Worry-free

It’s light blue. It’s a tribute to peace and beauty. It’s two blogs on the same page. It’s cheese sandwiches and puppet masters and psychics and sweaty cats. It’s East Coast/West Coast Version 2! Congrats, RJ and Flip! I mean, Choire and Philo!

They’re closing our office early today because the air conditioning isn’t working properly. (I don’t mean that Choire and Philo are closing it. I mean the powers-that-be are closing it.) It’s only the hottest day of the year, so that’s okay. But actually, it doesn’t feel that bad here right now. And I have no A/C at home, so I’m not really all that motivated to leave the office yet.

If the last few days haven’t clued you in, I’ve been pretty stressed lately. It’s not my love life, it’s my job situation. It’s tying my stomach in knots and it’s causing me guilt and shame and worry. (The Jewish trifecta.) The fact is, this job I’ve been waiting to hear about — all the positions are filled, but there’s a possibility one will open up. I don’t know if it’s really a possibility or if they’re just wondering if it might happen. But, had I not waited so long before putting together my application and sending it off, I’d have been hired already. Hence the self-recrimination.

But self-recrimination is unhealthy. So enough of that.

On the up side, my boss has been able to wangle a three-week extension for my current job. On top of that, I’ll be able to cash out a week’s worth of unused vacation days if necessary. So I’m safe through September 14. This gives me a little breathing room. I’ve been sending out resumés for almost any law-related positions I can find — attorney positions, nontraditional legal positions. So we’ll see. And people at the office are helping me out immensely, especially the Office Mom. She’s been great.

Anyway, that’s really what’s been bothering me and scaring me more than anything else.

I think I may have to declare this place a worry-free zone for a while. Expressing my worries is so natural for me. It wasn’t until high school that I realized that not everyone worries as much as I do. That’s when I first realized how unusual this is. I couldn’t understand why I worry and other people don’t. It’s a total reflex for me. It’s not something I try to do. It just happens. It’s like breathing.

But when I express all my worries here, it tends to make things worse. It’s one thing to keep your thoughts in your head. It’s another thing to put them into language. I read my words and I think to myself, oh my god, I actually think like that?

Obviously, worrying serves some sort of function for me. I’m not sure exactly what function that is. But I guess I worry because some part of me, subconscious or otherwise, sees value in it. Gotta work on that.

Anyway, I’m just going to think positive. I’ll get a job and things will be fine. Part of me knows that.

Damn, People

(Upon reflection, I’ve edited this entry a little bit since first posting it.)

Wow. That’s a lot of comments. Thanks to all of you who have written. Some of those comments, particularly Jonathan’s and Ester’s but also a few others, were terrific.

But let me clarify something. I DON’T WANT AN INTENSE RELATIONSHIP. In fact, I’d like to move more slowly. He’s the one who’s been saying things, not me. I didn’t mention that, I guess. But it’s true.

When we were rolling around in bed that first night, he’s the one who said that he hoped this wasn’t just a one-night stand. And he’s the one who said he’s at the point where he wants to date someone.

He also said, while we were kissing, “How did we meet?”

“Well, on the Internet, right?” I said, a little confused.

“No, no,” he said, smiling. “We can’t tell people that. We have to make something up. We met through our friend, uh…” He paused, smiling. He smooched me. “What’s our friend’s name?”

“Hmmm…” I said.

“Pete,” he said. “We met through our friend Pete.” He laughed.

Also, when he and I talked on the phone on Monday night, he mentioned that he’d gone on a couple of dates with another guy who he isn’t really into and with whom he hadn’t hooked up. He wanted to tell the guy that he wasn’t interested in dating him, and he asked my advice on how to do it. In fact, he said, “Should I tell him that I’m not really interested in dating him and that I’ve met someone?” That “someone” being me.

And, read my last entry. He’s the one who told me I’m a “special guy.” I haven’t been saying anything like that. In fact, his words are making me feel kind of pressured.

I’d like to go on another date with Mr. Conservative William F. Buckley Guy once he gets back from Prague. I’d like to be able to do it without feeling such pressure, direct or indirect. I don’t want to start breaking dates with other people because of the new guy. I want to be able to evaluate him and get to know him at my own pace.

So I’m not the one being Mr. Intense-Scaring-Him-Away, okay? To be honest, I kind of resent that characterization. No, not kind of. I do resent it.

I blog because I like words. I like to write. I like to explore my feelings. I like the sheer act of putting words together to describe what I’m feeling and doing. Yeah, I guess I could do this in a private journal. But it’s kinda cool to have other people read my words.

It’s kind of sick and twisted, really. Why the hell am I doing this? You go to a party where there are other bloggers and people ask, “How do you guys know each other?” and you feel really awkward and try to think of a way to explain how you know each other without coming off as a total kook. Why does anyone blog about one’s personal life? Probably because we like the attention and the interaction with other people.

I know I write about my feelings very honestly in here. (Figuring out why I do so would probably require a cadre of therapists.) And I know that sometimes I can be very neurotic. And I know that sometimes my words are a cry for help. And I know that I have a comments section. People are free to write whatever they want in there, basically.

