Word.

"This is so awesome!" M3 exclaimed giddily as he stared intently into my eyes, arms wrapped tightly around me, face inches from mine, sporting an ear-to-ear grin that left little doubt in my mind that he had to have been just about the cutest six year old, like, ever.

"This is so awesome!" he repeated. You know, in case I didn't hear the first time.

I imagine his expression wasn't unlike what one might have witnessed on Christmas morning in the M3 household circa '79. And he'd just gotten a puppy. Or a scooter. Or in a more modern-day Noel scenario, someone renewed his subscription to Foreign Affairs. For two years.

No, we're still not living together.

And technically, I still don't even have an apartment.

There has, however, been one rather noteworthy development vis a vis my pursuit of gainful employment. In a bittersweet twist, my effort to bring upon myself a voluntary state of unemployment (albeit a temporary one the duration of which I'd hoped I'd somehow be able to adeptly control) has gone up in flames. Someone offered me a job. And because I still can't seem to locate the whereabouts of my ever-elusive trust fund, I took it.

Thus, sometime next week, provided the stars align just a wee bit, I will be moving to M3's medium-sized city. And two weeks later, I'll be starting a new and by all accounts pretty decidedly kickass job.

So, uh, yeah...

What he said.

Audi!!

Every day when I come to work, my destination is a college campus. *My* college campus. A place where I spent considerably more years than I ought've and wasted far too much of my parents hard-earned income than they, or frankly I, ever should have allowed. A place where, in spite of my entirely non-illustrious academic career and the passage of more than ten years since I last set foot in a classroom for official academic-pursuit-related purposes, its near impossible for me gaze upon any single building, tree, squirrel or other landmark of either the flora or fauna variety and not immediately be transported to a time and place just as vivid now it was so many years ago. Memories are funny that way.

Because of where my office is located, I don't get out much. More often than not, in fact, it takes a meeting in someone else's building for me to get up off my lazy ass and stroll to the heart of campus. Yet every time I do, I'm reminded precisely why the work I do here is so important, so meaningful, so impactful. And how lucky I am to have had the opportunity.

Today was one of those days. Now, to be factually accurate, instead of a meeting it was really lunch at the school's art museum and instead of walking, I actually drove to the parking lot behind the building where they filmed that scene in Animal House with the horse in the President's office...

...but emotions flooded me all the same.

For about 93% of the past eight months (with the exception of three weeks in April and a few sketchy days back there in January) I've been one half of what probably could be considered one of the better relationships of the modern online dating era. Almost in spite of the distance between us, we've managed to make this thing work. Well.

And in about three weeks, we'll be neighbors.

No, I don't have a job.
And no, I don't technically even have an apartment.
And no, I'm not living with him.

As I got out of my car this afternoon, en route to my lunch date, I was struck with an intensity of a sentiment that I haven't felt since one particular day in 1996 when I jubilantly strode across a makeshift stage erected on the covered tennis courts, shook hands with some old dude I'd never met, and claimed my blank diploma.

I felt an overwhelming affection for my surroundings, tempered by a peculiar twinge of regret...not because I lack even the slightest degree of confidence in my decision, or because my unflinching certainty that this is the right choice happened to be wavering...but because I simply don't want to leave this place.

On the precipice of a bit of a breakdown but attempting valiantly to keep it together, I noticed a figure approaching from the right. It was an elderly man, and as he passed me, his determined stride belied his dour expression. In his left hand he carried two roses. Two artificial-orange-sorbet-colored, grocery store specimens wrapped in clear cellophane. The kind with the faux white piping across the top. As if that makes it look fancier or something.

Then the tears came.

In just a few weeks, M3 and I are going to give this relationship thing a go.

For reals.

We'll have lunch together. Like, whenever we want.
I'll learn what he's like after a trying and frustrating day.
He'll discover that sometimes, for dinner, I'll eat eight pieces of fruit, a string cheese, and four popsicles. And then two more. You know, for dessert.
And how, when I'm sick, I only consume food out of teeny tiny ceramic ramekins.
And occasionally he'll turn on my TV and realize that five minutes before he came over, I was watching a Real World marathon or the Three's Company True Hollywood Story. Again.
And I'll see him on Tuesdays.
And he'll see me on Thursdays.
And every other day of the week, too. If we want. But if we don't want, that's okay, too.
Time simply won't matter anymore. Because we'll finally have enough of it.
Sundays will transcend their current status as the most suck-ass day of the week and reclaim their prior standing as just another weekend day.
He'll meet more of my friends. And likewise.
And sharing him with the world will become, after an extended and draining and seemingly interminable delay, nothing but joyful. No longer something I'm afraid to admit I more than occasionally resent because our hours together seem always to be in such short supply.

