Conversation pt. 2 - Essay no. 2

Okay, this is not really an essay, more like a grown-up recount, but I promised myself I would write about it, so here goes. The title is a reference to a post published about a similar situation, eight (!) years ago, on this very blog. 

Last Monday, I asked out the guy I liked and he said "yes". 

The ask came after a catch up at Cornwall Park, a site where I've gone on many an awkward walk and had many an awkward conversation. If it went poorly, as I suspected/dreaded/imagined a hundred different scenarios about, then no problem - par for the course with Cornwall Park. If it went well, as I allowed myself only the tiniest sliver of hope about, then it would redeem all those awkward conversations forever and ever, Amen. 

We talked for over two hours, walking at first, slowly, because he was sleepy. We sat at a pentagon-shaped bench and talked more as the sky changed from blue to a peach and pink affair. Dogs, elderly couples, runners and families trickled past us, ending their evening walks and picnics. The light was fading when I made the first move to swing my legs outward from the bench and head towards the car park. 

As we approached the paved lot, I reached the moment that I had told myself I would do it. The fact that my spirit appeared to be leaving my body at said moment was unfortunate, but not an excuse to delay the asking. 

"Hey, so, I wanted to ask..." I took a steadying breath as he offered a kind, "Yeah?"

"Would you be interested in... going on a date with me sometime?"

Here are the fragments of his response, transcribed in order of delivery, to a questionable degree of accuracy. 

"Oh wow! Thank you so much for asking, that takes a lot of courage, good on you." 

*Long pause*

"Yes. I mean, why not, right? We're such good friends and we're on the same wavelength..." *trails off*

"It's just so unexpected!" 

"I'm just thinking out loud here, and I may be getting ahead of myself, but like I mentioned, I'm just not sure how things would look in terms of being in a relationship with the season I'm in."

"I mean, yes, my answer is 'yes'."

"When you say 'date', what exactly do you mean?" 

*Gives me a hug*

"We'll be in touch!"

*Leaves*

What was I doing during this exemplary chain of external processing, you ask? 

Scuffing my shoes against the gravel. Trying not to cry and laugh (at the same time). Trying to breathe. Giving him multiple opportunities to back out of his 'yes'. Saying - I kid you not - "oh wow, I was fully expecting you to say 'no'." Clarifying what I meant by the word 'date'. 

I climbed into my car and immediately realised I was starving. I needed fries, stat. I was also aware of making a hiccupping sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a cry (see efforts to suppress, above). The only thing that helped was placing my head in my hands and letting it all wash over me. 

I called S on the way to my friend N's house. She was excited, and encouraged me not to get too in my head about it all. I took N out to Burger Fuel, having been banned by S from going to Macca's. ("Not a celebratory meal" she said.) N was much more cautious than S; her feelings mirrored my own. "Here's to you," she said, "we can celebrate your courage!" I tipped my Coke bottle against her thick-shake. 

I arrived home and crawled into bed a little after 11. The ball's in his court now. If he messages me within the next 1-3 days, I thought, then he's interested. If he leaves it later than that, well, then, clearly, he's not.

He messaged at 7:40 the next morning. By the following morning, we have confirmed plans to go for another walk up a local mountain next Tuesday. 

***

My response to this remarkable sequence of events has varied from day to day. 

On Wednesday, I am nauseous about the whole thing. I draft a message to him backing out. "Thinking of sending this" I say to S. My mind makes itself sick by going over all the possible reasons why this was a terrible idea. He wasn't attracted to me. He had said 'yes' out of pity. He was secretly in love with my flatmate, J, and my asking him out had made him realise he needed to act on that. These are not pretty confessions, but here they are: a testament to the insanity of the love-uncertain brain. 

Thankfully Wednesday is for the most part, a blip. I am nervous, of course. But I am also genuinely excited and looking forward to talking with him, now that my cards are on the table and not clutched close to my chest. My sliver of hope has, against all odds and usual practice, grown. 

I am comfort reading, of course. Lily King's Writers & Lovers has calmed and distracted me in moments when I have needed it most. In pulling together this piece this week, I have remembered Casey's words on writing: "I don't write because I think I have something to say. I write because if I don't, everything feels even worse." I have needed to write something, any small thing, to get down on the page how I'm feeling about it all. My journal has barely left my side. 

I've also returned to Prayer in the Night, finding solace and firm footing in the God who is present always, even and especially in darkness and uncertainty. I am not expecting heartache to come from this, but if it does, I will be okay. I am kept and held by a Father who has schemed goodness for my future. I am safe. 

***

It is Tuesday morning. I am about to head into school. Tonight, I will put on a green dress, drive to the mountain and... 

