It’s amazing how easily you can trick yourself into believing that there is more under the surface than actually exists, especially if you want it badly enough. Turn any conversational snippet around and around in your head like a cube, examine it, pull it apart, piece it back together and eventually it may start to mean exactly what you want it to mean. Ignore the obvious signs and focus on what lies below and you can fool yourself into a relationship. Sometimes the delusion is far better than the cold hard facts.
It’s been ages since I’ve done this, thankfully, as I have never ever enjoyed playing the games that people play. But I am admitting here and now to you, Darling Internet, that I’ve been there.
I thought that we had something, really I did, because I’d thought that underneath it all, he got me. Really GOT me. My friends didn’t understand what I saw in him, mainly because they are incredibly smart (and good looking to boot!) and they saw what I refused to: he just wasn’t that in to me. Or he was, but only when it was convienent for him. Our friendship was like a festering scab that you cannot stop picking at, no matter how many times your mother reminds you that you should just leave the damn thing alone already.
It lasted for far longer than I’d like to admit, and it took a drunken night of bad sex coupled with his sudden interest in a sort-of friend of mine to bring me to my senses.
He was either an idiot or an asshole, and either way, I didn’t need filth like that in my life.
It’s funny when I think back upon it all, I cannot believe that I was ever so naive and even worse, that I didn’t believe that I was worth more than that. Now, after meeting Dave, I would never even THINK to pick apart his words, if he’s running late, it’s because he’s late, not because he’s really doing something far more sinister or interesting. If he tells me that he likes my shirt, I thank him and move on. It’s a simple statement, nothing more and nothing less.
On the infamous first Non-Date that was actually a date that changed the rest of our lives, we got into a conversation about my next rotation, which was located far closer to his apartment than my home. Sweetly (and stupidly, I reminded him later, after he gave me keys to his house that night. What if I’d been A Crazy and started showing up at his house unannounced? What if I broke in and stole everything he owned, like dirty socks and black jeans? WHAT IF I MOVED IN?), he offered to let me stay at his house on the nights before these early morning clinicals.
Upon realization as to what he had just offered, which sounded awfully presumptious (reader, keep in mind we had not so much as held hands at this juncture), he immediately turned 54 shades of red and stammered, “heh, heh, heh, I guess this means I should get a new futon mattress, heh, heh, heh. BECAUSE MY FUTON IS MY COUCH NOT MY BED, heh, heh, heh.”
My heart warmed about 14 degrees when I realized that this was exactly what I’d been looking for: someone who was honest with me AND HIMSELF about what he wanted. It sounds so simple, when I say this now, but I assure you that this meant more to me than if he’d told me right then and there that his greatest ambition in life was to be a father and husband (which I later found out to be the truth. He’s a rare one, My Daver. He also would give me a pedicure if I could handle anyone touching my feet. He DOES have a brother…..ladies….!).
Of course, as the story goes, I never DID sleep on the futon (bow-chicka-wow-wow), and I have never, ever, taken his honesty for granted (although, occasionally I do wish that he could be a little LESS honest. Like when he told me, oh, I don’t know, several weeks before our wedding that I wasn’t the hottest chick he’d dated. Um, ouch. Snap, Daver, Snap.)
Or is this just me?