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.