There's no moral to this story, no witty punchline or amusing note on which to end this admittedly rather unimpressive missive. And there's certainly still no promise of happily ever after.

Call me crazy, but given the myriad reasons (real or imagined) why we probably shouldn't even have made it this far, and how frequently over the past week I've found myself stumbling to find just the right words to express how excited I am for whatever comes next...

I think I'm pretty okay with happily for now.

Backpacking and the large-sized Canadian national park

I haven't the slightest idea why its taken me so long to get back to the business of blogging. Probably because I've been posting so sporadically in recent months that each time I do attempt to pen my latest missive, I feel like it needs to be worthy of the lengthy break I've taken since my last entry. Unfortunately, since my already-debatable creative writing skills seem to have deteriorated in the months that my blog has been essentially dormant, I can't make any promises that the following will be even remotely amusing or insightful.*

It seems fitting, nevertheless, that after a long absence, I've returned to my online diary on this, the seven month anniversary of the chilly January afternoon on which M3 and I met in person for the very first time...twenty-some-odd minutes into the rendezvous being informed that he had a girlfriend...and another five-odd hours later, finding ourselves in a fleeting, regretfully platonic embrace that lingered just long enough to leave little doubt as to what we both wished we were doing in that frigid and dark parking lot, both of us entirely incapable of conceiving what might happen in the coming weeks or months...if anything at all. To think M3'd still be a topic on my blog this many moons later is truly mind-boggling. Truly.

Quite possibly the only thing more flabbergasting than the aforementioned is that my adoration of and affection for said blog topic is so significant that I willingly spent eight dirt-caked days and seven Deet-infused nights backpacking with him throughout a very large national park in the Canadian province of Alberta (you know, the kind with really big mountains and lakes and wild animals and stuff).

We slumbered in a tent, on the ground.
It was hot. And it was cold.
I broke every nail on my right hand.
And procured 11 mosquito bites on my face alone.
We saw an eagle. And bear tracks. And four marmots.
And there were cocktails.
And fires every night.
And lots and lots of bugs.
We laughed. Tons.
And walked 60 miles in seven days.
And looked at stars.
And clouds.
And wildflowers.

And I didn't crap for four days in a row.

It was fucking awesome.

Since our backpacking foursome -- consisting of M3, his sister (A), his friend (D) and I -- begrudgingly returned to civilization a few weeks back, I've made probably half a dozen attempts to recap my trip. But how do I convey the myriad levels of profound magnitude of my adventure? In a self-effacing and entertaining fashion, could I possibly articulate the significance of the experience not only as it pertains to my relationship with M3, but to the relationship I have with myself and the world around me?

Its not possible, I concede, at least not without making all three of my remaining readers sick to your respective stomachs while you concurrently pray to god that M3 shoves his head up his ass again like he did in the spring and suggests we take a break again or something so I'm left with no material and, thus, cease blogging altogether. Therefore, with your interests at heart -- rather than waxing philosophical about the importance of this trip -- I'm defaulting to sharing a collection of assorted and sundry and altogether lame-ass anecdotes conveying inane shit like how an innocent glance last week at the titanium spork now resting without purpose on the floor of my second bedroom caused me to well up with tears.

Or, how at the most unexpected times, due to a surprise Canadian breeze for example, I took immense amounts of joy in actually being able to smell myself.

Or, how I secretly liked consuming both solids and liquids at just about every meal that began in either powdered and/or freeze-dried form. Especially the taste bud delight that is washing down a cardboard pouch of vegetarian chili mac with a filthy Nalgene full of Countrytime Lemonade. Or better yet, Tang.

Or, how positively tickled I was to discover that M3 -- in addition to being a grown man who functions more than adequately in the real world -- also happens to be a full-size Boy Scout (okay, at 5'8" maybe he's more like medium sized...) who knows how to make a fire that burns for hours, catch and clean fish, and adeptly cross raging rapids carrying not one but two backpacks on behalf of his weak-ass girlfriend and considerably-more-hardcore-but-definitely-opportunistic-in-this-particular-scenario sister.

