Wax On, Wax Off

I got an email today from this boy I bought a car from a while back. We ended up spending hours together waiting to get the title changed over, and I guess we sort of bonded over our mutual disgust with the lack of efficiency of the Pinellas County DMV.

He's in the Air Force, and he was selling his car because he was transferring to Italy. He spends four months in Italy, and then, they send him to Iraq for eight months. I only heard from him once during the time he was in Italy, but I've gotten more emails from him since he arrived in Iraq. This kid is so nice, and the things he tells me about his time there make me worry for him. I'm always afraid the emails will stop.

In my last email, I sent him a link to this web page I’d found on military humor. It’s very funny. Check it out: Skippy's List.


So, anyway, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t need to date right now. I’m just on the fence with everything. Why drag some poor guy into it? So, aside from breaking-in my new strappy sandals with the four-inch heels, I’ve done absolutely nothing of any consequence this weekend.

I went for a wax and mani-pedi Saturday morning. The woman who does her best to keep my hoohah hairless and my hands and feet pretty is named Kiki, and she is awesome. She’s so good-natured about everything. She speaks almost no English, so we work on her vocab and pronunciation whenever I come in.

My bikini wax is always awful. I get the Brazilian, and I try to be okay with the indignity of the whole thing, but it’s just so weird. Kiki just throws one of my legs skyward, laughs at the way I’m trying cover up to maintain a smidgeon of modesty, and goes to town. The next ten minutes are punctuated by my sharp intakes of breath and cussing and her voice saying, “You okay?” and “Better.” (This portion of her English lesson is maybe not so valuable as the rest.) Once it’s over, though, all the pain and embarrassment is definitely worth it.

On the weekends, Whole Foods puts out these great samples. Not long ago this guy back in seafood let it slip that all they do is cook and eat all day, so now I try to time my grocery run for about noon on Saturdays in order to take advantage of the lunchtime sampler. I have cheese and fruit in produce, this yummy cranberry walnut bread in the bakery, and I wash it all down with a thimble-sized cup of iced green tea over on the soft drink aisle. What’s better than free, organic food? I also pick up shampoo and some vitamins I’d promised to mail to Carrie while I’m there.


You know, one of my favorite movies is called “Singles.” It was written by Cameron Crowe, whom I think is just a great writer for my generation. One of my favorite quotes from him comes from that movie “Almost Famous.” The quote is: “The only true currency in this bankrupt world... is what you share with someone else when you're uncool.” I love that.

If you haven’t seen the movie, Singles, it’s about a group of twenty-something’s living in Seattle in the 90’s. The character played by Bridget Fonda ends up breaking-up with the boyfriend who doesn’t appreciate her and she has this monologue where she talks about being alone and how there’s a certain dignity to it. Well, she, or rather Mr. Crowe, was right. Brazilian bikini waxes aside, there is a certain dignity in being alone.

And, my new sandals are all broken in now, too.

Sleeping Around

Talked to Josh last night. The conversation began as text messages in the afternoon. Here’s how it went…

“How’s your day so far?” I send.

“It’s good & how’s yours, sweet girl?” He sends back. Josh and I haven’t seen each other since I was twenty-one, so he really does still picture me as a girl.

“I need a nap!”

“Can I take one with you? <☺>” Is how he comes back.

“I knew you’d say that.” I text.

“Kissed any boys lately?”

“Nope. Kissed any girls?”

“Yes. I kissed (that woman he just broke up with).”

Well, I didn't know you'd say that.

Yeah, so we end up talking later that night. No, they’re not back together. It’s just funny to me that this is how we operate. We like each other, but we can’t be friends the way we can be now if we get together, and up until now neither of us has been willing to give up the possibility of the future. I know, though, and I think he does, too, that future’s never going to come to pass. And, I’m okay with that.

I like things the way they are. I like being able to flirt with him and talk with him about anything and know that he’s not going anywhere. He won’t judge me. And he’ll always be on my side. Still, it would be nice to find what he and I have with someone I can actually share a life with. But, if I never find that with anyone, I know I’ll be happy anyway. I mean, what’s the alternative? Besides, if you go from person-to-person trying to find the relationship you think you should have, you might miss out on something even better. You shouldn't expect love to look a certain way. It almost never does.


