Can of Worms

So, anyone who knows me knows that I love me a Can of Worms. The tighter the seal on the can, the better. I love to dig my nails in there and pierce the metal and let the botulism-filled contents ooze through the holes. Although the ooze is poisonous, I like to pretend it’s more like Botox—the type of botulism that is socially acceptable, the kind that freezes time and makes one look as if her feathers could never be ruffled —and inject straight into my heart, into my dreams of what should-have-been.

On a side note, I remember having these amazing male friends during and right after college. These were the type of men I tried so hard to muster up attraction for—tried to ignite those fireworks. But, despite my last post, sometimes that match can never light that fuse. For whatever reason, even though most of them had every lady’s top three-looks, humor, kindness—the connection just wasn’t there. I remember thinking that I should host a “What a Waste” party. This would be a room filled with mingling men and women, brought to the party by someone they know, someone who thought they would be an amazing mate, but just didn’t feel that spark. I’ve heard there are now dating sites devoted to this idea—although, from what I understand, they are exes recommending exes. What has this world come to? They are stronger women than I.

Hmmm…how do these two ideas meld together?, you ask. Botox and a “What a Waste” party? Such a strange mix—unless you live in the heart of the Hollywood acting scene, where every party is automatically filled with exes with frozen-in-time faces.

Here goes some honesty. I’m owning it. Sunday was the Heartbreaker’s (who, by the soothing hands of time, has been demoted to Heartnicker) birthday. I hemmed and hawed about whether or not to send him a—ahem, ahem—harmless Happy Birthday text. Being the lover of worms that I am, I opted, as you’ve probably guessed, on the hawing side—and sent him a text. I simply sent: HAPPY BIRTHDAY. HOPE ALL IS WELL. Simple and safe enough.

I can honestly tell you that I have no idea what I expected out of this. I think I knew that I had learned enough over the past four months to know that he is no longer the type of man that I want for my future. I’m no longer looking for the thirty-seven-going-on-eighteen-raised-truck-driving man. So, when a few minutes later my phone rang and I saw his number on the screen, my heart did do a little flip but my hands didn’t quickly reach for it. Instead, they moved to cradle my forehead. And I actually thought to myself, Oh no…What have I done? Oh, that’s another thing about me—I love to open the Can of Worms, but I never know what to do with the worms once they’re wriggling around in the daily ins-and-outs of my life. They squiggle around in my belly, arousing nausea.

On the last note of the song that plays for my ringer, I grabbed the phone and said—very casually, of course—“Hey.”

“Wassup?” He asked. I immediately rolled my eyes at Higgins. Some things never change.

“Not much. Happy birthday,” I sighed.

What ensued was an unemotional, five-minute conversation—sharing details of the past four months. He still wasn’t working. Is now dating a younger girl—about whom he said: “I don’t want to say she’s nosey, but she’s definitely inquisitive.” And do you know that I actually defended the girl, saying that her curiosity was because of her age. Why did I defend her? Simply because, now that his voice had moved out of my imagination and into my ear, I realized that I had no emotion left for him. It was one of those moments like the one in “When Harry Met Sally”, where Sally’s ex calls her and she tells Harry that all she kept thinking during their conversation was that she had no idea how she had ever found anything about him remotely interesting. You know, same-old, same-old is only good when the ‘old’ was good to begin with.

Oh, and get this, dear readers, by doctor’s orders, Mr. Heartnicker’s Harley Davidson is now off limits and currently resides in his parents’ driveway. Poor little baby.

So, on about the sixth minute of our conversation, he says: “I hope this isn’t too weird, but I have a buddy that I think would be a good match for you.” Screeeeeeeech!

“Oh, really?” I asked, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. I leaned my head on the back of the couch and looked up at the ceiling.

“Yeah. He’s a good-looking kid. Nice,” he continued. I listened, eyebrows furrowed, mouth agape. “We go to church together, actually. I already mentioned you to him. I told him, ‘I think you and my friend Heather would be a good couple.’”

Yes. He did. He called me ‘friend’. More than once, actually. I guess, according to him, when he asked his new girl-toy for permission to call me, he told her I was his ‘friend Heather’. Whatever. There was nothing platonic about our months of dating…Anyhow…

I breathed, “Huh.”

“Yeah, I was gonna call you in a couple of days anyway to see if you wanted to go on a double date.” He said it like it really made perfect sense. Of course Heather will want to go on a double date with me and my new girlfriend. I mean, she’s one really cool chick. She’ll totally be down for that, dude.

“Huh.” I breathed again.

He continued, “Is that something you’re up for?”

So, here’s where I had an internal dialogue on fast-forward. Here’s what I thought, Holden Caufield style: Wow this guy really thinks that this wouldn’t bother me that going out with him and his new younger girl would be the most natural thing in the world. That kills me. That really does. He really thinks that I would be okay hearing myself being called the word ‘friend’ over and over again and not be bothered wow he’s more clueless than I ever thought he was thank the good Lord above that we’re no longer together. He’s a helluva guy. So now what do I go out with this other guy I mean Heartnicker is a good looking guy so this guy probably is cute and he goes to church and that’s a plus and you know life works in funny ways and maybe this could be God’s way of making sense of something that made no sense at all this. Shit.