Or how, in being relegated to employing the cleansing properties of countless cucumber wipes that M3 would have kicked my ass for bringing had he known just how much they weighed, I somehow managed to believe that I'd attained a (false) state of freshness throughout the trip when, in fact, I was positively rank.

Or, how I got mosquito bites on my ass. (Like I said, I was only constipated *half* of the time.)

Or, how giddy I felt when M3 wrapped his arms around me (thus enveloping me in his mounting odiferous stank) and said I was "doing such a good job." And he meant it. Because I was.

Or, how I only cried once per day for the first three days after our tents and sleeping bags and Ziplocs full of Gatorade and powdered milk and dirty toilet paper had long since been shoved into the bowels of M3's vehicle because my 16 days in a row with him would soon be coming to an end and after over two glorious weeks of unbroken togetherness, I'd very soon be reminded yet again what it feels like to have an acute awareness of just what day it is...just what time it is...and exactly how it feels to miss him.

Yeah...so...you know what?

I've had a change of heart.

Camping fucking sucks.


*If you desire a chuckle and, as predicted, I end up proving myself unable to deliver, I suggest that you kindly refer to the recently-posted comment by "Anonymous" that's attached to my December 3 entry titled "No Flow". Totally awesome.

Who knew?!

Its a very small item, barely larger than the size of those crappy murder mysteries or romance novels that you buy in an airport bookstore during a layover when you've finally, reluctantly given up the ghost and realized that the terminal you're stuck in for the next two hours does not, in fact, feature a Taco Bell. Its printed on the same low-quality paper as one's local daily, presumably so its cost-savings can be passed on to me, its soon-to-be newest customer. Photographs if its wares are out of the question in lieu of 200+ pages featuring painstakingly-drawn black and white sketches detailing every waterproof seam, rust-resistant grommet, and anti-snag zipper it has to offer.

It arrived with today's mail. I devoured its contents immediately...dog-earing pages, circling items and occasionally even drawing small arrows to further assist my future page-navigation efforts by calling blue-ballpoint attention to specific sizes or colors of the selections that I would, in a matter of mere weeks, consider indispensable.

"He must be really, really cute," proclaimed my former husband, R, when learning last week of my imminent plan to join M3, his sister and one of his best friends for a 13 day, 12 night backpacking extravaganza in Banff National Park next month. I'd have told him that the trip was also going to entail smrtygrl spending a night in a hostel, but it being the middle of the workday and all, I figured R'd appreciate my efforts to avoid having him shit his pants right there in the office.

I dated and/or lived with this particular man for 9+ years. He, more than anyone else in my 30-something years on earth, is acutely aware of just how infrequently I'd willingly find and/or place myself in the wilderness....unless my environment was highly controlled. For example, if a pair of K2's were strapped to my feet, but regardless of my position on the mountain in question, no more than a 10 to 15 minute burst of physical activity stood between me and the consumption of a suitably alcoholic apres-ski beverage. And a stack of black bean nachos.

Its not that I'm *not* outdoorsy. I love a blustery afternoon on the slopes, an early morning gliding across a placid lake in an eight-woman rowing shell, even an evening softball or soccer game under the lights. I enjoy those things just as much as the next gal. Really. But let's be honest, the notion of smrtygrl in the backwoods isn't something that one's brain easily wraps around.

"So let me get this straight.." is generally the way conversations with friends on this very topic have tended to begin once I've disclosed my summer vacation plans. Its not lost on me or anyone else that, given the choice, I'd much prefer to spend 13 days and 12 nights exploring the urban jungle than I would sleeping on the ground, in a tent, able to smell myself. But you know...that's just me.

My (apparently waning) cosmopolitan tendencies notwithstanding, when M3 extended an invitation to participate in his annual summer pilgrimage to the wilderness, I didn't think twice about accepting. I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew that camping wasn't exactly my thing, but we'd just gotten back together after the oft-lamented break and not only did the prospect of spending almost two straight weeks with a boy who is, indeed, really really cute sound positively glorious, but it also sounded an awful lot like an endorsement of his willingness to explore our future. Through late July, at least.

But first, for M3's peace of mind, moreso than for my own (despite his protests that a test run was more for me than for him), I had to ace my pre-req: an entry-level examination of my ability to fully and sincerely enjoy an overnight outing in the trees...before going to Banff and being stuck in the wild for days on end with no recourse if it totally sucked ass. So off to the woods we went last Saturday. I'd be sleeping on the ground. In a tent. Able to smell myself.

