Memoirs of a Fat Girl

To introduce or not to introduce? That is the question.

Actually, it was more like, to re-introduce or not. Sure my family knew I was speaking to Sandy again, sure they knew we’d gone out the night before, and sure they knew we were going out again, but did I dare let fish swim in new waters by asking him to pick me up at the house?

It’s a weird situation. Second date is *not* the time to be bringing someone in to meet ma and pa, but then again in this case, everyone had already met a zillion years ago.

Asking him in felt strange. Asking him to pick me up around the corner felt strange. Luckily, my inner turmoil and choosing the worse of two evils was quickly solved by my mother’s busybody friend, who’d dropped by for an impromptu visit. I wasn’t about to let Sandy face the satellite of the Eastern European community, thus, around the corner it was.

It was still daylight when he pulled up, not in the convertible this time but in his everyday SUV. When I opened the passenger door to jump in, the first thing I saw was a big blush on that smiling face, and a stuffed bear in my seat.

"For me?" I squealed, then jumped in and gave him a big thank-you kiss. On the cheek.

"I had to do something high school. It’s not too cheesy, is it?"

No, no, no. Never. Every girl likes to feel special and if it was cheesy, it was in all the right ways. How sweet, though.

Tonight’s agenda was dinner, and Sandy let me pick. I’d been craving sushi forever, and so that was our direction. I love sushi with its many forms and subtleties; I love the taste, I love the atmosphere of a great sushi restaurant, and I love that sushi is fabulous man-testing material.

To properly gage a man’s worth and know how he *really* feels about you, believe me, nothing works better than a good gross out. Sit in front of him with a piece of cold, dead, sea urchin between two chopsticks, then go to town. Chances are he’ll be so appalled by your actions that he’ll totally quease up, order a teriyaki bento box, then avoid making eye contact with you for the rest of the meal. Child’s play.

I ordered a sashimi plate. Hardcore raw fish, straight up, no rice. Guess what? Sandy ordered the same thing. Talk about a great start.

Now, what did we do during dinner, you ask? We talked. We caught up. But then, how much talking and catching up can you possibly do after a week’s straight of hours long phone calls?

In my sprite old age, here’s what I’ve learned: when you’re with someone you actually like to talk to, there’s always plenty to say. And plenty of fun to be had, too; we kept slipping bits of everything onto each others' plates

After sushi, we were at odds for what to do. Sunday night in the semi-burbs isn’t much fun since everything closes super early on a school night, even in the summer. So, when in doubt, go to the park.

I am not a woman of the wild, but parks and me have something going. And this isn’t just any park, but a great big sprawl of green pretty close to the city. I guess it’s our version of Central Park. Nothing near as glamorous, mind you, but I love it there all the same. I remember going to birthday parties there as a kid, and Sunday picnics with the family. It’s where I still take Blue to play on the infamous, off-leash Dog Hill, and where I went so briefly on my 31st this year.

And what did we do at the park? Well, we walked for a good while, down a dark winding road with barely any lights. He held my hand, I held his. Butterflies, butterflies. We kept going until we found a little nook surrounded by landscaped gardens and neatly trimmed trees overlooking a handful of benches.

We settled there for a bit where we, you got it, talked some more. Being a landscape architect and urban planner, Sandy impressed me with his thorough knowledge of trees and foliage. In turn, I told him about the time I got searched at gunpoint on the German border. He laughed, and he put his arm around me, too. More than once I caught him turning to look at me with those sparkling blue eyes that sent my sweet, flitting butterflies into a raging vortex.

Kiss me dammit, before I turn into a frog.

But alas, it never came. He might have, I suppose, if I hadn’t kept smiling, turning beet red, then looking away.

Well, what would you have me do? This is the one guy in the world that can take me back to study hall, bubblegum and "Do you think he likes me?" notes being passed during Biology. Habitual shyness from those days can still prevail, you know.

Between us, I think he was habitually prevailing, too. Call it a hunch.

It started getting cold; Sandy noticed I was shivering and so we left the park. Again at odds for what to do, we wound up back in the burbs, parked on a narrow street in the pitch black of two-something in the morning.

Sandy turned the engine off, but left the music on. I don’t remember which songs were playing, but I do recall perfectly the alien green lights the radio set off, giving the whole ambiance a very X-Files feel. Minus that whole, "the truth is out there" thing.

My cheeks were crampy from smiling so much, my heart was pounding, and my brain was buzzing with exhaustion from not sleeping more than three hours per night the past week, and the excitement of where I was and who I was with. Never a more perfect time to reenact our very own Inspiration Point.

The frog, the frog!

I knew he wanted to kiss me. It was all over his face. It was in his eyes, and his slow smile, and the way he was leaning up against the car door, hands resting loosely on his lap.

Was it all over my face? I can only assume. I don’t remember ever wanting to kiss someone so badly.

Take the bull by the horns, already.

Nuh-uh. Ah yes, our good friends Catholic Right and Orthodox Left. Back with a vengeance.

You’re not a kid anymore.

Sure I am. I’m immature and ridiculous and I want him to kiss me first!

Stupid!

Yeah.

Shy, this boy is.

Tell me about it.

He’s so cute.

Yes, he is. Just as cute as when he was 18.

More so.

I wonder what 16-year old me would do right now?

Blush and giggle it off.

What should 31-year old me do?

Not that.

Needless to say, I love it when Orthodox Left wins.

I leaned over, one hand on the console, the other on his cheek, and kissed him.

We were like that for five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes; I’m really not sure because I wasn’t keeping track. I was too preoccupied with his lips, his breath, his face against mine. His hand on my neck, his eyelashes tickling my nose.

Sublime.

How on earth can I explain the emotions coursing through me then, a whirlpool that I dove into, headfirst? How unbelievable I was finding this all, or how giddy I was?

After all, I got to make out with my prom date.