Monday Morning –
Today has been hell. A meeting after meeting, ingloriously hungover, coffee-machine's-broken type of hell. Which would definitely be par for the course on a Monday (who among us hasn't been there before??) except it's not even true. My boss cancelled our eight o'clock, I didn't drink last night, and I've made three fresh cups of dark roast already.
So.
What the hell gives?
I fear we have officially entered the point in this relationship thing where I am getting worried. To think, I actually thought I'd dashed past this, somehow, when we got through date four and I could call myself breezy and mean it...
Of course, nothing gold can stay. I am worried. And restless. And bombastically overthinking in ways you wouldn't believe.
It's been horrible. I couldn't get to sleep for hours last night. My mind was too busy running around and around in circles in a way only comparable to my cat when she gets the zoomies. I became wholly and utterly convinced that Aiden is going to end things with me this week.
Maybe by Ex No. 2's way of sending a text. Or maybe he'd opt for Ex No. 1's way of total radio silence until I decide it's over myself. Or perhaps he'd do it in some third and worse way, unique to him... Any way you slice it, it'd be over by Friday, for sure. And it was something I'd done. Something I'd said. No amount of reassuring memories of our last date together would quell it –– no, any good thing was cancelled out, killed on-sight by all the blaring discrepancies forged in my melodramatic fire.
We haven't texted at all since our last date. Thursday. He's been in New York visiting old friends this weekend, so I'm sure he's been busy. And to be honest, we don't text much in the interim between dates anyway, besides the occasional check-in and confirmation of time and place. Of course, those facts didn't matter to my brain. Maybe a week ago the infrequent texts were normal, but this week...
It was all but confirmed for me that as he partied in Soho, in the East Village, in a hipster bar in Brooklyn, he too was reviewing all our dates. He too was picking apart everything I'd said and done, highlighting any hue slightly off-color, and was deeming them decidedly Not Girlfriend Worthy. Even worse, he was getting second opinions from his friends about the situation, and as he went through the lowlight reel over dinner, they offered him all the assuring grimaces and head-shakes he'd needed to cement his opinion. Right. It's so fucking over. By the time my plans of sleeping by ten turned into midnight, I'd become wholly positive I'd been given some divine fly-on-the-wall ability, and my anxious daydreams became sacred, undisputable truth.
But then, somewhere between one and the witching hour, I had this horrifying contrasting notion: What if he hadn't thought of me at all? What if he had a wonderful amazing mind-blowing time all the way across the country, found some other girl he really clicked with, and it hadn't even occurred to him to hate me or miss me?
It was like a shot of espresso. Or gin. Either way, I was wide awake with no signs of settling. Which option was true?
Which was worse?
The terrible irony of all of this is that somewhere, deep down, I know I'm ridiculous for worrying at all. Aiden carved out time on Friday to see me before his flight on Saturday morning, and we've had consistent dates, once every few days, since the day that we met. I can pick apart my cadence all I want, but there really isn't some stand-out conversation or action to justify a verdict so strong. So there's no good reason for me to get this bent out of shape!!
Do you think it's a timing thing, perhaps? I've spent most of this morning reviewing how it went down with No. 1 and No. 2, ascertaining any similarities, and I came to the realization that things essentially ended with both of them after Three Good Weeks. Ex No. 1 was definitely a multi-year cat and mouse thing, yeah yeah yeah, sure sure sure, but we'd only really been together, in a fully intentional and available capacity, starting at the top of last December. Lo and behold, by the first of January I'd been sobbing on my couch, watching romantic comedies, wondering in earnest where it all went wrong. And then my brief time with No. 2 was housed predominately within the month of August, with everything breaking down promptly within the first week of September. So it makes sense, then, that my body would be responding with fear on some subconscious level with Aiden here. Keeping me up at night, making my stomach turn, and all. We've been seeing each other for three weeks now, and things don't usually last longer than this –– my mind has justly decided. We were fooled once, then twice. Like hell if I'll let myself get fooled a third...
As sweet as my subconscious is about giving me a warning, it's kind of making me anxious in more ways than just the one. What if I get too in my head about this and end up becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy? I could get convinced he hates me and confront him over it. Or I could start believing he assume I hate him, and I could scare him off by making it too deep too fast to prove him otherwise. Reviewing the delirious courses of action I drafted in my state last night, I find it possible I could do either. It's horrific: What if I end up ruining things because I'm so certain they'll be ruined anyway?
Who the hell knows. All I know for sure is that tossing and turning until my eye-bags are indigo, second-guessing, and stuttering on my every word and action in self-critique on dates... Those things don't exactly make me the best version of myself to be around. And any person who's ever fallen for me has mentioned they fell for my confidence. My self-assurance. It's what No. 1 told me back in school, at least: When I scribbled in my notebooks when everyone else was making small talk before class, I never looked like I needed anybody. No sense of desperation. It only made him want me more.
So. I can't be desperate. I have to stay cool.
If only it were so easy.
Ugh. I cannot spiral. I have a fairly important meeting in six minutes, and I ought to get my wits about me before I present. But why hasn't he texted me yet? We still need to figure out what we're doing on Wednesday.
...If anything.
No! Don't think like that! STOP!
xxx
Monday Afternoon –
Reporting to you live from my desk, I am eating flavored edamame beans. Buffalo flavor. What is buffalo flavor? Like, obviously I know what the flavor is but why is it called that? Does it have something to do with where it's from?
Some fascinating thoughts for you to mull over. Can you tell I'm trying like hell to think and write about anything other than Aiden??
Still no text. Which wouldn't have mattered to me a week ago, which means everything to me now. I've tried weighing the pros and cons to texting him first, asking how his vacation went, but the cons are pretty fucking catastrophic. If I text first, he'll definitely have been wanting to ghost me and will wince at the notification. He'll indulge a dry conversation, make an excuse to get out of our plans on Wednesday, and I'll never hear from him again. And if I don't text first –– well. I'll never hear from him again.
Damned if I do, and damned if I don't.
I'm convinced Aiden has texted the other girl, the New York Girl who isn't even real or confirmed, a million times over today. They're reminiscing over how great the weekend was, how serendipitous it had been that their paths crossed. They're sending salacious messages. They're planning out his next trip to see her as I plan my damn funeral arrangements.
And I'm sure she's just like his ex. His cool, amazing, incredible ex. I've scrolled through her social media ad nauseum at this point, I may as well have the link bookmarked. There's a coolness to her that is both untouchable and also humble, somehow, at the same time. If I'd had her in one of my college classes I've would likely feared her and wished she was my best friend in the world with equal measure.
I fully understand how in most situations, I shouldn't worry so hard about this. He ended things with her. He told me about it firmly and calmly, with not a twinge of longing or regret. Still, it's a hook for me to sink into –– an excuse to look down at the wound and say oh look, I'm bleeding! I'm in so much pain!
I need to get a grip. And lunch. These buffalo edamame beans suck.
