May. 17th, 2019 11:22 am
Puddlejumping
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muckefuckSo yesterday was another lesson in managing expectations--along with a host of related challenges, like self-love, patience, and empathy.
Last week, I received word that an old LJ friend, someone I'd never met in person, was going to be in town. It was a complete surprise; we chat every now and again, but I had no idea he was considering a trip up here. I was excited: I contacted him and offered crash space (though I figured he'd already made arrangements) and asked what he wanted to do.
He said he wanted to see people on the one day he had in town before driving out to the sticks but was vague about his plans. Maybe Great America? Maybe some World's Fair sites? I told him I'd be up for the latter but not the former. When he talked about an informal meetup so that he could see his friends from among the locals, I suggested some places and contacted a few mutuals.
With nothing fixed, I still took a leap of faith and took the day off. I told him that if getting together didn't work out, I could always use the day to do some errands. The was a polite fiction; there's no way I would have taken the day off if I thought there was a strong chance we wouldn't get together. I trusted him to come through for me.
By Tuesday I was getting antsy. I mentioned to a friend that he really didn't seem enthusiastic about the trip. What I meant was that he really didn't seem enthusiastic about me. All my old insecurities came to the surface, all my fears that people mostly just tolerate me, that I have to be careful never to demand too much of them if I don't want them to decide I'm not worth it. So as much as the uncertainty was bothering me, I didn't press for firmer plans.
I slept badly and woke up Thursday with no messages. Knowing that he'd most likely be sleeping in (what with the combination of late flight and time difference), I'd already planned to get a haircut when the place opened at 10 a.m. I sent him a message to this effect, got the haircut, and came right home. Still nothing. I decided to nap and succeeded despite a wave of thunderstorms rolling in around noon.
To cut to the chase, he never did come and see me. He did get in touch after 2 p.m., still groggy. We texted back and forth for over an hour. I continued to dispense advice and make offers while carefully leaving my emotions out of it; he remained frustratingly noncommittal. Meanwhile I was bitching about the situation to at least three other friends. I thought about all the time I've spent in my life waiting for men who never came.
The rain had cleared and it became a beautiful day. I regretted the lost potential of it and went to the porch intending to read a bit but I spent more time playing with one of the stray cats from next door. I told myself I should do something around the house so I sorted some mail and found an invite to a cousin's wedding. This spurred me to call my mother and make vague plans for fall.
I'm very slow to abandon all hope. Even as late as 7 p.m., I still hadn't totally given up on the notion that he might still make his way in from the burbs for a bit. (Though I was confident enough I was on my own for dinner that I ran to La Única for some bacalao.) My brain knew this was a lost cause, but my heart still wanted to believe.
His apologies were effusive. They made me feel petty for running him down to others (anonymously or otherwise). I immediately switched into caregiver mode and did what I could to make him feel better. No, he wasn't an awful person. We all have bad days. Of course I understand. Part of me still dared to hope that he'd offer to change his plans to accommodate me though I knew he wouldn't.
By that time, I'd worked through my disappointment. I reminded myself that he'd never asked me to take the day off. That was my choice. I'd done it knowing he might not be available but the prospect of finally meeting him outweighed the risk of being left high and dry (and short a paid day off). I didn't regret the choice (though I don't know if I'd make it again).
I thought of a friend who'd recently ended a relationship after finding he'd been lied to and betrayed for months on end but is adamant that he won't stop trusting people on account of that. I thought about the importance of still trusting people, of still giving them the opportunity to betray and disappoint you because that's the only way you find the ones who won't.
Last week, I received word that an old LJ friend, someone I'd never met in person, was going to be in town. It was a complete surprise; we chat every now and again, but I had no idea he was considering a trip up here. I was excited: I contacted him and offered crash space (though I figured he'd already made arrangements) and asked what he wanted to do.
He said he wanted to see people on the one day he had in town before driving out to the sticks but was vague about his plans. Maybe Great America? Maybe some World's Fair sites? I told him I'd be up for the latter but not the former. When he talked about an informal meetup so that he could see his friends from among the locals, I suggested some places and contacted a few mutuals.
With nothing fixed, I still took a leap of faith and took the day off. I told him that if getting together didn't work out, I could always use the day to do some errands. The was a polite fiction; there's no way I would have taken the day off if I thought there was a strong chance we wouldn't get together. I trusted him to come through for me.
By Tuesday I was getting antsy. I mentioned to a friend that he really didn't seem enthusiastic about the trip. What I meant was that he really didn't seem enthusiastic about me. All my old insecurities came to the surface, all my fears that people mostly just tolerate me, that I have to be careful never to demand too much of them if I don't want them to decide I'm not worth it. So as much as the uncertainty was bothering me, I didn't press for firmer plans.
I slept badly and woke up Thursday with no messages. Knowing that he'd most likely be sleeping in (what with the combination of late flight and time difference), I'd already planned to get a haircut when the place opened at 10 a.m. I sent him a message to this effect, got the haircut, and came right home. Still nothing. I decided to nap and succeeded despite a wave of thunderstorms rolling in around noon.
To cut to the chase, he never did come and see me. He did get in touch after 2 p.m., still groggy. We texted back and forth for over an hour. I continued to dispense advice and make offers while carefully leaving my emotions out of it; he remained frustratingly noncommittal. Meanwhile I was bitching about the situation to at least three other friends. I thought about all the time I've spent in my life waiting for men who never came.
The rain had cleared and it became a beautiful day. I regretted the lost potential of it and went to the porch intending to read a bit but I spent more time playing with one of the stray cats from next door. I told myself I should do something around the house so I sorted some mail and found an invite to a cousin's wedding. This spurred me to call my mother and make vague plans for fall.
I'm very slow to abandon all hope. Even as late as 7 p.m., I still hadn't totally given up on the notion that he might still make his way in from the burbs for a bit. (Though I was confident enough I was on my own for dinner that I ran to La Única for some bacalao.) My brain knew this was a lost cause, but my heart still wanted to believe.
His apologies were effusive. They made me feel petty for running him down to others (anonymously or otherwise). I immediately switched into caregiver mode and did what I could to make him feel better. No, he wasn't an awful person. We all have bad days. Of course I understand. Part of me still dared to hope that he'd offer to change his plans to accommodate me though I knew he wouldn't.
By that time, I'd worked through my disappointment. I reminded myself that he'd never asked me to take the day off. That was my choice. I'd done it knowing he might not be available but the prospect of finally meeting him outweighed the risk of being left high and dry (and short a paid day off). I didn't regret the choice (though I don't know if I'd make it again).
I thought of a friend who'd recently ended a relationship after finding he'd been lied to and betrayed for months on end but is adamant that he won't stop trusting people on account of that. I thought about the importance of still trusting people, of still giving them the opportunity to betray and disappoint you because that's the only way you find the ones who won't.