“Nope,” I answered easily, sparing her a moment’s sympathy. Then the man she married voiced some asinine complaint and I rolled my eyes. Dad didn’t get to go anywhere while he was here! (“But,” I said, “you had a car. If you want to go, you should go.”) He was getting bossed around! (“But,” I said, “you attach the dog to the leash you’ve wrapped around the deck and she broke her collar. So I don’t see why you insist upon continuing to use a method that’s proven ineffective.”) He wanted to apply tint to my windows! (“Like you use on car windows?” I asked with a disapproving frown. “On the windows of my pretty house? No.”) For much as I love my father, I grew tired of arguing over decisions that should have been mine alone. I didn’t want more suggestions and criticism. And why was it my job to deal with dinner when I worked all day and he’d been home?
“Oh,” Mom replied and returned to unpacking and cleaning.
“I’m OK,” I told her and she nodded. “I know you worry – and I wish I was in love with someone who loved me back – but I love my job and have friends at work and am so happy with this house. I really am OK.”
“I know,” she said, looking surprised. “I’m not worried. I was just curious.”
“I don’t know what happened to him,” I told her, beginning to unpack again as we chatted. “We talked,” I paused to think, “a month ago? Maybe three weeks? Then I went back south, packed things up, moved and Dad’s been around. I assumed Jon was busy too, though I hope he’s doing well. And, honestly, I think I’m done chasing men. It never works – if someone isn’t interested in maintaining a relationship – be it friendship or otherwise – with me, then I’m not going to beg him to reconsider.”
She nodded her support and changed the subject, lest I get even more self-righteous and indulge in another monologue. When I went to bed that night though, I did wonder what was wrong with me. What I did – with men I like, don’t like, am unsure about (it seems not to matter) – that means I always end up by myself. And while that allows me time to read and write and sleep and having things just how I like them, it also means few people get close.
“Are you disappointed in me?” I asked Adam yesterday when he came to sit in my office. After the group lecture earlier this week, he sent another couple of emails that seemed to contain messages that were displeased. He glanced up from my computer screen and blinked at me in surprise.
“No,” he finally replied. “Why would you ask that?”
“You just seem stressed and short and I wondered if it had to do with my performance. Because I’ll fix it if I’m doing it wrong.”
“Stop,” he waved his hand to dismiss my remarks. “I’m very pleased with you – just a rough week all around.”
I nodded and smiled when he patted my shoulder before hurrying off to answer someone else’s question. I thought of the conversation while I waited to have my tire changed. I think part of my trouble with getting overly attached to people is that I think they’ll eventually get to the point so many others have. They’ll see something is wrong with me – get bored or frustrated or something else – and be done. And whether that’s a self-fulfilling sort of situation or that I’m just difficult to handle, it seems best to embrace the solitude.
“Hey,” I replied with pleasure when Jon called this evening. He had been busy – dealing with transitions of his own – and we spent just a few minutes getting caught up. I’m bad about keeping up with people so I don’t take offense when there are long gaps between conversations. But I was relieved and pleased to hear from him. Then I frowned over feeling better about myself because someone took a moment to give me a phone call.
“How is t
hat different than keeping track of how many people read and comment on my blog?” I asked the dog and grinned when she kissed my chin in reply.“We have issues,” I told her, kissing the top her head. “I need to work on my self-esteem and you need to stop eating Sprout’s kibble. He keeps meowing at me because he’s hungry.”
Men seem to have trouble in my life, I decided after dumping more Cat Chow in Sprout’s bowl. I smoothed his coat when he came over to eat, smiled when he purred at me. If Chienne can tolerate the stripey cat – and he her – then perhaps there’s hope for me yet. Not a lot of hope, mind you, but a tiny bit.
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