Testing the Waters

My first interview was with an old flame. It wasn’t my first choice, but when someone from your past texts you going “hey today I almost died in a boating accident and the Coast Guard had to pull me in from the Atlantic Ocean – wanna grab coffee sometime?” it seems like a good place to start. I was ready to get some answers.

Chris met me at Exhibition Station, a place that I had only ever passed through in order to watch the TFC lose horribly to everyone else on the planet. He looked the same – but I’m not going to describe him to you, because God knows everyone who found out where I was going for dinner that night shrieked, “Oh my godddddd Leanne is he cute?” Fuck you guys. I’m cute.

We hugged and Chris very suavely planted a kiss on my cheek. I didn’t reciprocate because a) cheek kisses are weird and rich people always try and pull that shit on me and I never know what to do with my mouth and b) this was business, not pleasure. I said things like “Nice to see you! I’m glad you didn’t die and stuff” and he whisked me off to a sophisticated restaurant with a beautiful view of Liberty Village.

If you want to impress me, take me out for self-serve froyo.

Let me get this out right now – I hate fancy restaurants. I don’t mean to be unappreciative or anything, but giant plates with tiny portions of things that I can’t/don’t want to identify make me uncomfortable. Also, trying to pronounce the dish you hate the least to the snooty bitch in the six-inch heels who makes your low-cut dress look like Anne of Green Gable’s Christmas present is not good times. If you want to impress me, take me out for self-serve froyo and fill the bowl all the way to the top.

“What do you feel like?” Chris said, smiling at me. I smiled back, trying to guess how mad he was about the last time we really spoke.

“I don’t know, I’m not too hungry so probably something small for now.” Lies. I was absolutely starving but hated everything on the menu. Why do they always have to ruin everything with some sort of goddamn aioli?

“Do you want to split something then?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied. Don’t you dare – don’t you dare say –

“How about some fish tacos?” he suggested, “I haven’t tried them here.”

“Perfect!” I choked back a sob. The first time we went on a date, he asked if I liked fish tacos, and since my idea of a culinary adventure is grilled KD sandwiches, I didn’t want to reveal my uncultured nature so early. So I said yes. And then it became “our thing” – he would order them at every restaurant we went to, and we would test and share them adorably. Except they are the absolute worst, and now it’s too late for me to tell the truth. I have committed to this lie for all of fishy eternity.

Chris started talking again and I snapped back to attention. “Have I ever told you that you’re the most beautiful girl in the world?” He reached for my hand and I didn’t move it. I kind of wanted to move it though.

Because he has told me – multiple times. Maybe it says something about my self-esteem that every time he tells me I’m beautiful, or gorgeous, or whatever hyperbolic adjective strikes his whimsy, my gut reaction is to be like, “I’m sorry; you’ve got this all wrong. You see, I’m actually a terrible crazy person whose alternating moods suck the life out of every relationship I’ve ever had like a sex-craved Dementor. But I’ll settle for pretty if you’re feeling generous.”

I’m not really comfortable with my looks. I was a huge dork growing up[1] and even when I realized that people looked at me differently as I got older, I could always remember when they didn’t look at me at all. People always think I’m full of shit when I talk about it, but I was the smart one and my sister was the beauty. My mom used to joke around about our bright futures: “Leanne is going to be a lawyer and Kelly is going to marry rich!” She is very concerned now that it seems that we will both need to marry rich. The lawyer thing seems highly improbable for a girl who’s failed out twice. I guess I should consider taking another look in the mirror sometime.

I felt trapped in my own head and I hadn’t even asked any questions yet.

But the shiniest mirror we have for ourselves is the words of others. Even though in the present, I was being called beautiful, in my recent past, I had never felt so far from it. During my last relationship, my boyfriend and I struggled to connect sexually, and it was hard to believe him every time he promised that it wasn’t my fault. There’s a drawer in my bureau that holds every lacy, expensive, fucked-up piece of lingerie I wore that didn’t make him love me. I remember undressing after a long night out and the dullness of his voice when he told me, “No one wants to look at that.”

The fish tacos arrived and I fixed my hair shyly in response. This wasn’t how I wanted this interview to go. I felt trapped in my own head and I hadn’t even asked any questions yet. “Do you mind if we go somewhere quieter? My head is starting to hurt from the music.” Ah yes, I pulled the concussion card early.

Chris took a bite of his taco. “I’m not a fan of the mango salsa. I don’t think it meshes well with the mackerel, which is a saltier variety of fish. Let’s jet[2].”

It turned out that Chris had driven downtown to meet me. I didn’t want to go somewhere else and pretend to like food again, so I suggested that we do the interview in his car. My only condition – we had to park at a Metro so I could buy a pint of ice cream for dinner. I could tell he thought I was kidding up until I dug the plastic spoon deep into a delicious caramel swirl. “Want some?”

“I’m okay,” he said, trying not to judge me.

“You can totally judge me,” I said. “It’s really a miracle I’m not morbidly obese. It’ll happen one day, all at once.”

He grinned. “Are you ready to hit me with some questions, pretty girl?”

NO! my brain screamed. “Yes,” my mouth said. I started the voice recorder. “Describe how we first met.”

