Say Yes
by Virginia Baker
The night I realized I wanted to see Westin again, I texted him as I was walking home from his house, only a few minutes after I had left. It was four a.m. and my friend-who-is-no-longer-a-friend and I were coming home from a party thrown at his house. The party was open to our Chicago environmental community, all of the activists and student organizers I had worked with for the past year or two. Though I had met Westin a few months before, when he had just moved to Chicago, most of our interactions had been at various meetings, and this party was the first time the two of us were in an agenda-less social space. We were all gathered in the backyard, nestled around the fire pit, drinking beers and enjoying each other’s company. It was such a wonderful collection of people and the air that night felt so light and positive.
Even though I had known Westin for a few months at that point, I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. Maybe it was the atmosphere, the light from the fire, the alcohol, his joyous, unchained laugh, the subtle turning from summer to fall. Whatever it was, I was drawn to him.
As it got late, friends started peeling off to go home before the pink line stopped running for the night. I lived in the neighborhood, only ten blocks east, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave. As the group got smaller and smaller, the circle shrank and I moved closer to Westin. The fire was dying and it reflected on his skin, caught in his terrarium eyes, and every time he laughed my bones tingled.
By the time my friend and I pulled ourselves up to go home, the sky had changed colors. Clouds were rushing by in strips of cotton. As we walked across Pilsen I kept debating whether or not I should text him. Was it too soon? What if he was freaked out? It had literally only been seven minutes since I last saw him. Would I seem too needy or clingy or eager or something? Maybe I should play it cool. I mean, I don’t want him to think I like him or something. But really, who cares, right? It’s not the end of the world if he thinks I like him, is it?
It all boiled down to one thought, the over-arching rule that I had adapted to almost all aspects of my life, but especially to dating: do what you want.
It sounds simple, but it is fucking revolutionary. Too often, we hold ourselves back and we don’t do what we actually want to do. We try to play by some set of rules that we didn’t even agree to in the first place. We count down the minutes before we respond to a text message so we don’t seem like we were waiting for the text to come in, even though we totally were. We swallow our affections because it makes us seem vulnerable. We hardly even smile at one another or make too much eye contact. We play hard to catch and easy to lose and all of those games. It’s exhausting. It’s calculating. It’s not genuine.
So, do what you want.
As my friend and I walked past Harrison Park, I sent Westin a text message, telling him it was good to see him and we should hang out soon.
Three days later, the two of us were sitting side-by-side at 12th Street Beach. Lake Michigan stretched out dark and endless before us and the Chicago skyline was lit up behind our backs. We sat in the sand drinking Modelo out of aluminum cans, trying to swallow down our nervousness. There was no one else on the beach around us. I hadn’t even drank down half my can before our lips met in a sandy kiss that left grains in my molars.
We lay on our backs, looking up at the two stars Chicago light pollution didn’t drown out, resting our heads on one another, like it was something we’d been doing for years. We waded into the lake. He held me against his chest and we looked out at the city lights, something that felt so intimate and almost nostalgic. It didn’t feel like a first date. I mean, I’ve only been on a few first dates in my life, but it didn’t compare to those at all. It felt like seeing an old friend you hadn’t seen in a while. Once we broke through the small talk in the beginning, we could fall into our old routine.
We held hands as we walked through the Loop and back to the train. I asked him if he’d like to come over. He said yes and we spend the whole night G-rated cuddling listening to Chet Baker.
Nine months before this, I had made a pledge to be single for at least a year. I’d bounced from one no-good dude to the next no-good dude for too long. I wanted to cut off the pattern and call it quits. I swore that I would give it at least a year until I got seriously involved with anyone again. I told my friends this plan and made them pinky promise they would enforce it. I wrote out lists of qualities I expected my next partner to have, setting the bar extremely high, detailing their diet, reading habits, lack of facial hair, and enthusiasm for trains (duh). I wrote out dating rules for myself, things that I should do to avoid being swooned by men (mostly, avoid looking at their bookshelves.)
It worked. I was single for a long time for the first time. I could finally dance to “Single Ladies” and feel like I was part of the team. I flirted and exchanged numbers and went out on dates, but that was all. And it was great! (Although sometimes it wasn’t. Even when you are trying to stay single, it still hurts when someone doesn’t call you back). I was doing that thing that people in my generation do when they casually date and hook up and such. I had re-established myself as this independent, single woman and I felt awesome. I didn’t need anybody. I wasn’t even looking. I was being me.
And then Westin happened. Only a few months away from my one year goal and Westin happened.
You know that thing they say? About love finding you when you least expect it? Dude, that shit is spot on.
After our Lake Michigan date, we texted each other all day every day. Looking back on it now, I have no idea what we were actually even saying to each other. Probably really gross stuff that would make most people gag. I know there were lots of smiley faces. In fact, Westin’s signature text message at the time was =)! (As if the smile wasn’t enough. He just needed to add the exclamation point.)
