De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

We stood in Penn Station waiting for his departure gate to be posted after spending the weekend together. We were silent but harmonious. The weekend had flowed and unfolded gently. There was nothing about him that had grated on me, except for the fear that it would not happen again. Like a warm cup of coffee, being treated like a woman had awoken in me, a deep need for more. The highlight being when he put his arm over my shoulder for five hours, intermittently holding me close, while we listened to music at a local bar. He was a bit tossed at the time, and what happened in the Mercury Lounge was going to stay there. Naughty confessions about the past and all.

Two friends standing in front of us tearfully spilled their hearts out and held each other’s hands. Mr. Republican Hair Part and I looked at them, appreciating their expressions of love and then smiled at one another. I had been surprised with my candor, although I had only known him peripherally for several years. There he had been in the background, living his life as a prince among men. Yet I know that at this point we are definitely JUST friends.

There were zero episodes of fun-killing tension or friction, although Mr Republican Hair Part is someone who on the surface is very opposite to me in many ways. We navigated our decisions about our weekend and our opinions on life with humor, compassion and aplomb. I slowly realized how our experiences had shaped us in complementary ways, almost as if I was suppose to have those experiences so that I could appreciate someone JUST like him.

But unfortunately, I know full well, that he is unwilling at this point to give up on his uncommitted, twelve time zones away, pseudo-girlfriend, living in another country. And I have to respect that his true romantic attentions are elsewhere, and make sure that I do not get ahead of myself. Love is not an intellectual concept, and on this we both agreed.

I turned to him, after the two friends in front of us parted ways and said,”There is a movie called Love Actually. Hugh Grant plays the prime minister, and in the first line of the movie he says, “Where ever I get gloomy about the state of the world I think of the arrival gate at Heathrow airport. The general opinion is that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. Mother’s and fathers, girlfriends and boyfriends, old friends, new friends…Love actually is all around us.” He smiled really big, and we continued to people watch while we waited for his gate to be announced.

When it was, we hugged tight, he smiled at me and said, “I had an amazing time.” There was something that I didn’t know how to interpret in his slightly cheeky smile. I couldn’t translate exactly what it meant, so I smiled back without saying a word. We said our goodbyes, and I turned around and left, aching a bit, each step of the way.

For now, I was accepting goodbye with no assurances, except that he wants to come back very soon during the holiday season. No specific plans had been decided upon, but I kept his bed made on the couch where he said he slept, “so comfortably”. I am not ready to wash the sheets just yet.

Relief from this anxiety came this morning when Mr. Motorcycle stopped by my desk and said hello and offered to bring me the crossword. He was obviously pleased by my reaction when I smiled and accepted wholeheartedly. I needed an assurance, an attraction, something that would once again fill that insecure, pin-hole sized vacuum in my heart. Mr. Motorcycle’s fundamental look of stupid on his face when he saw me, was that medicine.

If I could find someone who gives me that look, along with the noble, courageous, forthright nature of Mr. Republican Hair Part, then I will have found the “perfect man.”

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Is my guardian angel speaking through friends and coworkers? Or am I going to be left hanging, alone with my faith, leading to no concrete results? While Mr. Republican Hair Part and I finalize our arrangements for next weekend, Mr. Motorcycle decides to go for another round of back door flirting today at work.

It started with my hat, worn to cover a very bad haircut, but became some kind magnet for compliments from three male co-workers. Mr. Motorcycle took it one step further and handed me a computer print out of the cover of a DVD titled “Fievel et le Nouveau Monde”

“So, when are we going to head out west to California.” he asks slyly.

“Uh?” I shrug not sure if he knows, that I know, that he just got back from California on a trip with another woman, even if she was a lesbian.

“Isn’t that where Fievel went to? Your hat is just like his. When are we going on our trip?” He counters, and I finally make the connection between the print out he gave me and his first question.

I back out gracefully with an uncommitted one liner, and exit the stagehands office, painfully conscious of the tension between us.

Back in the safety of my of station, I drop the paper in front of my computer, and turn to a cameraman, who witnessed the whole interaction.

“What do you think he meant by this?” I point to my picture of Fievel, a french mouse, with an optimistic rudsack slung over his left shoulder.

“He’s flirting with you like a sixteen year old.” He instantly retorts.

“Flirting doesn’t mean he actually has any real feelings for me. He keeps doing things like this, yet he’s never come out and said, “Hey, would you like to go out for a movie and dinner?”

“Why don’t you something about it?” He counters.

“No, I want someone who will put himself out there and come through the front door, not another “backdoor bob” I stated flatly.

In my old age I’ve become someone who wants a man who will tell me his intentions up front and will follow through. I’ve become dogmatically old fashioned about my demands. I’m ready for my good guy. While Mr. Motorcycle is undoubtedly very outgoing, outwardly confident, tall, and handsome, there is a part of me that feels like a little girl in his presence…hiding a bit and more quiet than usual. When our eyes meet there is an electricity, but neither one of us seems to know if we want to honestly acknowledge that current, or let it be.

