Nine

This is not a conducive writing environment. I’m stuck under the covers, shivering, only giving in enough for my hands to peep out and type these few words.

The furnace is still broken.

But I met Nine for a cup of coffee this afternoon, halfway between his town and mine, after the furnace guy left after only a few minutes, saying that he had to order me a part and when it would come in, he was unsure. I needed a cup of coffee. I needed a fucking shot of tequila is what I really needed. Something so warming it burned.

Instead a got a tall cup of chai and Nine. Nine who (okay Single Ladies, take a DEEP BREATH with me now) is a PEDIATRICIAN.

Oh, that’s right. Nine. The DOCTOR. The DOCTOR who works with KIDS. The DOCTOR who works with KIDS who texts me ADORABLE baby stories, like the cute baby triplets all sound asleep in the same crib and the fifteen month old who has made such progress since the last time he saw her at nine months and the baby who wasn’t breathing properly and how relieved he was when he pinked up like normal and OH MY GOD MY OVARIES JUST EXPLODED!

Dear 104, you will NOT be swoozed into some romanticized version of who this man is just because he spends his life taking care of babies. NO! This does NOT make him a good man! Well, okay, it does, but it does not necessarily make him the best man for you.

Moving on.

The conversation with Nine was good. I mean really good good, you know? I think this was the first date, the first out of nine, in which I actually used a little sarcasm, in which there was a little witty banter, in which there was a little play, a little suggestion, a little you’re funny in all the right kind of ways. And when he confessed that there was a month in med school where he ate Chipotle everyday, I exhaled a sigh of relief, put my hand to my heart, and confessed that for a period of time, not too long ago, I had done the same.

But I’m not getting carried away. I think we’ll see each other again this weekend. In fact, I’m fairly certain of it unless something terrible happens in the meantime (and we know that is entirely possible). But, for the time being, let me innumerate his flaws so I don’t look like an asshole when this all falls apart. I can at least say, “See, I saw it coming.”

1. He talked about playing poker a lot, and how much he has won, and how he got comped an entire free weekend in Vegas for how much he played in Atlantic City. Worrisome. Um, I don’t gamble. I think it’s dumb. The most I’ll do is play bingo with my mom and sister, but really that’s just for the good conversation and red velvet cake.

2. He mentioned how he has a tendency to make fun of other people when they’re standing close by. I’m going to let this one play out. He could be misrepresenting it, but if not that will be an issue. I don’t like making fun of people, and if I have a cutting comment about the large woman sitting next to me at Olive Garden being spoon fed fried lasagna by her skinny husband in between bites of her steak alfredo, I’ll wait until I am well within the confines of my car to suggest carefully that maybe she find a husband who is more supportive of her actually spending “forever” with him.

3. He’s an Army doctor. I have a history with military men. It’s not a good one. It involves a lot of gut-sucking and sweeping myself off of my feet with the idea of some valiant hero with a heart of gold. It never happens. Also, I don’t know if a husband who deploys and is constantly in danger is really good for my sensibilities. I’m a bit of a nervous ninny. (Shit, I just jumped the gun, didn’t I?)

Anyway, Ten is still happening next weekend. He’s a triathlete. I really hope he’s not looking for a race partner in a woman, because, um, something probably no one knows about me, I can barely doggy paddle.