Mr. Hard to Read Made Me Illiterate

Just when I thought I figured things out with him,
​is when things took a turn off a cliff.

As a continuation of last night’s post… He is an engineer of sorts at a reputable company on the outskirts of Charleston. He has never really been in love, but revealed feelings close to it. He is extremely independent, which exudes from his 6’3 or quite possibly 6’4 stance and he’s fears growing old. The depth of this guy was discovered in between kayaking strokes, wound up in rolls of sushi, and in nestled whispers on my ottoman in a room full of people. Anxieties melted away in his fondue pot in his immaculate bachelor pad and smiles shared cruising in his ‘stang with the top down until the emotions fell like the rain and we had to pull off the bridge.

Our journey seemed endless due to our mutual addiction to travel. I dreamed aloud of moving closer to family in Cajun country, while he dreamed of adopting islander life in Maui. We swapped resumes, job postings, interview tales as our efforts climbed towards reality. Regardless of the plans in pencil, we agreed we would keep in touch: care boxes, letters, abroad visits, and virtual pecks. Haha.

He loved that I write. He would always give me a hard time about being fashionably late to EVERYTHING. Even when I warned him, even when he was outside my apartment, even when he waiting impatiently on my couch while I hopped out the shower to begin my beauty regiment (only an eighth of the average female: scrunched hair, don’t care). His intolerance isn’t to tardiness, but to flakiness and breaking plans. He sees it as “blowing off” and will bring it up in almost predictable frequencies (every 15 minutes until the date’s end).

I discovered this intolerance first hand, one day I called out stale for one of our dates. Unable to smile, with no desire to smell the roses or anything with an aroma of any kind (pleasant or pitiful), I laid on my bathroom floor. Almost unable to reach my phone, my golden rule complex practically dialed his number for me. In a monotone voice even I didn’t recognize, I alerted him of my cancellation. He didn’t conceal that he didn’t understand. I told him I couldn’t talk about it and tossed the phone on the plush bath rug. Feeling helpless and utterly hopeless, I laid there the duration of the night.

Depressive spells are common among: your comedians, life coaches, leaders appearing to be built of endurance and steel, and perkiest of those you’ve encountered, outside of animation. It doesn’t mean the person is clinically depressed, nor does it mean they are not. It doesn’t mean they’re broken or “at risk,” nor does it mean they feel as much fulfillment as they reflect.

My best friend is a counselor and I don’t even talk about it with her… I just let it run its course and carry on with my life. My fear is if I disclose it to anyone, they won’t understand and will offer words that seem to fit but make no impact on the issue. Foreshadowing: this is reinforced by Mr. Hard to Read’s reaction the SECOND time.

Halloween was the second time this kind of happiness leech found me. Giving him as much notice as I possibly could, I texted him while still at work, forecasting the fall foil of frowns. Again, he didn’t understand and reassured me it would be better tonight.

After forcing myself to engage in hot yoga, dripping with sweat, depression wasn’t released like I had hoped. I sent notice to him and managed to make it home in a sweaty fog. I returned to my position on my bathroom floor, almost as if I aligned my body within the chalk lines of a crime scene. His text messages rolled in as I lay my part (because there was no room for play).
​
I reached out to him later that week and we agreed on a Saturday night date. We found ourselves at a miniature restaurant that couldn’t have housed more than 12 tables, including 2-tops. The waiter found us a seat in the corner, practically pressed against the window and I took the padded bench side.

I didn’t sense any hostility in the date, just a bit of selfishness. The actions that warranted a label like this was when he picked me up at my car, in free parking downtown (hey, must be the mon-ay), he asked if I wanted a drink and I reported a weakness that I probably warranted food first. He nodded. But, in the amount of time popcorn can be popped with the push of a button, we parallel parked in front of a brewery that, wouldn’t you know, had no food.

After a bit of peer pressure (didn’t take much), I found a stout in my hands, and followed him up 3 1/2 flights of stairs. Succumbed to dizziness, I found the only pair of seats were under a heating lamp. To avoid from melting like the wicked witch of the west, I suggested we go downstairs. Looking back, I recall a little bit of reluctance, but my temperature and overwhelming battle with gravity clouded my recognition of such a display of annoyance. After the keyboard and drum duo played Tom Petty and Queen, back to back, I felt a little color return to my face.

​He said he wasn’t very hungry but guessed we could find a place near our destination with live music. That’s when we stumbled upon “Chubby Fish.” Side note, I highly recommend the fried blow fish. I know what you’re thinking, but that was quite possibly the best fried thing I’ve ever put in my mouth… and I’m from Texas so, at the fair, I’ve had unimaginable things fried.

Mr. Hard to Read’s patience was also fried, served with an apathetic dipping sauce.

Agitated, he blurted, “So what was up with blowing me off on Halloween? You went to yoga.“

A little taken aback, I sputtered, “I mean… I was depressed.” Looking down, I felt shame wash over me. Instantly felt insecure and an inconvenience.

“Yeah, but I canceled plans with my friends.” I said nothing, feeling feeble.

“I bought a $60 costume.”

Money perked me up. I loathe the stuff; it turns the most seemingly noble prince into a toad, predestined for roadkill. Lifting my eyes as if they were 20 lb dumbbells, I said, “Are you— I’m ss-sorry.“

“So, why did you do it?” His persistence was piercing to my ears, even though his tone of voice didn’t much fluctuate.

“Mr. Hard to Read, I wouldn’t have been any fun. I was on my bathroom floor the duration of the night. I had a costume too—”

“My costume was wasted. All my friends were already doing something.“

In slight disbelief, while also fighting the shame tensing my bare shoulders, I looked out the window. Muttering, because I knew I didn’t owe him anymore explanation, “I’ve canceled on you one other time and it was for the same reason. I can’t control it. I didn’t choose this…”

Abruptly, he changed the topic. Apparently, he didn’t like my responses to that either, because after the check, he got up and like a rag-doll, curls of yarn pressed against my face that I didn’t bother to readjust; I followed moping.

“I’m not feeling well so, if you need, I guess I can bring you to your car.”

“No, I’ll walk.”

“Okay, see ya,” as he got into his car and started the Mustang that we had ridden so many times with rock tracks and trap tracks and laughter. Before I could even cross the street, he sped off out of my life.