So yeah, our souls connect or whatev. But it turns out he’s still dude, and I’m still a chick, I’m still a Jodi and he’s still a James Dean. So we’ve got stuff—DAMN-IT!! Thought the whole soul mate thing was going to rescue me from all that WORK shit? No? Oh stop nodding your head, loser. Sooooo I took a short ride in la-la land. We all gotta vay-cay from sanity every now and again… right?
This might be last night’s whiskey talking but I seriously thought that all he would have to do is put his hand on my chest and make me melt ‘n stuff and things would be right as rain. Baaaaaat, I vhas wrong. Yeah, yeah… I #saidit.
Last night I asked James Dean his number. I know. Stupidstupidstupid. I was just curious, I swear (awkward face)! I didn’t think it would bother me. And I was prepared for any figure. (I mean c’mon, the boy walks into a room and women spontaneously remove their panties. BELIEVE ME, I GET IT). But when he said it, and I felt it, suddenly my brain FLASHED with images that NO GIRL ever wants in her mind about HER MAN. Gulp. (Aaaand, that’s when my stomach turns over, again).
With the news and the image(s), I did what every highly emotional (shit-show) does in times of distress— I became an immediate horizontal human erection. Stiff as wood. In bed, comatose. Silent. (I dooo this whole implosion thing every now and again…). He was pawing at me. Said he, fucking hated this topic because no matter what he responded, it would upset me. I told him I needed a little time and space. And I fell asleep to him snoring in the back of my head and me holding both palms over my heart, trying to tame its tom-tom beating.
You know when you try to push magnets together the WRONG way? Yeah… This morning I just couldn’t look at him. No clear thoughts like, Gosh, things would have been so much better if you were a 28-year-old virgin. I just felt, like, EWE. I felt sick all over. And covered my nakedness with his crumbled white top-sheet.
We made a deal early on—no leaving when fighting. So physically, I sat, rock-like, on the bed. Keeping my promise… barely. My spirit was already halfway down Mapleton, noticing how nice it felt to be wearing my ol’ reliable running shoes. We also made a deal that we would be touching whenever we were feeling uncomfortable. But touching his perfect skin this morning (that oddly smells of high grade Olive Oil?) was about as comfy as jalapeno juice feels underneath your fingernails.
Finally I started to verbally express myself. Let myself voice all the (stupid, illogical) upset feelings. Then he took my hand, pulled me into him, and forced my bare chest against his. COMBUST. Deep breath. Re-lax. Ahhhh, I remember you, I thought. They may have had your body, true, but I get your soul. So I guess I win.
All better. Soul Mate.