On Falling in Love with your Best Friend

I'm going to go ahead and blame Julia Roberts for making it popular to enter into marriage pacts with your best friend if you aren't married by a certain age.

It didn't work out too splendidly for her, so I should have known it would crash and burn for me.

Essentially, in the past couple of months, I realized that I'm in love with my best friend.

It only took me 12 years.

I met J my sophomore year in high school, but we didn't really become close until our college years. When I was 20, single and slightly bitter, I told him that I was going to wind up as one of those single, crazy old ladies with a bunch of cats. It was then he suggested that we get married at 30 if neither of us had taken the plunge yet.

The thing is, J has always made his feelings for me known to everyone. In front of our friends, he referred to me as the love of his life, woman of his dreams and future wife. I always knew I deeply cared for him, but I pushed it aside as deep love for a friend and considered him along the lines of a brother.

It never occurred to me that I would ever see him differently. That is, until I realized that the feeling I get in my gut when I'm around him is unlike any I've felt around anyone else.

So, I pretty much pounced on him a couple months back when I found out he was back on the market. We kissed, among other things, for the first time that night, and it just felt...right. No awkwardness, no feeling like we shouldn't be engaged in what we're doing. I just kept wondering why it hadn't happened sooner.

That was two months ago. We've been on a couple dates, sent some cute texts back and forth, and had a couple other rendezvous. But I know things aren't where they should be.

So finally, I broke down and asked him where we're at. And I got some roundabout answer, interlaced with a lot of bullshit. He said he's always liked the idea of us, but the timing is off.

When he started throwing out the standard excuses I knew all he really needed to say but didn't have the balls to tell me was: "I like you, just not enough to date you."

And it sucks. I feel like I've been suckered punched. Or at least I did when I finally accepted the reality of the situation.

Because I can handle it when a random guy screws me over. I expect it. It doesn't phase me anymore.

But when it's someone who I've been friends with for years, who has taken care of me when I'm sick, picked me up when I'm drunk and emotional, was by my side at my grandfather's funeral...

...let's just say that I thought that I meant a bit more to him.

So I've done what I've done best - injected myself with a heavy dose of emotional novacaine.

Because it's easier. Easier than facing the sting of rejection. Easier than reliving the fact that his feelings don't match mine. Easier than realizing that I may lose one of my oldest friends.

But I guess that's the risk you take when you try to take a friendship to the next level. Things will never be the same between us.

And God damnit it sucks.

Though this reality - harsh as it may be - is infinitely better than the alternative: staying in limbo and waiting and hoping for that one day when he decides that he's ready to be with me. We've known each other 12 years. If he doesn't know by now, I don't think he ever will.

Words of Wisdom

"Don't be afraid to be single. It makes you stronger, and your relationships of the future will be stronger, too." - My therapeutic-as-a-glass-of-wine friend who has helped me keep my shit together the past 12 years.

He said this to me via Facebook im while he was in Austrailia for graduate school and I was airing my worries to him that I would never find anyone. I wrote it down and have kept it on my desk at work ever since. When I'm having a "Woe is me...I'm going to be alone the rest of my life" day, it gives me a kick in the ass to stop throwing myself a pity party.

The New 30 - 60 Day Rule

Is it just me, or is that stupid 3-day rule guys follow increasing exponentially?

I'm not talking by days, or even weeks. I'm talking MONTHS.

Seriously, under what realm of logic do men (at least, the ones I've had the pleasure of befriending) think it's completely acceptable to contact a girl in thirty-to-sixty day increments?

I don't know if it's the warmer temperatures, budding flowers or just the fact that women are now rocking tank tops, skirts and sundresses, but I've received texts from THREE different men in the span of a week who I haven't heard from in at least a month.

And frankly, I'm pretty pissed about it.

Not because I still care about any of these losers, but because it makes me wonder what vibes I am giving off to suggest I'm okay with this type of treatment?

For the sake of a few laughs, let's review the "love notes" I've received over the past week.

Bachelor #1

Quick overview: Personal trainer at a local gym. Met at a bar. Exchanged numbers, texted and talked on the phone the night we met for an hour. Hung out a few days later. I invited him to my apartment, told myself I would not sleep with him but we all know what ended up happening. The next morning, he said he would call me later. That was April 5.

On May 6, I received the following string of texts:

B1: Psst...

An hour passes.

B1: No?

Another hour passes.

B1: Psst...

I wanted to text him back and say: "Look dude, I know I slept with you the first time we hung out, but I don't want to be on your booty call list." But then I thought that would make it look like I still gave a shit.

One of my friends said I should just respond with: "Who is this?" Tempting, and somewhat gives me the upper hand, but that would just instigate futher communication. And I do not want anything to do with this guy.

I should have known he was bad news. His first name is Damion. You know what image comes to mind when I hear that name? That sadistic devil-child from "The Omen."

Bachelor #2

Quick overview: From Texas (that's about all I can remember about him). Met at a bar. Talked for a while before I called it an early night. Exchanged numbers. This was on April 16.

