Reframe

Whenever I'm with a group of single women, there is an 80% chance that the conversation will meander towards a discussion of the fears we have surrounding marriage--giving up freedom, trusting that intimacy will stay despite personal growth and/or change, etc.  And twice this has happened.

Me:  Marriage is scary!  I just haven't found a guy who I like and respect enough to let go of the fear and start trusting.
Friend: That's not true.  You've loved guys that deeply before.  They just didn't love you back.
Me:  ...

I'll be real, I can only barely tolerate that level of honesty.  I have been pissed about this conversation for months, and I'm only starting to process what that means.

Why does that reminder--they just didn't love you back--make me so angry?  Well, obviously because it touches on rejection and unworthiness and all those horrible feelings.  It feels like it is a break of the friendship code, where you don't, you know, shove your friend's face in all their insecurities.  But on a deeper level, that statement angered me because it took away my control.  When I narrate my singleness, I give myself the power, telling people I haven't found the right guy, I'm not willing to give up freedom.  I am the person keeping me single.  It's my choice.  But when my friend called me on this, I was suddenly stripped of even that.  Not only do I not have a person who has committed to loving and supporting me through life, I'm not even responsible for this lack.  My last shred of dignity, taken away.

The introspection doesn't end there!  Again, months after this conversation, I am only beginning to shift the way I frame my singleness.  If it's not my choice, then what?  I mean, it would be easy to sink into all the things I'm avoiding (rejection, unworthiness, etc), but there's another side.  If I'm not choosing to be single, then that means--I'm open to love.  I do give my heart away.  I practice vulnerability.  I risk my affections, and I'm willing to gamble on romance. 

I have to give up the illusion that I'm in control of my singleness, and that hurts.  But I get to give up the illusion that I'm a cold-hearted bastard.  Giving that up is a bit scary, of course, since a cold heart isn't broken so easily.  But it also means all that therapy nonsense where I worried I couldn't feel and that I lived in hopelessness was, well, nonsense.  I do nothing but feel and hope. 

That's my new narrative.  I'm ready to love and be loved.  So far those halves of the sentence are not synchronized, since I'm not interested in being loved by those who confess it, and the guys I love similarly dismiss me.  But I'm not broken, I'm not shut down, I'm not hard.  I'm ready for marriage, and when the day comes that the guy I love says, "hey, me too," I don't think it will be difficult to take the next step.

Unless he's allergic to cats.  Then there's gonna be a problem.

St. Maarten Stories: Snorkeling

My biggest concern about going to the Caribbean was getting bored.  On a list of things I value about vacations, probably two of the last are relaxing and water.  As near as I can tell, those are exactly what people go to St. Maarten to enjoy.  After a day of lounging by the pool to move to lounging by the beach and back, I was ready to spend some cash in order to get out of the resort and go on an adventure.

We could rent a Mini Cooper and drive around St. Barths!  Whoa, for...way too much money.  In the end, the tour desk in the resort lobby offered only one affordable package, which is how Lindsay and I found ourselves in Phillipsburg with twenty other people waiting for a boat that would take us snorkeling at three different islands.

As we walked along the dock, our hostess directed us to two different boats.  "Oh my word," I murmured when I caught sight of the second boat's captain.  "Lindsay," I hissed.  "Look."

"That is the most attractive man I've ever seen," she breathed.  Behind us, a woman on her honeymoon leaned in to us and added, "I hope we're on his boat, huh?"

A group of five party girls strode eagerly toward him, but our hostess directed them to the other boat.  At their sounds of dismay, she assured them, "You'll see Sander again, don't worry.  Family of five, you're with the girls.  Everyone else, you're with Sander."

Lindsay and I exchanged grins.  Sander, a tan tall man with blond hair falling to his chin, smiled at our approaching group.  "Climb on in," he said.

"His accent," I whispered.

"Where are you from?" Lindsay asked.

"I'm Dutch," Sander answered.

"Oh, I.  That's great."  His face and his voice combined were too much for anyone to react to in anything resembling calm.

Sander got us settled into seats and fetched drinks for everyone.  He explained what bays we were in and what houses overlooking the water were owned by which celebrities.  He grinned as he drove faster over the waves, bouncing us through the green and blue waters.  I spent 80% of my mental faculties trying to look at him without looking like I was looking at him.

"He took off his sunglasses!" I groaned at Lindsay.

"Oh my--he has Zac Efron eyes!" she answered after sneaking a glance.

"I can't handle this."

"Well, then you definitely won't handle this.  He just took off his shirt."

We docked in a cove with no beaches.  Sander explained that this was our first snorkeling destination.  He talked about different kinds of fish we might see, and purple eggs, and probably something else, but I was fixated on the fact that we were in fifteen feet deep water.  I'd assumed we would always be wading in from shore, not dropping off the side of a boat.

"Lindsay," I whispered.  "I can't swim."

"What!?"

"I mean, not well.  I don't know if I can do this."

The rest of the people on our boat were passing around scuba masks and flippers.  I took a set and swallowed bile.  Some of our fellow passengers jumped off the side, and some eased themselves into the water from the ladder in the back.  I saw two women grab pool noodles for floatation devices, but they weren't snorkeling.

Sander looked at Lindsay and I.  "Are you ready?" he asked, smiling with his stupid Dutch teeth.

"Yes," I said, and took his hand.  I let him walk me over the back seats until I was by the water.  I climbed in and mimicked Lindsay's actions as she put on the mask and flippers.  She pushed away, and I glanced at Sander.  I was not going to stay on the boat like an idiot and make his tan friendly face fall in disappointment.  I took in a breath, and meant to push away from the boat.  Instead I blurted, "Could I have a noodle!?"  Sander tossed me a pink one.  Face burning in shame, I took my noodle and slowly followed Lindsay toward the cove.

