Revenge of the Flirtation Geru

I said I couldn't imagine real living and so I haven't. I just didn't realize how difficult it would be to find words to describe to someone else (or even to myself) what my life looks like now that I have one. So, at the risk of starting a whole new controversy, I'm going to call it Sensual Joy. Soooo...where to start? I went on a spiritual retreat the first weekend in May with my church Young Adult group. I went because I would like to get to know them all better, and because I love any opportunity to be outside, in or near the mountains. My highlight of the weekend was playing Mission Impossible, which surprised me because I've never liked that game. Maybe I've just always played it with too many people before, or maybe I was just given a new attitude towards it this time. Whatever the reason, IT WAS A BLAST. I pretended to be a log until I couldn't breathe; I crawled on my hands and knees through rocks, branches, moss, and grass. I ducked, darted, leaped, and sprinted. I plotted confusing schemes with team mates. I felt alive. For many of the young adults, the speaker was the highlight. She was a spiritual director/professor at Rocky Mountain College, and nearly everything she had to say was a repeat of what I have learned from courses taken with Charles Nienkirchen at Ambrose. I suspect they steal each other's lines, one of the most infamous being, "STOP DOING DEVOTIONS!" (They both emphasize a life of prayer, in many different forms, rather than a slotted time for some narrow tradition). I was really glad they brought her, but more because it meant I didn't have to teach what she had to say to them than because I felt I learned anything from her. Except. She had this one suggestion that entirely contradicted what my own spirituality professor had taught. The contradictory suggestion really irked me, although I acknowledged her reasons for making it seemed sound. She said, "Don't worry about getting into a daily routine for bible study and prayer. The same pattern doesn't work for everyone, and the same person will find he or she needs to switch things up according to new life situations. You'll only get bored if you keep things the same." Charles had always recommended the opposite: keep a daily prayer routine with enough flexibility in it that the Spirit can speak but with enough structure that you're not killing yourself trying to fill space with originality on more normal days. We did a group lectio divina at the end of her session. It was on John 21:1-13, when Jesus causes Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, and 2 other disciples to catch more fish than a single boat could carry after an entirely unsuccessful night. (This is after Jesus was crucified.) We were all asked what stood out most to us and why. I was somewhat embarrassed to give the cliched answer that verse 7, about "diving in" and "jumping out of the boat," stood out most for me. But I couldn't help it. Seven is the verse in which Peter jumps out of the boat fully clothed to swim to see Jesus on the shore because he's SO excited. I understood Peter's delight- I'd seen it demonstrated in all its silly exuberance by Nolan on numerous occasions (Side note: Congratulations Nolan and Sherry! I hope Sherry's bum is bringing you both every bit as much joy as Nolan anticipated in his Song-of-Solomonesque wedding vows). But I also understood that if I had been in his place, I would have done what the other disciples did- stayed in the boat and rowed in with the giant catch. I would have felt torn about the decision- responsibility to my fellow fishers and economic pragmaticity versus immediate gratification for an irreplaceable soul-connection. What are you saying, God? What water are you wanting me to jump into alone to seek Joy? I should have been able to put two and two together. I'd been asking God for several years if he could bring me a Nolanesque-style boyfriend. I had spent enough time with anxious and neurotic friends, family members, aquaintances, and strangers to know that I needed someone very different for a romance- someone adventurous, fun, out-doorsy, and at peace with himself and God so I wouldn't have to worry that he only liked me because he thought I could heal him or give him an identity. Someone who didn't need me, who I wouldn't worry about crushing. Someone not also going into a counselling-type occupation who would get sucked as dry as I do. (Those marriages end in divorce about 80-90% of the time.) His answer to me (and everyone else who decided it was their duty to ask God for a husband for me) was always, "Wait." Specifically, he told me I would get to finish my 4-year degree first. I was happy with that. Some of my friends got married while they were still in the midst of their studies and they were some of the most stressed out students I knew. Plus, my spiritual mentor/friend Sindy had told me back in High School that my amazing superpower to remain invisible to the opposite sex was actually a protection from God until I was ready for the person he had for me. Consequently, I'd mostly not bothered taking up the habit of man-hunting. I don't have the patience or acting skills to present myself as anything apart from what I am, and what I am is darn awkward around guys I like or whom I think like me. Throughout college, my life became simple and full. I attended classes and did school work for a major in which females out-numbered males about 3:1. I spent my