I decided to implement a points rating system for Erik while we're at his parent's house for Christmas. Because it both reminds me of my fourth-grade French teacher who would always scream minus one anytime someone did something bad - and also because it gives me something to concentrate on, other than how nervous or anxious I am.
I also have a habit of finding words within a word, as one of my other coping mechanisms for when I'm anxious or stressed about something. Like when I'm on the subway and worried about men checking me out as I get up one stop before mine (so I can avoid the herd). I don't know why it bothers me, men looking at me, but it always has and still does. Something about being around them makes me anxious.
The anxiety tends to vary depending on the situation. Ranging from I can't speak because you're so attractive (how I felt when that guy from Sales needed his access card done), to there's no way you would ever look at me but I still want to make sure I don't make a complete fool of myself (how I felt when I first met Erik), to I really don't want this to turn into a Bella needing to be rescued from Twilight scene (how I feel whenever I'm around a group of three or more men).
I'm not sure if this is normal or not. I talked about it one time to my current therapist at the time (she was the overly happy, too perky one) and she asked me why it made me nervous when the men tended to say positive things about me. I didn't know how to respond so I dropped the subject. Now, in the comfort of my own company, I can safely tell you that it's because it feels like people are watching me and I don't like to be watched.
There's also the slight lingering feeling like men can't control themselves because that's what I would see when I used to watch porn: men seeing an attractive woman, not being able to help themselves and forcing themselves on her, and somehow, she would enjoy it. I thought I would enjoy it (two or more men) but then I one time had a nightmare about being gang-raped and now I don't think I would like it anymore.
"Rosie, your turn." Erik's mom tells me, knocking on the proverbial door of my own mind and barging in; or maybe she just barges in because I'm so lost in my own thoughts that I don't realize when everyone is looking at me.
I had been trying to make myself less anxious because everyone was staring at Erik as he opened a hockey stick in front of me (not the one I like for intercourse). But clearly, my internal clock is about as busted as I am.
My face is red; think tomato vineyard, nail polish on a rich girl, vampire's fake blood on Halloween, red. I can barely muster anything as all of them stare at me, watching me as I go under the tree and try to find a gift with my name on it. I wonder if this is one of those hazing rituals where I look for five minutes and am never able to find one, only for them to burst out laughing and say gotcha'.
My tank top also keeps riding up as I look for it; it's either riding up or riding down, kind of like a girl amid cowgirl, or riding an actual horse. When it rides down, I have to pull it back up because I'm worried my chest hairs will show, or my bra, or anything but my boobs because as everyone and their mother knows, I have none. I wonder if my boobs will get bigger after Erik and I have kids and I'm forced to place one of them on my tit for nutrition. Hopefully?
"There's one over here, babe," Erik tells me, noticing my nerves and anxiety - being the only one in the room I think that can tell, or I hope that can detect it seeing as he knows me the most, and pointing me towards the other side of the tree.
That, or he's shamelessly trying to get a better view of my behind, in front of his family. Jokes on him because with the cardigan that I'm wearing, the only thing he'll be seeing is my thread count.
"Thanks," I tell him, relocating myself and then setting my sights on a neatly wrapped medium-sized one. The amount of effort, coupled with the neat handwriting and perfectly placed edges, tells me a woman wrapped it. Not that a man couldn't wrap like a pro - but let's be honest, do they? I think not.
Like I'm living one of my nightmares, everyone stares at me as I sit back down beside Erik and begin pulling at the packaging. I do double-check that it has my name on it - or triple-check, should I say. Erik and I are sitting beside each other and his thigh is touching mine, which slightly distracts me.
He's wearing athletic shorts (in Winter) and I can feel the warmth from his skin, even through my overpriced leggings. The same ones I've been wearing for two years and have been running a razor over to get rid of fuzzy balls. Meanwhile, his shorts are from Lululemon and probably have only been worn a handful of times before.
"What is it?" One of Link's kids, the curious one, asks, looking over at me. I haven't had a massive amount of interaction with them - mostly because we have the same bedtime (when I have free rein over my routine) and the same dietary habits: complain about what people make you eat and only look forward to the sweets.
They're cute, though. And Erik's really good with them. They also have adorable nicknames for him and when one of them ran up to him yesterday, my ovaries practically exploded in my pants. I want kids, I do. Sometimes I have baby fever and want him to re-impregnate me, right here and now. But then I remember my job (unpaid), my life stability (none), and my career prospects (hinging on not getting knocked up before graduation).
And with me taking over more and more responsibility in the department, promoting myself only in thought from the office's bitch to the office's assistant, I'm feeling hopeful. Danielle's having me cover for her over the holidays (the next two weeks while she smothers her son to death at college) and even Oscar has started having me help him out more and more.
I should have it in the bag. I've known people that got a full-time job after only one co-op semester and this will be my second one, slaving away for free. And unlike some co-op placements (Pizza Pizza) this one is with a National Hockey League Organization. A position is practically guaranteed.
At least, I think so. And every time I've asked Erik about it - mainly just wanting reassurance, he has assured me that he thinks so. He doesn't see any reason why they wouldn't; neither does my therapist, Mr. Fluffypants, or the mailman that has started strategically coming by only when I'm not around.
This leads me to pencil down another goal in my mind, because yes, I am trying to set goals for myself. On the list so far, I have: get a full-time job (almost done), learn to cook (not started), and now, make friends (other than my boyfriend).
It's nothing against Erik, I love spending time with him. I love him, he's my best friend. But I need to venture out; I need to have my own friends. This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he keeps talking about proposing and if we were to get married, I would only have one bridesmaid: Makena.
Who, although I can tolerate them for a certain amount of time, isn't my friend, she's Erik's teammate's girlfriend.
"Look at the back of it," Cassidy instructs, very obviously excited about whatever I just opened. To me, it looks nice a denim jacket, maybe it's from some famous designer? I hope not. Even though Erik's slapped my name onto all the gifts he's given his family, I can't help but feel bad for not getting them anything.
I would have gotten them something, but I didn't know we would even be going until a week ago, and he told me it wasn't a big deal. That they would probably just be getting us couple gifts like a blender and toaster nobody wants. Okay, so maybe I added that part about the unwanted kitchen appliances, but he did say that they would probably just get us joint stuff.
I don't know if he was lying or if he just didn't know, but I assume from the way my name is included on the label from whatever mall Santa he paid to wrap his gifts, that he knew and didn't want me to spend my own money on stuff for them.
+1 For having gifts wrapped over having them show up in Amazon boxes
-1 For lying to your girlfriend, even if it was with good intentions
"Oh, wow," I say, not sure anything else will come out of my mouth that doesn't sound bad when I see the back of it. It's the last name of the family (King) and his number (his jersey number not his phone number), in bright colorful embroidery.