“Sure. If you can figure out a way to connect us without it being weird, I’m game.” I did it. I accepted. Because, you know, you never really do know. Stranger things have happened. Maybe this Mr. J. Vaughn is my person. Maybe the oozing of this Can of Worms will lead not to poison but to magic. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Heartnicker has a better grasp on what I need than even I do—which maybe is why he ended things with me in the first place—he already knew. Maybe he realizes, though, that despite the fact that he is not my person, I am worthy of someone special. Maybe I am his “What a Waste”. And, in that, this whole, strange thing is actually kind of flattering. And maybe, this time, the wriggling worms released by my action will aerate my heart rather than hurt it. And maybe I will see why life’s funny coincidences really aren’t coincidences at all. Just maybe.

The Joy (or not so much) of the First Kiss (Mom—you might not want to read this one)

Now, I am by no means an “easy” girl. I do not believe in one-night stands. Nor do I believe in giving my body away to someone who hasn’t earned it. I guess you might say that in some ways, I’m a prude. Having prefaced this and advocated for my pride, I must now admit to you that I have kissed a shameful number of men…many of them whose names I cannot remember, and I wouldn’t be able to pick some of their faces out of the crowd even if I were offered a million dollars to do so—I guess I’m in trouble if I’m ever the victim of a crime where I have to identify the crook in a police-arranged line-up. Let’s just say the number is easily somewhere between thirty and three hundred. Oh, Gin and Tonic, how you loosen my tongue and demolish my guard.

I think I told you that I’m a late bloomer when it comes to having a love life. I actually didn’t even have my first kiss until my senior year in COLLEGE. Yes, you read that right—COLLEGE. Those games of spin-the-bottle that dotted the parties I attended in middle and high school made me so nervous I wanted to puke. Rather than play, for fear of being found out that I had no idea what a kiss entailed and certainly NO idea what to do when the word French was placed before it—Eek—I would feign disinterest and opt to busy myself cleaning up the kitchen (Yes, even in middle school).

My first kiss arrived with a trampling of nerves. How embarrassing for my secret to be revealed.

We stood in the hallway of the house I shared with roommates.

It was dark.

I knew it was coming.

He leaned in.

I held my breath.

And he kissed me.

And it was strange.

And awkward.

And there’s just so much to a kiss.

And there’s just so much of a person’s personality saturated in this act. This lovely, kernel of intimacy.

My first kiss came from a man who was over-the-top. People loved this guy. I loved this guy. His smile came easier than any person I’ve ever known—even to this day, I think of his smile and can’t help but feel a little lighter in the heart. He filled a room. His laughter. His jokes. His warmth. And he kissed this way. Almost selfishly. Almost as if he deserved all of me. He kissed so hard that the little string of flesh that attaches your tongue to the bottom of your mouth was ripped from its base. No joke. But what did I know? He was my first. I thought that’s just the way it was supposed to be.

I, like many of you thirty-somethings, spent many a childhood day watching The Brady Bunch. I remember an episode where Marcia shares a clandestine smooch with a boy from school, and she sees fireworks. The screen fills with them. And later in the show, Mrs. Brady kisses Mr. Brady and she sees fireworks. And so that’s what I expected. You know, the melting in the knees, the fluttering in the belly, the Disney music fading in, maybe a couple of birds singing.

I’ve only had two of these: my first kiss with Recurring Nacho man and my first kiss with The Cantaloupe Man.

There’s irony here, of course.

I guess a blog is a place for honesty, so here goes. As if Recurring Nacho man weren’t bad enough already, here’s more ammunition for you: Recurring Nacho man never kissed me during our second go-around. Not once. Well, I take that back—he did kiss me the day he moved. He claimed he didn’t like it. Now, there’s an insight into this man’s comfort-level with intimacy. I’m not sure why I put up with it, I really don’t. But I did. Mystery. Once again, thank the Lord that that door is closed.

And The Cantaloupe Man, well, I’m sure that when the 80’s are once again out of style (oh, dear Lord, please fast forward to that time), The Cantaloupe Man will no longer have the confidence to perform.

Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about this. And I’ve been asking friends. And, man, are the opinions divided. Here’s the question: If mediocre fills in the spot where the Firework Feeling should be, does that doom a relationship into the realm of never-meant-to-be? Or is the Firework Feeling just some elusive mistress that can never truly be tied down to commitment?

What I’ve realized recently is that it makes perfect sense for the first few kisses to be just a little off-kilter, just a little elbows-akimbo. After all, if kissing is an expression of personality, an expression of intimacy, isn’t it understandable that as the awkward dance of getting-to-know-you jilts along into a smooth tango, that kissing should do the same?

Up until now, I’ve straddled the fence on this issue. Well, let me be honest, I actually haven’t straddled the fence, I’ve been on the Instant Firework side, along with all of the teenage girls and adult women who live in Romantic Comedy Land. But, the stilts of maturity and experience have been strapped to my feet by the hands of Time. And I’ve used them to clamber over the fence and land solidly on the ground of Fireworks Can Grow. And, do you know what? They can. I’ve felt it. And they’re just as good. Even better, actually, because isn’t it the man attached to that kiss that really matters?

Recurring Nacho Man and Cantaloupe Man, in the words of Flo from the 80’s TV show, Mel’s Diner, “Kiss my grits!”