Hate At First Sight December 21, 2007

We began with an assumption borne from a Facebook profile picture.

Once upon a night three Novembers ago, a friend named Brendan informed me and my roommate Sia that the plan for the night was his friend’s apartment party. A friend Brendan had made a few years earlier while studying abroad and smoking hash in the south of France the summer before our sophomore year. A friend neither Sia or I knew and, hence, a friend Sia and I immediately Facebook-ed once we were off the phone with Brendan.

Naturally.

What we found was a Leather Jacket wearing A Pair of Yellow-Tinted Sunglasses holding A Beer Bottle Perfectly Pointed To The Camera classified as A Moderate looking for Whatever He Could Get. 

An alum of a private school. To wit, one of this country’s best. A venerable breeder of overprivileged clones who, in sum, continue their educations at fancy top universities like my alma mater where development into entitled douschbags can be secured.

Oh God, I judged. Yes, I absolutely judged.

When Brendan later arrived at Sia’s and my apartment to begin our night, I was prepared. When he promised the party would be fun, I protested. When he insisted we all go, I shook my head no. When he waxed nostalgic out loud remembering their study abroad together in the south of France, I waxed nostalgic in my head remembering the Facebook profile I had seen moments earlier. And when he asked me why the hell I was giving him such a hard time - me, the girl who had a history of being quite agreeable whenever copious amounts of free booze were promised - I said I had my reasons.

But Brendan is 9 inches taller than me and unafraid to smack a sister. He’s gay, after all. So he won our argument.

When the cab arrived at our destination - a fancy high rise with a fancy entryway and a fancy foyer with a fancy accessory of a doorman right in the heart of downtown Chicago – I thought, Figures.

When the fancy doorman informed us we’d need to go to the 51st floor - the very top of the building! - my eyes rolled back and I nearly choked spitting HA! with such scorn.

When we got to the door of the apartment, I sighed. Loudly. I looked away while Brendan enthusiastically knocked.

Then he of my Facebook-inspired scorn opened the door. And I forgot to throw up in my mouth a little like I had threatened Brendan I’d do seconds earlier. 

I remember that his eyes laughed even though he wasn’t and I immediately wanted to be included in whatever made someone’s eyes laugh like that.
 

What I don’t remember are first words or first introductions. Or second words or even our one hundredth words. Because the rest of the night was a blur of very heavy drinking, after-hours clubbing in Wicker Park, sloppy tongue-twisted flirting, a very necessary 4:00 a.m. pizza delivery and Family Guy episodes. We all crashed at his place. And I slept on the couch.

His bed was where I slept the following weekend.

And a Thursday night not too long after that. And on New Years Eve 2005 (or is it 2006?), too.

But phone numbers remained to be exchanged. (Unlike bodily fluids.) And later that January - when he suggested what I learned many months later was his attempt at an official first date - he used AIM to cyberly ask if I’d like to meet him after work to go rock climbing. Sia insisted I go because seriously, when the fuck are you two going to do something that doesn’t involve late nights and booze?, but this? Rock climbing? I got down to the floor and told Sia I’d only go if I could finish ten push-ups first.

I got to 8 (Ed note: High School Me that won my high school cross country team’s Annual Freshman Push-up Challenge with 76 in less than 10 minutes groans in shame right now). I thought What the hell, packed a bag of what I thought rock climbing might require – gloves? a hairband? leggings? – and ran to catch the 145 bus.

The rock climbing wall was closed already for the night. What a pity. Imagine the stories I could share had it not been.

 
The following months were spent sleeping in beds together but not sleeping together and meeting up when out but not going out together. Everyone told me the attraction was obvious but that he wasn’t the committal type. That he didn’t do serious relationships. That girls long before me had tried and failed.

I said, That’s fine. This fits.

For the very, very first time, I had met someone who didn’t want to force the So What Are We conversation on me, rush labels or definitions or limitations. Define me as his. And it fucking sucked. But it also, somehow, worked. For a girl who had a history of running away from boys who pushed and wanted too much too soon, it worked.

Then one day in September, we went beyond the witty banter and guarded attraction. We talked about our families and our childhoods and shared pieces of ourselves. We had met after work, our office buildings only a block apart, and gone to his apartment. And, because it’s me, we decided to have some shots because Shots? Why not? before meeting our friends at ESPNZone to watch our alma mater’s first football game of the season. And maybe it was the Barcardi Limon (Ed. note: Stop judging), but soon, we shared stories of similar rebellious streaks against strict parenting and commiserated regret on our childish behaviors. And when the story exchange was over, we both looked at each other and smiled. He walked over to me and pulled me up into a hug. And we hugged the kind of hug that raced my heart and made me feel entirely safe all in one electric moment. And I knew somehow, we had finally gotten over our hump, from there’s a connection to we are connected.

But the conversation was ill-timed. 

Because I was no longer single, stuck in a relationship that had more or less begun earlier that summer, signed, sealed, and delivered as a summer fling. Which unfortunately did not end with summer’s end because I am very bad at two things. That is one, ending relationships. And two, ending relationships that really need to fucking end.

It did, eventually, over the next couple months. In a very ugly, brutal way. And finally. After a year from our first introduction and nearly a year ago from today. After intrigued interest but nothing concrete; catty girls who tried their unstable best to beg his interest away from me; and complications and calumniation by multiple parties that would make most soap operas – Yes, even you, Passions! – blush.  After all this?

One year ago from next Friday, and almost a year after a leather jacket and a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses almost kept me away from his party, my boyfriend initiated a very simple conversation over a couple of beers at Clark Street Ale House and we finally became us.
  
 ~ 
  
The holidays for me mean appreciation. Beneath the lights and decorations and wrapping paper, the cookies and holiday parties and carols, I’m thankful for my friends and my family and feel blessed that we are all – more or less – in good health. I’m thankful for my boyfriend, who allows my huge tits to counterbalance my huge amounts of crazy. And I am thankful that we eventually exchanged phone numbers so that I could receive his call moments ago to learn that tonight, we have reservations at Kevin, and squeal in excitement. (Ed. note: I’m lying. He told me over Gchat. Old habits die hard.)
  
Happiest of holidays to everyone. And also, the funniest of holidays too. Come back with stories, yes? I will need to be kept entertained once the holidays are over and we have nothing but the winter slump upon us. I fuckin’ love y’all. May your next few days be merry, bright, and not occupied with too many thoughts of wanting to strangle family members.