Scene: Getting ready for work this morning.
Drying my shorter hair, which, strangely, takes more effort than when it was longer. Singing aloud (and with purpose and passion) to some truly horrible, terrible song that I would not even admit here that I love. I haven't listened to music while getting ready since....shit....law school? I blame the post-workout high. Planning the day, the week, the weekend - and all of a sudden, I have something approximating a freak out about The Writer.
Stream of consciousness thinking, turned up to 11 for full effect:
WHAT THE FUCK AM I THINKING? I have zero desire to start another something with someone and have resolved to take this time to really get cool with myself. It is way too soon, or maybe too late, or just simply really shitty timing. This guy seems like a really interesting man and someone I would love to get to know, but not under any pretense of dating. Am not anywhere near ready to start any new relationship and need to focus on strengthening and repairing the ones I have. Want to spend more time with family, especially siblings. Am still a little weary and leery from the last experience and am going to take some time to heal and introspection in order to regain what has been lost in the past few years. I wish I had been introduced to this man in a few months, you know, after all of the personal growth that is surely bound to happen. This will probably turn out to be some rebound experience that goes horribly amuck, amuck, amuck.
Moment of Clarity, AKA GENUINE SELF Speaks:
DUDE, ARE YOU LISTENING TO YOURSELF? TIME TO HEAL? YOU WISH YOU WOULD MEET THIS INTERESTING MAN IN A FEW MONTHS? DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU ARE LISTENING AND SINGING ALONG TO? WHO THE FUCK IS THAT PERSON WITH SHORTER HAIR IN THE MIRROR? GET THE FUCK OVER YOURSELF AND STOP OVERTHINKING EVERYTHING, FOR THE LOVE OF ROCK OF LOVE. DON'T THREATEN ME WITH A GOOD TIME! STFU, EMOCHICK!
Dog freaks out, randomly jumps into my arms, licks my face as if it is covered in peanut butter, then barks loudly in my face:
I think she and I just had a meeting of the minds. I hope she won't bite him if he comes over.
Return of EMOCHICK, who has suddenly started yelling like GENUINE SELF:
DUDE, WHAT? HE ISN'T COMING OVER ANYTIME SOON! NOT READY! TIME TO HEAL! REBOUND MATERIAL! THIS IS YOUR TIME TO STRAIGHTEN SOME PERSONAL STUFF OUT! FAMILY! FRIENDS! BETTER LIVING THROUGH BETTER COOKING! BOWLING LEAGUES, SOCCER TEAMS AND ULTIMATE KICKBALL GAMES!
Dog gently but persuasively nips me for the very first time in our 1.5 years together:
Another moment of clarity. Seriously, who the fuck is this EMOCHICK person with all of the excuses and self-help jargon and, of all things, approaching life from a position of fear? She may have a $400 haircut, but it is framing a brain and mind that bears little resemblance to the woman I thought I was, and certainly the woman I want to be.
8 AM. Phone rings:
The Writer. As my newly schizophrenic self was currently hosting GENUINE SELF, I answer. He is calling to see if I have a wild hair to have lunch before the elusive second date. Ever the discriminating diner, I ask what he has in mind. Salumi, he replies.
Salumi is Mario Battali's dad's place and is fucking amazing. I don't eat a lot of bread, but need a sandwich from that place every couple of months. EXCELLENT choice.
GENUINE SELF:
"I'm in. I'll meet you there at noon. You better arrive early to get our place in line. I like pesto, so if you have to order before I get there, hit me with the green stuff."
The Writer:
"Excellent. Let's get the elusive second date out of the way." (I had made the mistake of telling him that I had never taken a second date with someone I wasn't really interested in).
EMOCHICK
FUCKING A, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?
Dog:
"Don't make me nip at you again, freak of nature. Banish the EMOCHICK and just be yourself. That chick I know.
GENUINE SELF:
Replays the God awful song, sings louder and with even more purpose, and tells EMOCHICK to go fuck herself.
Scene: Lunch at Salumi's
The Writer has properly ordered my sandwich and we sit communally with a host of foodie tourists from NYC. One great looking guy asks us how often we ate there and The Writer announces it is our first time together and our spontaneous second date. Table cheers, pronounces us "made for each other," and extends invites to "our next trip to NYC" (including quasi-famous chef whose name I recognized because I watch entirely too much Food Network and Top Chef).
Scene: Leaving Salumi's
Me: "Well, I have to get back. Filing tomorrow and, by the way, I am probably going to head to LA this weekend, so we probably have to reschedule dinner on Saturday."
The Writer: "That's cool. I got the elusive second date, and I assumed that if you accepted a second, you'll agree to a third. I'm kind of clever that way."
Me: "Fuck it. Yeah. I'm in. Next week is a bear and I probably won't have a night free until Thursday, but yeah. Sign me up."
The Writer: "You know? It is a gorgeous day. I will walk you back to your office and we'll call it date #3."
Me: ("Fuck you, EMOCHICK") "Think you can keep up?"
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