I certainly don’t want people to start patronizing me.

But if you want to berate me in my comments section, can you first realize that if you do so, it’s going to come across as a public flogging? Can you choose your words more carefully instead of making me feel like I’m some kind of psycho? Did I say that I was telling the guy any of my thoughts? No. They’re just my thoughts.

I’m e-mailing the person whose comment really bothered me, so if you don’t hear from me, it wasn’t you. (It wasn’t Sparky or Choire, if you’re curious.)

Write responsibly. Please. I do enjoy the give-and-take that a comments sections allows, and perhaps this is just one of those blog-related risks. But comments such as that one hurt.

If you absolutely feel a need to say such things, send me an e-mail. In other words, if you feel like humiliating me, do it privately. Or maybe think twice about your words.

Other than that, keep those comments rolling in. They’re usually fun to read and they’re often informative.

By the way, I didn’t mention this in order to get sympathy. I mentioned it because the particular comment really made me angry.

Thanks, and enjoy your stay.

Palm-Stroking

I slept at his place again last night. I’m exhausted.

He called me around 9:30. Turned out we were both in the middle of laundry. We talked for a while and made plans for Thursday night (he’s going to cook). But then he invited me to sleep over, so I did. Walking at a normal pace, door to door, it took me five minutes. FIVE MINUTES. It’s insane how close we are.

He had cooked something and was putting away leftovers. He has a big collection of Bon Appetit magazines. I waited for him to clean dishes while we talked. After that, I waited for him to finish folding laundry. I was feeling impatient. I wanted to sleep with him.

Later, we’re lying down, staring into each other’s eyes. He tells me I’m cute. I tell him he’s cute too. Our faces inches from each other, he looks at me with a smile on his face, then shakes his head in awe. “Ya kill me,” he says, laughing as if in disbelief that he’s found someone like me. Then, later, in bed, holding me in the darkness: “Jeff… you’re such a special guy.”

Later he’s snoring. We’re still snuggled up together. My hand is on his chest. I feel/listen to him breathe. This is bliss. I could lie against him like this forever. It’s like our bodies are made for each other.

As I lie there, Brad’s words keep coming into my mind, over and over, like a mantra:

Less over-thinking, more palm-stroking.

I’m trying.

Here’s a caveat: The rest of this entry is neurotic. Yes, go ahead and shake your collective heads in consternation. Oh, that Tin Man. There he goes again. Why can’t the guy just relax? I know, there’s no need for me to be thinking such neurotic thoughts right now, I should probably just be enjoying the moment. But despite all my efforts to the contrary, these are the thoughts I’m having. I wish I weren’t having them. But I can’t seem to control them. I wish my brain didn’t work the way it does.

By putting these thoughts into words, I’m possibly giving them greater acknowledgment than they deserve.

With that caveat in mind, here goes.

I have some doubts. What do he and I have in common? I’m not sure. We both like theater. What else? How much should two people have in common? Is chemistry enough, or not? What will we talk about?

Last night, lying in bed, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he snored, I realized with unease that I’d hardly seen any books in the place. I wonder if he reads.

And then this morning, he woke up at 6 so he could go to the gym for a run. This after hardly any sleep in the last couple of nights. When he got back, I was still in his bed, having fallen back asleep. I was woken up by a loud CREEEEEK as he opened his ironing board. He was ironing to the sound of 1010 WINS, one of New York’s all-news radio stations. I’m really not a fast-paced morning-media person. It’s too much adrenaline, too early. And yet, barely any sleep and he was rarin’ to go. He told me that he’s totally wired in the morning and that he knows that it gets to some people, even his boss sometimes. I felt as dead as a salmon. I felt sloth-like and guilty, reinforcing what a lazy unsuccessful guy I’ve felt like lately.

I came home. Instead of crawling back into bed for another half hour, I showered and dressed and made some eggs and ironed some clothes. Trying to be more of a morning person. As I ironed I listened to NPR’s “Morning Edition” for the first time in ages. Not 1010 WINS. National Public Radio. That’s more my style.

Will I be able to stand him? Maybe we’re not really compatible. What will happen when he realizes that I’m lazy and unmotivated and unsure of myself?

And yet he seems wild about me. I have no idea why. Why is this Type-A, pretty cute, outgoing, former frat guy interested in me? What does he see in me? This isn’t self-deprecation. The fact is, he barely knows me. He doesn’t know I’m neurotic. All he knows, apparently, is that I’m a nice guy, and intelligent, and apparently cute.

Is that enough for him?

Maybe it is enough for him. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he’s not as judgmental as I am.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental, either.

Maybe I should just let me be me and let him be him and maybe that will be enough.

Am I just afraid of getting too close?

I’m not sure what it all means.

Again — this multitude of thoughts is competing with one other, simpler thought:

Less over-thinking, more palm-stroking.

I’m trying. I really am. Because that one simple thought seems so much more appealing than all this internal fiddle-faddle.