GH's reprimanding comment on my last post has reminded me of a series of stories that should be told. To escape reprimand once more, I'll be sure to promise you that all of the details of the following historical accounts are completely historically accurate in so far as the histographer was able to recollect the events. None of the following is an embellishment.
Scenes from My Doorstep
I had liked a friend of Brother 2's for years. We'll call him Jean-Louis because that was his name and because there is no need to really keep him anonymous here. He was French Canadian and had everything going for him. He was smart, he wanted to be a doctor, he was anabsolutelyfantastic dresser (no pleats). He was very good looking, too. Sometimes he had a little goatee, sometimes he didn't. He had the best freckles on a man that I have ever seen. He was a dream, an absolute dream. At this time, he was off at university in Southern Ontario, but one day, I received a phone call from him, letting me know that he was in town. We always understood that we shared... let's call them "feelings" for each other. So we went to the movie (I think it was The Wedding Singer). By a strange set of boring circumstances that I won't relate here, we had to meet at the movies, therefore we had to take separate vehicles. After the movie, though there was no hand-holding during the movie, I started to panic. He was walking me back to my car, and I knew that "goodbye" was coming very soon, and I didn't know if we were on a date or if we were just friends. Was it a date or just friends? Was it a date or just friends? Wasitadateorjustfriends?? We were getting nearer and nearer to my car.
When we finally got to the car, I quickly pulled the keys out of my purse and unlocked the door, thus readying myself for whatever---and I really had no clue what---was to come. I turned around to look at him and as I turned around, I saw his hands coming out of the pockets of his jacket and instinctively---this wasn't even remotely on purpose---instincively---and I blame the Church---instinctively, I put out my hand so as to give him a handshake.
We stood there, awkward for a moment, my outstretched hand filling the gap between our heaving hearts.
He slowly reached his hand forward to take it, and shook it. You know. With meaning. Then he said, "Well... can I at least have a hug?"
At least a hug! At least! That means that at most it was going to be a kiss! At most, I could have kissed the best dressed man I've ever gone to the movies with! My life is crap.
A guy from my ward called me up and asked me on a date. I accepted before even looking him up in the ward directory because, let's face it, when you're as hard up for love as I am, you take it wherever you can get it. "No" isn't a part of my vocabulary. Imagine my surprise and delight, then, when I got home, looked up his picture and found out that he was handsome! Imagine my further surprise and delight when I asked other people about him and they told me he was 6'5. Hmm. That's a whole foot taller than me.
Well, before I even met the man, before I even started to worry about what to wear, I started to worry about the doorstep scene. It was coming. I knew that sometime within the next 72 hours, I'd be at a doorstep with this man and I'd be expected to do something. What, I really had no clue. I talked to my coworkers about it. I explained that I'm not a very touchy person, and I don't like hugging people---especially those who I don't know. So the thought of thinking that maybe I had to hug a man who I didn't even know within the next 72 hours was driving me crazy. I think that I even demonstrated to poor Nemesis how awkward it would be by rushing at her on my knees and hugging her around her midsection. "A whole foot taller than me!" I shouted from her belly button. "A whole foot! I can't just press my head up against this stranger's chest!"
During the next 72 hours, I figured out what to wear, and I even calmed down a little about the doorstep scene. A single, male coworker assured me that hugging after the date was not obligatory at all. So I planned just not to hug the man.
What followed was the best date of my life. It honestly was. Everything was perfect and wonderful and the man was dreamy, just absolutely dreamy. Half way through the date, I started panicking about what if maybe he'd never ask me out again, and so I'd never have a date that wonderful again. I started panicking that maybe I send the wrong signals, and maybe although I was enjoying myself immensely, maybe he was getting "I'm Just Not That Into You" signals.
He drove me to my house and walked me to my door. As we were walking there, I figured out what I could say. I would simply say, "I had a wonderful time tonight." That way, he would know that I had a wonderful time, and I could get away with not giving him a hug but still sending him the right signal.
I unlocked my door and I turned around and as I was opening my mouth to say my brilliant line, he said, "I had a wonderful time tonight."
In my head: No no no no no no no no no! He just stole my line! That's what I was going to say! Quick, think of something to say, faster faster fasterfasterfasterfaster!
Before I realized what was happening, I said, "Ask me out again then." It wasn't even flirtateous. It wasn't even said with a smile. It was a command. An order. Ask me out again then.
He hesitated and then said a missionary's favorite words: "I will."
This, though not as dramatic as the other events, happened this past year, and is the story that GH's comment on my last post reminded me of. See, GH asked if the South American lady came by my place selling tamales. She didn't this week, but she certainly did last April.
I was on a date with a friend with whom I'd go on dates. It was a funny sort of relationship we had where sometimes we were out and it felt like just friends and sometimes we were out and I'd get that little giddy sensation in my stomach. It was all strange because we were (and are) very good friends. It was funny to me that sometimes I could actually get nervous around him when we were on a date. So, all of that explanation simply to say that it was at the end of one of those giddy-stomach/nervous dates, and we were getting to my doorstep, and I was wondering, "What's going to happen here?"
We got to my door, I unlocked it, and turned to face him. And the two South Americans who were standing right in behind him. South Americans? Not exactly who you expect to be standing on your doorstep with your date at 11:00 at night.
They asked if we wanted to buy tamales. We had no cash. They accepted checks. How much were they? Ten dollars. Oh, sorry, I just don't think that I could right now. Did my roommates want any? Let me check. No, no, none of them had any cash either. Did I want their address in case I ever changed my mind and had a hankering for tamales? Oh, of course.
And somehow at the end of all this, the nervousness, was gone, the butterflies were gone, and I calmly and eventlessly said goodnight to my date.
**It is to be stated here very clearly that since watching Hitch, I now know that I'm supposed to play with my keys at the doorstep instead of unlocking the door right away. I'll be prepared for my next doorstep scene, which should be coming in about another two to five years.