In the end, the extra credit assignment that I voluntarily submitted to with the goal of ensuring my position at the head of the class even proved unnecessary (sorry, mom). I'd already passed with flying colors.

And goddammit, I really fucking enjoyed myself.

So, in t-minus less than a month, smrtygrl will again be roughing it. This time, complete with a 35+ lb pack strapped to her back, fueled by little more than dehydrated lentils and Luna bars, mitigating the troubling implications of very confused bowels, and grappling with the distressing reality that while she absolutely adores M3, and even though its been six months since their first date that he refuses to this day to acknowledge was really a date yet she *still* can't seem to keep her hands off of him, they both stink way too bad to get it on.

To the mind-boggling disbelief of no one moreso than yours truly, I'm totally psyched for this trip. Today, I even flipped forward through my planner to count the days 'til we leave (21). Yet it wasn't until I'd turned the final page of the thing that came in the mail this afternoon when it hit me.

Hey, that's *my* name on the address label!

Not "current resident." Not my former husband. Not even the outdoorsy lesbians who lived in my rental house before I came along.

Me!
Smrtygrl!
The one who likes backpacking!

And I've got my very own Campmor catalog to prove it.

The one that got away...

GuideToCoachingBasketball.com defines the art of rebounding as "an important basketball skill that is developed and improved through these three ingredients: aggressiveness, positioning and determination."

Okay, in basketball, sure. But in the context of relationships, that recipe makes altogether no sense at all.

I've always found the intrinsic beauty of a rebound hookup to be its complete and utter lack of aggression...the near absence of a need for any posturing whatsoever...and the freeing sensation of consciously acknowledging to oneself that it would be a futile effort to work hard at growing a rebound into any semblance of a real relationship, because by its very nature of being the first one immediately following the demise of another, it pretty much stands nary a shot in hell at going the distance.* Rebounds aren't about commitment. They're about getting your swerve on.

Therein, at least pursuant to my admittedly pretty uninformed book, is why I believe rebounds totally have a higher calling. In the long run, the greatest value to she who initiates such a scenario is precisely *because* of its fleeting, transitory nature.

We find ourselves in rebound relationships super quickly and generally for all the wrong reasons. For instance, because he was super hot. Or super young. Or super always-available-whenever-you-called. Or -- and not that I have firsthand experience with this and his name definitely was not Clete -- he possesses all of the above attributes *plus* the veritable capstone of rebound criteria: he was also super dumb.

You don't look for meaning where there isn't any.
You don't overanalyze his shortcomings or talk about him to your mother.
You don't think about your future with him beyond what time he's meeting you for happy hour.
And, most importantly, when your "relationship" goes up in flames within a few weeks or at best, after a month or two, you're somehow actually better for it. If all has gone according to plan, you've probably figured out a thing or two about yourself and why the last relationship didn't work, and while experiencing said personal growth, have probably even gotten the goods delivered fairly regularly. As long as the dude isn't spouting shit at the end like how you're a hand and he's the glove, you're made for one another, and that he wants the microwave back, its really quite a win-win situation all around.

You may find yourself asking why, having cast my blog asunder now for more than a month, am I choosing to wax philosophical about the purpose of rebound relationships of all things?

A pal called me yesterday with a question. She quite possibly had some breaking news about a former suitor, a frequent subject on my blog during the latter weeks of 2005. But she first wanted to do a quick fact check to ensure the highest degree of accuracy in her reporting.

"What's M2's last name?" she inquired.

Assuming she meant M3, I started to spell out his quirky and rather long surname.

She corrected me. "No, not M3. M2."

"Why in the world do you want to know *his* last name?" I asked.

I mean, aside from like every single solitary god damn time I go to one particular area of my mid-sized town and have to take an alternative route to get there so as to avoid M2's office window...followed by conscious avoidance of certain parking options in order to ensure I don't find myself face-to-face with a man who I know routinely carries a firearm...and/or whenever I'm in the mood for toast...I genuinely hadn't thought about the guy pretty much since a few days after Christmas when I decided we wouldn't be sitting-on-my-couch-not-talking anymore.

"Well, because I'm pretty sure he got married last month."

