2,311 miles is what normally separates me from the spitting image of myself that resides in California.
It's been 225 days since I last had curly, golden locks brush across my face.
But right now, she's 15.2 miles away.
Tonight she sleeps not that far away.
I will get to see her. On Valentine's Day.
But only for 24 hours.
225 days and 2,311 miles worth of separation and all I get is 24 hours.
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Distance
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On the occasion of our first meeting
It started easily enough. Just one line in a direct tweet. Certainly the kind of thing easily dismissed as well outside the realm of possibility, but an exciting prospect none the less. Should the words in that innocent and excited tweet actually pan out, it would mean a change would forever rock my world. Never again would I wonder what the bearer of that good news would be like to meet in person. Never again would they be but a distant connection at the other end of “teh interwebs.”
As the weeks passed, and confirmation was sent that the object of my desire person in question would indeed be traveling deep into the heart of the south, (although the accuracy of Nashville being part of the south anymore is questionable) the plan about how I would go about making the journey began. Finances were finagled, a willing grandparent was found to pass Butters off on, and the wait began.
Like a child watching the days tick slowly off the calendar as Christmas approached, every day seemed longer than the day before. Time passed and tweets continued back and forth as they always have, e-mails were exchanged, and life continued. But somewhere in the midst of all the excitement that built on those seemingly endless days, dread crept along in the background.
“She isn't going to like you,” was the echo that rattled around the deep recesses of my psyche. That old familiar companion from the torture of my teen years was back to hang around like a vulture awaiting death. Fear and doubt were back to do their worst. “She's way out of your league,” they hissed.
But I'd learned a trick or two from the long gone days of D&D and G'n'R. For starters, I was no longer the quiet loner that sat in the hallways during lunch or hid in the library using MS Paint to create fantastic scenes. In the years that passed those bygone days, I'd discovered my confidence, knew my voice. Fear and doubt could try to undermine all that was to come, but I was past allowing them the luxury of controlling my being.
What the hell did I care if she liked me or not? What the hell did I care if she saw me as the hideously obese, fucking chud that I am? What the hell did I care if she were the fair maiden of blogs and I were merely a lowly stable boy? I didn't. I didn't care one damn bit about any of it.
Or so I kept telling myself.
In reality I couldn't help but let fear and doubt have a little run through the minefields of my mind. I had every reason to be apprehensive and nervous at this pending meeting. What the fuck was I thinking? I can't do this, I can't meet her! Oh shit, I have to get out of this! RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!
Panic attacks are always such funny things. Every last one is unique and, if you're anything like me, after they are but a memory you're left looking at it, shaking your head, and questioning why it ever happened in the first place. Such is the fun of being a likely undiagnosed paranoid-schizophrenic. (No you aren't. Yes we are.)
Miles of Alabama and Tennessee asphalt slid beneath the tires of our beater as the wife and I raced to the inevitable conclusion to this tale. The sun was only just marching into the sky as I slipped the car into park outside the Hotel Preston. Calm washed over me. I was without doubt, without fear. Focused, I marched into the hotel, sat facing the elevators, and sent a message to one I'd never had the pleasure of meeting face-to-face letting her know that the manatee and his wife were in the building.
Moments later, the silver doors parted and from it's faux red cowhide interior emerged my friend. With a warm smile and equally warm embrace we met for the first time in the lobby of a hotel seemingly decorated with hip furniture found off Craigslist. Things didn't even go downhill when she proclaimed that she thought I was taller than I actually am. At least I could say that I stood eye-to-eye with her.
The hours of the next day and a half were both too short and over too soon. Before being able to even process the moments that had happened, it was time to part. While left with a sense of overwhelming happiness at finally seeing and speaking to she whom I count among my friends, now there is also the ail of things being back to what has been for so long now.
How many of us ever get the chance to meet the person on the other end of a comment, or tweet, or e-mail these days? How many fewer even form a friendship with that person? I'm fortunate that I have had the honor of doing both those things.
Thank you, Tanis, for the chance to hold open a few doors, shoot a few photos, and to tell you in person to kiss my fat, white Alabama ass. Much love.
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