Somehow, I end up losing count of how many Coors Lights I've drunk, and, at about 9:30, Lily calls. I meander over to her place, and after she scolds me for drinking cheap beer, she feeds me cheese and vodka sauce on toast and Oriental-flavored Top Ramen. (When did Oriental become a flavor?) Even in my slightly inebriated state, I make her show me the package to ensure that absolutely no animals were harmed in order for me to partake of the noodles and the broth.

She's going to visit a man she met at a wedding in Vermont. He calls her "Hoochie Mama," and she's not sure how to take it. I laugh when she shows me the note he's attached to the flight itinerary he's sent her. He's drawn a huge smiley face on a post it. I look at the itinerary and tell her, "Well, at least he's not a crazed serial killer. He's already bought your ticket home."

She says to me, "Paige, I guess the people I know must be really nice, because it never occurred to me he wouldn't buy my ticket home." And this makes me laugh, too.

The baseball game is on mute, so she can play me some kooky Indian throat singer music. She's going through her cd's, and I’m lying down. From my vantage point I’m looking at her bookshelves and at the things that reside there. She has all these signed copies of Tom Robbins books on the top shelf. She has orchids and books on plants and science and poetry. She has a statue of little pig that used to belong to her daughter’s great-grandmother. She has a ceramic hamburger that her daughter made when she was an adolescent. There’s a small cast-iron white elephant on wheels that I secretly covet, and that she found at an architecture salvage store in Sarasota. She has a belly dancer’s belt with little brass coins resting next to a board game. She has a whole world on her bookshelves, a whole life.

And this is what I’m thinking about as I slip off to sleep on her red-velvet divan.

Got the T-Shirt

I spent the morning cleaning up the mangroves. Omnicorp gets invited to these volunteer things every year, and part of my job is showing up. I dragged the new girl in the office along with me in part because she’s going through a rather brutal break-up, and she really needs to be out of her head and with people who like her at a time like this. Okay, so she was among people who don’t know her, but at least, I got her out of her head for a while. I’d solicited roughly 700 people from the office of Omnicorp in the area, and we got four. But, it’s a Saturday, and the weather’s beautiful. What are you gonna do?

Volunteering is something I really like doing. You’re among these people who just want to give back to the community. It’s a great way to network, too. I can’t tell you how many friends I’ve made this way. Everyone’s happy. Everyone is working together for the greater good. Well, the greater good and the t-shirt.

I try to scope out the people with hangovers at these things, because they’re usually the ones who are the most interesting. I spot a guy with dreadlocks tied up in a piece of leather string but decide he might be a little too granola, even for me. Everyone else is unusually cheerful and bright this morning, so I’m out of luck in the entertainment department for the event.

I spend the morning picking up Styrofoam and plastic bottle tops with my co-workers, and we compete to see who’s got the picture of the bigger bug or better junk in their bag. I take a walk on the dock with the little girl of one of my co-workers from the other site for a little while before we head over to the beach to pick up our t-shirts. I watch them eat hot dogs with the sea breeze coming in off the water before I head home for the day.

I talked with my best friend, Carrie, last night and she’d told me that I was different since I’d gotten back from California. In a good way, she’d meant.

“You’re more open,” was the gist of what she said.

I know what she’s saying, and I recognize it. But, in the months since I got back, I’m restless in a way I haven’t been in years. I know I’m different. Being open, though, means you’re vulnerable. I’m not sure if the trade-off is worth it.

Blast from the Past

Checked my house phone voicemail yesterday, something I do about once a week. And the third call, from an insanely long number, was a hang up. The fourth call was from the same number, but it was man’s voice with an ever so slight Boston accent. This is what the message said:

“I remember that voice. This is Dan O’Reilly. I’m calling from England, so there’s no sense trying to call me back. You could email me. My email address is (his email). I tried to call you before, but the phone cut out. One of the joys of living overseas. I have a one-year-old daughter running around. I was just calling to see how you were. Bye.”

Ohmigod!

Danny O’Reilly was a man I loved a long time ago. It was a long and complicated relationship that was never quite right, but we really beat it to death before heading to our respective corners. I have never been the same. I never thought I’d love anyone again, after him. And for a long, long time, I didn't

I call my older sister first.

