Something happened this weekend. Something I wasn’t prepared for, an absolute surprise in fact. Something that keeps floating back into my head, only to be quickly erased and dislodged, Etch-A-Sketch like.
A boy made my hands shake.
BTW, I realize a woman my age and experience should, perhaps, stop referring to men as “boys”. But it’s my blog and I’ll boy if I want to.
The weekend was chock full of fun, although the two week drought continues (while vacuuming today, I found a fully wrapped Trojan nudged between wall and nightstand. My last brought three upstairs. We used two. Points for believing he had that in him). Chaste male companionship abound in the past 48 – a two hour flirty phone chat, dinner downtown, coffee on 17th, more drinks, music. Good times for a girl (even discovered during a closet raid I’ve dropped two sizes). However, at one point during the festivities, I realized my hands were trembling. Only briefly, but obviously. My cheeks even may have been flushed. Nerves? Empty stomach? Bad shrimp? Nope. It was a boy.
I didn’t sign up for shakes. My hands betray me. They should be court marshaled, chopped from forearm in some odd ritual sacrifice.
I don’t know if I can fully and properly define the moment; it's a bit scrambled in my head, like a saucy blocked cable channel. Sitting with a glass of red, suddenly all too aware of hands afflicted, like Ali lighting the torch at the 1996 Summer Olympics. Where did it come from? What does it mean? Worse yet, I have an inkling (no, not an inkling but a pert near bonafide, period at the end of the story, he's just not that into me vibe coming from every pore) that I don’t do the same for him. I find him sweet and awkward. I like that he has a little belly; I want to rub it like Buddha.
The shake stops here. I don’t want it.
Why don’t I make his hands shake?
I don’t care.
Maybe it was bad shrimp after all, because it makes my stomach hurt.