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        Tuesday, December 23, 2014

        It’s Saturday, on a cool Dallas evening, and I’m writing these first few lines in a coffee shop, right across from the Leviathan. She’s busy working, with no fewer than four smartdevices splayed across the small, round table–two phones and two tablets, one of which is inexplicably powered off–and I’m pecking this shit into iNotes in a valiant bid at productivity, when in fact I’m effectively, like, texting myself.

        This is date two–or, technically, date one, if brazenly lying to her friends who saw right through the charade didn’t count–but for all we know, this could’ve been date seven. We’re at a Starbucks because she favors the taste of fresh-ground capitalism in her brew, and it’s a mellow capstone to a day spent at the theater, dinner, and ample amounts of driving and walking.

        But it doesn’t seem to matter what we’re doing, really, and this is something we talked about, not more than an hour before stepping into Starbucks. There is a flow to the banter–always has been–but on top of that, there’s an ease to the company. Part of this may be personality. She and I are two sides of the same coin, according to Myers-Briggs, but then again, you do have to take that hoodoo with a grain of salt. All we know is there’s a connection, and that’s rare.

        When it’s this early in a relationship, everything seems awhirl. You want to enjoy it without projecting upon it. Value it without suffocating it. Experience it without anticipating it, and this may be the toughest balancing act for me, because I’m susceptible to overthinking. And so I try to focus instead on the simpler things I know: that we’re spending Christmas together, then New Year’s at the Chief’s and Earth Chick’s, and then beyond that? Dunno, can’t wait, and maybe that’s exactly how it should be.

        Thursday, December 18, 2014

        Whichever muscle groups traditionally power these bloggin’ arms, well, they’re barely functioning tonight. That’s because I just returned from session two of weight training with the Professor, during which I pushed parts of my arms and chest I didn’t even know existed to the limit. I’m going to feel it tomorrow morning for sure. Hell, I feel it now, and typing is about as far away from lifting as you can get on the physicality spectrum.

        The last time I did any sort of strength training was in–what, high school? And aside from an odd set of push-ups here and there, my Texan health regimen has been largely cardio. That’s why I decided to embark on this journey: to round out my routine and, perhaps in so doing, unlock the wherewithal to wail on a tennis ball really, really hard.

        There’s also this core idea of how the very last few reps–the ones that feel damn near impossible to finish–are the ones that matter most. They’re the ones most responsible for breaking down your old tissue and paving the way for the new. There’s just something about the contours of this concept that’s fascinating to me. It feels like it’d be useful in some non-workout context, and not for some feel-good, bullshit Werther’s moment about perseverance, either.

        We’ll see how long I can keep this going. For now, I’ve got something else on my mind, and that’s Saturday. I’ve been talking about this “no expectations” truism, but that’s only part of the story, because if you take this approach too far, you run the risk of being a milquetoast sop, twisting in the wind, and that’s wholly unattractive. There’s a balance to be struck, specifically by the heart, and that’s one muscle I’d like to keep intact, even as I seek to destroy all others.

        Tuesday, December 16, 2014

        Of all the dating commandments given unto me, I’ve turned time and again to Love Yoda’s mantra: no expectations. The two other mantras–follow your heart and remember the past–have also resonated in the last few weeks, but neither quite to the same degree nor frequency. A large part of why this is so, I think, is because of the Leviathan herself, specifically her spontaneity.

        I met her last Wednesday at a beer garden. I remember it was chilly, though sitting directly under a heat lamp all but ameliorated this. Nine of her friends were there, too, so I had to run the gauntlet. The twist, though, was she didn’t want them to know we met on Match, such is the stigma that still clings to online dating, so we invented some cockamamie story about how I used to buy radio spots from her.

        But most of all, I remember it being a fantastic night. We were there for five hours total, steamrolling right over last call. There’s always this sense of relief as soon as you meet. It’s, like, you were naught but a profile before. But here you are, text and curated photos made flesh, and we’re clicking. Same sense of humor, appreciation for the English language, and love of the profane, only now with body language, presence, and touch. And when I was able to talk with her, just her, and all the surrounding din subsided? Yeah, that was pretty fuckin’ rad.

        “You are my favorite,” she told me tonight. I couldn’t begin to parse what this meant, or what it should mean. All I know is what was said, and I’m going to toss that into my knapsack, then move on. We’re going out on Saturday for a marathon date. I bought some tickets, made a reservation, but that’s it for planning. I’m playing everything else by ear–or heart, I suppose–and if two wends to three, then so be it.

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