I told a girl I liked her.
For the first time.
I told her. Without alcohol. Without contrivance. Without Magic: the Gathering cards (don’t ask.) I just. Told her.
They say that when you turn forty, you stop giving a fuck and just start saying what’s on your mind. I don’t think that’s true.
At least, I don’t think it’s true in the way they tell it, like a light switch that just gets toggled on automatically. I’ve been waiting for the switch to turn on for months. (Okay, it has only been 2.5 months since my birthday, but I seem to have gotten the hot flashes right on cue, so it seems only fair that I should also get the not-giving-a-fuckery).
But it turns out, it’s not a light switch, at least not for me. Instead it’s a sudden and pervasive sense of my own mortality. It’s the feeling that all those things 20-year-old me believed would just happen automatically at some nebulous point in life- the adventures, the romances, the travel, the career, the purpose – aren’t going to happen on their own.
It’s the sudden realization that the gifted child syndrome is real – that life doesn’t just give you the things you think you deserve because you knew the right answers for the test. You have to make choices and decisions, choose a road to follow when roads diverge in a wood, and sometimes you have to tell someone you like them without actually knowing whether they like you back, because when you think about what life you want to be able to look back on, the reward seems suddenly greater than the risk, no matter what the response is.
I was so nervous as I crafted the message…
(Yes, I did it over text. I don’t think the doing-it-in-person switch gets flipped until at least 45. Or anyway, one of the things I have learned to accept after 40 years of being me is that I am much better in written format.)
I agonized for several hours over what to say, stressed about hitting the “send” button, and then I did it. And immediately went and took a shower to calm down.
But what I noticed in the shower was that I wasn’t panicking or worrying about the response. I felt calm. I didn’t rush to get out to check my phone. (Although I did briefly consider never ever checking my phone again.) I didn’t pour over possibilities of what might happen if she said yes, or no, or something else. I didn’t worry that I had ruined my life or my friendship, and I didn’t consider (for too long) the possibility that I would need to move to a monastery in Tibet to escape the embarrassment. I said a thing which was true for me, with kindness and consideration for the person I said it to, and the anticipated fear, anxiety, and embarrassment were noticeably absent.
When I was in first grade, I liked a boy named Matthew. And one day, another boy, Christopher, found out I liked Matthew. I have a memory of Christopher literally chasing me out of the classroom, taunting me for my crush, and then later teasing Matthew because he was the object of my affection. (I’m pretty sure this was the same kid who also ate a piece of paper on a dare, so you’d think I’d know better than to listen to him, but I was 6.) I think I learned in that moment that having a crush on someone was something to be ashamed of. Something that could make me and them a subject of ridicule. Something that was undesirable and needed to be kept hidden. And I realize now that that feeling has been living rent-free in my body for 34 years.
But in this moment, in the shower, after the text, I understand that there is no secret switch or magic wand, but that I also was not… am not… hopeless. I have my baggage, sure, but I can decide to not let it stop me. I can flip my own switch. I can be the person who says, “hey, I like you. Should we do anything about that?” without worrying about the response.
And maybe sometimes, she’ll even say, “yes.”