Name change
From here on in, Web-Boy will be known as Cute Blonde Chick, or CBC for short.
CBC’s eyes lit with delight when I said, “Wait. I have a present for you,” when we parked at the café before the meeting tonight.
“Don’t get used to this sort of treatment,” I continued while fishing around in my coat pocket. I had come Wednesday with a lollypop since she sounded like she’d had a rough day, forgetting that you never give sweets to someone who’s watching their weight.
The other night I went to Parkleigh to buy a card. Fewer calories in a card. At the checkout they had these little Easter chicks, about an inch high, made from tufts of yellow yarn, a couple of black beads for eyes, a quarter-inch of something like an orange pipe cleaner, but not so big around, for a beak. I bought two at 35¢ each.
“I thought of you when I saw these in the store. Ah. Here it is.” Her smile couldn’t have been wider if I’d handed over diamonds.
“It’s a cute blonde chick. I found the resemblance astonishing.” At this I could swear a tear come to her eye.
“I’ll keep it right here,” CBC said, placing it on the dash over the Mercedes’ instrument panel. (And hour later, it lasted around two corners, but toppled at the first pothole. “I’ll have to get some tape or something to keep it from falling over.”)
I did not mention the other one, which is over my own intrument panel of sorts, here at the desk. (I guess it’s time to take down my snowman anyway.)
Thursday and Friday I started going through the stages of grief, notably anger and bargaining. It was not pretty.
There’s a saying in the rooms, “The alcoholic mind is like a bad neighborhood. Don’t go there alone.” When I could, I worked the phone. I must have put more minutes on that fucker in the past two days than I have for the rest of the year-to-date combined. Had to charge it three times. Usually I get nearly a week out of a charge.
The long and short of it is that Willie gave me the best spiritual advice and Mark gave me the best program advice. I tucked Willie’s advice away for myself and proceded on program.
After we’d settled in at the “reviewing stand” at The Spot, I started, “Sometimes in life, two bits of program advice are in conflict.
“When I shared my feelings for you with friends after we met, everyone at the time told me some variation of ‘Nail him before the fog lifts.’
“I couldn’t live myself as a 13th stepper. If there was any possiblity for a future, I didn’t want to fuck it up during your first year, so kept my feelings to myself out of repsect for your recovery. I made a mistake by forgetting rigorous honesty comes first.
“What I’d like to tell you now, CBC, is that I’ve let myself fall crazy mad in love with you.”
No response, just a shy shifting of eyes to her hands in her lap.
“I guess, then,” I continued, “I’ll have to dial that back a bit, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a lot of practice at that. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
I asked why she hadn’t told me before and why my calls in January went unanswered. The answers were variations on the “not the right time” and “not enough privacy at the time” themes.
“I know you made this decision long before we met, so I know it’s not me, but how did you come to the decision you’re TG?”
A long story, not mine to tell, ensued. Later in the car I asked, “So when you dream of a romatic partner, what sort of person do you think of?” Suffice it to say, I’m not anywhere near being in the running—either now or after the plumbing’s been changed.
We were late for the meeting again this week. Only one more before she moves, so it shouldn’t be a problem with people thinking we’re a couple.
When she dropped me off after dinner with gang, I got a handshake over the console.
I guess that really means I have to throttle back. As I recall, the method begins with a lot of crying…
