I am elegant. Balanced. Put-together. I know what to say, what not to, and if you took me to a fine dining restaurant with four dollar signs on it's Google page, I would definitely know which fork to use.
Except, I'm not, and none of those things are true. Maybe if they were, I wouldn't laugh like a disgruntled chimpanzee when Erik tries to be romantic - and I do mean, all the times he tries to be romantic. Kind of like that one time when he told me he wasn't going to last much longer - only a second after going inside of me, and I laughed. Yeah, laughing at a man's ability to perform in the bedroom, or lack thereof, not a good idea.
This time, I not only laugh, but go to laugh just as I've sipped some water through a straw. I know I shouldn't use them because plastic and the turtles are dying, but it's paper. And also, there's ice in the water and if I drink it straight, my lip will burn for hours.
From what I've told you, just like a basic-ass recipe on the back of a cake box, I'm sure you can guess what happens next. I choke. Well, almost. Really, the water just goes down the wrong hole - much like many frat boys or one-night stands might tell you, and I start coughing like a hyena.
"You okay?" Erik worries. I would say what his face looks like - probably too cute for existence, but I can't, because I'm, well, you know, coughing. Instead, I'll tell you what the floor looks like - beer stains. Sticky. Not redone since whoever owns this place, took over the lease.
Not wanting him to think I'm actually choking - and not having something go down the aforementioned wrong hole, I nod. I think the only thing sexier than this would be if I had milk come out of my nose. Quick, grab the shake. No, just kidding - I don't want Erik to burst in his jeans; and also the shakes haven't been delivered yet.
Speaking of which, the bartender takes this opportunity to come strolling over, taking out a city block with the mere sway of his shoulders, on the way here. I'm not sure if it's just convenient timing or because he's worried that someone's about to die and he just can't have that happen during his shift. Too much paperwork. I, concur. Let me go outside.
"Are you okay?" He asks, awkwardly putting the shakes on the table beside us - just in case he has to pull me on top of this one and perform the hymnic maneuver.
Did I mention I'm sexy? Poised? So put-together?
Le sigh. Days since I made a public mockery of myself, is going back to zero.
"I'm good." I manage to get out, proving so by grabbing one of the shakes and taking a sip. Of course, that's about as good of an idea as a Real Housewives reunion. But this time, I'm able to just suffocate inside and occasionally clear my throat, rather than loudly cough to death.
He looks over at Erik, as if I am not able to speak for myself, or a good enough judge of character to know if I'm okay. I did one time go over to a random guy's apartment from Bumble, without having met them anywhere but the lobby of the place, first. And despite not getting crazy-murdered by him or his weed smoking in my presence, roommates, I still think it was a stupid-as-fuck decision.
"You sure you're okay?" Erik checks, after giving me another minute to awkwardly clear my throat. He slides his bar stool over to mine, sitting beside me and smacking me in the face with his cologne. Now, sir, I am definitely not okay.
Ugh, he smells so good. Why must you do this to me? Also, how do you smell so good and look so good? How is it humanly possible? Are you secretly an alien that's been sent on a mission to invade planet Earth, and after some back-and-forth and a moral dilemma on your end, you've decided to begin you invasion by dating me? And invading my pants. Sorry, I had to.
As if he can hear my thoughts and is trying to throw me off his scent, he puts his hand on my thigh, causing the one brain cell I have left around him, to become completely and utterly, fried.
"Mhm." I nod, sipping more of my milkshake, in hopes of getting brain freeze and hoping that this moment can be permanently erased from my memory. Good job, Rosie. The one and only person that you've ever dated was trying to be sweet and you had to bring your awkwardness into it. Real smooth. What are you gonna do next, barf on his dick during sex?
Only partially seeming to believe me, we exchange a look. I'm (proudly) able to maintain eye contact for a full ten seconds before looking at his mouth, which looks really nice. He has these soft, I-know-what-I'm-doing-but-it's-okay-if-you-don't, lips. And when I touch my own a few moments later, I'm definitely not thinking about how it felt when he was kissing me, earlier.
"Does that scare you?" He asks, his voice lower than before as a few players from the team, pass by. Our conversation is momentarily paused for them to exchange handshakes/bro hugs with him and acquaintance nice to meet yous, with me.
I'm hoping that the diversion of their visiting our little island will cause him to forget what we've been talking about, and move on to something less serious. Less anxiety-inducing. Less likely to make me pee myself or throw up all my problems like he's my therapist.
It's clear when he looks at me, awaiting a response, that hope is lost in the mail just like all my packages from Purolator. "Yes." Wrong. "No." Wrong. "Maybe?" Ding ding ding. "I don't know." I finally decide, fiddling with the bracelet that he got me for Christmas, as I glance around the room. It's always been hard for me to look at people during serious conversations.
I think that's one of the hard things I've learnt are needed to be navigated in a relationship, not only your feelings and knowing how to express them - but also knowing that there's another person involved. And that other person, has their own feelings and emotions that are easily affected by your own, my own.
"It's not that I'm scared of getting married." I'm terrified. Excited. All of the above. "It's just..." I trail off, not wanting to give him the impression that I want to do anything but spend the rest of my life with him. "My...anxiety, makes it feel like I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop." I tell him, knowing full-well that I probably sound like the creator of my own chaos.
It doesn't make sense, to be living what most would consider a happy life, and still be looking for what's wrong. It makes me sound like I'm too hard to please, a Debby-downer, or someone's glass that just can't ever be filled. It is filled, I am filled. I am happy. But I'm also a realist; and if time and life experiences have taught me anything, it's that when everything's going right, that's when something's most likely to go wrong.
I'm doing really well at work? Someone is bound to call me into their office and tell me I've made a horrible mistake. I'm having a good day? I'm bound to feel bad at some point. I'm in a good relationship? That person is bound to cheat on me, get bored, or fall out of love.
That's the thing about having an anxiety disorder, it doesn't make sense. It is the perpetual third wheel that follows you around everywhere you go, sometimes giving you a break and just following behind; other times, getting so up-close-and-personal that it has to sit on your chest for warmth. It never leaves and if it does, it's bound to return at some point.
"I understand." He finally says, after a few moments of deciding what to say. I know he's been reading books written by overpriced, unqualified, therapists that talk about how to communicate when you're in a relationship with someone like me. Someone like me, even the thought alone sounds crazy.
It also makes me want to cry that someone would do that for me. That someone would be so committed that they would actually try to learn how to make me feel better and be there for me. Much like Alexis in Married at First Sight: San Diego, all these emotions and feelings of love make me want to run for the hills.
"Well, whatever the other shoe is, we're in this together." He promises, taking my hand from where it's been palmed into his and kissing the back of it. "I'm committed to you and want to be with you for the rest of my life."
It's the fact that he doesn't try to control how I feel, tell me how illogical my thoughts or problems are, how much stress I'm causing him by creating imaginary issues. It's that he doesn't try and immediately tell me what to do, or how to solve things. It's the fact that he just holds my hand and tells me everything is going to be okay, that reaffirms I want to be with him, too.
Not because he's an NHL player, or because he pays for my coffee or looks better than Justin Bieber in that Calvin Klein ad. But because he loves me for who I really am and accepts me, and I accept him.
And before my anxiety can step in and come up with a thousand reasons why he'll cheat on me or grow tired or one day, want an open relationship, I respond. "I want to. Get married to you. And be with you, forever."