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My Little Champ

It was Tuesday night, and I should have been out on my first date with Josh, who was hopefully sick. I say “hopefully” not because I wished him any pain or discomfort, but because if he wasn’t sick, it meant that he was a) full of shit, b) flaking out on our potential romance, and c) unlikely to be my friend for much longer. And all of that would suck.

I had an ex-boyfriend who often referred to his brain as a gerbil. You know—running on a little wheel at a breakneck speed, working way harder than necessary. What makes gerbils do that, anyway? I absolutely love to run, but put me on a treadmill, and I spend pretty much every second looking for an excuse to jump off. My ex was 100% accurate, by the way. He thought way too much, and it scared me. The point of this digression is that Josh’s “illness” had my own brain working overtime. If there was, indeed, a gerbil up there, it was sprinting as though fueled by a couple shots of espresso and a box of Lucky Charms. Cue up “Eye of the Tiger” for my little champ.

Clearly, I had to stop this madness, so I channeled my doubt and anxiety back to the source. I e-mailed Josh, and I let him know that I was losing my mind. Lo and behold, after 15 years of dating and one failed marriage, I sometimes made the right move. I wrote:

Hey there. I hope that you’re doing OK. I’ve had a mellow night here, mostly reading in front of the fireplace. Nice, but somewhat of a downer in that the book is definitely pretty heavy. It’s taking some interesting turns, though, which I love.

Ugh. I have to admit, I am struggling a bit. It’s hard to explain, but I will try. Last Tuesday was sort of a leap of faith on both of our parts. I like that it was a mutual leap, with each of us taking certain chances. Taking chances means letting oneself be vulnerable, which is both beautiful and awful at the same time. I have felt really happy and great for the most part this week, but the longer I go without seeing you again, the more abstract the situation feels. Hence the brain is working harder than it should and I am sort of mildly freaking out. Not outwardly.  Not majorly. But still. I want to curl up in a ball with you and know that this is real.

So, that’s my best shot at explaining. I’m sorry you’re sick. I hope that you wake up tomorrow feeling happy and all better.

Love,

e

I didn’t get a response from him until around noon the next day, when he called me from his HOSPITAL BED.

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