Hope dies last

A couple of week’s ago, my friend T called me at work.  She called me, she had said, because ‘you’re the only one who will understand this.’

She was in the metro–if I remember correctly–and she had seen a young girl.  A young girl, she had said, who was her ten years ago. From the way she was dressed, right down to her walk and the earphones attached to her head.

“And you know what Hope?” she had said, her voice reaching octaves I was not aware she could reach, “She was cool!”

I was never comfortable in my skin as a teenager. Honestly? My teenage years are a blur of slamming doors and screaming “No-one understands meeeeeeeeee!”s to my mother on the one side and sulking, silent filled rage on the other.

So when my friend said those words to me I felt incredible relief for her.  I can only imagine how moving, how peaceful that moment must have been.  To see your past self, years later, in the eyes of another person and finally approve.

Ever since she told me that story I’ve been thinking about my own Metro Girl.  What would she look like? Would I recognize her when I saw her? Petrified that I might miss my own moment of acceptance, I began to make a list of attributes I thought I should be looking out for:

Chubby with an awful–reminiscent of a mushroom–haircut.

Does not make eye-contact. With anyone.

Speaks softly.

Head stuck in a book. Preferably by some dead Russian.

Dresses in black.

Paints while listening to Natalie Imbruglia’s Torn on repeat. (Or its modern day equivalent.)

Smokes because she hopes it will make her cool. In that dark and twisted way.

As I paused to look over my list, I realized that I was cool.  Sure, it might have been in a slightly Janeane Garofalo in Romy & Michele’s High School Reunion kind of way. Or Rachel Leigh Cook before the makeover in She’s All That. But still.  And without actually seeing my own Metro Girl, I began to feel a sense of understanding, of acceptance for that other me. Even with all her quirks, she was pretty cool.

What do you think your Metro Girl looks like?

“Do you really want to steal another woman’s boyfriend?” she asked. Her words rang, like heavy church bells, in my ears. They rang long after she said them. They still–weeks later–bounce off the walls of my mind and reverberate right down to the souls of my feet.

Of course I don’t want to steal anyone from anything.

Guilt.

And nothing has even happened.

***

I was sitting in a waiting room the other day. Half listening to the radio, half eavesdropping on a conversation between two friends. A song came on and I had a thought. It is entirely possible, I mulled, that somewhere in this city sits another girl and she is listening to the same radio station and is now listening to the exact same song at the same time as me. She has brown hair like me, this other girl. We might even use the same lip gloss. We both–chances are–have loved. And lost. We are both listening to the same song but are probably thinking of two different men.  In my mind, she is thinking of her boyfriend; the one who lives in some other place, far from her. My thoughts–paying absolutely no regard for the reality of the situation–center on Real.

And I realized that to this other girl–to this girl who could be me–I may represent the type of person she is most afraid of; that bitch, that man thieving whore–listening to the same song on the radio.

So much guilt.

And yet, I have done nothing wrong.

Nothing has even happened.

But…

***

In psychology, there is a theory that suggests that our attitudes and the opinions of those close to us toward a certain behaviour form intentions and that these intentions can be pretty accurate predictors of actual behaviour. Let me repeat that. Intentions can be pretty accurate predictors of actual behaviour.

If intentions can predict behaviour couldn’t it be reasoned that people can then be judged solely on their intentions? And if we take that line of reasoning just a little further, couldn’t it also be argued that people can then be punished, not for an actual crime, but simply for their intent to commit a crime in the first place?

Guilty.

And nothing has even happened.

***

I had an opportunity this last week.

He was alone and I was alone. He sat at the bar. I sat at the other bar. For over two hours.

For over two hours, I tried to work up the courage to casually go sit with him. I even prepared a great opening line that I thought would allow us to move past the awkwardness that has clouded our every encounter since that night.

I never used it.

In exactly the same way he has never used my number.

**

I never used it and I didn’t move from my seat for over two hours. Guilt glued me to a bar stool. To a bar stool that was so high that my feet could not touch the ground.

But why would I want them to?

Is it not much more exhilarating flying on the wings of a hopeless crush than having your head firmly stuck in reality?

Or is that just me?

I try, sometimes, to just go with the flow. To take the–often times impatient but always well-meaning– advice of others.

“Expect everything while expecting nothing.”

I try really hard.

I try to not over think, or over want. I try to just see it as it is. I try to keep my over active imagination in check. I try to convince myself that patience is a virtue and that good things come to those who wait.

