"You’re gonna marry him."
The comment came jokingly from the nurse’s assistant at my doctor’s office. She’s feisty and funny and somehow in minutes spent together over blood pressure readings we’ve become friends. She’s invited me to her 2010 wedding. Took it as intended, funny and dusted with her sharp-smart-ass-edge. After all, this is the woman who at a visit for unexpected bleeding after one rather overly-enthusiastic night with the former fling proclaimed, “Maybe his cock was just too big.”
She’s engaged to a Johnny Depp looking fellow (so says the pictures taped to the nurses station) and dammit if girls don’t want their girls to land a fella. Most do. I do too, as well as want my girls to be adventurous and independent and unencumbered by rules of society or puritanical moral code. But that’s a blog for another time.
She simply and sweetly wants me happy like she’s happy. After all love, and gravitational pull, make the world go ‘round. It’s an odd yet lovely facet of girl relationships to wish happily-ever-after upon your friends. Before even knowing his favorite food (oh, tortellini), color (blue maybe, certain he’s color blind) or birthday (shit, November 29) your girlies have you hand in hand in matching bands.
Jesus, no wonder men feel pressured.
So I have a new, um friend, whose company I enjoy a great deal. Who laughs when things really are funny, who is quieter than me (not difficult), available, read the entire blog - back to 2006 origins - yet still asked me out the first time proper for dinner, who picks up the check and pays the cover and guides the small of my back with his hand and drives when we go out and makes plans and whom I think about often. Together we’re two people who do the cool things in the Friday section of the newspaper and who want to explore and discover. And who get naked together.
This could be the start of a beautiful, um dunno.