“Well, I was walking down Yonge Street…” Chris has a very calm, almost surfer-chill way of speaking that I like. Minus the ridiculous slang, that is – and the way that he (poorly) imitates Arnold Schwarzenegger at random. “And I saw you and thought, ‘Oh my god, that is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my entire life – I have to think of an excuse to say something.'”

“Stopppppppp,” I protest. I take compliments as eagerly as Jehovah’s Witness flyers.

He continued, “But I was already ahead of you, and it would have been like, weird, if I like, stopped and turned around and got in your way and stuff. But you were walking really fast and caught up and I took out my headphones and said ‘Hi,’ and the next thing I knew we were talking about Colin Kaepernick’s starting season.”

“I always walk weirdly fast,” I acknowledged. “It’s because my body is built like a spider – I’m all limbs. And I only talked to you because you were holding a football.”

“But you wouldn’t give me your number, which was fun because we had to keep walking the same direction anyways. So I tried again and it didn’t work until I went, ‘You can trust me; I’m a teacher.'”

“I don’t usually talk to strangers,” I said primly. “Also, teachers still kill people.” And to be perfectly honest, it terrifies me that I am old enough to date teachers now. “Uhmm, next question. Remember that time we went on our first date, and we were at the beach throwing a football and then I had a random panic attack and… yeah.”

“Wait, is that a question? Or…”

“Shit, sorry. Okay, how did that make you feel?” I tried not to sound like a psychologist, but failed.

“I was worried, because you bunched yourself into one corner of the car and you got all silent and nervous. I could tell you wanted to get something off your chest.”

“And then I mumbled things about bipolar from my fetal position in the corner, because I know how to have a good time. Did that scare you?”

“I was super cool with it because a) it’s not that big of a deal, b) you’re already dealing with it, c) you’re an absolutely gorgeous girl and I fucking really like you and d) I’ve got sort of experience with my family.” At this point in the conversation, Chris won ten thousand bonus points for using an ordered list to explain the situation. Lists are totally my jam.

I tuned back in. “I get it because my mom’s had issues before, my brother’s been depressed, and I’ve dealt with depression in the past – it happens. I guess I’m just more used to it? I don’t know. If you’ve got a problem and you want to solve it, check out the hook while my DJ revolves it!”

My eyes lit up. “I can’t wait to put that in my story. That’s amazing. Please always say that. I don’t even know what that is.”

Sadly, it turned out to be Vanilla Ice.

I didn’t want to spoil the way he thought about me.

“Dating someone with a mental illness – I don’t see it as a pro or a con. It’s part of what you’re dealing with as a human being, and as long as you can manage it – well, it’s not even about that.” Chris grabbed my hands and squeezed them. My face grew warm, like a sober version of the Asian glow, and I tried to look at his face. His face was cute. Damn it. “You’re someone who’s more than worth working hard for, getting to know and just…. I like you.”

I wished that I felt like that about myself. I don’t think I’m beautiful because I know better, and I never gave Chris a chance to see that part of me. I left while I was still smiling, kissed him goodbye, promised to call him, and secretly decided that I would never see him again[3]. I didn’t want to spoil the way he thought about me. I’m just too good at spoiling things.

Chris looked at me. He wasn’t blinking, so I tried not to blink. But then I sneezed anyways. “You inspire me,” he began regardless, and I wanted to tell him to stop – that my disguise wasn’t going to hold up for much longer and I was sorry he got the wrong impression. Nothing escaped my lips, and words kept tumbling out of his. “I just want to hold your hand, and go for walks with you and kiss you lots, and cook for you, and take you on a plane ride outside of North America – because seriously, that needs to happen – and take care of you. I want to at least try.”

He kissed me, and I let him.

Well, fuck.

 

[1] Every Saturday after dance class – a wasted pursuit, because I still dance with the grace of a loudly slurped spaghetti noodle – I would take out 9 books from the library. In Grade 6, my parents boxed up all my books in an effort to make me talk to actual people at recess. When I got grounded, they would confiscate my library card. I was also a two-time fucking provincial mathlete. Don’t you dare tell me I’m not a real nerd.

[2] This is a real thing that he said. Other common Christastic terms: “hundo p” (one hundred percent), “smash some beers” (often of the Japanese variety), “bar bee” (dear lord, that means barbeque), “nuke that work” (because that’s how I got past 5000 words already) and “mamper.” I’m not even going to define that shit.

[3] My Relationship with “Boat Guy,” As Told By Various Coworkers:

Gabs: “He seemed like a really sweet guy. He introduced himself, and he is really cute – maybe a bit too much chest hair but there are ways around that. I don’t know. He was nice.”

Jen: “Like, he came to pick you up. And then he smiled at me. And then I had this weird feeling, like, maybe I should have distracted him so you could check his trunk for a bloody axe, you know? No one is that nice.

Hails: “You’re a weenie. You complained about fish tacos and didn’t call him back. Weenie.”

Nick: “Leanne, you can actually get laid for once. Don’t fuck this up.”

Cam (aka Public Enemy #1 of Boat Guy): “Do you even hear what you’re telling me? This guy whispered into your ear – while you were trying to sleep – ‘You fit so perfectly into my arms. I just want to sleep beside you all night.’ WHO SAYS THAT?!”

Jax: “Woof.”