Falling in Love for a Second

            “Gone for now.”

            That was how the Paralegal left for rehab.  I had no idea.  Yoga Girl had no idea.  We had been out drinking plenty of times to know that he didn’t drink like an alcoholic.  Or at least he didn’t drink like the Lawyer.  We could have a bottle of wine for dinner, and then be done.  His work schedule and his fitness routine just didn’t lend themselves to a typical sort of substance abuse.  Regardless, I had no idea, no information, and I was going to have to find a place of peace on my own, and trust that if the Paralegal wanted me to know the details he would tell me.

            I felt in my heart that he loved me and his words were authentic, but what little comfort that provided did not make up for the pain in knowing that he would be gone, the uncertainty of the future, the sorrow for the incredible hurdles he would have to overcome, the anger that I was completely powerless to whatever life might toss the Paralegal’s way or mine, and that, ultimately, whatever his selfish addiction, I would be the one to lose out on his love. Do I have patience? Do I let him go? I didn’t know.  But I knew if I just kept breathing through my fears, the answers would come.

            That was the energy I took the next morning into a workshop I had signed up for.   Sitting on the bus, I meditated on the idea that the answers would come with time.  But then, why did I have to know the answers? The Paralegal was in rehab, he was getting help he needed, and I should be joyful for him.  Why do I have to write the end of the story? Why can’t I just wait and see what happens next?  And if I give the Paralegal the space he needs to do his work while focusing on the work I need to do, then just maybe when I know I’m ready for the next step, the Paralegal will be too.  And if not, then maybe another, more fabulous man would come into my life.

            And just maybe I would meet him at my workshop.

            I had signed up for the workshop months before, not really sure what I was getting into.  Since ending my relationship with my former partner, I just had a feeling that I needed to learn more about emotional intimacy, becoming more comfortable with it.  I could talk to a therapist every week, but that just seemed expensive and slow.  I was looking to fast-track my growth, so the idea of some sort of intensive workshop was appealing. I searched the Internet, and didn’t come up with a whole lot.

             I found weekends in Berlin, but the details were lost in translation.  The weeklong retreats in Costa Rica or Hawaii sounded exciting, but I wasn’t prepared to drop the cash needed.  But one workshop, a weekend, looked like it was promising: Celebrating the Body Erotic, offered by the Body Electric School.

             Only, the details were a bit vague, not getting much more specific than helping people to get more comfortable with their bodies, or looking to connect with people on a deeper level.  So I emailed the coordinator asking for more information.

            He suggest I look at the Web site, indicating the video described in great detail what the weekend dealt with.

            Still, I had no idea, specifically, what the weekend was about.

            So I emailed a follow-up question asking if the workshop delved into issues surrounding emotional intimacy.  He indicated that it didn’t deal with intimacy directly, but by exploring some of the hurdles to erotic energy, it gets at issues of emotional intimacy.

            Good enough. I signed up and mailed a check.

            Over the months that would follow between registration and this moment on the bus, thinking through the energy I was carrying into the weekend, it became apparent to me that the real challenge was not emotional intimacy with others, rather a true and authentic emotional intimacy with myself.

            It weighed on my already heavy heart as I thought about all the questions with unknown answers, and why I must know the answers. Why can’t I just throw myself into the flow of life and see what happens next, with full comfort that everything would be okay?

            I hopped off the bus and walked to the warehouse where the workshop was being hosted.

            I stood on the street corner, about fifteen minutes early, waiting for the door to open for the Saturday morning session.  A cab pulled up. The door swung open, and out stepped a man.

            The Principal.

The Principal

He was a teacher. An educator. A sculptor of youthful minds. And as such, he had developed a voice technique of repeating the main point of every statement, the main point--the point he was making--a minimum of three times. It made for awkward cocktail conversation. But this high school principal’s stunning beauty--the depth of his Mediterranean blue eyes, the chiseled, da Vincian nature of his jaw line, the floppiness of his flowing dark Italian hair--appeared to make up for this one annoyance.

It was our second date. An impromptu date, motivated by Bin 36’s $5 burger night, combined with $10 wine bottle night. A dangerous combination of excellent flavors and low price point.

We had already established that he worked in the city, where he had a condo, but preferred to live in the suburbs, the country. I asked The Principal about his house. He explained its layout and that it’s a four bedroom, 2,700 square feet.

“I like space,” he said. “I like my space. Space is important to me. I have a big yard, and a deck. I built my deck. Myself. Well, me and a friend. We built my deck.”

“Really? That’s pretty butch.”

“You’d be surprised how butch I can be.” His shoulder leaned into his statement.

“I bet.”

“So I like to sit in my jacuzzi. I sit and soak. In my jacuzzi. When it’s winter. Cold. Like thirty degrees, the water is like one hundred, you know, and I take the lid off, and the steam just rises up.”

His arms motion toward the ceiling, doing wrist circles.

“The steam rises up. Twirls. Into the air. Like a gigantic volcano or something.”

“Like a plume?”

“Yes, a plume. A gigantic, twirling, plume of steam. And I’ll just soak. Soak and sip a cocktail. I like cocktails. A good cocktail. Seven and seven. In the gigantic plume of steam.”

“That must be a boy magnet, then.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Please, there are not boys in the suburbs. All straight.”

“So you have this big boy palace, and no circle of boys?”

“I’ve got my friends. All straight, but. Can you imagine? I’m still close with about seven of my friends from high school. High school. Some thirty years later, I’m still close to my high school friends.”

“I’m in touch with a few of mine.”

“We get together twice a year. Once in the summer. It’s a big picnic. Big, big picnic. And then we get together in the fall. Like October. I hate Halloween. Hate it. But we have this party in October. At my house. Just before Halloween. And it’s a theme party.”

“So you dress up?”

“Well, yes. But not for Halloween. For the theme. We’ll dress up for the theme. This one year, the theme was the ‘Roaring ’20s’ and I made my house, whole house, into a giant speakeasy. With the gambling and all. And we did a murder mystery. I had roles for everyone. Everyone had roles. And they had to act out their roles. Act them out.”

The waiter brought a bottle of wine, opened it, and poured a taste for The Principal. He grabbed the glass, his pinky extended out to the universe, and took a sip.

“Mmmm. That is good! Good! Very, very good.” He stared at the glass, then stared at me. “That is a very good bottle of wine.”

The waiter filled our glasses and left.

“So you had a murder mystery?”

“Yes. It was fun. Very fun. We had a lot of fun, actually. Of course, after a few cocktails, everything is fun. A whole lot of fun. You know, cocktails do that.”