Ten minutes and a couple of quick phone calls later, the grainy black and white pic of the allegedly happy couple told a more vivid story than the text of the announcement ever could. They wed in Vegas, as I suppose is the general course of action when you've only been dating your fiancee for three minutes. The bride chose what I'm fairly certain was a recycled bridesmaid dress from a friend's nuptials, and is quite fond of her curling iron. The groom donned a rented tux punctuated by an immensely oversized white boutonniere that was quite possibly not in fact a flower but instead fashioned out of a hanky bearing the logo of the casino where they wed (natch!)...a casino with two words in its name, the first of which also happens to be the name M2 was given at birth.

(I'm guessing he got a discount.)

Almost six months since our last correspondence, and more than six months since I embarked upon the process of falling hook, line and sinker for M3, I most certainly don't have residual feelings for M2...most likely because I'm pretty sure that's an impossibility when you never had feelings to begin with. So, with all the sincerity I can muster, I declare more power to the fella if he truly believes that his rebound girl is also his soul mate.

That being said, I've gotta admit...

I'm actually sort of pissed that M2 tied the knot.

It would have been way fucking awesomer if I'd turned him gay instead.


*Unless, of course, the two parties in question are smrtygrl and M3, for whom an entirely different set of rules, expectations and outcomes apply.

It Ain't Over...

Last I could harness the energy or summon the creativity to post, I was grappling with some rather serious shit...that being my relationship with M3 entering a state of indefinite hiatus and me subsequently descending to an emotional depth that even a week in Cabo couldn't remedy.

Now, don't get me wrong: the hiatus, philosophically, was a good thing...the "right" thing, even.

But it sucked.
Hard.
For both of us.

After a couple of genuinely horrendous weeks apart, during which time Smrtygrl may or may not have stopped eating altogether, M3 and I admitted to our mutual and vehement hatred of being apart. Through a series of overly verbose, emotionally gratuitous messages (um, I'm a girl in crisis...is there any other kind?), a few phone calls, and me being on the receiving end of one very spontaneous 10pm weeknight visit from M3, we decided to take another run at it. That was about a week ago.

Slowly, and hopefully ultimately surely, M3 and I will be figuring "us" out. With no other parties involved. (Unless, of course, its his sister because she remains, and forever will be, the bomb.)

Its a lot like before, really, if not ever so slightly more fragile. Through this journey we've completely exposed ourselves to one another...have expressed raw and pretty scary feelings (both the good and the not-so-good)...and have admitted to certain fears that only time and fate can - and perhaps eventually will - overcome.

Some things are different now. Like how I no longer feel as if M3 and I are invincible. As if what we have could be impermeable by others, somehow immune to even the most obvious of challenges like the distance between us, or the very recent demise of his last relationship and the emotional ramifications thereof.

But, then again, a lot of things haven't changed at all.

I still get excited to see him. Every time.
He still smiles and plants one on me within mere seconds of opening his eyes in the morning.
I still find his often-flat-out-retarded-and-juvenile sense of humor terribly amusing so much of the time it genuinely defies explanation.
His shoulders are still impossibly broad, his rump inexplicably robust.
I still get sad on Sunday nights.
And he still kisses me and tells me not to be. And then somehow I'm not anymore.
I still try mightily to enjoy reading the Op-Ed page, or even the Economist's e-newsletter that I willingly subscribed to a few weeks ago...and generally fail miserably.
He still can give me goosebumps simply by taking my hand in his...or brushing the hair out of my eyes...or kissing me on the cheek.

And I still absolutely adore him.

As much as I'd like it to be the case, I can't promise smooth sailing. Or a happy ending, for that matter. But at least for now, there's not a fat lady in sight.

And if she shows up and even thinks about attempting to open her mouth again, I'm gonna smack that bitch.

Margaritaville

At far too early of an hour this coming Tuesday morning, I'm getting on a plane.

To Cabo.

I've only been once before. For a work thing. And to be perfectly honest, I don't recall much about the trip.

This time around, I'll be enjoying the sun and the surf and attempting to moderate my alcohol intake in the company of eight to ten 30-something women. Some of whom I don't even know. Many of whom are in varying degrees of committed relationships yet I suspect intend to pretend for six intoxicated days as if that weren't the case. And at least one or two of whom (like yours truly as of five days ago) aren't engaged in anything at all.

This time around, I'm going to remember.

I can for damn sure tell you what I'm going to Cabo *not* to do:

I am most certainly not going to Cabo to be disrobed and put to bed by coworkers after about six too many blended margaritas served from a large canister apparatus strapped to the sweaty and shirtless back of a tall, dark-haired and just barely legal and very tan man of undetermined ethnic origin.