spare time with close girl friends, immediate family members, and took up work and volunteering positions separate from the public and dominated by female coworkers. My church young adult group was filled exclusively with couples and other women. I wrote a psychology paper about why my parents were despairing of ever having grandchildren. If I was going to meet someone, it would be a miracle of God. That was fine with me: to throw in still more transportation cliches, it meant that if there was ever to be a turn off from my highway of content singleness, it would have several giant, glowing, coloured neon signs to give me direction. So, when one of my more propheticish friends told me this winter she'd been asking God about a husband for me again, I wasn't worried. I sat back in my arm-chair with a raised brow, waiting comfortably for the inevitable, "He said you're not old enough" or "You're not ready yet" or "There's still things he wants you to experience alone with him first" or "Not yet." "He said that you'll be married or at least know who you're marrying before you go on to grad studies." "What?!" I had a sudden Sarah moment of laughing disbelief. I planned to be entering grad studies in two years, possibly on another continent. Although the possibility of meeting someone in grad school had occurred to me, being married or engaged before then had definitely not. "Also, I was given the distinct impression it's someone you already know," she continued. "WHAT?!" Who the deuce could it be?! I don't have any close guy-friends, and most of the casual ones who have so bravely asked me out in the past I turned down indefinitely. After talking out my list of possibilities with my friend, I loosely narrowed down my options to about 5, all of whom were long shots. This sent me into an extremely unhelpful cycle of obsessive thought for two weeks afterwards, in the midst of the heaviest school work load I'd ever had. When one of the final five contestants stunned me with a premature apology for not asking me out, I decided it was time to ask for help. I couldn't concentrate on my school work and I desperately needed to. I e-mailed my brother (for a solid masculine perspective), and three wise friends (who have known me for a long time) to ask for prayer and some practical advice. Their answers were variations of the same thing: (1) This is not important for you right now. Go do your homework. And (2) Trust your own ability to talk to and hear from your Heavenly Father. Is this what your heart wants? And thanks to their prayers to our Heavenly Father, the swirling thoughts ceased and I got my work done. The Premature Final Five was later eliminated by his own choosing, much to my relief. Because though I felt really guilty for thinking it, in case God wanted me to learn patience or teaching skills or something, my heart's response was Oh God, no. And so, two months later (the week before the retreat), as I attended a Behavioural Science graduation pot-luck dinner my friends had convinced me to go to despite my technical non-graduating status (I'm missing one class), I found myself chatting pleasantly with small groups of my equally burned-out but still optimistic comrades... including Dan. To my surprise, we had a lot in common. And by a lot, I mean more than just a year of shared misery completing (and avoiding) independent psychology research projects required for entry into graduate programs. Toward the end of the evening, I mildly thought it'd be cool if we kept in touch via e-mail or something, but forgot to ask what his e-mail was. Dan wasn't on my list of pre-meditated possibilites, after all. Fortunately, we just happened to be the last two people to leave my pot-luck hosting professor's house. Then Dan also just happened to walk me to my car. Weird. This is what guys in romantic comedies do to ask girls out. And gave me his number; "We should go walking some time." I could hear my sister Melanie's voice in my head, telling me that she and Joe figured they really started dating the day she asked him to go for a walk with her, because guys and girls who are "just friends" just don't do that. Whatever. I go on walks with anyone non-creepy who's willing. He probably just asked because he's going through college-people withdrawl and he knows we both like walking. I got in my car and proceeded to drive home, getting lost again only once. Then, Waaait a second...And then I nearly crashed. And that is how I accidentally began dating. It's dangerous business, Frodo, walking outside your door. You never know where your feet might take you... Several years ago, Nolan introduced me to a book called The Five Love Languages, by a counselling psychologist named Gary Chapman. I, in turn, introduced the book to Melanie and Valerie (as well as some other people, but I won't name them all). Chapman's premise is fairly simple: there are more or less 5 major languages of love. Each of us favours one or two of these particular languages to express and receive love. Recognizing your own love language, as well as the prefered love language(s) of people around you, can be highly beneficial in building positive familial, romantic, or friendship ties. The five are, if my memory serves me correctly, (1) words of encouragement, (2) physical touch, (3) acts of service, (4) quality time, and (5) gifts. Later in my scholastic studies, I encountered a similar idea expressed through something called a "Love Map" hypothesis of