Me Hawk. You Chipmunk.

I'm in denial.

According to some accredited individuals who've assessed my personality,  temperament and tendencies, apparently I am a commitment phobe who runs from intimacy. Awesome. It hurts just writing that much honesty down. It's not actually true. At all.

Yes, I got married once. Divorced once. And yes, everything was my decision. (I must have some pride here, no, I wasn't 'left' – no, it doesn't matter and no, it would not make any difference if he'd left me). Still, it's like that freshman year mishap – the terrible GPA you get from being a loser that first year that prevents you from ever graduating summa cum laude – where you want to say: I really AM a summa cum laude student. I really, really am. But I made a mistake. Please don't punish me for it. Please.

Too late missy.

I hate that. Because I really tried. I really, really did. And anyone who knew me then…truly, anyone who knows me NOW…knows that I tried. I don't blame him for it.  I don't blame myself for it either. I'm just sad that I couldn't make it work, that I didn't have whatever it would take to make it good.

My mother says, repeatedly, like pressing a pre-recorded button, and I can hear it in my head:

'Jess, you just need to find the guy you want and just GO FOR IT. Just go after him.'

Really?

Go after him?

Really?

I'm not that girl. Everytime I've ever tried to put myself out there it's a big, chubby, awkward and embarrassing fail. In fact, I'm so ill-equipped to do this that I'm like an uninvited guest at the party. Pretty girls in pretty dresses scowl and wonder: where did that…that…awkward…clumsy…dork…come from? And why is she big-eyed and preying on my man?

Truth is, I've been the chipmunk my entire life. The chipmunk is my comfort zone. That's when the steely-eyed hawk spots his prey: me.

He swoops in and picks me up in his expansive wings, holding me captive in his gnarled, sharp claws. And takes me off someplace very unsafe.

I just sit there frantically gnawing on my many nuts, storing the chewed up stuff in my cheek pouches, looking around, but pretty much easy prey. That's it. I just do that and bam! Hawk finds me. It's been this way ever since I was a young, young mickamunk (what my brother Rich called chipmunks before he could speak properly). 

I haven't met someone in a really long time who made me feel freaking giddy. Giddy. Giddy UP. Like a stupid kid on a goddamn pony. 

"Your eyes are open," he said, mid-kiss.

Oh no.

I kiss with my eyes open apparently. I think I must be afraid if I close my eyes that I'll lose my balance and fall over. (Nope, that's not true at all. I just really liked his crazy hot face.)

Yep, damnit, I kissed with my eyes open. And he caught me. OK, so there was a kiss and it was good and it made me dizzy. High school dizzy. (This is a very high bar, I can't recall the last time I had high school dizziness from a kiss with ANYONE).

But I was so uncool.

My friend Will used to tell me: "You are the coolest, hottest freaking girl."

Pause.

"But only when you don't give a shit about the guy."

And I'd be like "And when I like the guy?" (which was rare). He'd roll his eyes and say, "You lose all control. You just show all your cards. You're pathetic."

Yes, it was mean of him to say. But fuck, he was so right. Because it was so annoyingly true.

And here it is, some five years later since Will observed my 'pathetic' hankerings that led to nothing, and I'm still the same. 

My mother is wrong. Just dead wrong on this one.

I give up.  I'm going into infinite hiding.  Those of you who know where I live, feel free to come on by and knock on my door. I'll be home, most likely. Me, my chipmunk self, and the cats. Chilling. Dorking out. Hoping there's a really great amazing hawk out there. A really, really good one this time.