The Teacups

When I was a kid, I both loved and hated the teacup ride at Disneyland. As we stood in line, my stomach would flip-flop with nerves and excitement, unsure it had the strength to hold onto the lunch digesting inside of it. My palms would sweat as I scanned for just the right teacup for me—the prettiest one in pink. When the employee motioned us onto the floor, I would race to my chosen teacup, heart-pounding, elbows ready to jab at anyone who had her eyes on my chosen cup. Once snuggled in, my dad would pull and pull and pull at the steering wheel while my sister and I, hair in braided pig-tails flying, giggled with a mixture of happiness and terror. Spin spin spin. Giggle giggle giggle. Our out-of-control teacup would whirlwind itself so close to the other teacups in the dance that I often imagined a crash, teacups spilling their human contents, still giggling, onto the Fantasy Land dance floor. Yet, time and time again, ride after ride, our little teacup obeyed its orbit and eventually slowed to a solo standstill.

Lately, I’ve been riding the teacup ride of online dating. I stand in an imaginary line, sifting through teacups of all shapes and sizes, unsure of exactly what color best suits me, unsure of the rate of their spin, the pliancy of their steering wheels. The only difference here is that I am both the chooser of the cup as well as the employee who motions myself onto the floor. What power there is in that choice. What safety and what danger. I must admit that sometimes I am so tempted to stay behind the gate of the line. It’s much safer there, there where it is only me with my nerves and my expectations. And, yet, I realize it would be such a shame to miss out on the ride. The dizzying-almost-crashing- pig-tail- flying joy of the spin.

The most recent teacup and I began our communication with emails pages long—laughter-tears inducing emails that were also filled with honest insights into our lives. For about two weeks, we settled into a rhythm—he emailed early in the morning, I emailed him back later at night—back and forth, back and forth. Finally came the phone number exchange. Sweetly, he texted a “good luck” early the morning of my first day back to my teaching job after a long and relaxing summer. I felt no disappointment that instead of a phone-calling, voice-to-voice “relationship”, ours moved from words on a computer screen to words on my telephone screen. Remember my old post about the permissiveness of texting? How it allows us just enough curtain? Well, this teacup was what I would coin a Mad Texter. Text after text after text. All hilarious. All promising. All inching my expectations higher and higher.

Three weeks in, we finally settled on a night for our first date. For the first time in a long time, nerves joined me at the mirror as I made my way through my makeup routine. I felt like this could be something special. Something comfortable. And I couldn’t wait to laugh the whole night away. After all, most of the “conversations” we had held up to that point ended with me dabbing tears from the corners of my eyes, clucking in some old-lady-like laughter at his incredible humor.

When I pulled up to the restaurant, he was sitting on a bench, waiting for me. And, although a little different than he appeared in his pictures and in my imagination, very handsome. As I walked up to him, I already had my first joke waiting in the wings. But for some reason stage fright struck down my joke. Or maybe it wasn’t stage fright? Maybe it was connection—or lack thereof. We sat at a table. We ordered. The conversation stumbled along. Crickets chirped through a few silences. After a little while, the conversation picked itself up off the ground and found a nice rhythm, a nice spin. Slow. Safe. Without the thrill. Not a single giggle escaped either of our lips. The few sarcastic quips I attempted fell flat on their faces. And, do you know that he didn’t even make one joke? I almost felt like I was suddenly living in that movie—what was it called? You know, the one where the witty, not-so-glamorous Janine Garafalow does all the talking for the airheaded but beautiful Uma Thurman and wins over the hottie with a flurry of false identity. Where was my jokester? Where was the man whose words made my stomach muscles sore with fatigue from laughing?

Afterwards, we stood by my car, wrapping up loose ends of conversation. It was there that banter began. Just a tad. Just enough to make me open to seeing him again.

And although we haven’t seen each other again, we’re still in texting contact and his texts still bring plenty a chuckle. Maybe we both realize that we’re better this way—scripted.

