The Cantaloupe Man

2009 began with a bang of hope. On December 31^st, I received a text message from a man whom I’d been emailing for a week or so. The message wished me a happy New Year and held a promise to be in touch on New Year’s Day. Sure enough, on the eve of New Year’s Day, I received a text asking me how my New Year’s celebration had been. We texted back and forth for two hours. I know, I know, we could have said the same things in about a thirty-minute voice-to-ear conversation. But today people are not only allowed, but are encouraged, to communicate passive-aggressively. By texting rather than calling, one can retain the right to read whatever meaning into the little words on the screen that he or she chooses. If I want a man to be in love with me, and he texts: Hey. What’s up?, I can project a ton of meaning onto those three words. For example, I could convince myself that he chose the word “Hey” rather than “Hi” because he wants to come across causal, even though he is so madly in love with he can hardly contain himself. And the “What’s up?” clearly is man-speak for “I can’t live without you!”

Anyhow, towards the end of my first texting session with The Cantaloupe Man, he asked if I would like to go to a ten o’clock movie. I checked the clock—9:40. Now, I had just finished reading yet another book that educates women on “The Rules” of dating—you know: never sleep with a man on the first date; pretend like you really aren’t interested so that he’ll feel the need to chase you; and never, never, NEVER accept a last minute invitation.

So, I, emboldened by my recent women-power read, texted him: Maybe another time? I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.

To which he responded: I like pumpkins.

And, I hate to admit it, dear readers, but that was all it took. That little, corny comment convinced me to agree to the movie… A movie that was, by the way, magical. Not the movie itself (it was actually pretty horrible), but the experience—it was just The Cantaloupe Man and I in the theater. The two of us and That Feeling. That Feeling is an elusive frenemy of mine. It makes me quiver in my flip flops and want to jump over arm rests to sit in a man’s lap and encourages me to giggle at his jokes and long for his next phone call. But it also makes me put up with too much B.S. from men who, quite frankly, aren’t worth the shoveling of their proverbial manure.

Anyway, That Feeling was there, wedging itself between us and whispering in my ear: “He’s just great, isn’t he?” and reaching into my stomach and churning it in a flutter of pleasure.

After the movie, we kissed…yet another “rule” broken…and it was one of those knee-melting kisses where you feel like it just wouldn’t matter if you never got the opportunity to kiss another man in your entire lifetime if this was the kiss that said goodbye to and greeted you everyday. He felt it too. In fact, he didn’t even say goodnight. He just looked at me, said “huh” as a statement not a question, and got in his car.

He called the next morning and we saw each other the next night. Within a week, we had seen each other five times and I had even met his parents. You know those girls I mentioned in my first post whom I love so fiercely? The ones who are married to amazing men and gloriously raising their beautiful children? They always tell stories of how easy it was when they finally met their person. How there wasn’t any of that second guessing about what they said or wondering when he was going to call or if it was okay to reach for his hand first rather than waiting for him to reach first. I thought this was finally it. My easy. My natural fit. My person.

Alas, such Disney fantasy was not in my cards. Suddenly, the phone calls stopped. Literally. We moved from two or three interactions per day to zero. Just like that. Poof. I picked up my book of rules, mustered up my feminine pride, and waited for him to contact me. He didn’t. Realizing I couldn’t NOT try, I called him. He answered and even asked me to meet him out. I did and he was doting and affectionate and I raised a mental fist and shook it at the authors of all those books I’d read and smirked: “See, rules people? See???? There’s no such thing as rules anymore!”

After that night, the silence returned.

For four months.

Out of the clear blue, he texted me to say that he missed me. I, dating someone else at this time, bravely responded: “That’s funny. How could you miss me when you haven’t even tried to see me?”

To which he replied: “I miss my Transformers, too, but I haven’t gone out to buy any new ones.”

Huh? (note the question mark).

From here, we started a sporadic texting friendship and I even saw him one night—and, you know what? He still gave me That Feeling. Months later and stupidity waving like a flag from his forehead.

Fast forward another month. I’m at a party. And this man comes onto the patio where I’m standing with a group of friends. My friend knows him. She introduces him to me, first and last name. His last name is the same as The Cantaloupe Man. I ask him, “Oh, are you the brother of The Cantaloupe Man?”

He says, “Yeah, he’s in the kitchen.”

My stomach somersaults and I go find him. There he stood. Picture this: a cantaloupe-colored T-shirt—something resembling the color of those hypercolor T-shirts that were popular in the late 80’s (for those of us who are old enough to remember), two diamond-studded earrings, a gold chain around his neck, gold-rimmed untrendy Ray Bans perched on top of his head, and on his arm, a tiny brown-haired girl with the shoulders ripped out of her T-shirt. Clearly, they hadn’t gotten the memo that this wasn’t an 80’s party.

And, do you know what? Even in the hindsight that this blessed life gives us, gives me, and in the present sight of him all guido-ed out, I still wished he were mine. Maybe if I’d only cut some shoulders out of some of my shirts, it would have been love…