I'm nursing a little bit of a sunburn (legs! forgot sunscreen on my legs! idiot!) after this morning's roasting hot yard sale at the local Episcopalian church. I netted around $35--not much, I know, but ultimately I'm happy that the stuff taking up space in my dining room/office is gone, and my mom's happy that a bunch of stuff taking up space in my parents' cellar is gone, too.
After having to get up early this morning, and cooking in the sun for a while, I'm taking it easy for a little bit. Not quite ready to go empty the dishwasher, or start on what very possibly might be the last paper I ever submit for grad school. (Yeah, wow.)
I might have mentioned that I recently switched cable providers--now my TV comes from my phone company, with a free movie channel package through the end of the year. Since I don't know the specific channels in the package, I haven't discovered them all yet. The surprise discovery this early evening was the channel that had a film (documentary, I guess) by Stewart Copeland (of The Police) from 2006 called Everyone Stares, and I thought it was fairly well done. As I was starting high school, I "found" The Police's music and was a big fan during my high school years (pretty much still am).
As the film was wrapping up, it occurred to me that around this time last year, I was seeing someone, the first person I'd really started seeing since a horrible breakup two years prior, and he happened to be a fan of The Police as well. I had a lot of fun riding in his car while listening to the box set, and singing along. I loved that we had this common bond. Unfortunately, that was pretty much all we shared, and I should have figured that out when he returned the copy of Rolling Stone featuring the band (on their reunion) that I'd given him, even though I'd said he could keep it. He also returned one of my CD's that I thought he'd enjoy while he was driving to his one-week trip to the Outer Banks.
He gave them back because there was only thing he wanted me to give him. In spite of the fact that I had been up front about my principles, and he'd acted accepting of it (as well he should have been, teaching at a Catholic school and claiming to be a practicing Catholic), it later came out that when he returned from the aforementioned vacation, he had made up his mind to look for someone else. And not mention it to me, and just stop asking me out and calling me once he'd found someone to "scratch an itch" (his words, not mine). After his "apology" (read: confession to make himself feel better and the source of the "scratch" quote), I reflected on the time we'd spent together, and I realized that he had made several attempts to get from me what he'd wanted--as if he could "convert" me somehow to his point of view by being aggressive, even at one point kissing me so hard that he'd knocked the back of my head into the wall. I'd chalked it up as an accident at the time--and stupidly even felt flattered that he'd gotten that excited by my hotness--but really he had been ready to do anything to get me through the bedroom door that was but a short distance from the hallway wall where we stood.
Now that I have some distance from the experience, I find it interesting that as a teacher he was uncomfortable with "Don't Stand So Close to Me," but he had no qualms wanting to take advantage of my inexperience just to deal with his own "temptation/frustration" (as the song goes). He didn't want to seem the "bad guy" by breaking it off, but really there was no avoiding it once he'd just dropped contact with me. He was fooling himself then, and subsequently when he thought he was redeeming himself by coming clean and listing all the horrible things he'd done. And had the nerve to tell me about the great new person he was seeing.
I'm glad to be away from that silliness, that immaturity, that selfishness. But it still haunts me a little. I lamented to my mom the other night that "I'm not 'dirty' enough for the guys who want to sleep with me after a couple dates, but I'm not 'good' enough for the really Catholic ones, either. I can't win." (To which a friend who is a marriage counselor says, "It only takes one.") Last night when we were sorting things in my parents' cellar, we came across some baby toys with which my sibs and I had played, and I knew that as much as Mom wanted to reduce the amount of storage, she couldn't bring herself to give them to my brother, because they'd be destroyed by his kids and/or sold on eBay by my SIL. It was hard to ask, but I did it. I asked if maybe she could hold on to them for my kids. She said she'd be happy to.
After her response, I apologized for not being married by now. That's what I feel like some days--regretful that I started dating later than most people my age. Thankfully I have a few supportive family and friends (including the dear WG who called the idiot that dropped me for baseball season "STUPID") to remind me that I don't have to apologize and should instead remain hopeful. And that it only takes one.