Transplanted Life
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
I called him
I really didn't want to be that girl - you know, the one who crawls back to a man after he treats her badly, but I also don't want to be the one who thinks she's so perfect that any man who doesn't immediately apologize is obviously mentally deficient and unworthy of her. I know what it's like to deal with that kind of woman, and I've given Alex a lot more reason to be wary than most women do.

Besides, I felt stupid this weekend. I had bought a couple four-packs of Red Sox tickets before Christmas (two each for four games), and the first was Monday's Patriot's Day game. Those not from New England probably don't recognize this as a Big Deal, but it's an event here - Patriot's Day is a holiday that commemorates Paul Revere's ride and the battle of Lexington & Concord, celebrated the third Monday of April. It's called "Marathon Monday" because, duh, that's when the Boston Marathon is run, and the ballgame has a special 11am start, so that it should let out at just about the same time that the runners, who started out from Hopkinton at noon, pass by the park in the Kenmore Square area. It also makes it a nightmare for people trying to get anywhere in Boston, but we'll save that for later.

Anyway, Alex and I had planned to go to the game, taking the day off work and all, but, of course, as of last week he got all freaked out when I told him my life story, and didn't talk to me all week. So I've got the ticket but I don't know whether or not he's going to come, and I'm too much of a wuss to actually call him and find out, so that I can give it to Gertie or something. Because he's got shit to think about where I'm concerned, and it's more important than a baseball ticket in the cheap seats.

So I go, and I wait outside of Gate B until the game's almost started, and then as I hear the national anthem I go to the will-call booth and ask them to hold it for Alex in case he decides to show.

Fortunately, the game is nerve-racking enough to take my mind off things. Not completly, of course: A woman sitting at a baseball game with an empty seat beside her is going to attract some male attention, especially once guys who have seized the opportunity to start drinking at 10:30 in the morning start to notice. Sure, they may start the question by asking about the back of my T-shirt saying "Bellhorn" (I've been busy! I haven't had time to buy a "Papelbon" one!), but they're more interested in the front. I made sure to limit myself to drinking hot chocolate in the early innings and soda later on, lest I do something stupid. I did all right deflecting them with "my boyfriend got called into work unexpectedly" and talking about the game. I'm kind of grateful to them, though - sure, horny college kids are generally annoying, but they beat the hell out of moping. And even if the Sox were behind most of the time, it was a kick-ass game, with two homers from Ortiz and Ichiro robbing him of a third, plus Loretta's walk-off shot at the end.

Alex didn't show up, and I killed the rest of the afternoon trying to make my way up the marathon course toward the finish line. The one mile marker is right in Kenmore Square, and it was interesting looking at the different runners. Some looked ready to die while others looked pretty good, like they'd been keeping this pace for 25 miles and could keep it up for another 25. Crazy healthy people. Anyway, it took me a couple hours to get to the Copley Square area, the streets were so crowded, and then you couldn't even get near the finish line. To make things more confusing, the way the streets were blocked off between Copley and the Common meant I practically had to detour to South Station to get to the red line.

I was tired when I got home Monday, but that just allowed it to eat at me. So after work yesterday, I asked Gertie if I could borrow her phone, since Alex would probably recognize my number. She applauded my sneakiness, and I called.

He was surprised to hear my voice, but he didn't hang up immediately. He said he'd been looking over his shoulder for the past week, wondering about people. That he had a hard time sleeping, both because he was worried that he might wake up in another body, or that something might have happened to me. I told him that was sweet, but that the former, at least, was something it isn't worth worrying about. It's scary and potentially catastrophic, but also so almost completely out of one's own control that there are few precautions one can take. Like, you don't really worry about some bioterrorist releasing ebola, even though you'd be pretty screwed if that happened.

It was a good talk. I'm glad I made the call, even if I would have really liked him to be the one who called and said it all didn't matter because even if he wasn't sure he loved me yet, it wasn't because of that and so on and so forth. That would have been just ideal.

Well, at least he didn't hang up on you.
Yeah, but where's the mind blowing sexual kaboom? There was supposed to be a mind blowing sexual kaboom!

Ok, seriously, so you've been the good soul, and given the lad a call. Has he called back? If so, good for him, maybe he's salvagable. If not, time to move on, you may be just slightly too much for him to cope with. Poor lad.

I went to school in Boston. I can assure you there was no shortage of lads who would take a presentable gal to the ballpark, and while the fact that she actually digs the game might freak out some of 'em they'd get over it real fast, especially with a nice bod packed into the tight jeans and the boston t-shirt. And heck, you're way more than presentable, even if you do need to catch up on the tan asap.

- Z
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