“He said he has a daughter?” she asks.

I get her point, “I’m not looking to hook up with the guy again.”

“Still,” she says.

“Right, and he just turned forty last month.”

“Oh, that makes sense. I did the same thing when I turned forty. Remember?” I did remember.

“Probably. Yeah, that’s got to be it,” I say, a little disappointed. “I don’t care. It’s really nice that someone who meant that much to me still thinks of me after all these years.”

“It is nice,” she says. “Just be careful.”

“You know, he and I were still talking when he hooked up with his wife. I was coming down for a visit and wanted to stay with him in a purely platonic sense. He’d recently had another female friend stay with him, but when I pointed that out to him, he said to me, ‘But I was never in love with her.’ In four years, that’s the closest he’d ever come to telling me he loved me.”

I call my best friend, Carrie, next. No answer. I call her cell. Voicemail. My message:

“You need to call me.”

I text her. “OMG. Dan O’Reilly called me from England.” I copy my other sister, Julia, on the text.

Julia texts back immediately, "Dan? *The* Dan?"

Carrie calls me back.

“So, email him. There’s a reason he’s calling. Let him get around to it.”

So, I email. He emails twice. I email back. He emails back. And so it goes.

I’m not an easy person to find on the Internet, but I don’t even care how he found me. He writes that he found me through an advanced search engine. I’m flattered that he went to any trouble. I don’t tell him I’d looked him up on the Internet, too, and even found him in England. I’d never called, though. He did, though, and with one phone call, he wiped away years of longing, doubt, and regret. And it’s better. I’m better.

It is nice.

Musical Chairs

Despite the fact that I think our last date was a complete disaster, I agreed to see Scott again when he called me yesterday. And now I’m regretting it.

Josh and I were talking when he called, and Josh told me I should just be honest with him about not wanting to see him again, but when I called him back, he asked me out to see a movie I’d mentioned wanting to see. I’m weak. I waffled. Maybe I was feeling optimistic.

Really, I just didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He is so nice. He just clearly has poor decision making skills. Besides, going to a movie’s not really a date. You're in a darkened theater. You could be sitting next to anyone. You might as well be alone. Really, it’s a non-date. Still, I don’t even want to go on a non-date with this guy.

I call him to break the date, and he’s totally cool about it. He’s so cool, that I catch myself wondering why I’m breaking the date in the first place. But I remind myself to be strong. Best to cut these things off before they go too far. I tell him that I’m stressed out because of work, not a complete lie.

As a matter of fact, as I’m getting off the phone with him, I realize that I am really stressed, and I suddenly get the urge to run away from home. I call Josh.

“Hey! How’s your day?” I ask.

“Good,” he says. “How was yours?”

“Good,” I say and think, To hell with the formalities. “What are you doing the last weekend of the month?”

“Um, I really haven’t planned that far ahead,” he says. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I really need to get out of town,” I say.

“Paige, is everything okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “No. I don’t know. I just really need to get out of here.”

“Do you know how much a plane ticket to Portland will cost?”

“No,” and then, “It doesn’t matter.”

He’s quiet for a minute and then says, “Well, if you want to do it, I’ll make myself available.”

“Okay. I’ll check on flights,” I say.

“I’ll see what the kids have going on,” he says.

I get home and check the flights. I can get a flight out of Tampa on Southwest much cheaper than I thought. Josh has taken his daughter swimming, and I wait for him to call before I buy the ticket.

I'm feeling a little apprehensive about what he's going to say. I was being impulsive when I suggested the trip, and now I'm having second thoughts.

Two hours later, I'm still waiting for him to call.

I send him a text: “R U still swimming? Or R U thinking?”

“Thinking,” is what he sends back.

We always do this. We both agree that we’d be great together, but one of us always backs out.

In a way, I’m relieved, because I know he loves me and doesn’t want to screw up what we’ve got, which is pretty great. And I don’t want to screw it up, either. Plus, I know what’s motivating this sudden urge to get out of town. I know what will happen if I fly out to see him. And I know that it’s not worth it.

Still, I wonder how long you can dance around something before the song finally ends.

Are You Kidding Me?

Scott called yesterday to ask me out this week. He wants to take me out for a nice dinner. Hmm.