I am also not going to Cabo to ultimately have photographs circulated four days later of me and that very same man of undetermined ethnic origin (rated PG-13, thank god).

And lastly, and without a doubt, I'm most definitely not going to Cabo with the goal of renewing my acquaintance with any potted plants in any hotel lobbies for lack of any other more appropriate vessel into which to deposit the remnants of the previous evening's meal and, more specifically, fruity and frosty libations that I may or may not have consumed far too many of the night before.

On the other hand...

This past week sans M3 has sucked balls. But any of you who really need to know how The Break is affecting me have already heard your fair share. And I plan on keeping it that way. Not only is it too difficult to write about, my blog is far too public of a forum in which to do so...in which to articulate the profound sense of loss I've felt since M3 and I said what quite possibly could have been our last-ever goodbye on Monday morning.

So maybe... just maybe...

I'm really going to Cabo...

To forget.

Once upon a time...

There was a girl.
Who met a boy.
Who was unlike anyone she'd ever known.

The girl fell in love.

So she became his girlfriend.
And he, her boyfriend.
For two weeks.
Or a couple of months.
(Depending on who's doing the counting.)

And then one day, her boyfriend stopped being her boyfriend.

Maybe for a little while.
Maybe for a long while.
Maybe forever.

The girl became very, very sad.

Maybe for a little while.
Maybe for a long while.

Maybe forever.

...And Ready To Mingle

Usually when my soon-to-be-ex-husband calls, I don't answer the phone. While our separation last May was as amicable as one could possibly hope for when one person (namely me) decides its time to dissolve a nine year relationship, there's been approximately next to nothing since I walked out our front door to bind the two of us, let alone inspire even the occasional phone call, aside from our mutual desire to have our personal matters finalized.

Today, I picked up.

The voice on the other end was familiar but also somehow startling in its sincere, overt sense of jubilance.

"You're single!"

"What?!"

"I just got back from the courthouse. Its done. You're single!"

"Uh, okay."

Our exchange continued pretty much in this same retarded vein for another few minutes...me trying to overcome the tremendous disbelief that after ten months of what often felt like backwards progress, the pace of the process to terminate our nuptials seemed to have escalated within the last 24 hours to near lightening speed.

And he's now my ex-husband.

That's when I started to cry.

A few weeks ago over dinner in Vancouver, as M3 and I were in the throes of exploring our potential exclusivity, I asked him if the fact that I'm technically still married had any bearing -- conscious or otherwise -- on his trepidatious feelings about committing to "us". His response escaped his lips almost before I'd even finished posing the question.

"No, not at all," he said.

Certain and resolute.

And so I believed him.

But as yet another week without M3 comes to an end...a solitary stretch marked by a continued struggle to temper, dispel or somehow otherwise semi-effectively manage the feelings of want and longing that overtake me when I'm supposed to be enjoying the other important and enriching aspects of my life that don't involve M3 and thus ensure my (debatable on even my best day) status as a well-rounded, modern and independent woman, I can't help but hope that whether he knew it or not at the time, just maybe he wasn't telling the entire truth that night in Vancouver.

We'll explore the answer to this and other pressing questions in t-minus three-ish hours when he rolls in to my mid-sized town.

Just as soon as I've had a cocktail and a pedicure.

P.S. On another note entirely, congratulations to my pal, The Girl at Hickopolis, on her recent relocation to the very same mid-sized city that M3 calls home. Like I need yet another reason...

Smrtyboy

M3 and I took a self-portrait a few weeks ago. We were in the midst of a quick weekend jaunt to Vancouver, BC when he decided the time was nigh for me to face my crippling fear of heights. His solution? A leisurely stroll across a suspension bridge that dangled precariously at least thousand feet above a rocky riverbed if it was strung up an inch. Even with M3 holding my hand and assuring me that I'd be okay, it positively sucked. But an hour later and about $25 lighter, I'd done it. Twice. But that's so not the point.

In our self-portrait, M3's head consumed three quarters of the frame.

"That's because it holds a larger and more developed brain," he explained.

His argument was annoying, certainly, not to mention so obviously designed to provoke some sort of snarky response from yours truly. Unfortunately, his justification for his ginormous cranium was also not entirely without merit.

