Place #7: Merlin's Rest part 2

In heels, it’s much easier for me to hop up onto those tall bar stools. I’m a wee little 4’11” woman, and I more often than not have to crawl up onto barstools 5-year-old style (a slight exaggeration). But here I was able to scoot my generously sized rear end up onto the stool easy peasy. The bartender attended to me immediately and helped me choose a nice, light beer to my liking. I chose a pint of Stella Artois and took a few unstinting gulps: I was in a bit of a rush to feel the effects. I pulled out my pocket-sized Hating Minnesota notebook (which has a red cover and bold words that read: New York – the Wonder City) and began to scribble in illegible handwriting. I do this when I write in front of people, like on the plane or in a waiting room or…in a bar. I’m ridiculously paranoid that people nearby are going to take a peek over my shoulder and read what I’m writing. No. ‘Can’t allow that. So I write in the worst handwriting possible, just legible enough for me to understand (which on severe occasions, I cannot). This is ridiculous and has no sound footing whatsoever. My notes are hardly private, especially when I share what I write on a live, public blog. For example, this is what I wrote on the first page: “White haired man sitting next to me. Drinking Stella Artois. Atmosphere friendly. Leather booths – authentic looking. But what the hell do I know about an authentic Irish pub? ‘Never been to Ireland.” Profound, Jess. Real profound.

I continued to write more inadequate, unreasonable things, like how I was certain I was going to be stood up by the man I was hoping would arrive. But then I told myself, “You can’t get stood up on this one. You’re the one who told him you were here for your blog. You’d be here with or without him. So if he doesn’t show? Suck it up and get over it.” I next jotted down: “Check time. 6:50pm.” Next line: “Should NOT have checked time. Nerves bouncing again. Tip – ignore time when you’re anxious.” On the next page at the top it reads: “Another tip – keep drinking when you’re nervous.” Down a line: “Drank.”

By this time, I was starting to relax a bit. I deemed it important to eavesdrop on my fellow bar mates. A fellow to my left had lifted his head in response to a baby crying on the other side of the bar. He spoke to the bartender as if he knew him well (definitely a regular), the two of them chatting about being new fathers and how those instincts kick in even when they’re not around their own children. “I heard that baby crying, and I suddenly felt like I had to go see what the matter was and fix it,” said the man down the bar on my left. New fathers. Sigh. What a beautiful thing.

It was a motley crowd, sundry and amusing. An extremely thin gentleman came in through the doors wearing an Edward Scissorhands jacket, a sort of fedora, and cowboy boots. Another older gentleman in a plaid jacket and matching hat was enjoying the company of the people in a booth a few seats away from me. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the old country, a century ago. Another jotted note: “I see balloons. Birthday?”

The air outside was chilly but humid with a steel gray sky. I love overcast skies. I love the threat of rain with no rain. It reminds of me of my hometown. Upstate New York, at least the part I grew up in, was always promising rain with no rain. The sun rarely made a presence, and even though most would deem that gloomy and depressing, for me it’s always quite nostalgic. I love early spring clouds, a hint of humidity, a thawing of the earth that brings smells of dirt and wet pavement. A survival technique I’ve devised to help me deal with my anxiety consists of trying to discover a comfort zone within the outskirts of my comfort zone to give me the illusion of safety. I was definitely out of my comfort zone (zone as in, dating), so I clung to the overcast sky. I told myself, “pretend you’re home… this is how your life was meant to be before so many things disrupted your confidence… you used to love to be out of your comfort zones… adventures used to be part of who you are...stop losing this part of yourself to anxiety… pretend you’re home… pretend you’re home…” The next jotted note: “The sky is overcast, and it’s nice and humid-feels like New York. It’s a very New York day. I like it. I think it’s perfect.”

By this time I had finally conquered my nerves. It was twenty minutes after seven. If he was going to show, he was going to be late. Late I can handle. I’m not exactly punctual myself (this one night being a grand exception). I wasn’t nervous anymore (meaning my physical symptoms had finally resided thanks to the Artois and the self pep talk), but I began to torture myself with stupid scenarios. What if he’s been here and he’s on the other side of the bar where he can’t see me? What if we don’t’ recognize each other? We’ve only seen each other in random, posted-online pictures… What if he came in, didn’t recognize me, and left? What if he came in, saw me, and thought, “She’s not as cute as she is in her pictures…” and left because of that?
Yes.
Neurotic, Reader, is the word you’re probably searching for (insecure works too). I’d like to convince you that I’m really not like this, that I’m really cool and laid back, that I don’t over-analyze every stupid situation I’m stuck in, but I’m learning to come clean with myself. I hide it fairly well (from people who don't me that well that is), but I am indeed, a touch neurotic and almost perpetually insecure. Maybe more than a touch… Confessions are embarrassing, but they’re cleansing. After all, this blog is first and foremost about personal growth. I’m not only trying to build a more loving relationship with Minnesota, but I’m trying to build a more loving relationship with myself. I’m trying to conquer my fears, be disciplined, and with trying to learn how to be an adequate human being I'm trying to learn how to be an adequate story teller. So please bear with me as I embarrassingly lay out my flaws. Self-deprecation is a channel all artists tune in to, and I understand it can be little obnoxious at times. What we’re really just trying to do is give diagnostic tests on ourselves, go in and fix our problems, and try to learn how to live our lives freely. There’s a constant feeling of living in a cage of our own filth, and we just want to be set free from it.

So. Back to the bar stool…

Just when I was about to declare a no-show, I turned around to see a tall man pass behind me. He turned and looked at me, and we, indeed, did recognize each other (as normal people other than myself could have predicted without a second thought). It was a great moment. I was shallowly flooded with the pleasure of seeing that he was even more attractive in person than he was in his photos. I can’t even remember if we shook hands. He made a joking reference to something we had bantered about in our early correspondence, and I was quite pleased about it. This was going to be a good night.