On May 14, (Hey - look at that! He wins the prize for least amount of time lapsed between contact. Only 28 days! Maybe he's a keeper...) I received the following text at 7pm:

B2: Hi Katherine!

I didn't save this guy's number back in April. (I never save a boy's number until I start receiving regular communication from him. This saves me from a) wasting storage space in my phone and b) being tempted to text him at 1 a.m when I'm wasted.) Obviously, I had no clue who the hell was texting me, but I assumed it was the guy I had met this past Saturday night, so I responded.

Me: Hey how's it going?

B2: It's going good...how r you? What r u up 2 tonight?

(For the record, I DETEST this many abbreviations in a text. You are a GROWN MAN, not a 13-year-old girl. B2 was already losing major points, but I was also hoping I could figure out who the hell he was.)

Me: Not too bad, just getting off of work. I'm going to a house party in Arlington. What about you?

B2: Gonna go to a bar in Arlington.

Me: Oh nice. You know which one?

One hour later, at approximately 12:45 a.m...

B2: Spider Kelly's

(Aww...where we first met! How poetic.)

B2: Come!

Unfortunately for B2, I didn't check my phone while at the house party so I could not join him on the lovely rendezvous I'm sure took him weeks to plan.

The next morning when I sobered up enough to think with 1/4 of my brain capacity, I was able to confirm his identity by checking my call log from a month ago.

I wonder if he'll wait another 28 days to contact me...



Coincedence that both these douches have connections to horror films? I think not.

Bachelor #3

Quick overview: You may remember this charmer from this post a while back. Even after that horrendous date, I continued to repsond to his texts and calls, which were still frequent. Problem was, he never initiated coming up here to visit and take me out. He always asked when I'd be back in Richmond and wanted me to drop everything to hang out with him. I was annoyed, over it and relieved when he didn't text me for almost two months.

Then, two weeks ago, he sent me this:

B3: How is it going?

Four days later...

B3: Really?

That was sent after midnight on a Friday night. I didn't get it until I woke up at 9 a.m. Saturday morning. The same time I saw the texts from B1. Needless to say, I was was not in the mood for his nonsense.

Me: I'm not really sure what "really?" is all about, but after not talking to me for 2 months, you really shouldn't expect a response.

B3: I wasn't ignoring you. I haven't heard anything from you either...

Me: Just kinda felt like things fizzled out. No harm, no foul. But please don't randomly text me once every couple months and expect me to respond. I need and deserve more than that.

I won't bore you with the rest. But, I basically got a bunch of shit excuses as to why he waited so long to contact me, while also blaming me for not rearranging my schedule every time I was in town.

Then, he asked if we could hang out again.

I didn't respond for a few days, hoping he'd get the hint, though this guy has the intelligence of a pile of rocks so I should have known he wouldn't. A few days later, he kinda reamed me out, saying that he thought we were at least friends and I shouldn't ignore him.

After shaking my head/banging my forehead against my desk a few times/laughing my ass off, I essentially told him that we were never really friends and I got that feeling that he was going through a dry spell and wanthing to rekindle our hookup sessions, which I was not interested in.

After all that, he still asked if he could treat me to dinner.

Wow...just wow.

And the best part about all this is, he couldn't shell out $30 to buy me food and drinks when we were kinda/sorta dating, but now that I will barely talk to him, he suddenly wants to take me out?

This guy is either the biggest douche in the world or really just that stupid.

Have no fear, though - I still got to see B3 again. I'm not sure if it was just a weird twist of fate or the dating gods just wanted a good laugh, but I ran into him at a bar in Richmond on Sunday afternoon.

Of course, he sauntered on over and tried to talk to me. I made zero effort to carry on a conversation and leaned as far back in my chair as I avoid getting too close to this dude. Then, I downed about three shots because it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

Hello, Sunday funday!

Unfortunately, I don't have no horror movie to compare him to (his stupidity, is laughable, not frightening), but he does remind me of this little guy:

Why my phone and my purse are BFFs

I've stopped trying to use Jedi mind tricks on my phone.

There were times where I've waited by the phone for a guy to text/call/facebook message/e-mail me.

Then, I got to the point where I felt so desperate staring at my phone screen, willing it to ring/buzz/light up, that I've started keeping my phone stashed in the confines of my purse. You know, so I'm not tempted to stare at for hours on end.

I actually think some small part of me believes that the guy of the moment is more likely to call if my phone is out of sight, out of mind. I also don't want respond to the call or text right away for fear of seeming too over-eager and available. I have to appear busy and that I have a life of my own, afterall.

So I play this ridiculously juvenile game, all the while pissing off my friends who can't get a hold of me because I'm too busy playing the invisable phone act.

It's stupid.

AND

...it doesn't work. Obviously.

Case in point: I hung out with a guy last Monday, and when he left, he told me he'd call.

I definitely didn't expect him to call (since when do guys contact you when they say they will?) And I haven't been proven wrong. He even had me download this stupid HeyTell app to my droid so we could talk more easily. (It's kinda like a walkie-talkie.) Yeah, um...we can't talk more easily if you aren't going to make an effort to talk to me at all, genius.