Except, waiting is frustrating. It goes against my essence. I am impatient. I am quick tempered, fiery, and when I want something? I want it. My mind exploding with all the potential that exists but is never reached.

I’m really over done with waiting.

So, I straighten my hair and pucker my lips. I spray perfume on that part of my neck, just below my ear. I apply eye shadow and mascara and hide my broken skin under a thin layer of foundation. I pick the perfect earrings and slip on my favourite chunky, silver bracelet. I do the laces of my Converse because they’re casual and they’re the ideal shoe for a beer on a Sunday night.

I throw a khaki jacket over my shoulders that make my hazel eyes stand out a little bit more and I warm serum between my fingertips and apply it to the ends of my pin straight hair. I sing in the car to music and I stop every now and again to let pedestrians cross and I allow other cars to pass in front of me as if not letting others wait at all, will somehow make the universe not let me wait anymore.

But, I do.

I arrive and I wait for her to finish work.

I sip my beer and get lost in those conversations that begin at “How was your week? and then suddenly you find yourself saying, “Sure, aliens might exist” and then ten minutes later you have a lighter in your hand, have unbuckled the top button of your jeans and are checking to see if the manufacturer of your zipper is YKK.

I start for home in satisfied silence, no longer singing. I arrive and I catch a glance of myself in the mirror. I look used. In a good way. Eyeshadow smudged under my eyes. Unbrushed hair. Clothes that smell of smoke, breath of beer.

Finally alone you realize that all this time, despite the fun you have been having, you have still been waiting. And wanting.

For something to happen in the happening.

Isn’t that silly?

We are in the throes of Holy Week, here in Greece; that long week of shoe shopping madness before Easter Sunday.

Yes. You read right. Shoe shopping madness. (And I know somewhere out there Molly just realized that a country where it is customary for godparents to buy their godchildren a new pair of shoes in a week that is called Holy, is a good place, a really, really good place.)

So my sister called her god daughter’s mother to ask what kind of shoes she should buy.

“Vans” her mother suggested.

My sister then called me.

“She said I should get her a pair of Vans. Where can I get them from?”

“Prime Timers. Definitely.”

“What do you think?”

“Vans? I’ve only ever seen them on guys. I don’t know if they’re ‘girl’ shoes.”

“Should I get them?

“I don’t know. Just go in there and ask the sales assistants ‘So what are the kids wearing these days?”

“Oh god. I can’t believe I’m that old that I actually need to ask that.”

***

Two hours later, with a full cash refund from Pull and Bear sitting comfortably in my wallet, I happened to stroll into the very store we had been discussing. I thought I would take a look around. See if I could help an older sister out.

The music was loud. And it was, erm, I think the kids call it, house? The sales girls wore hipster jeans and Converse sneakers in bold colours with writing graffiti-ed on them. Their hair had not been brushed that morning. Or the morning before that. The guys wore studded belts and hoodies. With the hood over their heads. Inside.

I–in my leggings, African inspired kaftan-esque top and pretty ballerina flats–clearly looked as if I did not belong there. Unperturbed–except for the deafening-does-it-really-need-to-be-that-loud-music–I began perusing their shoe collection. And as sure as the day is now long, I fell in love. And they were Vans. I tried them on and preened in front of the mirror for a full ten minutes making sounds like, “Awwwwwww. Oooooooo.” They made me feel young! and cute! and hip! (and a little bit like a skater) and I had to have them immediately.

I also bought a similar pair for my sister’s god daughter. (Who is ten year younger than me.)

So, I hope she likes them. I hope she thinks they’re cool.

Cause I do.

And I didn’t even have to ask, “Like, what are the kids wearing these days?”

Twenty seven and still in touch.

Erm, hopefully.

The other day my sister heard a song on the radio.

“It was David Gray, so beautiful. The lyrics went something like-give me reason but don’t give me a choice. Something about screaming at the top of his lungs. Or something.”

“Let’s find it.”

I searched for awhile and then said,

“Are you sure it was David Gray?”

“Yes.”

“That’s weird. It’s saying that that is a James Blunt song.”

“James Blunt?!?!” she whined.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“What? Now you don’t like it?”

Silence. That I took to mean as ‘yes’ and I so quickly went on to tease her.

“Hi, I love this song I heard on the radio. It was awesome. It moved me. What? It’s James Blunt? It’s such a crap song. I hate it.”