Recent murky dating waters have left me feeling a little insecure, confused, and faithless, even as I pray faithfully…not for anyone specific, but only that the right person comes into my life. I hope the powers that be don’t take it personally that I have a hard time believing my prays will be fulfilled. There is also a part of me that knows that no man will be 100% perfect, and I do not want to push someone away who may be right for me, but a bit awkward.

Putting aside all prejudice, I ask the cameraman an honest question, “What do you think of him. What do you know?”

The cameraman stopped his work, and turned to me, “I think he was living with someone recently and she cheated on him and left him for someone else, yet I don’t really like him honestly. He has a mean streak, and I think he can be a bit controlling. Who knows, maybe she had had enough and decided to break free.”

It was really all that needed to be said. Instantly, a wave of fear and sorrow overtook me. And of course, it was almost time to go on the air. I pushed back tears, and focused on my work. The cameraman touched my arm gently, like he could read into the years of repressed fear, and frustration, that I would betray myself and fall for someone, who would really deeply hurt me.

“I think you can do a lot better.” He said compassionately.

My only fear. Will I find it? Will I know it when it happens. Will I believe in the moment, or callously overlook genuine affection. Or will I look back years from now and realized my missed opportunities to finally get it right. And I am not talking about Mr. Motorcycle.

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With Mr. Motorcycle hopelessly engaging in “geo-caching” adventures with a woman who also likes to sleep with women, just like he does, and also rides a motorcycle (they have so much in common), I’ve decided to focus my attentions on Mr. Repubican Hair Part.

After some email exchanges, we are now in the process of setting a date for him to visit me in my new home in Westchester, and to explore the Big Apple together, as friends, as distant relatives by marriage, not genetics, as confidants who have engaged in decisive, honest, tactically appropriate, emails… that have led him saying the following,”

“Wow! You take a direction and go the distance. Your
“off the beaten track” list covers the bases. Sprinkle
in my touristy things and we have a plan. Pick an
upcoming weekends that works best for you and I’m there.”

With baited breath I responded to his email with the best weekend or weekends to embark upon our adventure. Fully knowing that my irrational exuberance might prove to be my undoing.

I called our mutual elderly relative to get a reality check, to see if there was further intel that might quell emotions that can only be accounted for, in part by a highly active imagination.

In paraphrase:

“We talked for over an hour. I’ve always been closer to him than his brother. He’s always been the black sheep in his family ” She continued, “He talked about his girlfriend or his NOT girlfriend.” She seemed to be as confused by the status of his love life as I was, probably as he was, at this time, refusing to decisively define the exact nature of their relationship.

I chose to lite another candle tonight. The same one as before. Yet I added another line to the pray I said before I lit it.

“I do not want the perfect man. I want the man who is perfect for me. Please don’t let my affections go where they are not meant to be.”

I do not know where this infatuation will go, but at this time, I’m choosing, to appreciate, the infusion of energy, and pray, that if it is not meant to be, that my heart, will not be damaged to the point that I’m not open to any real love under my nose.

I only hope that I will understand the way in which this pray is answered.

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“I think we are in different places in our life. ” Mr. Republican Hair Part concluded about the current state of his love life with a Taiwanese friend. I’ve known her for seven years and everytime we were suppose to come together, it just never worked out.” Still I could tell that he was pining for it to.

Later came the “I don’t think that there is the perfect person for anyone, just the right time, the right person and the right situation….I think that you and I are in exact same place.” As I told him about my move to the suburbs…my days as Bridget Jones in Brooklyn are numbered like the impending due date on my credit card statement.

It is time for me to decide what was important and continue to embrace responsibility, not because I have to, but because it has somehow, become who I am, and who I am comfortable being. Still uneasiness pressed down on my chess about his half hearted attempts to reach across the phone line. Could true love sound this pragmatic?

“I know that if I got involved with someone else, that she would most likely not be comfortable with this “other friend.” He told me of Taiwan Girl’s reluctance to move to the states and be with him, because she was the youngest child and culturally she was expected to take care of her parents.

He had left a stable job for her, when his superiors inferred that this relationship and his job were not compatible. He dropped it without question, for someone he cared for. I only admired him more. Aching when I realized that his romantic notions were not meant for me. “My posted resume got spammed with job offers…three of them were in New York.”

“Really?” I replied, monitoring my tone. “Is this speculative or definite?”

“More speculative at this point. Actually I think that I am going to take an offer I received here in Maryland. ”

“Congratulations.” We ended our conversation with open invitations to visit each other…yet neither one of us offered definitive dates.

I laid in bed that night sorting through our conversation. Words, subtext, meaning and emotion colliding with the language barrier that inherently exists between men and women. I woke up again at 2 a.m. and groaned unable to feel any peace about it.

I shot off a judgmental, quickly written email,”Does she appreciate what you have sacrificed for her?” I asked, fully regretting my critical, abet slightly motherly tone. “Duty is one thing…but love is love.?” He never answered me. Never defended her. Yet I realized his fight for her heart was not over. My heart ached just a little at the thought that his open heart might be used against him.

