Anyone But Woody Allen, That Is (7/6/08 Sunday)

When I said at the beginning, “I must accept a certain degree of all my shortcomings,” the one at the front of my mind at the time was vanity, in the sense of what others thought of me. Now, I find that it’s very important what at least one person thinks of me. Last week I got my hair cut, well before it was out of control. I’m washing and conditioning it with ever-more expensive salon product, and tarting it up a notch with peppermint hair oil. And now I’ve bought a body powder to augment the toner and moisturizer (and exfoliant) that I use religiously on my face. I all but strut in my new jeans, feeling very comfortable and sexy. But does anyone notice (much less Julie)? I even take my shirt off when I’m outside in the garden so that I might even out the cycling tan. I remind myself to laugh at the guy in the mirror.

It occurs to me I should be preparing myself for rejection. I can hold out till September 9, but I can’t promise I won’t give away the trick at the that point. (The bit is like taffy in my mouth already.) I don’t know how; I just expect it. It’s what I want, isn’t it?–one way or another. This long suicide is really only about fear of rejection, despite all the other faces I put on it. I want a sure thing, and I already know there’s no such thing. To prepare myself for rejection, though, is to expect it to a not small degree. That’s me, expecting failure. It’s a question of maturity. Am I ready for a relationship? Never mind failure; I’m not sure I should succeed. Is there freedom in a relationship? Yes, but will I allow myself to have it? Can I allow myself to be myself? Can I not worry about how good a boyfriend I’m being? Can I not be so vain about it? Big questions for a neurotic. Help anyone?

And–-I’m not really sure about this–-it’s probably not myself as much as Julie whose feelings I dread hurting. I don’t want anyone else involved in my pain. Perhaps that’s why I’ve prolonged this whole thing-–aside from all the practicalizing I’ve done to avoid committing to my feelings–-or, rather, acting upon them. Well, yes, it would be awkward to admit to Julie, someone I have to work with every day, that I feel fondly toward her. But do I want to go to another job so I can tell her from a safe, “professional” distance? I want to be with her. Why wouldn’t I want to work with her? All these questions, I know, serve only to convince myself I’m a fool bound for failure. I am not a fool. Am I? If being up at midnight on a Sunday–-now Monday-–making grist for the nightmare mill qualifies me, then go ahead and brand me. I guess the distance from Julie of a three-day weekend. ... I don’t know how to finish that; I should be in bed.