You are currently browsing the daily archive for June 3rd, 2008.
I don’t know when I became so wildly paranoid about my relationship with J. Some minutes, I’m naming our children and everything is bliss. Should one cloud pass over the sun, however? It’s over, it’s a sign, we weren’t actually meant to be after all. I really don’t think I’ve always been this edgy, so fickle with the feelings I’m so quick to call strong.
Take Sunday, for instance. In the morning, I’m amusing myself by looking at engagement rings (and matching wedding bands!) on the tiffany website. By nightfall, I’m bickering with J outside of my car over a bottle of wine, which was a totally ridiculous back-and-forth scene that ended with me telling him I am having “serious doubts” about the relationship. I don’t even know if that’s true. I’m a bad arguer; when I start to feel like I’m losing, I pull out the biggest punches I can muster. And it’s been happening more and more.
I’m not used to arguing with anyone other than my sisters. We used to fight fiercely and, I later learned, regularly sent mom to bed in tears, convinced she’d failed as a parent by raising three children who routinely professed undying hatred for each other. We’re all friends now, incidentally, so maybe it’s not such a big deal? I don’t know. I never argued much with any other boyfriends (like, not at all), and I feel like this could go a couple of different ways. J could be the real deal, like family, and we’re still just growing up and I’m feeling vulnerable. Equally compelling, he’s a bad clash with my personality and it may never resolve.
J isn’t one to hold a grudge, thankfully, and while I have a fiery temper, it subsides. I love this guy, I do. We got together last night; he picked me up and we went to Costco (oh happy oasis). He’s going to put some Connecticut in me and teach me to play tennis this summer, and we were looking for rackets.
My tennis experience is, shall we say, limited. I love to watch matches on tv, but that’s mostly because I like the whoosh-and-snap sounds and the british announcer-man’s voice. I’m also quite partial to Wimbledon, the Kirsten Dunst movie, but this similarly is a poor substitute for actually getting out on the court.
They didn’t have rackets at Costco.
I sent him an email today, with a link to a sports store nearby. I signed it “tennis love, magda.”
Only later did that british announcer man pop back into my head, reminding me that in tennis, love is zero.
Why? Why is love zero? I feel like this symbolism bodes badly. I’ve backed myself into a love-love corner: but win-win, like love enough to go around, or totally nill? The distinction, at least in my current mindset, is quite troubling.