My all-time favorite thing about online dating was just how easy it was to almost instantaneously cast people aside when they didn't meet my stringent criteria related to their ability to spell, write or form coherent sentences. Unfortunately for the vast majority of the male online dating universe, determining someone's intellectual horsepower is actually pretty easy, really, when your initial meeting occurs via the Internet and thus, the written word.

In the case of me and M3, because we met via a dating website the premise of which is to help singles find a lifetime of lasting love, I knew enough about him to be fairly certain that the boy had a brain even before we'd exchanged one single email.

I knew the last book he'd read (or, at the very least, the last book he intended to have me believe he'd read). I knew the most influential person in his life and why. I knew the one thing he was most passionate about....the five things he can't live without...and the ultimate characteristic that he was seeking in a potential mate.

M3 and I carried on via little more than email for weeks before actually meeting. And, because one of us was still in a relationship, we continued to be relegated to that very same medium for almost another entire month after we'd finally met face-to-face and discovered within like the first five minutes that we had the hots for each other. In the end, after a stretch of weeks that felt much like a very tedious lifetime, through the exchange of more email messages then either of us at this point could count, I fell for the boy.

(It also didn't hurt that he was a total fox.)

I may be wise when it comes to matters of the heart (kindly refer to archived posts between the dates of January 2 and January 26 for compelling evidence in support of this argument rather than the wealth of other blog posts that attest rather explicitly to the contrary).

But M3's smart about shit that matters.

Like the implications of American foreign policy on the global economy. And supply-side economics. And he probably knows at least a dozen real reasons to mock George W. Bush above and beyond the tragic reality that the cowboy hat-wearing leader of the free world not only makes up words but clearly has profound difficulty pronouncing others.

So while I absolutely find M3 to be really unbelievably attractive (and often tell him so, even when I haven't been drinking)...and continue to routinely marvel at the gravity-defying amplitude of his buttocks...and am challenged on a minute-by-minute basis whenever we're together to not fully molest him, especially in public...

M3's big ol' brain is by far the sexiest part of his anatomy.

Last week, as I was en route to San Diego for a rowing competition, he sent me some light reading that he thought could help pass the time in the airport. They were essays he'd written in 2004, published on a political website. It took me a couple of days to finally give them the attention they deserved.

And I think I might be more head over heels now than ever.

An examination of the Medicare Prescription Drug Improvement and Modernization Act of 2003. A dissection of the implications of Reaganomics in the context of John Kerry's failed attempt to reclaim the White House from the lot of buffoons currently taking up residence. An assessment of the Democratic platform, the party's position on the role of government from the genesis of this particular debate more than 200 years ago to that which Kerry espoused in the 2004 election, and the cavernous delta that separates the opinions of our two primary political ideologies on this very matter today.

To a girl who is woefully undereducated on both the topics of politics and the economy...and to that very same girl who wishes each and every Sunday that this weren't the case yet who knowingly and deliberately leaps straight to the New York Times' wedding announcements and Style pages, generally bypassing the front section entirely...M3's words were pure poetry.

Oh, and yesterday he also referred to himself as my boyfriend.

Smart boys are so fucking hot.

NO and I mean NO

From: Jimbo
Date: Apr 1
Subject: Hi

WOW and I mean WOW. Lets chat.

I Like Mike (not)

From: myke
Date: Mar 25
Subject: finally a pretty face on myspace

my name is myke if u wanna chat or party or watch the games on my big screen or bbq or go hottubbing in my back yard its all good just looking for intretsting people is all as friends maybe more who knows
myke


From: Mike
Date: Mar 28
Subject: Oh my god

[My name] you are hot god why not take a risk and tell you so any man would be proud to have you by his side I know I would what ever you doing keep doing it ................................Love Mike

Ding Dong

From: Jeff
Date: Mar 20
Subject: hello

Hello, I saw you on another site and would like to talk with you. I just signed up today on [name of site that smrtygrl is *not* on] and will be uploading pictures today. I will also try and add a new photo here. My email address is [deleted], I look forward to talking with you.


From: Jeff
Date: Mar 22
Subject: how are you

lets have some coffee sometime


From: Jeff
Date: Mar 24
Subject: No Subject

how are you dong other then getting swamped with emails.

2 Legit 2 Quit

I hate spending the weekend with M3.

Hate it hate it hate it.

I hate waking up with him on Saturday and Sunday and Monday mornings and especially how half a second after he opens his eyes, he smiles at me and the corners of his mouth turn up more than they usually do even when he's just sitting around reading the Economist or something.

