Is The Water Cold?

When I was sixteen, I went on my first date with a girl. Or I thought it was a date. When my hand made that fateful creep up the arm rest and on to her hand, she turned to me shocked and said: You didn't think this was a date, did you?

I would end up dating this girl a year or two later, but before that I had developed a number of rules to make sure I was in control of events, and wouldn't be caught off-guard again.

By the time I was twenty-five, I was much smoother. For the Men's Residence Formal in one of my last years in University, I had a bouquet sent to my date's home early in the day accompanied by a card with romantic poetry. I thought it would be rude to present her with something she would have to lug around all night. I bought a tasteful corsage that wouldn't distort her dress when she pinned it on, but made sure it was related to the larger bouquet at home.

I sent a car to pick her up, and when she arrived I was gracious, but wondered what might have possessed her to style her hair the way she had, or select metallic knit leotards to go with her elegant dress. She was a beautiful girl, but her choices were not flattering. I was excited at the formalities, but my heart was elsewhere entirely.

I was the perfect date, I made sure she met everyone, danced with her often and was very courteous. I gave her a polite and suggestive kiss at the beginning of the evening and after an appropriately pregnant moment with our faces close together, a passionate but respectful kiss at the end of the night. Of note, I made no attempt to take advantage of her at all. Gentlemanly perhaps, but she seemed more confused than grateful.

Once the girl was delivered safely home, I checked off the last item on my mental checklist.

She received twelve calalillies the next day with another romantic card, thanking her for the honour of her company. I had ordered this second bouquet at the same time as I ordered the corsage and the first bouquet and had given the florist specific instructions for delivery and timing. I think my date called me the next evening to thank me for the flowers, but that was the end of it.

Love was something I dreamed of but did not understand. I had learned to paint the picture, learned how to make someone swoon - but hadn't figured out why I wasn't ever swooning myself.

Three years later, I did - although it was brief. I can remember the moment it happened down to a few minutes. The very first man I dated was having a house party that summer and he and I sat on his staircase in shorts saying good-bye to guests as they departed. He seemed to be absent-mindedly drawing patterns on my leg with his fingertip as we spoke to people. And then I realized that those patterns were letters. Four specifically: S-T-A-Y.

Robert and I didn't last very long at all. Probably a few weeks - although I would prefer to remember it as a couple of months.

Rumi, a 13th century mystic from Afghanistan wrote:

You have been imprisoned in a small pond. I am the Ocean with its turbulent flood. Come merge with me, leave this world of ignorance. Come be with me, I will open the Gate to your love.

When I read that a few months ago, I thought it was beautiful. I marvelled at the water imagery and wondered if more recent artistic references to the sea, the ocean and love had referred to this poem.

Now it gives me goose-bumps from head to toe.

Freud referred to the process of falling in love as "cathexion". In this process the ego boundaries of an individual are dropped, and then are extended around the beloved. I have always understood it as a biological process, only sequentially associated with actual love and often referred to as "love at first sight".

Now I know not what it is. I only know that I tremble sometimes - like i am nervous, although I am not sure that is what it is at all. My vacant moments are filled suddenly with a smile that spreads across my vision like milk poured out. My own smile appears on my face whenever my mind wanders. I am crazy for this man - and I don't even understand what that means.