I couldn’t help myself. I have known him peripherally for fourteen years. The boy who had given me the charming silver necklace when I was nineteen, was now the imperfect man, in transition, in pain, and in love with someone else, who seemed reluctant to return his affections. Still despite his imperfections. I couldn’t help but care. The perfect heart was imperfectly in love with someone else. Love IS NOT an intellectual concept, despite his best attempts to hide it.

I past a Harley Dealership today while exploring my new neighborhood. I thought of Mr. Motorcycle. A week ago I was admiring photos of his newly remodeled stainless steel kitchen. “The problem is.” he stated, ” I have this great kitchen, and no one to cook for me.” He smiled, looked down, and then looked up directly at me with his big brown puppy dog eyes. No he still has not asked me out on an official date, but I knew if I asked him to help me build my new Ikea furniture in exchange for a home cooked meal, he would accept it in a heartbeat.

Mr. Motorcycle would need some training. He would not necessarily understand my need to learn French, visit the Met, or go to the occasional opera. I would not dare force him to go shopping at the Westchester, but I could still expect him to put his best face on if we traveled to Europe. But this is who I am, and if he genuinely likes me, he knows it.

My wanderlust is expressed by aimlessly walking through Central Park, to end up at the perfect sushi place on the Upper East Side. His is expressed via a tank of gas and $20 to pay for the tolls we would pass on the parkway. What we have in common is that slightly nomadic, slightly wild spirit. We are still so different, but the questions remains, are those differences complementary, or a liability waiting in the wings to upset. What is true love? I don’t have the faintest idea anymore.

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“That says a lot about his character.” said Mr. Republican Hair Part, as I recounted the story of Mr. Motorcycle’s continued flirtation, and but inability to take the risk to ask me out on a proper date.

“I agree. The men at work are always in through the side door and out the back” I said, believing in our meeting of the minds, yet perilously aware of the dangerous emotional waters I was walking into.

I have a small confession. There is a growing part of my idealizing and adoring feminine psyche that takes a lot of comfort in the thought of being with someone like him. Someone who is fiercely intelligent and cultured, opens doors for the woman in his life, and is neither cynical nor suspicious about a woman’s need to be looked at, slightly doted on, and understood for her moods.

I have another confession. I was also always the sort of leftist, regrettably pierced and tattooed, rebelliously artistic girl who had the secret crush on a boy in the conservative Izod t-shirt and khaki pants, despite his diametrically opposing political views. I never back down from a good discussion. Honest disagreement, is like foreplay.

As I have moved closer to the center of my beliefs a better me has emerged. Even my tattoo seems out of place and is slated to be removed by my dermatologist next month. I realize there is a new and happier me emerging as well. I am not the girl I was in my twenties, and the men are starting to finally notice.

My final and rather embarrassing confession. I thought Tucker Carlson and his little bow tie were kind of hot, up until his unfortunate appearance on Dancing with the Stars.

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I lit a pink candle last week, and recited the following prayer, “I do not want a perfect man. I want the man who is perfect for me.”

As someone who regularly accepts that she will not get what she wants it is hard  to accept an answered prayers.    Trust is very complicated.

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Inhale slowly, exhale even slower. “Just breathe.” I tell myself, mid-anxiety attack. I am back in my dream from three nights ago, feeling the emotions as if the events were taking place in my day time hours. My chest is tight. I feel the need to burst into tears. I am looking at his new girlfriend walking down the path from his house toward me. I stop, look at her and said, “He lied.” I make my way up and down this same small path retrieving a little more of my “mail” until I am ready to leave the path from his home once and for all. The symbolism was not lost on me.

“Just don’t lie.” was all I heard him say to me in the beginning of our relationship. I never felt any anxiety about why he said it. I assumed that he had been burned before, and that once he understood how much I loved him, this insinuation would go away. We are all insecure, I wasn’t going to toss a relationship because he was showing a bit of his dark side.

But IT was always there. The sharp mistrust punctuated by emotional outbursts, accusations, and sudden breakups over nothing…followed by over-whelming declarations of love and fidelity. “I want to open your heart.” He confided, “Place my heart inside yours and zip it up so no one else can get inside.” What he always failed to understand was that my heart was already open, no surgery was necessary. I steadied our relationship with even and muted reactions, like a parent, patiently witnessing the out-burst of her toddler.

“He lied.” I finally said the words out loud to a friend. We were driving home from work in my car. The night shielding my face from direct view. “He smoked pot everyday. Although I never knew until his friend blurted it out. He failed the bar at least three times. He told me it was once. And…he was trolling online dating sites at least a month prior to our final break up. He lied.” I admitted to my friend, like a dark confession that needed to be let out. “I gave my heart to the wrong man.” And just like that.  I knew, however anxious I felt about opening my heart to someone else.  I am definitely ready to move on.

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