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Roger, and: Enlightenment hath come
Nov. 29th, 2010 08:25 amYesterday's Federer vs Nadal final was AWESOME!!! Federer won. He totally deserved it. The way that man plays tennis is just plain amazing -- so beautiful, especially if you see it in slow motion. Wow. He's my hero. (and the legs...)
Enlightenment:
When we left Stefanie's party some time around 1.30 a.m. on Sunday, I found a text message from Mr H, asking whether we'd play tennis on Sunday. I called Pinar in the late morning and asked her whether she'd like to join, and when she agreed I sent him a message to inform him that we'd be playing from 2 to 4 with Valentina, and he was welcome to join.
I was being zen, BTW.
He called back around noon and said he might not make it due to some meeting that had just come up and was going to take place at 1 p.m. OK I said, no problem, if you can make it, fine, if not, there'll just be the three of us.
Five minutes later he called again.
H: Um, I'm thinking...
Me: Congratulations!
H: What?
Me: Congratulations! It's Sunday morning, and you're thinking. That's an achievement, if ever I saw one.
After some more banter he asked whether I liked the idea of watching the Federer-Nadal finale some place with him, Pinar and some other people. OK, I said, yes, that's fine, excellent idea.
I would like to say that enlightenment hit right when we were sitting at the Spanish restaurant, watching the game, but that would be poetic licence. It hit after I'd got home.
And, merely to be on the safe side, I really, *really* don't need any "I told you so" comments. Firstly, I don't remember anybody telling me exactly this, and secondly, even if somebody *had* told me, I would still have had to find out by myself. So there.
OK, the realization that hit me like a ton of bricks was this: It's definitely not me. It's him, and not merely in a man-isn't-interested-in-woman way. It's him not being interested in any of the human beings around him, period. It struck when I went over the evening in my mind: the setting, what everybody had been saying, how I had felt, how the atmosphere had been. And then I thought, wow, that was like a child putting its dolls all around it and playing afternoon tea. (This, BTW, is not poetic licence but exactly what I was thinking) He's interested in having people around him, sometimes, when he feels like it, but we could just as well have been crash dummies, or random people he picked up in the street. He doesn't connect. He doesn't sympathize, or even think one iota further than himself -- case in point: Pinar asked whether a certain dish (we were having tapas) contained pork, and he asked, "Oh, you don't eat pork?" I mean, she's Turkish, for heaven's sake, stands to reason she'll be a muslim and not eat pork.
So, unless something entirely unexpected happens, I think I'm over him and more than glad about it. And it doesn't even hurt, not one little bit, because frankly the realization of what the guy really is like was ever so slightly frightening. Frightening for me, of course, because I feel cold even only thinking about it. Anyway, that seems to be it, guys. There might be some more reflection but I think I can promise no more Mr H-related roller coasters.
Enlightenment:
When we left Stefanie's party some time around 1.30 a.m. on Sunday, I found a text message from Mr H, asking whether we'd play tennis on Sunday. I called Pinar in the late morning and asked her whether she'd like to join, and when she agreed I sent him a message to inform him that we'd be playing from 2 to 4 with Valentina, and he was welcome to join.
I was being zen, BTW.
He called back around noon and said he might not make it due to some meeting that had just come up and was going to take place at 1 p.m. OK I said, no problem, if you can make it, fine, if not, there'll just be the three of us.
Five minutes later he called again.
H: Um, I'm thinking...
Me: Congratulations!
H: What?
Me: Congratulations! It's Sunday morning, and you're thinking. That's an achievement, if ever I saw one.
After some more banter he asked whether I liked the idea of watching the Federer-Nadal finale some place with him, Pinar and some other people. OK, I said, yes, that's fine, excellent idea.
I would like to say that enlightenment hit right when we were sitting at the Spanish restaurant, watching the game, but that would be poetic licence. It hit after I'd got home.
And, merely to be on the safe side, I really, *really* don't need any "I told you so" comments. Firstly, I don't remember anybody telling me exactly this, and secondly, even if somebody *had* told me, I would still have had to find out by myself. So there.
OK, the realization that hit me like a ton of bricks was this: It's definitely not me. It's him, and not merely in a man-isn't-interested-in-woman way. It's him not being interested in any of the human beings around him, period. It struck when I went over the evening in my mind: the setting, what everybody had been saying, how I had felt, how the atmosphere had been. And then I thought, wow, that was like a child putting its dolls all around it and playing afternoon tea. (This, BTW, is not poetic licence but exactly what I was thinking) He's interested in having people around him, sometimes, when he feels like it, but we could just as well have been crash dummies, or random people he picked up in the street. He doesn't connect. He doesn't sympathize, or even think one iota further than himself -- case in point: Pinar asked whether a certain dish (we were having tapas) contained pork, and he asked, "Oh, you don't eat pork?" I mean, she's Turkish, for heaven's sake, stands to reason she'll be a muslim and not eat pork.
So, unless something entirely unexpected happens, I think I'm over him and more than glad about it. And it doesn't even hurt, not one little bit, because frankly the realization of what the guy really is like was ever so slightly frightening. Frightening for me, of course, because I feel cold even only thinking about it. Anyway, that seems to be it, guys. There might be some more reflection but I think I can promise no more Mr H-related roller coasters.