But that positivity was exactly what drew me to him in the first place. He is radiant, a sunburst, a joyful person mixed into a culture that scoffs at joy. He is this completely sweet, kind person who is sincere about everything. He’s my charming, hilarious southern gentleman who, from the very beginning, cooked me pots of collard greens and bought me whiskey and showed up at my doorstep with presents.
We were fucked.
Around week two, he biked over to my apartment at 2 a.m. because he wanted to see me and I wanted to see him. We stayed up for hours, looking into each other’s eyes and smiling. I wonder how much time we’ve spent together just looking and smiling at the other.
At one point I said, “I don’t want to be in a relationship.”
And he said, “I know. I don’t want to get into anything serious.”
“I know. I don’t either,” I said.
“So, what do we do?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
We didn’t do anything. We relinquished all control we had. We gave up. Our desires took over. It became apparent almost immediately that we were in it, completely powerless to what was happening, unable to fight against the current. The dating rules I made for myself were abandoned. Instead, we saw each other almost every day, even if it meant criss-crossing the neighborhood at odd hours to make it happen. We communicated constantly throughout the day, sending sappy, giddy text messages back and forth that were filled with sincere emotions. We let go of the strings.
There’s a point when you have to surrender, when you have to stop fighting. You give up on the rules and expectations you set for yourself and fall back on instincts. You drop the weapons and armor and try being vulnerable. And it’s probably the most terrifying thing you can do. Putting yourself on the line, giving into sincerity. It’s rare and raw in our society fueled by sarcasm and apathy. Showing that you care about something or someone can and has backfired. And so it seems easier to deny your emotions and stay intact than to put yourself out there and get hurt. It seems easier to swear off love, claim that it doesn’t exist, then it is to give in to the recklessness and unpredictability that entails.
But why do we spend all of this time preparing for defeat instead of for discovery? Why do we imagine the worst that could happen? We realize, of course, that we could get hurt — minimally or severely — and it’s enough to deter us from one another. But how about the alternative? What about the best thing that could happen? What might you be able to create, experience, feel?
You might find your person, the other half you’ve been lacking, the person that thinks you’re funny even when no one else does, the person that just gets you, the person who becomes your very best friend, the person who is the perfect big spoon. You might find and discover something intangible and incomprehensible. Your life could change forever!
Why spend so much energy shutting it out?
Instead, keep your doors and windows open because you don’t know what might fly in when you’re least expecting. But of course, this doesn’t mean you should go and try to drag in some strays. This isn’t something you can force. It only works if it comes naturally.
Because a relationship is an equilibrium. It’s a balance. It’s meeting halfway, both of you raw and exposed and uncertain of what’s to come. It’s love and friendship and all of those big abstract words you might finally try to wrap your head around and define. It changes the composition of your life. Seriously. It changes everything.
The first time he told me he loved me was only weeks after our first date and he had tears in his eyes. I kissed his forehead and said the same thing back to him, not caring how soon it was or that when I was fifteen I read in Seventeen magazine that you should wait at least three months before saying “I love you.”
A little later, I told him I was planning on moving to New Orleans in less than a year. It only took him two weeks to decide he was coming with me.
Nine months later, we had our farewell party on 12th Street Beach, next to the spot where we shared our fist kiss. We said goodbye to all our friends, to the city we loved, the city that had helped us each grow, while fireworks went off at Navy Pier.
We left Chicago on a gray Monday morning. We drove due south and ended up in a yellow shot-gun apartment with two palm trees out front. We got a dog. We took our dog on walks and learned the street names in our neighborhood.
We’re still learning how to be adults. We go grocery shopping. We track our budget on a spreadsheet. We cook dinner together twice a week. We leave each other notes on the kitchen table because our work schedules are opposite and we don’t get to see each other that often. We do the dishes, the laundry, the cleaning that should be done. We are building and planting a garden. We drink beer and watch TV shows and read books.
And maybe it sounds really boring. Maybe it is really boring. Maybe love is boring. And maybe that’s one of the best things about it: it’s a constant presence. No matter how many times I ugly-cry or fall into a bout of depression, Westin is still there. No matter if I’m mean and grouchy and tell him to go away, he is still there. The feeling of falling in love is thrilling, stomach-churning even, but the feeling after that, the coexisting within love is calm and soothing.
So, go on. Surrender. Give in. Say yes. Do what you want.
You’ve got a little to lose, but everything to gain.
Virginia Baker is a writer/farmer/nanny living in New Orleans, Louisiana. Her writing has been published in Ms. Fit Magazine, Word Riot, Whiskey Paper, and Chicago After Dark. To read more of her words, visit her blog A Beautiful Mush at virginiaildabaker.tumblr.com.
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