Making chit chat back and forth I learn he's 44. He'll be spending the holiday at his family's ranch where they'll hunt and cook with the family.
"Man my legs ache," he texts.
"Hard workout?" I ask.
"Yes, weights and my quads are killing me."
"Sorry your legs hurt, but they sure do look good!"
"THAT WAS YOU!" he types immediately. "In line at the Starbucks that one day."
Sheepishly I admit yes. Can you be sheepish in a text?
It's time to board and everyone takes their unassigned seat on the Southwest flight as I giggle with excitement. Flight attendants close the door to the plane and I'm off to Vegas where I'll make my connection to Southern California. The last text exchange: "Have a Happy Thanksgiving," I type.
"You too... looking forward to our date."
Two plus hours tick by as I work in my Franklin Planner, laying out goals for the coming year and writing a financial plan. We touch ground and I turn my phone back on to find a text from Peter: "I know this is direct, but you are so pretty."
"Wow, thank you," I text, wondering if that was a parting comment as my flight left Austin. A two-hour communication gap can be a vulnerable place to sit in having made a comment like that without a thank you or some other comment made back in quick, feedback fashion... at least that's how I'd be feeling.
At the same time my radar is up and I further wonder if not question the appropriateness. It just seems a bit familiar. He is exceptionally direct I tell myself, maybe it's in the culture of Hispanic men to be this bold. Or maybe it's just a reflection of his intense, sales personality. Alpha men operate at a much different frequency than their non-alpha brothers.
Once in Burbank I search for Meg in baggage claim. Another text from Paul, "send me a picture of you in LA." This catches me further off guard. I offer up an "okay" of some sort and tell him we'll touch base later. Bummed or irritated, he texts, "argh... okay. Have a good night."
The next morning starts off a beautiful relaxing holiday where the only expectation of me is to drink and eat turkey. I can't remember the last time this occurred though I'm sure it was pre-marriage and kids. Meg and I slowly drink our mega mugs of French Roast as we catch up on marriages, divorces and careers. A text comes in and it's from Peter. "You sure are sexy."
"What's wrong," Meg asks as my face distorts with discomforting curiosity.
"It might just be me and my level of comfort around being complimented by the opposite sex... I don't know this just seems odd." She withholds judgment and on my own I start to get a bit mental, catching myself in a 20+ year pattern of over-analyzying crap men say. I mean, are they really that complex? I talk myself down from the ledge.
"Why thank you," I type back. And from there we go into a long weekend of him sending compliments and me eventually yielding to the request for a picture. Maybe if I didn't have a lifetime of doubt and insecurity about what it is to be pretty, or if I didn't have an experience of being bullied on walks home from grade school, called vile names like nigger lips or just plain ugly, then maybe I'd be at ease with someone of the opposite sex giving me a compliment. Maybe, or maybe not.
The only thought present for me after the second compliment is this: he's just looking for a piece of ass. I try to push the paranoid thought back down from where it came, aware that our thoughts become things if we dwell on them long enough. I coach myself to stay open, be kind to myself, "I deserve this," I say out loud to Meg. A loyal, life-long friend, she agrees.
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