She smiled. Then tried to defend herself.

“It’s just-it’s just-James Blunt? He’s such- well he’s a cad.”

***

On Saturday night, as I exited The Bar and began walking to my car, I heard a voice calling my name. I stopped and turned around to find a short, round-ish older man doubled over, clutching his stomach as he tried to catch his breath.

He had run after me.

As I recited the story to T the next night, I tried to imitate his accent in the best way I could. Off the bat, I told him that I didn’t speak Greek. Sometimes, that is all I really need to pretend to get unwanted attention off me. But he persisted in his broken English.

“So he says “Ah-yee am Zorbas. Ah-yee fe-ahl ah-truck-ksion too ee-yoo.”

“Oh god!” she said in Greek, “Ah-truck-ksion?!”

“Yes! He then invited me to go for coffee.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. I told him I had a boyfriend and that it wouldn’t be appropriate. But come on! How romantic would it have been if some hot guy had run after me!”

“I know!”

“Even if he had said the exact same thing in the exact same way.”

“I know! Even if he had said, ‘Ah-yee fee-al ah-truck-ksion too ee-yoo.”

Minutes later, he walked into The Bar.

“Check that guy out.” T said.

“Shhhh” I whispered and pretended to duck under the table. “That’s him!”

“That’s HIM?” she screeched, taking him in.

“Does that make my story even worse?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

On that Sunday, while my friend called out his name to get his attention and give him my number, I fled and hid in the bathroom.

I walked into the cubicle, tore off a piece of toilet paper and used it to put down the seat cover. Then, I perked myself on the edge and stared at the back of the door.

I’m not going to lie. Flashes of what could happen, of what was about to happen raced through my mind almost as fast as the beats of my heart–receiving a text message, involuntary smiles, first date nervousness, choosing an outfit, kisses, a body next to mine on a Sunday morning.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

I could not control them. My mind, in that instant, proved once again that it is a separate entity entirely unto itself. It thinks the thoughts that I know better not to think of at all. Thoughts that, actually, I do not really want to think.

When I opened the stall door, she was already there, already telling me that he was in a relationship. The faster the words spilled out of her mouth, the slower they moved across the air that separated us and into my ears.

I didn’t drop to the floor. But, my heart did.

I didn’t burst into tears. But, those dreams–born mere seconds ago–did.

I wish, sometimes, that I could react like a child. I wish I could fall to the ground and throw my toys around. I wish I did not have to cry silent tears. And I wish that I did not feel that those tears are not justified to begin with. I wish I could howl. And screech at the same time. Sounds that only mothers really understand.

But, I didn’t that night. I don’t. We don’t do that anymore. We reserve those expressions for moments that are deserving of such a reaction. And then, even then, some of us just ache in a breathtaking, stoic silence.

So on that night, as disappointment punched me squarely in the jaw, my automated response was to smile and say something banal like, “Aw. No. Well. That. Sucks.”

Completely emotionless like an actor who has spent so much time trying to memorize their lines that they have forgotten to inject some feeling into it. Lines–beautifully written lines–that lose all meaning in their wooden execution.

***

My response to an observer would have appeared proportionate to the circumstance. Rational, even. After all, one conversation with a cute man does not a dramatic-burst-into-tears-upon-discovering-he-is-unavailable reaction justify. Fair enough. Right?

But how do we logically isolate one experience–and our subsequent emotional reaction to it–from all the others? The wants that were crushed–wants born while sitting precariously on a toilet–were not my wants from him. From this one person. But wants that are timeless, in a way, in me.

***

I have found that we all, at some point or another, ask the same question to a person suffering from heartbreak and the like. Each and every time I have said it I feel as if I have just cracked some remarkable truth; as if I am the first person to have unearthed this hidden insight into the human psyche.

“Do you miss him”"I will say in soothing tones “or do you miss the idea of him?”

In order for the heartbreak-ee to receive appropriate compassion they will have to answer “I miss him” because admittance that we just miss the idea of a person, that idea of ‘boyfriend’ , of ‘closeness’, implies that lesser compassion is needed. Call off the rescue team! She just misses the idea of him. She’s fine.

***

But don’t you think that, after a while, all those ‘ideas’, all those ‘thoughts that never are’, all of those ‘unfulfilled wants’–don’t you think–that they build up one by one and eventually become actual losses?