Strongly Worded

Context: the Former Object of My Obsessive Crush

A bit of context about why I really, really hope this guy does not come to Anne's party:

I met S. at a community meeting in January of 2003. I sat down across from him, noticed his astonishing good looks, and hoped fervently that we’d have a chance to talk. The meeting consisted mostly of a “human barometer” exercise in which we all moved among the four corners of the room depending on our level of agreement with statements about the organization’s mission. S. and I ended up in mostly the same corners. He said articulate, well-reasoned things even though he was brand new to the group.

After the meeting, I began some extensive Internet research. Thanks to google, I learned that he owns his own consulting firm, collects art, has studied an obscure Japanese ceramics technique, and has lived in England, Guatemela, the United Arab Emirates, and California. I looked up his phone number in the group’s contact directory and “reverse dialed” it to see if he lived with a girlfriend or wife (it seemed that he did not).

Over the next few months of meetings, S. and I would look at each other, smile furtively, and look away. We each nodded approvingly at the other’s comments. But that was the extent of our contact. He joined the outreach committee; I joined the program committee. Before every meeting, I would promise myself that I would approach S. and talk to him. After every meeting, I would find myself too nervous to do anything but lurch in shame towards the subway.

My mother would call me after each failed attempt and rebuke me for being so shy. She encouraged me to wear makeup to the meetings, to do something about my hair. She consulted with multiple friends about whether S.’s last name was Jewish (they concluded that it could be).

At an event in March, we exchanged pleasantries for a moment as we drifted among the crowd. I still remember the close fit of the yellow dress shirt he was wearing, his animated expression. Unbeknownst to me, someone snapped a picture of our seconds-long conversation and posted it on the web. It’s a hideous picture of the back of my head mostly blocking an S’s face; he looks odd, captured in an unflattering light.

Afterwards, S. came right up to me and asked, “I was wondering if you want to grab a drink on the way home. If you have time.”

“I would love to. Yes. Of course.” I hoped my enthusiasm wasn’t overwhelming.

As we were all leaving, Daria asked S. what he was doing for Passover.

“I don’t have any plans yet this year.”
I sighed with pleasure.

He bought me a pink drink in a frosted glass; we nestled close to the candelit table. I invited S. to my friend’s seder, and he not only came (charming everyone, being utterly adorable, looking stunning, insisting on washing the dishes and then flinging hot suds at me) but walked me home afterwards, and we made cupcakes and ganache from scratch, late at night, for his friend’s birthday party the next day. He barraged me with questions:

“Chocolate or vanilla?” he asked me, playful. “Downtown Crossing or Newbury Street?” We spent a long time in this mode. Tea or coffee? Breakfast or dinner? Fall or spring? Singing or dancing? Camping or B&B? Voicemail or email? 10 p.m. or 10 a.m? Sushi or Chinese? Satin or cotton? Salon.com or NPR?

The next morning I spent a blissful brunch at my friend’s house, debriefing the evening. I arrived back home, and found S. was waiting on my doorstep. “Your people were after me,” he said, “I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t return this.” He handed me my cupcake tin.

Over the next few weeks, I teetered between happiness and anxiety as we danced around the border between friendship and romance. We exchanged playful emails and flirted over the phone. At irregular intervals, we’d meet for lunch, go to movies. S. said sexy, complimentary things. I wanted desperately to kiss him, and consulted with many friends about how to make this happen. Jonathan advised me to wear good underwear. K. said this would jinx things, so I switched to bad underwear. With careful probing, and coaching from R,, I ruled out Gay and Girlfriend. I tried cooking for him (a surefire method, according to Xavier.) I fixed my hair and wore my most fabulous jeans (Mom). I tried kiss positioning (Avi). Nothing happened, and gradually, I heard less and less from S..

Every day, I’d log into my email, wait for the screen to change. Often, I’d read the words “Welcome. You have 1 unread message.”

And I’d summon my resolve, and try to suppress the surge of motion within my heart. It was like trying not to hiccup. And I’d tell myself that the message was about that reimbursement check, or those still unconfirmed weekend plans. I’d tell myself that the message was NOT from him, because I couldn’t fathom enduring the disappointment of finding this to be true. I’d tell myself that it was absolutely too early to hear from him. That really, I’d seen him so recently, and he’d been so busy …

And regardless, I’d want, with an urgent, excruciating intensity, to see his name in the “sender” column, to read and reread his words, to own them, savor them. I tried not to want it, but I did.

As the vague friendly outings became less and less frequent, I finally purged the sound of his voice from my answering machine. And I finished off the last sweet scrape of the ganache we’d made together the night of the seder. I tossed out the recipe he’d scrawled on the napkin—the one I thought I’d save and giggle over once we married. I tried hard to look out onto new prospects and possibilities, not back at what I could or should have done differently. I pushed the phoenix back into the fire. S. went on vacation. I fantasized that he’d return, and I’d run into him with a new boyfriend on my arm. I imagined looking at him, wisely, over the lenses of new love, and watch detachedly as he looked back.

Weeks went by. And then I needed a moderator for the panel. I left him a purely work-related message, didn't hear back.

And then, when he called unexpectedly, I tried to sound breezy, casual. In fact, I felt extremely excited. We hadn’t spoken in over a month, and I assumed this was because he was too busy having sex with models.

I asked, “So what’s up? What’s going on with you?”

“I have to tell you something important. I haven’t told many people this, but I just found out I have cancer.”

“Oh my G-d,” I said, “How did you find this out?”
He told me the details briefly, about feeling the mass, and getting it checked out, and having surgery to remove it. He didn’t say what kind of cancer he had, but I assumed it was something embarrassing; prostate or rectal or testicular cancer. If he had the kind of cancer one could talk openly about, he would have talked openly about it.

“You need to know I’m going to be fine,” he said, strong and sure.

I felt this overwhelming wave of love and concern.

“That sucks. Wow. I’m so sorry. How do you want me to be?” I asked him, “Do you want me to be perky and cheer you up? Or wallow along with you?”

S. was surprised at the question. “No one had asked me that before. I don’t really know,” he said, “I guess it depends on the day. Mainly I don’t want you to tell anyone. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me, or treat me any differently. I’m serious about that—I don’t want anyone to know.”

We talked a little more about ordinary things, and then hung up. I felt this tiny wicked flicker of joy: he hadn’t been having sex with models; he was now and ordinary person who gets sick and struggles; I now have the opportunity to do something for him without being a crazy stalker reject.

I deluded myself into thinking that he had dropped me before because of his testicles, that he had felt too unmanly to kiss me, and that therein lay the reason for the lapsed contact. Now, I thought, I could seize the opportunity to be Caregiving Barbie, and I made him soup and read "What Not to Say to a Person With Cancer" and made and gave him a Box of Joy which included some funny articles and I can't remember what else.

Anyone who remembers me at that phase (this was Fall of 2003) knows that I was completely obsessed by his mixed messages and my own unwarranted hope. My tough-loving friends insisted that I ask him, once and for all, what his intentions were, so I could move on with my life.

I left him a message saying "I have something I want to run by you." And of course he didn't call me back, which, in retrospect, was a tremendous strike of cosmic fortune, because I learned days later that THIS WHOLE TIME he'd been on-again, off-again with some woman in New York. I was thus spared abject humiliation.

The person who shared this with me knew S. from school, and said that he had a long-standing reputation as a player, and thus, our whole pseudo-flirtation was just one long cruel installment in his life without balls.

Posted by Dori at 7:50 PM