I hate how we always have lofty aspirations for weekend productivity and we make lists and say we're going to work out or go running and then we never end up doing much of anything but neither of us care really.

I hate how much he makes me laugh. And how his eyes crinkle and his nose totally changes shape when he laughs.

I hate how he almost never walks past, near or around me without kissing or otherwise touching me in some way. And sends me air kisses when he's out of reach. And not the gay kind where you kiss into your hand and then make-believe blow it across the room.

I hate how god damn cute he is when he gets impatient with me, like in the grocery store for example when I'm distracted by cheese.

I hate that we're super huge dorks when we're together. And we think its awesome.

I hate how much I like his sister.

I hate how my dog barfed twice on his carpet and in between the two unfortunate incidents also went pee on his bed but M3 still took pictures of her the next evening when she curled up and fell asleep on a mound of his clothing because even dogs get crushes too.

I hate when I'm trying to be a badass during a serious conversation about the state of our relationship and he says something that makes me giggle.

I hate how easy it always is when I'm with him. How easy its always been. How easy I think it always would be.

I hate all of it.

Because on Monday mornings, it all comes crashing down around me.

This morning particularly sucked.

Because I cried all over my boyfriend's water-resistent windbreaker pullover thing.

Over & Out

Its not that I haven't had shit to write about. Quite the contrary, in fact.

I have plenty of shit.
Big shit.
Potentially-relationship-with-M3-jeopardizing shit.

But I absolutely, positively don't want to talk about it.

(Though clearly I'm about to do so anyway.)

M3 said it best last night. (We talk on the phone now, you see. I lifted my pre-existing semi-ban on having voice-on-voice contact once I realized last week that not only do I enjoy actually speaking with him, he even occasionally has something interesting to say. Plus, sometimes he's naked when we're on the phone.)

The more real our relationship gets, the less its something I want to share with the world.

What M3 and I have been doing since January looks indeed from every conceivable angle like a relationship. We haven't spent a Saturday or Sunday apart for weeks. We've both, on multiple occasions, driven 4+ hours roundtrip on a weeknight for the opportunity to spend fewer than 10 hours together. He's met people in my life who are important to me. And likewise. We're talking about the future (not **The Future** spelled with caps but like May, June and July) with a degree of certainty that two people wouldn't even bother to superficially muster unless they both felt confident that something real was developing between them. We're content doing domestic crap. He pretends to pay attention (though not terribly well) when I try to bestow upon him the methodology of risotto preparation. And anyone who knows me well would recognize the gravity of the simple fact that I even have an interest to begin with that he be included in the risotto preparation. He jokes about our potential future offspring's facial characteristics, and getting engaged, and meeting my mother. And at this point, I've not only totally lost track of the number of times he's submitted a thinly- or not-at-all veiled comment about me moving to his mid-sized city, I also can't seem to shake the idea out of my mind even though I know that very same mother M3 jokes about meeting would so totally kick my ass three ways from Sunday if she knew I was even entertaining the notion let alone occasionally, non-purposefully and entirely accidentally perusing various websites where jobs in his mid-sized city might occasionally, non-purposefully and accidentally be posted.

(Yep, looks like a relationship alright.)

Trouble is, I know that M3 has doubts.

"What if?" doubts.

And oddly enough, I don't blame him one bit.

What if he had taken some time to get to know himself, to play the field, to figure out what he really wanted after ending his last relationship instead of rushing headlong into a shiny, new one with me?

What if there's something better out there?

What if we took a break and he explored the answers to these questions...and then some? Would the lessons he'd learn be worth taking the chance that I wouldn't be waiting for him when and if his journey of self-discovery ultimately led back to us? Would his path ultimately lead back to us? And is he okay with the possibility that the answer to one or both of those questions could very likely be "no"?

Making an exclusive commitment to another person is hard and its scary and its a hugely enormous risk. Which is probably why its something that neither of us have done for years. Him: 3+. Me: Almost 10.

"It's a leap of faith," he said on Sunday.

(No fucking kidding.)

So, as M3 and I sort our shit out, you won't be hearing from me much. What's on the table is just too significant. Too consequential. And far too terrifying for me to think about one potential outcome in particular, let alone attempt to creatively express my thoughts on the matter in a decidedly public forum, the audience of which includes but (at least on most days) is not limited to M3 himself.

I'm audi.