Derivatives of Dating

I was ten and he was eleven when I first met my missionary friend.  At first, he was my younger brother's friend and would come to my house sometimes for the card game, Magic and swims in the pond.  My brother was always good at including me and graciously sharing, so his friends would naturally become mine sometimes as well.  Over the tumultuous years of early teenage-hood, the friendship I shared with this boy evolved beyond the link it had to my brother.  High school was largely a solitary, silent experience for me; I felt like a misfit and I was shy.  Our friendship was one reprieve I found beyond the cinderblock walls (he didn't attend my school).  I was not a misfit with this friend.  I felt known and accepted.  I was comfortable to lean towards what I hoped to become.

Halfway through my seventeenth year, we were joking and laughing one day when he got suddenly serious and told me he wanted me to be his girlfriend.  I was disappointed, the air sucked right out of me, the disagreeable title looming large.  I asked for time to think and came back after days or weeks (I can't remember which) of deep thought to explain: I was afraid of a title stealing our friendship, a precious lifeline to my lonely high-school soul.  I didn't really care much for having a boyfriend, I just wanted a best friend.  So we made a deal that he would be my best friend before he considered himself my boyfriend and all was well.

When he was nineteen and I was eighteen, he left for two years to Ukraine and I moved across the country to become a freshman at BYU.

This is a short explanation for why dates were so deplorable to me.  What two-hour excursion with a near stranger could ever compare to time spent with the closest friend I had ever had?  How could I be interested in investing my nerves in the preparation, poise, and shaky-voiced presentation it took to feign regard on a stiff first date when I had become accustomed to going as I was with my friend?  I was shy and felt awkward pretending to enjoy going out with strangers.  I had no interest in anybody who ever asked me out.  My word association would have looked like this:

                                                 Dating= panic attack, nervous, heart palpitations,
                                                 high blood pressure, sweaty palms, adrenaline,
                                                 facade, uncomfortable, unnecessary, torture,
                                                 excruciating, waste of time

Friday, February 27, I endured a rigidly friendly date with a guy from my Russian class.  He was kind and I was grateful for the dinner, but it was everything I had come to expect from a date: a nice guy who didn't interest me, uncomfortably forced conversation, good (free) food, and an ulcer causing nervousness.  The evening made me dread having to perform the same pleasing pretense the next night with Patrick.

That Saturday was drawn out long and slow.  After a morning with books and papers, I spent the afternoon shopping with a roommate to assuage my nerves and then waited the remaining minutes before Patrick's arrival in the front part of our apartment with another roommate who was doing schoolwork on the couch.  He hadn't told me what to expect, so I ate a slice of bread to hopefully hold me over if dinner wasn't in his plans.  The last I had heard from him was Thursday evening when he called and asked if I had any fears or allergies.  When I told him I was afraid of needles, he said, "I guess we won't get tattooed then," but he didn't give me any details about what we would do.  I was curious, but much, much more apprehensive.

Eyes, Lunacy, and a Storm

Many weeks followed our second encounter.  We would be in the same company frequently; we both attended the same weekly activities, the same church congregation, a Mardi-Gras party, and some other neighborhood social gatherings.  In close proximity, we acted warmly towards each other.  In the very least, our body language was warm, though not much was ever said.  I don't remember exchanging anything more than a periodic stark greeting, "hi" and "how's it going?", however I do remember meeting his eyes from time to time.

It could have been my imagination, I thought, but then I would again notice a quick flit from those eyes in my direction and I'd have to wonder: was he looking at me?  I seemed to catch his glance more frequently as we progressed through that month.  Then again, maybe it was my imagination.

We found ourselves in the last week of February.  Monday the 23rd, we had our usual activity group.  We were making a short film and the set that night was my kitchen and the parking lot behind my building. The group was large and we were packed into my apartment.  After the filming was finished they all filed out the front door and I remember thinking I must have been crazy.  It seemed like every time I checked to see where his eyes were, I would meet them in the checking.  I determined that I needed to just stop checking.  It was possible that he thought I was looking at him, would periodically check and it was just a coincidence that we would meet in the middle.  I couldn't allow him to think I was furtively glimpsing, even if I suspected the same of him.

After classes on Tuesday, I went shopping with one of my roommates.  The trip took longer than I expected and encroached on an appointment I had with a friend to go for a run.  By the time I returned, the sky had started to spit water.  I thought we should leave quickly before heavy rain picked up.  She was waiting for me in my apartment.  I found her at the desk in my room using the computer there to show Patrick pictures of her family.  Patrick?!  In my room?!  Now I was surely a lunatic, most definitely hallucinating!  He looked up at me and opened his mouth, a stream of words flowing out, an explanation of his coming, an invitation to go out with him on Saturday.  The words hung there for a moment while I struggled to recognize them as reality and then muttered a "sure".  He left.  My friend stayed long enough to watch with me out the sliding glass door in my living room as a cold February rainstorm blew in.

A Cereal Party

Not quite a month after our first encounter, there was a Monday evening cereal party sponsored by the activity group Patrick and I were a part of. The instruction was to bring your own box of cereal and the group would provide the milk. I didn't care much for cold cereal, didn't own a box of it, and didn't have time or desire to go out and buy one specifically for this event, so I thought better of attending.  On the other hand, my roommate didn't want to show up alone and promised to share some of her cereal, so I agreed to accompany her and we headed into the dark January night.

The house on the corner was lit brightly and teeming as usual with people, most of whom were milling around the kitchen, bowls in one hand, milk-dripping spoons in the other.

I sat at the kitchen table against the wall, hidden slightly behind my roommate. I listened to her converse with people, quietly nodding or awkwardly waving when someone noticed me in my seat behind her.

Eventually, I was listening to her speak with Patrick about a friend they shared in common. I sat silently, pretending to be absorbed in the bowl of cereal infront of me. I hadn't spoken a word to Patrick nor him to me since our first uncomfortable exchange weeks earlier. I shrunk down, hoping he wouldn't bother me about choir again, but then their conversation morphed into an account of an adventure he had in France.

My ears perked up. I had an interest in France. My family hosted French exchange students in my youth, I had taken a few years of French classes, I really liked French toast, and I had visited France in high school. I don't remember what it was, but something blurted out of my mouth. It was small, but expressed my interest. He looked at me and reciprocated the acknowledgment.

And that was it. In my letter to my dear missionary friend that night, I mentioned listening to a guy tell a story about his time in France. That was the only thought I gave to Patrick the Boy, but it was a significant improvement over our first encounter.