oh jeez. that's it. I'm turning over control of my "boy" life to someone else, because clearly I am no longer competent.
This, of course, has to do with He Who Is Most Irksome (also discussed here). The brief version of the story I was too rushed to tell yesterday is: we hung out, went to a few bars, had a lovely friendly (*friendly*! no longing glances or accidental footsies -- which by the way is gross anyway!) evening, and came back to my apartment for a little while so he could get untipsy enough to drive home. So we're crashing on the couch/bed (hey, it's a studio, no room for the luxury of more than one place to sit!) chatting about nothing -- and basically, he brings up the "hey, there's tension," kisses me, and we're off the races, ladies and gentlemen! (Remove mind from gutter -- there was no crossing of finish lines). Anyway -- at about 5am, we start chatting again -- which took nearly an hour, but the only relevant thesis was he's "not ready to be in a serious relationship." Oh, the cliche! Oh, the stereotypicality! I took great issue with this statement, based on some past actions and experiences which would take too long to describe, and, while we did eventually amicably get an hour of sleep, it wasn't a very pleasant conversation. Anyway, I felt badly about certain things that I said, but I felt more badly about some things he said. So when he called in the late morning, after he had left and I had gone to work (and come home from work!), it was a very brief "hey, how are you, good, how are you, glad you got home safely, bye" sort of thing. I just didn't know exactly what I wanted to say. Over the course of the next two days, I was torn between acting as if nothing happened or making no effort to continue our friendship or throwing the hurt-feelings fit that my inner 3-year-old really wanted to throw. Last night, after a few too many glasses of wine, I decided to go for the "call him and insist on seeing him so you can talk" approach. Of course, he wasn't home. Of course, I panicked when the answering service picked up and left a boring asinine messages (and I usually pride myself on at least leaving amusing asinine messages but oh well).
And, of course, the minute I hung up, I kicked myself, because of course NOW I realize that the better plan was the "act like nothing happened and try to be cool for once in your damn life!" For the next hour, I lived in a "Friends" episode: making elaborate plots to get to his house, steal the tape, erase the tape, incinerate the tape, etc. I did not, however, do any of those things. So, the message stands, and ever since I woke up this morning, I've had that incredibly irritating almost itch-you-can't-scratch feeling, like you've been slimed and haven't been able to wash it off yet -- WHY DID I LEAVE A MESSAGE?
(Query: Out of curiousity, do boys ever do things like this or is it just the female of the species that gets so nutty over what, really, is fairly small potatoes in the grand scheme of life?)
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