I'm in love. As hard as I've tried to avoid it, it happened. He's a local executive chef, and I'm a chef who has actually just moved away from Seattle but will no doubt end up back there.
I know for a fact he has liked me for as long as he's known me, which is about two and a half years. I, however, needed more convincing of my feelings for him. After all of this time, I am confident in the fact that this is the man I want to be with. I can't stop thinking about him. I want to be there so badly, but as usual, my timing sucks. We speak on the phone a lot and he has plans to visit me, but I still haven't told him how I feel. It seems awkward to tell him over the phone . . . it seems awkward to tell him at all. At the same time, though, he makes me laugh so hard, he is the most brilliant chef I've met, he's charming, he loves his mama, and he makes me feel so good about myself (among many other things, of course). That's a hard enough task by itself. What do I do? Do I tell him and risk jeopardizing what we have now? Or do I box it up like I do everything else and just wait to see what happens?
Far Away and Frustrated
Since my last full-time boyfriend—whose ass I dumped two years ago—I have been a power dater. No matter how much I liked the person I was seeing, I always made it a point to have a Plan B (sometimes Plans C, D, E, and F) lurking about in the background. I figured that always keeping some extras around would keep me from getting hurt. I figured wrong, but I still thought it a sound policy.
So when I met this latest studmonkey, I figured I'd do the same thing and scheduled drinks with a writer the same week. The stupid thing was, I didn't even really want to go out with the writer. I was already smitten with the other guy. Over drinks, Mr. Writer told me about his latest project. "It's something that's really close to me—it's really personal. I consider it my masterpiece," he assured me, oh-so-solemnly.
I didn't really care but bit anyway. "So what's it about?" I inquired politely, feigning interest as I wondered what the guy I really liked was up to.
He looked around to make sure nobody was listening and leaned in with a conspiratorial stare. "It's about how I've always wanted to fuck my mother and kill my father," he confided.
I pointed out that his plotline sounded very familiar. His brow furrowed indignantly. "I started writing it before I'd ever heard of Oedipus!" he bleated.
"Your mom must be really hot," I said, because really—what the fuck do you say to that?
Writer dude nodded eagerly. "She's an actress," he told me by way of explanation.
I couldn't take it anymore. Even the Girl of Date has limits. Normally, no matter how horrible a date goes—and I've been on some crap dates—I am polite. Not tonight. "You realize that this is the worst, most inappropriate first-date conversation I've ever been part of, don't you?" I asked.
He shrugged sheepishly. "First date, last date?" he asked.
Erm, yeah. Obviously the Lords of Darkness were punishing me for being such a chickenshit about the man I really liked. It was only later when I nonchalantly relayed the story to a horrified friend that I realized his disclosure hadn't even shocked me. I knew rationally that it was completely inappropriate, but I've gotten so immune to mental cases that the only thing that really scared the crap outta me was the guy who went out of his way to be extra sweet to me. So I wised up and limited my dating pool to one. It's scary, but I'm going to advise you to join me in the adult swim. Quit being such a baby. Worst-case scenario: He's not interested. Believe me, there are many things worse than rejection. Ambiguity being one of them. (Incest fantasies being another.)
Wise up: Write Dategirl at firstname.lastname@example.org or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.