He and I (we will call him “B”) are somewhat dating now these days. And for the first time in a long time, I’m dating someone exclusively. It’s strange to be back in this place, somewhere I haven’t been a while, and have not even visited since I last left.
Sunday morning I am woken up by his alarm on his cell phone.
“Good morning. I know this is a bit earlier than we talked about, but I figured you didn’t want to miss a run with Doc before we head out. So I set the alarm a little earlier than planned.”
“Thanks.” I managed to whisper while yawning.
Yes, I let him stay the night. That’s the first time I’d let anyone I was interested in stay the night since the Ex moved out. It was nice waking up to his face. I’ll admit that.
We were dressed in less than five minutes and out the door. Doc, B, and I running through Central Park together. The sun was warm, and it didn’t rain like they had predicted. Vendors were selling potted plants and hibiscus trees at discounted prices, and lines were wrapped up and down the paths with last minute Mother’s Day shoppers.
We stopped to get smoothies on the way back to the apartment and discussed the train schedule and the day’s plans and events.
[Side note: I even let him shower and get dressed at my apartment after our run, rather than him going home and coming back. That was a little strange, but I liked it. A lot.]
An hour later, we were out the door again. Two subways and a train ride later and we were on the train platform in Trenton (New Jersey) waiting for our cab. We were going to his parents’ house for brunch where we would meet with his [twin] brother and his girlfriend and the four of us would enjoy a breakfast/lunch buffet accompanied by B’s parents and two grandmothers.
I had met B’s parents before, and B lives with his brother, so I have met him and his girlfriend before too. But I have never met his grandmothers and I have never met his parents while we were considered “dating”. It makes it so much easier meeting the family when you know there is nothing romantic going on between the two of us, now that we’re actually dating, and they know it, it changes everything. And maybe they didn’t think so, or they just didn’t acknowledge it, because everything felt exactly the same. Which was a wonderful relief.
At about 2:45, we were out the door again. One train, two subways, and another train later, and we were now standing at the train platform at Ronkonkoma (Long Island, New York) where we waited for another cab.
And now B was in the same situation as I was earlier in the day. He had met most of my family before, just not when we were dating. But again, no one acted any different. This, I’m sure, was a relief for him as well.
We went to the beach and then we went to the Shrine where I really opened up to him.
I told him why that place was so special to me, what it was like when my mom was sick, and how strange everything felt after she had passed. I told him how I can’t remember my grandparents’ funerals a few shorts months after my mom’s because I was practically a zombie by then. I even told him how I hate myself everyday because I can’t remember her. My own mother. The woman who gave birth to me.
He stayed silent, but supportive. He hugged me, and held my hand, and kissed my cheek.
The train ride home was quiet. I just wondered what he was thinking.
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“Can I stay the night? I love waking up to your face.”
And I let him.
Doc and I are laying in my bed watching Sex in the City reruns. And it makes me wonder, will I be Carrie Bradshaw forever?
Sure, we’re both single and living in New York. We go out for drinks with our friends after a long day in the office. We rely on our laptops, sitting at home, calling our names after we experience a night of bliss, a night of turmoil and everything in between. The keys long to be pressed by my fingers while I dictate every detail of my life’s events. Or sometimes the lack thereof.
The difference between Carrie and I? Well, for starters, I don’t march down Fashion Avenue wearing Manolo Blahniks and sip martinis and cosmopolitans with Manhattan socialites, corporate executives and a wealthy lawyer. I do, however, sip imported beers (at $8 a pop) at pubs with a documentary producer, an art gallery owner, a waitress, a struggling actor, a writer, a college professor, a New York City firefighter, and a few students. My hair does not look nearly as nice or tamed as hers when it decides to defy my many efforts to keep it from curling. I don’t work one day a week, in fact I work eight. I do not attend glamorous galas, parties, and balls. And I don’t sleep with every person that I date.
I am dating someone, yes. He is not the Mr. Perfect you have read about in previous posts. He is not that friend that I mentioned once or twice before. He is not the Ex.
He’s… someone semi-new.
He and I met last May at a bar. He’s a few years older than me, but still likes to have fun. He is mature and responsible but spontaneous and carefree at the same time (if that is possible).
But this post is not about him.
It’s about me. About my desire to be happy, but my inability to allow myself to do so. I refuse to open up to people. This is a flaw that I am aware of, am ashamed of, but still cannot seem to break this horrible habit of mine. What is it that I am afraid of? What is it that scares me so much that I will push people away from me? People that seem to care about me, and want to be there for me.
And most importantly, how do I make myself stop?
I cannot say whether or not he will be fed up with these habits of mine. But I can tell you that many have done that before. And have walked away, leaving me in the dust, without looking back because of this terrible thing that I do. And I never see it coming. Not until it’s too late. And all that’s left is sad little Dean and her self-broken heart.
Which brings me back to Carrie. Am I Carrie Bradshaw? As much as I wish I weren’t. As much as I don’t want to be. As much as I deny it… I think I know deep down it’s true. And I think my friends know it too. And perhaps they’re just too afraid to bring it to my attention, fearing that I don’t already know. Fearing that I might feel attacked, criticized, or ridiculed. Fearing I will only put my guard up higher and stronger.
I don’t want to be Carrie. I don’t want to be Samantha, Miranda, or even Charlotte. I want to be Dean. But I want to be the Dean that’s not afraid to be happy.
Using all the strength I have, I will open up to him. Right now.
