you’re drunk. I then saw the girl walking down the jetway, giggling in his direction and looking me up and down. Bitch. That’s her saying that, not me. Okay maybe I muttered it, too, so?

This man could never, straight out, tell me he loved me. He’d always ask in a roundabout way: “You know I love you, right?” It seemed so sweet and charming then and for yearrrrs afterwards. But now? Seems sorta… cheesy. And dumb. And non-committal. I deserve(d) much more.

I remember the first time he came back to my apartment (we’re all adults here, I hope). I had aired that place out for at least a week in anticipation of this special night. I was smoking (cigarettes) a lot then and I didn’t want him to know. I erased all evidence of empty packs, ashtrays, lighters, butts.

He walks out to the patio off my bedroom (I had two, I loved that apartment) and I spy… cigarette butts on the balcony. I’m trying to distract him like: “Oh hey, let’s get a drink…” I hurriedly walk towards the kitchen with my back to him when he calls to me: “Do you smoke?” Excuses start dancing in my head: What do I say? What do I SAY? Who the hell would be in my BEDROOM smoking a cigarette but me?

He laughs and says: “Cause if you do, I’d love one. I haven’t smoked since we met cuz I didn’t want you to smell it on me.” SMOKING SOULMATES. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. At the time.

I dug around in a kitchen drawer, we found an old forgotten pack and we sat on the patio and laughed, smoked, smiled, giggled, smoked some more. I remember a lot of nights like that. Cigarettes, getting high (he was a huge pothead) midnight snacks (byproduct of the wicky wacky), drinking wine, candles burning, lots of love. What I thought was love. But, it wasn’t. Another L word, but, not love.

I do clearly recall a dimly lit hotel room on one of his trips to Phoenix. We were drunk, high, talking, laughing, our inebriated talk turns to marriage. He says something about what our wedding would be like. I rolled my eyes in the back of my head (not hard to do when you’re high) and pictured myself in a pretty white dress walking down the aisle of a church, seeing him in a tux waiting at the end of the aisle for me and, then, getting a clear look at his smiling, handsome face.

A big fat “nooo” popped in my head. My foggy, high, drunk head: NO. This can’t be good. I’m supposed to be in love, right? I shake myself out of my daydream and he asks: “What’s wrong?” “Nothing”, I reply with a smile. We subsequently had a huge fight because he knew something was wrong and I wouldn’t say. He was young, he wouldn’t let it go. How do you tell someone: I never want to marry you but how ’bout I fix us another drink?

This man was very hard to be with. Not only the snowboard instructor hotness that he was, then there was the fact that he was very insane (more than me and really? There can only be one crazy person per relationship) but we also had a 5 year age difference that I was always self conscious about. Who knows why since I was like - 25 (SO old) and he 20 when we first met.

Maybe I knew it wouldn’t ever be anything more than what it was. Maybe I was smarter than what I gave my young self credit for. But, every time we saw each other felt like it could (and would) be the last time. He would sing on our last nights together before he’d leave yet again the lyrics to Save Tonight by Eagle-Eye Cherry. Ever-so-softly in my ear, I’d hear:

Save tonight
And fight the break of dawn
Come tomorrow
Tomorrow I’ll be gone

I mean, who has this as “their” song? It’s just so tragic and wrong and sad. And no matter the time invested, somehow, it always felt short lived. I would never admit it then but it’s so obvious to me now. Passion is fun, passion is PASSION, how can anything compare? The woman I am now knows, passion can’t sustain itself forever. It just doesn’t. True love, that’s what can compare. True love far exceeds fleeting passion.

I don’t regret it, or him. I don’t regret much of my past. Not when it comes to learning and appreciating the knowledge, hindsight, strength! That I have now. Things I may have not been ready for then, times I wasn’t willing to make something “real” work… they would never have been possible if not for my angst-filled, sad, wild, sometimes fun, crazy “roaring 20s”.

I’ve grown older and I have come to realize: I may, at times, have a tired boyfriend. He may be an ass or get on my nerves. But that man sees me through all the hard times, the good times, supports me, laughs with me, cries with me, sees me when I look my best and sees me at my worst (usually involves crying, or just waking up). He loves me through it all. For that, he’s allowed to be irritated occasionally and may not even want to be bothered with me a day (or two). He really wants that 4 additional minutes of sleep so he can provide for himself, for me, for us. That man ain’t afraid to work his ass off.

One day, you may see the object of your long forgotten passion, and, you may notice he doesn’t look the same. He’s not the young, fun guy you remember him as being. He never aged in your mind’s eye but, now, he’s just another normal man. In my case, he’s 11 years younger but R looks so much better. In body, and in spirit. Not to make a comparison because there really is no comparison. I’m with the man I was meant to be with. I am loved and I am in love. Every now and again, R and I rekindle that passion we had when we first met and the next day, we go on. And on. Truly, in love. Get those 4 extra minutes, R, you’re going to need them.