Sigh.

You know, what I think it really boils down to, is that I'd rather not have see "no missed calls" or "no new messages" slapping me across my face every five minutes.

Yes, the bottomless pit known as my purse is a much better spot for my phone, buried beneath my color-coded planner, wallet, old movie ticket stubs and last month's cable bill I keep meaning to pay.

I do not posess the luck of the Irish

I am not Irish. But, like most Americans, I pretend to be every year on March 17th.

This year, I went out with co-workers. Once again, I decided to forego dinner in lieu of Jameson shots and beer. (The results of this are always spectacular.)

By the time we reached bar#3, I was stumbling all over the place and had been flagged as bad news by the bouncer. (So I was told. I don't personally remember.) Here's a visual:

I crashed at a co-workers that night, and was greeted the next morning with your classic hangover symptoms - cotton mouth, throbbing head, churning stomach. Basically, the way you want to feel when you have to go to work for eight hours.

On the drive back into the city, I was rocking my oversized sunglasses, had my jean jacket coverning my face and has passed out in the lap of my co-worker's roommate.

About 20 minutes into the car ride, I knew I wasn't going to be able to hold it together much longer. Plus, I needed to go home and try to make myself presentable for work.

Using every ounce of energy I could muster, I lifted up my head (which felt like it weighed 500 lbs), sat up and tried and figure out where the hell we were. I could tell we were in the city, but that was about all I had.

So, I asked my co-worker if we were near a metro. We weren't. And he had forgotten to drop me off at my apartment.

But really, all I was concerned about was not covering his car with remnants of last night's alcohol and stomach acid. I figured a cab was my best bet anyway, so I said, "I'm getting kinda nauseous and need some fresh air. Plus I need to go home and change. Do you mind letting me out so I can grab a cab?"

Now, at this point, the three other people in the car were convinced I was going to vom any second. I knew I was a good five minutes off from that happening, but I didn't help my cause when I released some form of a hiccup/burp.

Co-worker's roommate yelled "Oh shit!" and scooted as far away from me as he could in a two-door car. Annoyed and tired of feeling like death, I snapped at him, "I'm not three years old. I know when I'm going to puke."

Five seconds later, the light turned red so I hobbled out of the car. Luckily, there was a cab a few cars infront of where I got out because I don't think I had enough brain cells left to figure out which road I should turn down to hail a taxi. Plus, based on my physical appearance, I don't think many cab drivers would have stopped for me.

Once I got inside the cab, I tried to roll down my window and get the fresh air I so desperately needed, but the cab driver squashed those dreams pretty quickly. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure the passenger gets to determine the climate of the cab during the ride in which he/she is paying.

Whatever. I got my vengence a minute later when I made him pull over on Constitution Ave. so I could vomitando.

For those of you not familiar with D.C., Constitution Ave. is the road that passes by the White House, Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial - basically all the major landmarks in our nation's capital. It is also one of the most heavily congested roads in the city.

So basically, during morning rush hour, people were having to swurve around the hungover asshole hanging out of a hybrid taxi (that's right - I was in a Prius).

I think my most favorite part about the whole situation was after I finished decorating Constitution Ave., the cab driver asked if I had been out celebrating St. Patrick's Day.

I really wonder what gave it away...

Maybe it was the green beads I was still sporting around my neck. Or it could have been that a combination of whiskey and beer was seeping through my pores and giving people a block away a contact high. But I think the most likely reason was that he had to pull over for me. At 8 am on a Friday morning. In front of the White House.

Don't you worry, I waved to Obama. I'm sure he's thrilled to have such a citizen of my grace and class representing D.C.

Dissecting Guy Code

Guy code: much easier to translate than this jibberish.

Actual gchat message I received the other day from a high school friend who I had a brief fall fling with (and who I haven't really hung out with or spoken too sense):

HS fling: How's life kid? We need to catch up. When are you free these days?

Translation:

I'm single, have no prospects and I'm looking for someone to hook up with now that spring is on the horizon and I feel the need to spread my seed.

Too bad guy code wasn't offered as a foreign language in high school. I would have aced that class.

Well, hello there,

Ben Affleck.

I just saw you in The Town last night and holy majoly do you know how to make a girl swoon. Especially your abs in that work out scene. I could watch you do chin ups for hours.

I know that I've always been partial to your bestie, Matt Damon, (It may be because I stumbled across a movie crew once and an assistant told me you weren't as nice as him in person. And you also had that weird fling with JLo that resulted in the horrific Gigli, but since you're aging so well, I'm willing to overlook all those things.) so I'm sorry for neglecting you. And your abs. And your sex lines.

But we could totally work things out.

Boston is one of my favorite cities, too. And I will go to every Red Sox game. I may spend more time imitating David Ortiz when he does he incessant spitting/hand slapping routine every time he approaches the mound, but I promise I'll be enjoying every minute of the game.

You think about it and get back to me.

In the mean time, I'll be keeping The Town on repeat.

xoxo