What I’ve learned through The Mad Texter is that sometimes the teacup looks so pretty from behind the safety of the gate. From behind the gate, one’s imagination can fulfill every fantasy about the upcoming ride. It can edit the scene—get just the right spin, just the right proximity to danger, just the right thrill. Somewhere inside of us, we know that that little teacup could actually disappoint us. Could actually hurt us somehow. Could maybe even crash. And so watching them from the sides is much safer. Oh, how they sparkle from there! But life with only sparkle and no spin poses just as much danger. And we know this. So we—those of us who are brave enough, optimistic enough—charge onto the ride’s floor, elbows ready to jab, and dive into our chosen teacup. And hunker down and hold on to what will hopefully bring us incredible joy. And when a teacup’s fit isn’t quite right—when the thrill is just a little off—we find a way to straighten out our pig-tails, soothe our nausea, and make our way back to the line where we look forward to the next mysterious ride.

Recurring Nacho Man

So you’re sitting at a Mexican restaurant with a group of your best girlfriends and you can feel the devil-may-care energy buzzing through the air. Well, that and the buzzing of the margaritas. Your friend, who is the skinniest girl you know, orders a plate of nachos. Now, usually you, being the disciplined, responsible girl that you are, don’t dare indulge in something like that, but then it comes. A tower of crispychips. Cheese oozes from its crevices. In its center, a heap of guacomole. On top of that, a generous dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of chopped black olives. A few jalapenos peek out from the heavenly layers. You really do try to resist, allowing the other girls to polish off a quarter of the pile. Finally, you give in. You take your first chip; it is piled high with cheddar and jalapenos. You think, I really shouldn’t be doing this. But you just can’t stop. Suddenly you are a nacho-noshing ninny. Your hand moves furiously, stuffing in the chips. In the back of your mind, you hear a nagging voice: “This is going to hurt later,” it says. “Maybe you should stop now.” But you can’t. You have been unleashed. All of that control you live so tightly under has crumbled like a rubber band left out in the sun too long.

Later that night, after hours of laughing and flirting and indulging, you finally lay down to sleep. Suddenly, your eyes burst open. Something is wrong, you think. You look at the clock. 3:30a.m. Slowly you realize what has woken you. Well, it reminds you. Your stomach wrenches, twisting angrily, a land under siege of digesting nachos. Your body is pummeled by waves of nausea and relieves itself in a rapid-fire session of spicy belches. After an hour at war, all is at peace…until the next day when you are repeatedly reminded of your indulgence every time you burp. Some foods just love to repeat themselves.

And so do some men. I’m not proud of this, but there is one man whom I’ve allowed to be in my life for way too long. I guess we all have them. You know, those men who, when you’re with them, you’re telling your gut to stop its instincts. Telling it to shut up already. Most girls are lucky enough to get these men out of their systems when they’re still in high school, but I didn’t have my first boyfriend until after college and my man of shame occurred when I should have already been smart enough. I was thirty when we met. I was, ironically, at a Mexican restaurant on Cinco de Mayo to celebrate one of my best friend’s birthdays. After a round of nachos and a couple of tacos, we got up from our tables and made our way to the bar. Gringos and gringas filled the room, showing their love of diversity by drinking beer and margaritas to celebrate Mexico’s independence day. One of the gringos was a man I’d known for a few months. With him, was the man who was to become my Recurring Nacho Man. Tall. Disheveled mop of dark hair. Scruffy beard dappling his face. Sideways smile. Dark, deep eyes. And a shirt that said “Mega Missile” across a cartoon picture of a rocket. I should have known by the shirt. Red flag #1.

From the get-go he was mysterious. This was a man who could answer “How are you?” with an answer so vague that it would create a cat-and-mouse game lasting fifteen minutes. And at the end of those fifteen minutes, you still wouldn’t know how he was doing. And the worst part of it was that I loved being the cat. I loved chasing down the answers in his dark soul.