She showed me how to breath through the mask as I clung to my safety noodle.  "Let's go!" she said.  I breathed in my fear and then let it out, putting my face below the water as though it wouldn't kill me.  And then it didn't.  I let myself dead man float and found that the mask actually kept water out of my eyes and lungs.  I wasn't dying--I was snorkeling!  I kicked my flippers and found myself swimming, noodle to the side and almost unnecessary.

Once I was confident I wasn't going to immediately drown, I actually noticed that I was looking underwater.  There were fish there, darting into the rocks, shining purple and yellow around the edges.  "This is so cool!" I yelled, and inhaled salty water.  I came crashing to the surface, clinging once more to the only thing keeping me from drowning, spitting out the breathing tube in horror.  Lindsay surfaced beside me.  "Um, don't talk when you're underwater," she said.  "Here, pour out your tube like this.  Got it?  Okay, let's go!"

I did eventually get the hang of things.  I gleefully swam through a school of tiny fish and tried to touch them unsuccessfully.  We saw a big needlefish swimming near the ocean floor, and urchins dotted the sand and rocks around us.  I found myself comfortably twisting in the water, reveling in the grace and confidence that floating enables.  We made our way back to the boat when we noticed people packing up.  I handed Sander my noodle and pulled off my mask and flippers.

"Let me help you," he said.  "The ladder moves."

It was rather wiggly, and his strong Dutch arm was reaching out in front of me, so I clasped his hand and pulled myself onto the boat.  It was slippery, so naturally I had to hold on to him a little longer than necessary, just to be totally safe.

"How was it?" he asked.

"It was beautiful," I said, meaning the water, the sealife, and his face.

"Great!" he said, and piloted our boat to our next destination as I grinned into the ocean spray.

St. Maarten Stories: Concessions

While we were walking along the St. Maarten beach, Lindsay asked me if anyone had ever kissed me.  I coughed out a laugh and admitted, no, no one had.  She sighed and said I was lucky, which elicited another painful laugh from me.  After silence stretched too long, I said, "I would ask when your first kiss was, but honestly, I don't want to know.  I'm feeling bitter, and I wouldn't appreciate it."

So it was fortuitous that Jordan flirted with me at the resort's chocolate buffet immediately after we returned.

Lindsay had pointed him out as the cutest guy at the resort that afternoon.  She called out to him and carried on a conversation that I mostly observed, wondering when she would finish so we could go to the room.  Unwilling to look totally anti-social, I made a few comments, but I internally rolled my eyes when she invited him to meet us later.

I might have been pissed at her extroversion, but I wasn't going to risk hanging out with a hot guy unarmed.  I dressed up and painted my eyes darker than usual.  It was nothing, nothing, but you know.  Just in case.

He did find us, practically running up, begging for our help in escaping a girl who had been following him around during his weekend at the resort.  The three of us talked until his friends appeared.  Lindsay had already met them, and Jordan moved to sit at the edge of the group next to me.  I should mention he was an absolutely delightful asshole.  He made horrifically racist and sizeist comments with a grin, and I couldn't help laughing.  He was a good ol' boy from Georgia, and I found it easy to fall into the role of being shocked and appalled at the things falling from his lips.  "You say the most horrible things," I told him.  "I know," he grinned, leaning into my shoulder.

Confident assholes.  My weakness.

Everyone else had left the chocolate buffet, and the workers had turned off the spotlights.  "Let's go inside to the bar," his friends suggested.  Lindsay said she was tired, but I convinced her to go in for just half an hour.  Jordan pulled up a semi-circle of chairs and made sure we sat beside each other.  He put his knee on my chair so I could press my hand against it if I wanted.  I did.

Half an hour came and went, and his friends glanced between us and said they were going upstairs.  Lindsay again said she was tired, but I convinced her to stay.  I felt dangerous.  I wanted--I wanted to give up.  Here I was in another country with a cute boy who I was pretty sure wouldn't say no to anything I suggested or allowed.  For so long I've loved boys who said no, who said, "oh, but I like her," who put up walls that I couldn't get past.  Jordan was wide open, and I desperately wanted to take advantage of that opportunity.

"What's your favorite band?" he asked.

"Mumford and Sons, probably."

"Ugh!  You're a hipster!"

"Haha, yeah, I guess I am.  I like my men in skinny ties and suspenders."

Jordan grabbed my arm and smiled close.  "That's horrible.  I would never be caught dead in a skinny tie."

"That's your loss," I grinned.

"I'm going to bed," Lindsay said.

I could already picture what would happen if she left us alone.  A new story, one I would probably regret.  But at least I would finally have an answer to the question, "Has anyone ever kissed you?"  I would look back on whatever happened with sadness and guilt and a deep satisfaction.

"I'll go up with you," I told Lindsay.

Jordan leaned in again and said, "I'd really like for you to stay here with me a little longer.  I'm leaving in the morning."

Well.  I smiled and said as meaningfully as I could, "I would really like that, too."  I turned to Lindsay.  "Alright, I'm ready."

We went upstairs.  I washed the makeup off my face and pulled on a t-shirt and shorts.  I said goodnight, slid under the covers, and turned off the light.  I stayed awake for over an hour regretting my decision.  I could still go back down.  I could find him again.  I could have my secret, and I would hate myself for a while, but I would feel desired and complete in a way I am increasingly desperate to experience.

It's hell, sometimes, fighting to hold onto hope.