So, what’s with Date #7? I’m kind of wondering the same thing. It’s been almost three weeks since we first met and until very recently, we hadn’t even spoken. Granted there were the 80 text messages exchanged over the course of a few minutes last week (and no I’m no exaggerating) and oh yeah—that minor love letter, plus the literary masterpiece I attempted to compose in response, but I hadn’t actually heard his voice for ages.
This is because another voice—a little voice inside my head—kept telling me “Give the man some space. You’re both freaked out. Do NOT pick up the phone.”
(Unless of course he calls you, in which picking up the phone is totally permissible.)
So he did, and I did, and we spoke for the first time since we met last month.
Unfortunately, for all of my dating “expertise” I turn into a bumbling five year old the minute a man calls me on the phone.
And I don’t mean in the cute, giggly way. I mean in the “I have an eight-word vocabulary” way.
My first thought was that he’d received my letter and that he was calling to tell me how much he loved it. My second thought was that he’d received my letter and that he was calling to tell me to how much he hated it
But he had yet to even read my letter. He was calling to just to call, which means my letter has been sitting on the floor of his apartment for an entire week while he’s been on vacation.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to have poured your heart out into a fair-trade, handmade envelope and mail it across the state only to have said envelope spend a week collecting dust on someone’s floor? (And while we’re on the subject, do you have any idea how hard it is to figure out what to blog about in the meantime?)
I’m stuck in relationship limbo here. I know he likes me— he’s told me so himself— but while he’s spent the past week relaxing at the beach and texting me photographs of the Atlantic Ocean, I’ve been losing my mind (as evidenced by today’s attempt to boil water without first putting a lid in the pot).
Now I know why all the star-crossed lovers of ages past usually ended up killing themselves. Love letters are romantic and all but the wait is agonizing. In fact Romeo and Juliet would probably still be with us if they’d had email.