Recurring Nacho Man and I began dating after that Cinco de Mayo night. We dated steadily for three months and then he told over a bowl of Moose Tracks ice cream that we’d be better off as friends. “You’re too nice,” he said. That was his reason. Jerk. You know, there are those girls who know how to play the bitch. And there are those of us who can’t. We are not screamers. We are not good at pulling other girl’s hair. Or giving stink eye. And no matter how hard we try to pout seductively, our attempts just make us look like we’ve just sucked on a lemon.

Speaking of sucking on lemons, Recurring Nacho Man and I didn’t see each other for about three months, during which time he was dating another girl. When she broke up with him, he called me and claimed that he was lonely and missed me. He asked if he could come over. (I see you all shaking your heads—I would be too if I hadn’t lived through it myself). And I said yes. And so, for two more years, Recurring Nacho Man and I danced on the border of a committed relationship. Well, I danced on the border. He knew which side he was on. The one I so desperately wanted him to leave and spent my waking hours hoping he would take the leap. Two years. Two years of mind games and manipulation and glimpses of hope and glimpses of love. And, do you know what? The only reason it really ended is because he moved. I would like to hope that the tiger who sleeps in my belly would have awoken, clawed her way into my logic, and told him where to shove it.

After he moved, a sort of relief washed over me. It was no longer up to me to make the decision. Fate had done that. Our only contact came in the form of sporadic flirty texts and a yearly “Happy Nude Year” text from him every January 1st. I know, I know, how can one person be so horribly cheesy?

Last December, I got what I’d always wanted from him: validation. He sent me a text message that read: You are the most special woman I’ve ever known. If I had not been sitting on my couch when I read it, I would have fallen to the ground.

Many silent months have passed since then. I do think about him sometimes, but mostly with anger and disgust (thank God). Well, this past Tuesday night I had gone to bed early. Summer is over, so the alarm clock has reassumed its 5:30 post. I was woken from a deep sleep by the dinging of my phone. A text message. From Recurring Nacho Man. It read: I HAVE GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS.

I think that if he had texted me in the middle of the day, I would have had the wherewithal to ignore him, but you know what waking-in-the-middle-of-sleep does to a person. I’m sure there are people who would give away their first-born if awoken at the right moment. I texted him back and said: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

To which he responded: I’M MOVING BACK.

Collective intake of breath.

Shit.

WHEN AND WHY?, I responded.

Soon.

Double shit.

I didn’t respond and I couldn’t sleep. Was I strong enough now? Would I be able to resist his egotistical charms? What happens if I run into him?

The next day, I decided that ignorance in this situation would not be bliss. I needed to know how close he was going to be. What grocery stores I should avoid. Where I should never go on a Cinco de Mayo again. So I texted him and asked where he would be living.

To which he responded: WELL, YOU HAVEN’T HEARD THE BAD NEWS YET. THERE WILL BE NO MORE NIGHTS TOGETHER. GIRLFRIEND.
Phew.

To which I responded: GOOD FOR YOU. BY THE WAY, I HAD NO INTENTIONS OF ANY NIGHTS TOGETHER.

To which he responded (do you feel like you’re at a tennis match?): WHY? ARE YOU MARRIED?

NO, BUT I’M NO LONGER LOOKING FOR NO STRINGS ATTACHED. And I meant it. I meant all of it. Finally. Good for him. Good for me.

I remember when he moved he said, “When you get married, you’ll thank me for being such an ass.” And, do you know what? In a weird way, he’s right. I am thankful. Sometimes it takes a run-in with a heaping plate of nachos to realize that no matter how delicious they taste, they will poison the life right out of you. And the man whom I finally marry might have a little nacho in him, but he won’t burn or twist my belly. He won’t rear up the brilliant head of my instincts. And he won’t want me to be anything other than the “too nice” girl that I am.