“To be honest, Scott,” I tell him, “I’m really not in a “nice dinner” mood. How about we just find a sports bar somewhere and shoot pool?”

“Sure, Paige,” he says. “That sounds good.”

“Great,” I say. “You pick out a place, and call me tomorrow with when and where.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. And, thank you, Paige. I’m really looking forward to seeing you.”

He’s so polite.


So, I’m driving to meet him in the parking lot of a Bennigan’s close to a sports bar he’s been to but that’s name escapes him. I’m following him there, because I don’t really know this guy and don’t want to get in the car with him. Plus, if it goes south, it’ll be much easier to get away. I’m such a cynic.

We meet in the parking lot, and I follow him to the sports bar that turns out to be called, wait for it, The Sports Bar. Real tough name to remember, right?

The parking lot is full, and he signals me to take the first available spot we come to. Awww.

We sit down at a four-top close to the bathrooms and between the pool tables and the poker tables. There’s a game with a punching bag next to us. As the evening progresses and more people show up, this will prove to be a bad thing.

We order two beers, and I begin the question and answer portion of the evening.

“So, you’re so nice, Scott. I honestly have never met a man a polite as you are. What makes you so different from all the other 31-year-old guys out there?”

“Well, I’m a little different from other guys out there. I was raised differently.”

“Really?” I say, and do my best to keep my eyebrows from arching up to my hairline.

“Yeah, well, I was raised a Jehovah’s Witness,” he confesses and waits for my reaction.

Ah, I think, but I say, “So, did you go on the whole Proselytization thing?”

He nods. “I went from house-to-house knocking on doors. We never celebrated holidays or birthdays, and I was really resentful of the fact that I was, sort of, cheated out of a traditional childhood.”

I nod sympathetically.

He goes on, “So I started smoking when I was a teenager.”

“Smoking?” I ask, not really following this caboose.

“Yeah, well, you can’t smoke in the church, so I smoked. I wasn’t allowed to go door-to-door.”

“That makes sense,” I say.

“Right, and I had to get up in front of the congregation and make this speech, but I didn’t mind that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Eventually, I just left the church. So did my brother, mother and father. Now, only my Nana still belongs.”

“Poor Nana,” I say. “Do they give her a hard time about being the only family member that attends.”

“Nah,” he says. “She has a lot of friends there. She’s been going for years.”

“Well, that’s good.”

We order more beers, but neither of us suggests moving to the pool tables. More people are showing up. The bar allows smoking indoors, so it’s getting pretty smoky.

There's a young boy, who can't be more than eighteen himself, wearing a wife-beater and jeans taking his turn at the punching bag game with his buddy and his girlfriend looking on. Don't ask how I know that she belongs to the boy in the wife-beater. There's just something about him, something decidedly Type-A, that indicates that he wouldn't be the third wheel in any situation.

I used to be that girl, I think as I watch the girlfriend looking on, and I can't decide if I envy her or feel sorry for her.

“I’m Episcopalian,” I volunteer.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Well, that comedian Robin Williams calls it “Catholic-lite.” I guess that’s the best way to explain it,” I say.

“I don’t really believe in anything right now,” he says.

“Well, that’s okay.”

I take a drink from my beer and ask, “So what’s your situation?”

He nods and begins, “I’ve been seeing this woman for four years, but I don’t love her and don’t want to marry her. So I don’t think I’m going to see her anymore.”

“Well, does she know this?” I ask.

“Yes. Well, I think so. I only see her about four or five times a month now. The problem is that I pay half her mortgage, so I’m finding it hard to end things.”

Right.

They met in a strip club. Yes, she was a dancer but isn’t one now. She has two children. She’s married, but only for the green card. Her husband is the boyfriend of her friend, but he still lives with her and her children. And it goes on and on. I’m feeling a little sick, blame it on all the smoke, and ask if we can go.

It’s nine o’clock now, and I tell him I’m just going home. Work in the morning. Big day ahead.

We get to my car, and I find him invading my space. Then, just as I begin process what’s happening, he swoops in. I lean back quickly and come back up having narrowly avoided the kiss he so wanted to bestow while managing to unlock my car door. I feel a little like Neo dodging bullets. He backs off, and I give a little wave.

“Good night,” I call out cheerfully.

Game over.