Anyone But Woody Allen, That Is (7/6/08 Sunday)^

When I said at the beginning, "I must accept a certain degree of all my shortcomings,” the one at the front of my mind at the time was vanity, in the sense of what others thought of me. Now, I find that it’s very important what at least one person thinks of me. Last week I got my hair cut, well before it was out of control. I’m washing and conditioning it with ever-more expensive salon product, and tarting it up a notch with peppermint hair oil. And now I’ve bought a body powder to augment the toner and moisturizer (and exfoliant) that I use religiously on my face. I all but strut in my new jeans, feeling very comfortable and sexy. But does anyone notice (much less Julie)? I even take my shirt off when I’m outside in the garden so that I might even out the cycling tan. I remind myself to laugh at the guy in the mirror.

It occurs to me I should be preparing myself for rejection. I can hold out till September 9, but I can’t promise I won’t give away the trick at that point. (The bit is like taffy in my mouth already.) I don’t know how; I just expect it. It’s what I want, isn’t it?–one way or another. This long suicide is really only about fear of rejection, despite all the other faces I put on it. I want a sure thing, and I already know there’s no such thing. To prepare myself for rejection, though, is to expect it to a not small degree. That’s me, expecting failure. It’s a question of maturity. Am I ready for a relationship? Never mind failure; I’m not sure I should succeed. Is there freedom in a relationship? Yes, but will I allow myself to have it? Can I allow myself to be myself? Can I not worry about how good a boyfriend I’m being? Can I not be so vain about it? Big questions for a neurotic. Help anyone?

And–-I’m not really sure about this–-it’s probably not myself as much as Julie whose feelings I dread hurting. I don’t want anyone else involved in my pain. Perhaps that’s why I’ve prolonged this whole thing-–aside from all the practicalizing I’ve done to avoid committing to my feelings–-or, rather, acting upon them. Well, yes, it would be awkward to admit to Julie, someone I have to work with every day, that I feel fondly toward her. But do I want to go to another job so I can tell her from a safe, “professional” distance? I want to be with her. Why wouldn’t I want to work with her? All these questions, I know, serve only to convince myself I’m a fool bound for failure. I am not a fool. Am I? If being up at midnight on a Sunday–-now Monday-–making grist for the nightmare mill qualifies me, then go ahead and brand me. I guess the distance from Julie of a three-day weekend. ... I don’t know how to finish that; I should be in bed.

^Sober words that I chose to treat as mere pessimism. Sometimes the reforming pessimist can't tell the difference between pessimism and stark reality, but sees everything not positive as mere attitude, as with all the "signs" and "indications" that Julie felt nothing toward me. I couldn't even admit that it would be my feelings that would be hurt, despite not being able to convince myself that I might actually hurt Julie's feelings by telling her how I felt about her. The idea made no sense, and I chose not to try to make sense of it but to believe the delusion.

I'll keep my vanity, thank you; and though I do still consider how Julie will see me, I dress for myself, wear my hair as I want it, and shave when I see fit (down to twice a week now). I hate even caring what she thinks of my appearance; it's not worth the effort, but it's still nearly impossible to not want to impress her.

I never had so much confidence that I could have been shocked by the rejection. I never had any confidence at all--just hope.