liking, which emphasizes that the unique features and interactions that turn each individual on is determined mostly by early childhood family experiences/environment. I had a really difficult time figuring out which of Chapman's languages was mine. I love giving people well-thought out gifts. I put a lot of time, effort, and thought into creating elaborate cards, wrappings, and item-combinations for people I love. I really hate receiving poorly thought-out gifts from other people. Still, if gift making/shopping was keeping someone from hanging out with me, I would be much happier without the presents and with the presence. On another hand, acts of service are really important to my family, and I am no different. Family members or close friends who don't pull their own weight and pitch in to do things like make meals, clean, drive siblings to various extra-curricular events, do the laundry, etc. are resented. However, I resent doing those things for other people if I'm doing them alone and my efforts go un-noticed, which might suggest I'm a words-of-encouragement kind of person, except that I really hate direct or public praise and I think flowery encouragements from cards, sermons, etc are tedious to bear. Hense, I deduced I must be a quality-time kind of girl, specializing in meaningful conversations. I never considered the physical love language a possibility for me. That was my sister Jeana's language. Nolan and I were also very preoccupied with a counselling psychologist called Kevin Leman for a while. Leman writes books about birth order effects on personality (which apparently is known as the Family Constellation theory among Psychology academia). I even bought one of his books: The Birth Order Connection, which basically gives you a list of things you should have in common with your romantic partner and a list of things you and your romantic partner should contrast in. It's pretty sage advice. Leman vehemently warns against people of the same birth order placement hooking up- personalities tend to be too similar to allow for complementarity and compensation for each other's strengths and weaknesses. According to his descriptions, I am counted as a first born, since I'm the oldest daughter in a non-gender role stereotyping family. I decided early on that I needed to find myself a youngest born stud so I can remember to have fun and not kill myself when therapy with clients doesn't go the way I want it to. And yet... Flying home from my grandmother's funeral this spring between my brothers, I found myself happily engaged in alternately tickling Chasey in the side until he screamed and finally retaliated and leaning into Nolan as he asked my opinion on how our various family members express and experience various basic emotions. We came to the consensus that among siblings, we express affection as physical contact, most often tickling. I was reminded suddenly of Morrie, filled with delight over any positive physical touch (Mitch Albom, Tuesdays With Morrie). On our first un-date, I discovered that Dan is a first born. Crap, God. How's this going to work? You know, you asked me for someone like your older brother. Nolan's the first born in your family. Yeah, but Nolan's odd, even for our family. Trust me. I asked Dan how he thought being the oldest sibling had affected him. "I was always finding ways to push the boundaries, got in trouble a lot." That's how Nolan describes his childhood... I heard God laugh. A half hour before I was supposed to be leaving for the Young Adults Retreat, Dan called me. I was a little surprised, given that he'd already invited me out the first time and it probably should have been my responsibility to follow that up with a reciprocal offer of time, but I'd chickened out. He asked me what I was doing that evening so I told him about the retreat. He then told me that he was also going camping that weekend, albeit later. He was going back-packing with a best friend in the Waipourous. God, really? Really, he likes hiking and back-packing? It was a good thing I'd been tenting in Waipourous once, because that gave me something to work with for conversation while my brain and heart recovered. Then the conversation came to it's logical end and Dan fell silent. Working hard to quell nervousness, I hurriedly invited him to come along to my little brother's rock show later that month. He gamely agreed, then fell into silence again and I was ready to bludgeon him for the awkward silence because he'd called me, so the onus was on him to say why he'd called and not leave me hanging. God, how could you do this to me?! This is why first borns shouldn't date each other. Two quiet people can't keep conversations going! God was silent, too. Come on Faye, use your DC conversation skills. Ask him a clarifying question. "So, just to verify, were you calling to invite me along camping or just to chat?" GAAAAAAA!!! Where did my brain go? How could it desert my mouth at a time like this?! He asked at the beginning what you were doing this evening! You killed his invitation with your prior plans, idiot. Dan gave a very surprised and nervous laugh. I might have begun banging my head against the wall at that point, but he would have heard it. Believe it or not, we arranged to go for a second walk anyway. The things I loved most about our family's roadtrip to BC for Nolan's wedding? Falling asleep at night piled on and under and between my sisters and cousin, Heather; absorbing the warm sunshine