Du brauchst doch keine Angst zu haben.

Peoples, I gots that tingle with the impermeable smile. The corny smile that I repeat in text, that gets returned. That, “Me, too!” That sappiness that you want to bottle up and savor for eternity, for when the shit (and the butterscotch-morsel cookie) starts to crumble. I am smiling. I am singing while driving to-and-from the office (including head bounces and driver-seat dancing much to the chagrin of my Carnegie Avenue commuters). Talking to old ladies in grocery stores about cans of pumpkin. Saying “Hi!” to strangers in hallways and crosswalks. I’m acting all goofy. I’m in the moment of 40-minute phone conversations.  I’m also acting a good mood at work that the guys think I’m getting laid (heh).

Wow. I feel fucking fantastic.

So, without further ado, let’s smile, shall we?

I randomly smelled hot chocolate in my office this afternoon. And through the luxury of modern eateries (aka: Subway), I regularly smell baking bread through the HVAC — NOT hot chocolate. Regardless, I bundled up to get out of the office for a second (enjoying every piece of horizontal snow to hit my face) and walk down to the newly-renovated Starbucks in Cedar Hill. Nicely done, by the way…

I ordered my drink, but realized I might need a bit of an afternoon pick-me-up, so I asked for a quarter-filled regular coffee in that same cup. (Sounds weird, right? No, it’s actually a good way to balance out the gross chocolate that Starbucks serves). But I digress…

As I sipped a bit on my walk back up to my office, I realized how long it had been since I ordered my cocoa in this manner. Then, it all struck me: I suddenly thought about L, of all people! I got this big chocolate idea from L while we dated (ironic because we dated during baseball season). I received a flashback of his facial expression all cute-and-geeked about the barista getting it right and “YOU HAVE GOT TO TRY THIS! (in the sexiest Boston accent I can remember). To summon someone as such in the middle of a sip of warm goodness was strange. ed: I suck. This sentence has WAY too much alliteration, yet I cannot thesaurasus-ize any better options. Harumph. Smells remind us of the cologne of ex-boyfriends in passing or flipping (and drooling) through men’s magazines (Mmmm… Jean-Paul Gauthier still makes me quiver). A glimpse of an old car makes us laugh about our “first time” (certainly not mine). Certain songs reflect the awkwardness of junior high school when we tried to slow dance to Mr. Big (Oooh, Greg Orosz… *sigh*).

I haven’t thought about L in a while — he, being married and all now — but he made me smile regardless. No more anger or anything sinister. I suppose there have been others more deserving in the interim to replace. And yes, I’ll cop to a fucked-up drunken night of tearing through my file cabinet to find an old at&t bill with his number in a detailed statement just to say, “Randomly thought about you tonight.” Yeah, it may or may not have been last year… just saying, crazy drunken Bandwagoners.

Then I thought how that might occur to someone else remembering you. I have had completely random memories pop up in the middle of nowhere about some guy that had a crush on me in eighth grade after recognizing me in the audience of a local drama production. Or this chick Suzy Peeler who was my BFF in Girl Scouts summer camp who was over-taken by demons of the underworld when we performed “People dying, Children crying… concentrate” on her. For srsly.

What other people have I had such an effect in their own memory, that they would conjure a tiny blip about me… and smile (I hope)?

Have you had a random memory about an ex: friend, lover, father, dog… Giant Eagle cashier?

I believe how you determine your resulting feeling about past relationships is in direct accordance to your current relationship status: if you’re happy with someone new, you rarely give two craps about someone that fucked you over — you’ll smile. Reminisce. Maybe e-mail him and say “Thank you for making me a better girlfriend.” But if you’re miserable (and alone)? Then, well, you want to cut balls off every man within 20 yards and a free drink.

I’m currently in that particular dating position where I am really (really!) happy, but I’m trying not to be all happy because you know, you have to play cat-and-mouse for a while longer while staying aloof and attempting to be interesting and sexy but flirty but not slutty and not complaining too much but feigning excitement over a paycheck and lack of budgeting but that makes you awesome and independent regardless and and and why do I keep having dreams about him naked… God, I need a drink.

I’m already deflecting all the questions from my family that have already met him (yes, I know, a small gathering of my family has already been introduced… what?!) and those that wonder if they will on Thanksgiving (sadly, no). And of course, I’m feeling my usual insecurities that go along with that — not tooooo much information, save for the fact of looking like an ass (again) in front of family, which they seemingly thrive on. Self-deprecation at its best in this space of the net.

But I’m in a good head game place, and it seems that he’s equally as eager to putting up with my bullshit lovin’ it, so we’ll just proceed with that nightmare happy place.

But for the record, I have smiled non-stop for at least a week without the aid of Xanax or Viva Viagra. And that, my friends, is huge — regardless of what the condom wrapper says.

- photo by nookiez

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