Conversation

I had a conversation today that took my breath away.

*****

I decided on Monday that eight months was enough; this situation needed to be put to rest.

I began by praying.

Oh, how my prayer life has flourished this week! Every time I've felt the anxiety rise up I've turned to the Father. Please, Lord, please let this go the way I want it to. Please give me peace. Please help me feel okay after it. Desperate, unsophisticated prayers - the kind I think He loves most.

Fasting accompanied the prayer. In fact, it led to it. Every time hunger gnawed at my stomach it was a reminder to give thanks, to plead again, to fix my eyes back on Jesus where they belonged.

I went for a run on Tuesday night and as I walked back home I wept. I wept at my fear and the uncertainty of it all; I wept because the situation was so beyond my control. And as I cried out to God, I looked up at the stars and was stopped short. He is the God who created the stars, I thought. And He will continue to be that God even if this doesn't work out the way I want it to.

Yesterday was the hardest. I woke up at 3:45, anxiety washing over me in waves. Again I prayed, but it seemed like fear had swallowed the little faith I had and so I lay awake until it was time to start my day. I paid limited attention to what was happening around me until I finally got to the fourth floor of the library and took out my Bible.

The Psalms told me to celebrate the goodness of God. And so I did. I was reminded that whatever the outcome of my conversation, God would still be God and He would still be good.

I closed my Bible and sent the message.

*****

This morning I woke up and sang. I sang of God's mercy and love. I made my bed, put on my mascara and walked out the door.

I paid as much attention as I could in class, taking notes with shaking fingers. I walked and prayed for an hour in the afternoon sun.

And then I had the conversation.

*****

I fought back tears on the bus ride home.

The worst had happened, and I could honestly sing along with Bethany Dillon that "I'd never felt like such a fool in front of anyone."

Why, Lord? Why did it have to happen this way? Why is my heart breaking?

*****

I'm sitting here, six hours later, and I honestly don't know the answer to any of those questions.

I'm trying not to think about it; trying not to replay those crushing words over and over in my mind.

I'm trying not to go crazy.

And I know I will go crazy, focusing on what I don't know, which is why I've decided not to do that.

I'll focus instead on the stars, and the Psalms and "Boldly I Approach Your Throne".

I'll remind myself over and over that God alone is enough and He withholds no good thing from me, His daughter whom he loves immeasurably.

I don't have a five-step plan on how to recover from crushing conversations.

But I do have a God who will restore all things and will someday show me how He used this for His glory.

For now, I'll cling to that.

Burgundy Boots

They were the first pair I saw in the window, the first pair to catch my attention.

What they were not, however, was the first pair I tried on. No, I had to go through my normal ritual first. That age-old ritual where I stick to what's comfortable and familiar.

Never mind that the burgundy made my heart leap and I knew the soft leather would fit like a dream. They are not quiet shoes. And I can't have that.

They are bold and confident and daringly different, and -- dare I say it? -- beautiful. I am not those things. That is not my identity.

Or is it?

I peruse the endless row of I've-been-here-before boots. The functional, soft-heeled, fade-into-the-background kind. But something about them doesn't quite do it; the burgundy promises something more and then I realise: I want something more.

I glance over at the window.

They're still there.

I walk over, slowly, and bend down to pick one up.

36. Exactly my size. In an outlet store, what are the odds? A Sign?

I pull down the zip, slide it over my foot. I may as well be Cinderella; it's made for me. Soft, form-fitting, beautiful to look at.

But then I take a step.

And I hear it: a clack.

Suddenly all thoughts of Cinderella and Signs are gone. Made for me? What was I thinking?

Girls like me do not wear shoes like those; shoes that make people take notice.

My brow furrows as I go to take them off, muttering something about the tan boots I saw before.

"I like them" he says. He holds the other boot in his hand, turning it over and furrowing his own brow as he does his quality check.

"They're good quality and different - why stick to the same old thing?"

Why stick to the same old thing? 

What kind of question is that? Don't you know that same is safe? Sure it may not gleam with promise, but I've gotten used to life without that particular gleam.

They look at me expectantly.

The questions roll around in my mind. Same or different? Safe or brave?

I take the shoe out of his hand, turn it over in mine.

It's awfully pretty.

"I'll take them", I hear myself say.

The cheerful shop assistant hears and takes them from me. She chatters on about sale prices and shoe polish specials, but I only vaguely hear her.

I have just bought a pair of burgundy boots, I think to myself. They won't go with everything, I've never had a pair like them before and I'm pretty sure they're not in fashion at the moment -- but I bought them anyway. 

She hands me the bag and I take the shoes.

And as I walk out of the store I feel it: a little wisp of bravery settling in my chest.