into my skin, feeling comforted by the feel and sound of a gentle breeze running through the garden of the house we stayed in, laying in dew-covered grass, being drenched by 4 degree celcius waves while Whitewater Rafting with Heather; finally seeing Nolan and getting a big, enthusiatic hug from him before he dissapeared with his betrothed again; punching Chasey to make him yelp when he said impertinent or cheeky things. I almost felt guilty for failing to either journal or read my bible more than once the entire 4 days we were gone. Almost. On our second un-date, I asked Dan where he wanted to travel to just for the heck of it and where he'd go for a purpose, what the purpose would be, and why. Dan is a psych major, too. This makes things tricky sometimes, because not only does he answer my questions with excellent self-reflection, but he directs them back at me, waits for a real answer, and asks probing questions of his own. This means I have to be careful not to ask questions I'm not ready to answer. I had an answer. When I described my intent to pilgrimage to Lac Ste. Anne next summer, Dan asked if he could be one of the people to come with me. I was a little bit stunned. Mainly because he was sincere. Many people have been supportive of my going, but not even my best friends have offered to come along. God burst his shirt, he was laughing so hard. As I dropped my sister Samantha off for her 1 hour piano lesson, the sky began to pour in earnest. Conveniently enough, the song "Desert Storm" by DaRue began to play on the radio (i.e. "I dream of rain, e-lay-e-a-lay..."). I was delighted. When the song finished, I got out of the car and walked through the rain for an hour. Actually, I did more than walk. I spontaneously ran up and down hills, jumped over road medians, climbed all over dripping, deserted children's playgrounds, and touched every last dripping wet tree, bush, and shrubbery within reach of the side-walk. I felt sorry for the people I could see sitting inside their dry houses playing video games or watching tv. I thought of The Big Fish scene where the Big Fish is sitting in a bath-tub fully clothed and tells his puzzled wife, "I felt all dried out." I felt like crying. Laughing. Refreshed. I know, you're always throwing kisses from the sky. Well tonight I caught one...(Blindside, "Shekina," About a Burning Fire). Remembering my good professor Nienkirchen's caution to understand and absorb rare super-natural moments rather than become addicted to always feeling super-natural, I praised God for the delirious hour and figured that would be the end of the wordless moments. Less than a week later, I found myself walking in the golden light of the evening, overpowered once again by the rich colours and textures of the natural world displayed in suburbian gardens and yards. And what is this? A cul-de-sac I've never explored before? How is this possible? I felt compelled to explore. A path lead to a mirroring cul-de-sac, also completely unfamiliar to me. And then I saw it. The most beautiful house in the world. Actually, I have no idea what the house looked like. It was the yard and garage door that had me spell-bound. It was like seeing a summer-filled piece of my soul incarnated. The garage door had a flower-covered mountainside hand-painted in bright red, orange, yellow, and sky blue on it. To the right, a pine hedge lined either side of neat cement steps leading to a rich brown wooden door. Intermingled in the hedge were black iron stakes with reflective silver spheres on their tips. To the left of the stair case were two large pine trees, whose lowest branches had been trimmed off. Dangling from innumerable branches was a mesmerizing collection of things that sparkled, shone, twirled, twisted, spun, and twinkled in the wind. There was even a lop-sided 3-D heart. Why wouldn't you have a lop-sided shiny heart danging from a pine tree?! I thought, dazed in euphoria. Later on the same walk, I discovered the epitome of what my friend Jen might call "useless but fun." It was a 2 meter tall metal stake with two children's bicycle wheels attached and rotating on a horizontal axle at the top. Attached to the wheels were a series of 2 litre pop bottles, cut into scoop shapes and spray painted in silver, black, yellow, red, green, and blue. The wheels, of course, ran in the wind whenever the scoops caught it. I don't know how to explain how very, very happy I was that it existed. I don't want to tell you how long it took me to find my way back to that obscure location the next day to take a photo. No, I do not have a job yet. Meanwhile, un-date number four came to it's conclusion in my parked car out-side Dan's house. I said we were parked, not "parking," thank you very much. Really, I could no longer call it an un-date, since when Dan had called to re-book it earlier that week he had specifically called it a date. He'd re-booked in order to deal with several deaths in his family. I really hadn't known what to do to be supportive (which is embarrassing, given that I'd already dealt with the same thing a few months earlier), so I just stayed out of the way. I didn't even have a card to give him when I showed up at his house a few days after the funeral. I hadn't known what to say. So I just asked how he and his family were doing. They were fine. They'd bonded closer together in their grief, were finding the closure they needed. Precisely how my family had reacted. He didn't need me to comfort him. God