I’m lightly dusted in dried salt water and I don’t want to wash it off. My clammy hair sticks to my head and I want it to stay that way. At least for a little while longer. I want to bring back all that was today and all that was yesterday and to hold it for an instant. And when I feel the wound, I want to rub hot sand in it.
There is nothing better than this moment. We live in paradise, I murmur to myself. Lauren and Arun can hear me. We hold our feet up out of the water, laughing, and let the waves rush toward us. Over us. It’s easier to stay in the water than to get out of it. As I let myself edge back to shore I am dashed upon the rocks, sucked under, and then dashed upon the rocks again. It’s easier to stay in the water. Arun comes out to me and offers his hands. His feet are already cut by the rocks, so he walks out on the rocks again. Try rubbing hot sand in the wound – that will make it better, he says. It’s true. It’s rubbing the sand out of the wound that is the problem. It’s easier to stay in the water than to get out of it.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Blind Date
So I’ve been thinking (which I tend to do when I’ve had a lot of caffeine), and I’ve decided: never again. No more blind dates. Before I even opened the door, I could see his balding head through the window, and when he turned around it wasn’t much better. 31. works in finance. balding. belly. white Volvo. And as I write these words I realize that this is superficial of me. Unkind, even. He is a nice… man… and I am sure that he could be a choice candidate for some… woman… of a certain age. Of course, age has nothing to do with it. I know people in their 30’s who are nothing like him, who are a whole lot more like me, and for whom age is more of a state of mind. And he has let himself age.
I suppose I should preface this by informing you that I was set up by my boss, who hardly knew me when she made the match. The awkwardness of this situation need not be mentioned. She’s my boss. She meant this as a compliment. It is not as though I have a boyfriend or some other excuse to keep me from dating “nice men.” So I acquiesced.
Yet the whole time I was out with this “nice man” all I could think of was: is this the kind of person she thinks I go for? is this the kind of person that she thinks would be right for me? is this the kind of person I am supposed to be dating? because if this is the kind of person I ought to be looking for, forget it. it’s not worth it.
And as I mused over these questions, I was reminded why I don’t date.
As we pulled up in front of my house at the end of the evening, he started to unbuckle his seat belt and edge toward my seat (his hand sliding behind the head rest), but soon enough I’d popped out the door, waved, thanked him for dinner, and mumbled something about having a nice time. It was a blatant escape – and one I hope he understood.
The next day at work when my boss asked me how it went, I told her politely that I think we are in “very different places in our lives,” which roughly translates to, “he’s too old for me what were you thinking?” But I could never have said that and wouldn’t have wanted to.
People always say that even a bad date is good because you get practice and learn what you like and dislike… but I only have so many days left in Los Angeles, and in the end, I’d much rather spend time with a friend.
I suppose I should preface this by informing you that I was set up by my boss, who hardly knew me when she made the match. The awkwardness of this situation need not be mentioned. She’s my boss. She meant this as a compliment. It is not as though I have a boyfriend or some other excuse to keep me from dating “nice men.” So I acquiesced.
Yet the whole time I was out with this “nice man” all I could think of was: is this the kind of person she thinks I go for? is this the kind of person that she thinks would be right for me? is this the kind of person I am supposed to be dating? because if this is the kind of person I ought to be looking for, forget it. it’s not worth it.
And as I mused over these questions, I was reminded why I don’t date.
As we pulled up in front of my house at the end of the evening, he started to unbuckle his seat belt and edge toward my seat (his hand sliding behind the head rest), but soon enough I’d popped out the door, waved, thanked him for dinner, and mumbled something about having a nice time. It was a blatant escape – and one I hope he understood.
The next day at work when my boss asked me how it went, I told her politely that I think we are in “very different places in our lives,” which roughly translates to, “he’s too old for me what were you thinking?” But I could never have said that and wouldn’t have wanted to.
People always say that even a bad date is good because you get practice and learn what you like and dislike… but I only have so many days left in Los Angeles, and in the end, I’d much rather spend time with a friend.
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