It’s been a little while since I’ve updated you all on my Canadian friend…
After I left San Francisco, we linked up on Facebook and started chatting. For hours. Two days later, I ended up headed to Vegas. And due to last minute travel discounts, so did the Canadian. Yup. Three days of gambling, walking around taking pictures everything, including each other, talking about life, relationships, over dinner, over drinks. It was a whirlwind romance… the kind only Vegas can provide, complete with cheesy pictures by the Eiffel Tower, in front of NY, by the Venetian canal, and near various Greek statues.
By the end of the three days, we were both a little bummed that it had to end, and that for the most part, it would be over- borders between us, star-crossed lovers, and whatnot. I, a little more cynical, looked at it all as a lovely summer fling with a lovely person that was completely worth it for what it was.
Two days later, the phone rings. The Canadian! Complete with a July invite to Vancouver for a visit and to see where the moment led. In the throes of my recent spontaneity, I dashed off and ordered a passport. I scanned for cheap flights. I became rapidly addicted to Facebook chats to Vancouver. I expanded my cell service to cover international phone calls.
And then? Well, then the Canadian asked if we were a couple. And started sending postcards. One or two at first. Then, some days, five or six. Then a package. Which to most people probably sounds extremely romantic. But to me, battered old cynic that I am, well, it was all a bit much. My cell phone would ring. And if I didn’t answer, the g-chat window would pop open. Then Facebook chat. Then a text message. Don’t get me wrong, I love attention, and like to think I drive ’em wild, but I don’t like to feel like the inevitable prey in a Lifetime movie.
I asked if we could back down a bit, which I hoped was subtle. No dice. Then I mentioned being too busy to give the Canadian enough attention. Which led to emails saying it was good enough if I could call once every two weeks. And by the time another batch of five postcards arrived, well, I’d had enough.
I left it at “I’m not over my ex yet.” Which may or may not be true, but sounded like a safer bet than, “I think you have way too much free time and your version of romance is creepy and sucking the life out of me.” There are probably women who would die for that much attention from a perfectly nice person. But me, well sugar, I’m too busy having a life here to make it revolve around someone I just met, lovely or no.