had already done it. I don't know why I was surprised by that. [God rolls his eyes]. And after watching Dan and my little brother hit it off famously at my brother's band performance, I had to admit, God, I like Dan. However, this was not especially helpful thinking while we sat in my car and I tried hard not to fidget. My Flirtation Geru had tried very hard over the phone earlier that day to give me tips on how to start the momentous courtship ritual of hand-holding. We had already determined that I was too much of a coward to ask directly or to simply take his hand. Her first suggestion was for me to pretend to have difficulty while walking over difficult terrain so I could ask for his help. "Jen," I patiently explained, "that's ridiculous. We've already walked over plenty of rough terrain together. He knows I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own." "All the better," she said smugly, "then he'll know why you're pretending." I refused. I'm not coy. Pretending to be so just seemed like a violation of our unspecified relationship. "All right," she amended, "why don't you just be your honest self and tell him about your flirtation lessons? Then he'll figure it out indirectly." Kill me now. Her third plan was for me to simply link my arm with his; "Faye, you present yourself very confidently and independantly. You're going to have to let him know it's okay to touch you, or he won't. No guy would dare. Linking arms is dignified but clear in it's meaning." I decided to aim for plan C. I failed. And given that we were walking through a graveyard at night and the ground was decidedly uneven and in some parts rocky and slippery, Plan C probably would have been especially appropriate. As I drove Dan home, listening to a cassette tape of ABBA he discovered in the car, I kept envisioning Jen's future reprisals for botching such a simple plan. So we sat in the car, exchanged "That was fun, let's hang out again soon"s, booked our next date for before Dan left for a psychology research conference (Dan loves the sense and perception physiological side of psychology). Then we hit silence. He's just staring at me. He has beautiful eyes. What am I supposed to be doing? Jen's going to kill me. I started babbling. I never realized before that moment that I babble when I'm nervous. I reached for the first thing that came to mind: Jen. Our next date was set for the day I was babysitting her children. "Jen is my flirtation geru." AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! ABORT, Faye, ABORT!!!! There's no way to go but down with a conversation starter like that and Dan is, after all, a psych major. He wasn't thrown off track at all by my additional herring bone babble. "But what was the pretending to fall supposed to accomplish?" What else could I say but the truth? "Um, hand-holding, believe it or not." I laughed to make it more casual, wishing with all my heart I had never read Nora Roberts' Irish Thoroughbred novel with Tachae in our teens..."We need to find some other way for you to expend all that energy..." Damned belated teenage hormones. Dan continued watching me steadily. Cornered, I shrugged, helpless. Dan raised one eyebrow, then said, "Faye, hand-holding is very simple." Darn he has a soothing, deep voice. Then he offered me his hand, palm up. I stared at it. Nope. There's no hope for the recovery of your pride, Faye. I took his hand and beamed. He wished me a good night, walked into his home, and I began driving towards mine. I almost twisted the steering wheel off, and as I willfully made my hands relax, I wished I had not watched the Kiera Knightly version of Pride and Prejudice with my sisters over... and over... and over again. Little natives danced in my head chanting, "Populated self. Populated self." Hey! That was Plan B! And I want you all to know that it works. Date five, after Jen introduced herself to Dan as my flirtation geru at dinner then innocently reminded me that Weaselhead Park was exceptionally close-by, and after some steep downward climbing, marsh-tromping, and companionable bushwacking, we accidentally ended up on a real path. Was that brush of fingers accidental or intentional? Oh. Definitely intentional. I beamed. We were holding hands. We were now officially dating. And as it turns out, psychology training was making Dan over-think his moves as well. Figures. So, an afternoon and evening walk through a giant field near the airport; a theatre performance, walk around down-town, and drinks and appetizers at Moxies; a walk around his neighbourhood and Nosehill park; my little brother's punk rock performance and a night walk through a graveyard; and dinner with Jen and her kids and a bush-wacking/marshy walk through Weaselhead Park later, I feel kind of pressured to admit I have a boyfriend or else take Melanie's place for Self-Denial Cutie. I might have to change the 'single' status on my rarely-used facebook account. Whoa, now. This is getting serious... So here's the thing, God: I'm still awkward. I empathize strongly with Lisa O'Malley's character in Dee Henderson's The Truth Seeker when she bemoans the fact that she has the childish habit of holding her heart hidden in a jar, then suddenly handing it all over at once with a "Here." Some discernment for how to proceed would be nice. You'll get it as you need it and ask for it. Besides, if you're going to hand your heart over to someone, at least Dan has nice hands...:) Oh...my... Starry-eyed surprise:)