It’s Not You, It’s Me
Quote: "People’s minds are changed through observation and not through argument." – Will Rogers
Sometimes I’m charmed by her. It’s morning and I’m in my boxers eating pancakes in her kitchen and thinking why not?
Its easy to forget that the night before. We’d just left a sushi restaurant and were on our way to her apartment. We’d been debating Friday Night Lights and she’s belittling characters I like and I find myself driving faster because she’s holding a bottle of just purchased whiskey and I’m going to need some of it if we’re going to keep talking.
That night in bed, I say something funny, I don’t remember what. She laughs a real hearty laugh and tries to maintain her composure. She’s covering her face and telling me how much she hates her laugh and I find myself thinking that I don’t hate it at all. I want to make her laugh like that again.
Earlier, we were sitting on her living room with the sushi She’d been instructing me on the proper way to use chopsticks. We are scanning through Pandora stations and momentarily settle on one that’s got a little more pop than either of as are usually into.
"I don’t mind Taylor Swift," I say, unintentionally starting another debate.
"I hate the way she uses her relationships to make money."
"I’m into it! Her stuff’s catchy, she’s young. Everyone writes songs about people they used to date, her ex’s happen to be famous."
"She makes money from complaining."
"Bet she’s not complaining on the way to the bank."
"I could never do that."
"You’re telling me if someone offered you millions of dollars to write a song about an ex, you’d tell them you were too good for it?"
"Yes, I have integrity."
"Bull shit"
I say it loud, louder than necessary. I don’t believe her and she refuses to budge on her stance. I’m almost angry on her insistence that she’d be too good for it. Her tone feels condescending and my eyes are rolling so hard I can practically see the back of my head.
Hours later I’m in her kitchen, post sex. it’s late and I’m naked. I’ve got a bit of a buzz and I’m making us another drink. She’s standing in the doorway, holding a t shirt to cover herself. I tell her to drop it. She shakes her head no, playfully. I’m smiling and holding two cups of Jameson and gingers. She scurries back to the bedroom and I’m excited for round two.
I wake up early, she’s sound asleep next to me. I remember something she said in passing. "Maybe you’ll stop disagreeing with everything I say now," She’d murmurred the night before. It occurred to me just then, that maybe I was the difficult one. Maybe I’m the pain in the ass. Or maybe I place too much importance on the plights of fictional characters and the moral integrity of pop stars.
I tell my parent’s I’m not dating anyone every time they ask because its true. I explain to my friends that the friends with benefits situation is getting more complicated than I’d originally intended. I don’t feel like dating anyone in the town I grew up in. I don’t think I’m compatible with anyone I’ve met at work. The idea of spending a night at her place is more appealing than a bar of my contemporaries.
It wouldn’t work, I’d explained to just about everyone. We’re too different, she annoys me sometimes. We’d tried dating once, she’d clung too hard, I’d pulled away.
Except maybe she’s not the difficult one.
Maybe its me.