Yes, trains pass and occasionally I get on one that is going in the wrong direction. I usually sit quietly as my panic rises. I am good at this. Good at climbing aboard the wrong train, convincing myself that it is probably the right one, and then holding fast to the conviction despite all of the visual cues speed past me.
I am trying to find love over the Internet. I am only attracted to handsome men. I don't like fat men, or men who look goofy, or unhappy, or mean. I'm even a little afraid of the handsome men. Surly they will reject me. But eventually desire will overcome my fear and I will take a giant leap and flirt with them. It doesn't always work, but often it does. They will write back and the hope and fear begin.
I can't remember if it was me or Mitchell who flirted first. But, I do remember that I was immediately attracted. I could tell by the quality of his photograph with concert hall lights glowing in the background, the casual way he was dressed, his close-trimmed beard sprinkled with just the right amount of grey, his body language; arms crossed and lips pursed in amused indulgence; this was an accomplished man.
He wrote in short paragraphs which began by noting that I was "...an impressive woman with a keen sense of desire". I have no idea how he knew that. Maybe because I said I was youthful and sexy? I used keywords from the online dating advice book. I tried to follow the rules; mirroring the length and tone of his messages, asking pertinent questions to keep him chatting and interested, but not offering too much information about myself, fearful that anything I revealed would tell him I was actually a woman who believed that no man ever had, or ever would, find worthy of love. He answered my emails quickly and when I thanked him for doing so, he told me I deserved no less...and then immediately stopped writing.
It stung, in that old familiar way, that deep wounded-child way that cannot let go of my mother's abandonment, my father's disappointment, my ex-husband's rejection. I prayed every night and morning for God to release me from my obsession, to help me believe that I was worthy of love and that he would provide for me exactly what I needed at exactly the right time. All I needed was a little faith.
Occasionally it would occur to me that I already had everything I needed and that this desire for male endorsement was a distraction. It would never bring me happiness; it never had. And then I would remember that swimmingly exotic feeling of lying in Falcon's arms with every desire fulfilled, wanting nothing more of life.
"That's what I want," I whisper to this newly discovered Higher Power, who my friends assure me will provide for me.
But Mitchell did not write back. This did not prevent me from going to Map Quest to find out just how long it would take me to drive to Nashville, to decide that Bowling Green was exactly half way; a mere two hour drive for both of us, from looking to see if there were any state parks nearby with picnic tables by a lake.
"Yes, make sure you go to some secluded spot where this strange man can murder you without witnesses" the conductor suggests.
Finally I can stand it no more. Other men are flirting with me. I don't want them. they are crude and uneducated. I have Googled Mitchell and he is accomplished and famous.
"How could he possibly want someone like me?" I agonize, "some old hippy chick who has survived by clawing her way through life. That may be an accomplishment but it doesn't look very beautiful in a bio."
I climb aboard. I send him a kiss. He answers immediately, thanking me for the kiss, telling me he would like to give me a real kiss, apologizing for losing the train of communication but he is sooooooooooo busy. I write back ad tell him I understand how he could miss the train with all he has to do. He writes back that he appreciates me standing o the platform with open arms and asks if he can call me. I send him my phone number and he stops writing.
I check the website every day. I can tell that he is checking it, too. Other men keep sending me flirts. "They are fat and ugly. They can't spell or write in complete sentences. I call my sponsor. She tells me this is never going to work, that if I do meet Mr. Wonderful he will eventually discover that I feel like I am unlovable.
"It will bleed through everything you say. What you need to be praying for is spiritual healing. Once you discover that you are safe in God's hands you can quit looking for a man to complete you," she advises.
When you finally realize that you have boarded the wrong train, the hardest part of admitting that you are lost is admitting that not only do you have no idea where you are, you have no idea where you are supposed to be going.
I am trying to find love over the Internet. I am only attracted to handsome men. I don't like fat men, or men who look goofy, or unhappy, or mean. I'm even a little afraid of the handsome men. Surly they will reject me. But eventually desire will overcome my fear and I will take a giant leap and flirt with them. It doesn't always work, but often it does. They will write back and the hope and fear begin.
I can't remember if it was me or Mitchell who flirted first. But, I do remember that I was immediately attracted. I could tell by the quality of his photograph with concert hall lights glowing in the background, the casual way he was dressed, his close-trimmed beard sprinkled with just the right amount of grey, his body language; arms crossed and lips pursed in amused indulgence; this was an accomplished man.
He wrote in short paragraphs which began by noting that I was "...an impressive woman with a keen sense of desire". I have no idea how he knew that. Maybe because I said I was youthful and sexy? I used keywords from the online dating advice book. I tried to follow the rules; mirroring the length and tone of his messages, asking pertinent questions to keep him chatting and interested, but not offering too much information about myself, fearful that anything I revealed would tell him I was actually a woman who believed that no man ever had, or ever would, find worthy of love. He answered my emails quickly and when I thanked him for doing so, he told me I deserved no less...and then immediately stopped writing.
It stung, in that old familiar way, that deep wounded-child way that cannot let go of my mother's abandonment, my father's disappointment, my ex-husband's rejection. I prayed every night and morning for God to release me from my obsession, to help me believe that I was worthy of love and that he would provide for me exactly what I needed at exactly the right time. All I needed was a little faith.
Occasionally it would occur to me that I already had everything I needed and that this desire for male endorsement was a distraction. It would never bring me happiness; it never had. And then I would remember that swimmingly exotic feeling of lying in Falcon's arms with every desire fulfilled, wanting nothing more of life.
"That's what I want," I whisper to this newly discovered Higher Power, who my friends assure me will provide for me.
But Mitchell did not write back. This did not prevent me from going to Map Quest to find out just how long it would take me to drive to Nashville, to decide that Bowling Green was exactly half way; a mere two hour drive for both of us, from looking to see if there were any state parks nearby with picnic tables by a lake.
"Yes, make sure you go to some secluded spot where this strange man can murder you without witnesses" the conductor suggests.
Finally I can stand it no more. Other men are flirting with me. I don't want them. they are crude and uneducated. I have Googled Mitchell and he is accomplished and famous.
"How could he possibly want someone like me?" I agonize, "some old hippy chick who has survived by clawing her way through life. That may be an accomplishment but it doesn't look very beautiful in a bio."
I climb aboard. I send him a kiss. He answers immediately, thanking me for the kiss, telling me he would like to give me a real kiss, apologizing for losing the train of communication but he is sooooooooooo busy. I write back ad tell him I understand how he could miss the train with all he has to do. He writes back that he appreciates me standing o the platform with open arms and asks if he can call me. I send him my phone number and he stops writing.
I check the website every day. I can tell that he is checking it, too. Other men keep sending me flirts. "They are fat and ugly. They can't spell or write in complete sentences. I call my sponsor. She tells me this is never going to work, that if I do meet Mr. Wonderful he will eventually discover that I feel like I am unlovable.
"It will bleed through everything you say. What you need to be praying for is spiritual healing. Once you discover that you are safe in God's hands you can quit looking for a man to complete you," she advises.
When you finally realize that you have boarded the wrong train, the hardest part of admitting that you are lost is admitting that not only do you have no idea where you are, you have no idea where you are supposed to be going.
No comments:
Post a Comment