Treading water

This post is credited to my dear friend the Cheerleader. She is one of those friends that will unhesitatingly call it how she sees it and will always hold me accountable for the piddly stuff that I'm doing in my life.

I haven't been blogging about my dating drama, but I have been all up in my head about it. There's interesting stuff going on--and when I say interesting, I mean not good, not bad, just interesting in that gruesome train wreck sort of way; you want to look away, but that's just out of the question.

I was rehashing my most recent encounters with the J_______ to her and she just cut through the crap and aimed a giant spotlight right on my soul. Don't get me wrong, it was good and oh-so-needed.

Without going into too many details, I'll just say that there's a quirk (among many) that the J_______ has that really throws me for a loop. And now I can't NOT divulge this quirk, right? Okay... so there is no French kissing. And it's not that he's a germophobe and he's against tongues in mouths. He just thinks it's a very intimate act--which I agree. It's not like I go around shoving my tongue where it's not welcomed, I just think of it as that first level of intimacy. That first level of intimacy that people our age who have been seeing each other for two months can probably engage in. And if this was some declaration of chastity or purity, then maybe I could get behind it, but it's not. There is nothing chaste or pure about it. Let's just say if intimate acts were a smorgasbord I could gorge myself, except for French kissing. That's off the table, but there are a kajillion things on the table. Essentially, I'm not tongue-worthy. Subsequently, I've made the the declaration that until I'm tongue-worthy, he's not a kajillion things-worthy.

So this embargo is fine and well, but I really like making out--mothers, cover your children's ears--with tongue. GASP! I know, I know. I should be ashamed of myself.

What am I doing? Truth be told, I've had several good friends (and my improv class over beers last night) ask me precisely that. And I don't know. This is just one quirk, among the many that may be more than quirks and may be signs that whatever this is, it may not be right for me. Which is when the Cheerleader stepped in to slap me upside the head and say, "Ummmm, God is giving you a boat here. You don't have to swim out of this one."

That has stuck with me all day. It just cuts right to the core. Why am I not getting into the boat? It's not even a boat, it's a barge of reasons why this is not where I need to be spending my energy, but I'm still thrashing away thinking the breast stroke is going to get me somewhere.

Note to self: When there's a choice between getting on the boat and swimming for your life, choose the boat.

Besides, I'm deathly afraid of fish.