January 31, 2012 by Kat Richter
The Wedding Date wants to know if I’m a beach person—not because he’s planning some sort of mid-winter, Caribbean getaway (at least not as far as I know), but because he’s trying to decide whether or not to buy a beach pass for the summer.
A beach pass.
For the summer.
It’s only January—the “summer” is still six months away!
How am I supposed to make a decision about a beach pass now?
Especially because in my book, summers are meant for adventures. Adventures abroad. I’ve been emptying out my savings account for this express purpose almost every year since the summer I turned seventeen. In fact, to me, the hardest part of producing last September’s show for the Fringe was not the stress or the financial investment or the last minute choreography that left my partner and me trying to finalize our duet just minutes before going onstage.
It was the fact that I had to stay put through July and August and after teaching all year, spending the entire summer in one place almost killed me.
Unfortunately, it has since occurred to me that I kind-of, sort-of forgot to share this little habit of mine with The Wedding Date.
I told him about my friends’ wedding in Ireland—I know I did—but now that I think about it, I realize that I didn’t tell him about my plan (“my plan” being to extend my trip to Ireland into a six-week sojourn).
I haven’t bothered to tell anyone about my plan because frankly, I didn’t think anyone would care— I finish teaching at the end of June and I’ll be back before the school year starts up again—but now, evidently, there’s someone who would care. Now there’s this question of the beach pass.
And it’s not just about the beach pass: it’s about spending the summer together or not, and frankly I never even bothered to ask because I thought I already knew the answer: The Wedding Date has commitments that will keep him here over the summer and I don’t.
This isn’t the first time I’ve made this mistake. I dated an architect for about five minutes before I moved to London (okay, more like five weeks, but still: it was nothing serious). We went out a handful of times but he was stoned most of the time and still pining over an ex with whom he’d just broken up after nine years.
Call me crazy, but I didn’t really see us going anywhere.
And I certainly didn’t want to presume that he liked me enough to care that I was moving to London, so I didn’t tell him. At least not right away. When I finally confessed that I was, in fact, UK-bound, he got all upset.
“When we’re you planning to tell me?” he demanded.
“I don’t know… you’re still getting over your ex,” I stammered. “I didn’t think you wanted anything serious.” Plus, it took you ages to finally ask me out and we’re not even sleeping together and all we do is drink and play pool and usually you’re stoned the whole time!
But he was more sensitive than I’d initially given him credit for.
And so are most men for that matter, including The Wedding Date.
Which is why his mention of the beach pass sent me into a tailspin—I do not want to screw up this time.
But nor do I want to give up on the thought of going to Europe for the summer when I’ve been saving up for the past two years.
What’s a poor no-longer-single-manthropologist to do?
- How The Wedding Date Became MY Wedding Date (fieldworkinstilettos.com)
- The End, the Beginning and a Question from The Wedding Date (fieldworkinstilettos.com)
- Adventures in Cardio (and Compromise) with The Wedding Date (fieldworkinstilettos.com)