How it began
How are you all doing?!?
We've managed to survive another Monday, high five's all around!
What this also means, however, is that I'm once again fashionably late with my newsletter. Oopsies!
Life is a bit ridiculous at the moment, with my mother-in-law entering her second week here with us (it's a 3-week visit), which means we had our traditional 1-week blow-up. It happens every time, and this time it wasn't bad; more a strong wind than a tornado. But still, it's enough to unsettle everyone's peace, and keeps me from gathering my thoughts sufficiently to write stuff that makes sense.
The calm after the storm
For now, the storm has passed; will there be a second act? I sure hope not, but I wouldn't bet on it.
Let's talk about more pleasant things: Yesterday I posted this photo on my Facebook, and when one of my friends commented "C'mon... How is THIS humanly possible?", I spontaneously made a little video showing her. It's unscripted and not very good, which obviously means that I'm going to share it with you!
To watch it, just click >> here<<!
In other news: I'm in the process of teaching my goats to do yoga with me. We're in the learning phase with tons of room for improvement, but it sure is cute!
It goes without saying that I also made a little video. Wanna see it? Click >>here<<!
You guys seemed to enjoy getting a little sneak peek into my book last week*, so I thought I'd share the next chapter with you. Thanks so very, very much for the kind comments you made about the first bit, it warmed my heart! You truly are the best.
*If you haven't read it, you can do so right >> here<<!
Anyhoo, enough talking!
Let's continue with chapter 2:
Wonder Man
Five months earlier
“Miriam, can you do a delivery for me?” my mom yells from the other room. “To whom?” I yell back, neither saying yes or no. I’m a reluctant contributor to the family business, a farm market/grocery-store. If it were up to me, I would have nothing to do with it, but unfortunately, it isn’t. From the age of twelve I had to work every Saturday at the outdoor farm market, and pitch in wherever else they need me. Apparently, today it’s delivering produce to one of the several restaurants we supply.
“We have a new customer”, mom says, walking into the kitchen. “He leased the little country restaurant in Niehau a while ago.”
“Uh-hmm,” I answer distractedly, continuing to flip through my magazine.
“He’s a young guy, really nice. Your father has been talking to him quite a bit, he is very impressed by the young man,” she continues, and that’s when I look up and put the magazine away. My dad is a quiet, serious man, not known for his conversational skills. He hates idle chit-chat, and lives by the rule that if one has nothing of importance to say, one shouldn’t say anything at all. For him to not only talk to someone, but be impressed by is high praise indeed.
“What’s his story?” I ask.
“Well, he took over the restaurant six months ago,” she tells me. “I think he wants to run a fine dining place, something a bit more special than what we have around here. But you know how people are, they won’t jump on anything that’s new and different. He’s having a bit of a hard time getting customers through the door.” I immediately sympathize with him. The people around here are suspicious by nature, and getting them to try something new is a nearly impossible task. He has his work cut out for him.
“Okay, I’ll go,” I say, jumping up. “What’s his name?”
“Oliver.”
We load up the truck, and I take off. I’m curious to meet this mysterious Oliver, who has captivated my parents.
The restaurant is less than ten minutes away. As I pull into the cobbled courtyard, I’m slightly nervous. I’m not good at meeting new people, always feeling awkward and getting tongue-tied quickly. But I’m here now, and I have a job to do. As I’m getting out of the delivery truck, he comes out of the house.
Wearing chef-whites, he walks towards me with a friendly smile. Oliver is tall, at least six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He has red hair, green eyes, and a contagious crooked grin. “Hi!” he greets me. “Let me help you.”
“I’m Miriam,” I introduce myself. “My parents are the Meiers, and they asked me to deliver your produce today.”
“I figured,” he grins at me. “I know the truck. I’m Oliver.” He deftly takes two boxes of lettuce from the back and leads me to his walk-in refrigerator. I follow with the peppers and cucumbers.
“How come I haven’t seen you before?” he calls over his shoulder.
“I’m at college,” I explain. “I study Forestry in Munich.”
“Really? That’s awesome!” He puts down the boxes, and looks at me more carefully. “Forestry, huh? So, you are going to walk around with a green hat and a rifle once you are done?"
“Yup, that’s the plan. A gun, my dog and my jeep.”
His face brightens. “You like dogs?”
"Love them.” I enthuse. “Having my dog with me all day is half the reason why I went into Forestry in the first place!”
“Well, let me introduce you to Freddy then.”
“Is Freddy your dog?” I guess.
“Yup. He is up in my apartment. I can’t have him walk around freely, because he has some issues. I got him from the pound, and they told me that he was abused by his previous owner.”
My heart goes out to him. Freddy, that is. But I also look at Oliver with new eyes. Not only is he a nice and attractive guy, but he also loves animals.
“I would love to meet him.”
I spend two hours there. Oliver lets Freddy out, a Rottweiler/German Shepherd mix, who takes a shine to me. The feeling is mutual; I can’t get enough of him. He is beautiful, clingy, and damaged, and almost pathetically grateful for attention. I scratch his ears, hug and kiss him, and coo to him in my special dog-voice, telling him what a good boy he is.
Oliver shows me the restaurant: A gorgeous dining room that looks like a medieval grotto with white-washed walls, vaulted ceilings, and fresh flowers on each table; his little office that overlooks the cobble-stoned courtyard; and the kitchen, “where I spend my life”, as he puts it.
Oliver offers me a drink, and I happily accept. He makes me a cappuccino, pours himself a cup of black coffee, and tells me about himself. At only twenty-three years old, he has already worked several years at a hotel, owned a bistro for a while, and lived and worked in Paris for six months.
“But this is my dream,” he tells me, gesturing around him. “Owning my own restaurant, bringing Parisian fine dining to the country.”
“That’s so wonderful!” I exclaim, looking at him admiringly.
“You want to come by tonight?” he asks after glancing at his watch. “I have to start prepping, but I want you to try my food. What do you say?”
“I’d love to!”
On the drive home, I can’t wipe the silly grin from my face. I have a date for tonight! Oliver is a great guy, and so interesting. I can’t wait to see him again.
As I walk through the door of my parent’s store, my mother notices my dreamy expression. “You look happy,” she states, looking at me questioningly.
“I am! Oh mom, Oliver is so nice, we had a wonderful time! And he invited me for dinner tonight, he wants to cook for me!” I tell her eagerly. Her face lights up. “Really? That’s great! Tell me more.”
And I do. For the first time in years, we have the kind of mother-daughter chat you see in movies, where mother and daughter are best friends and share everything. It’s a real Gilmore Girls-moment - and it is lightyears away from our usual routine.
When I was a child, and eager to please, we had an easy relationship; but as soon as I developed my own mind as a teenager, we butted heads at every opportunity. We haven’t had a close heart-to-heart in years. We look at each other, trying to understand the other person, but what we see is mystifying and makes no sense to either of us.
To share a rare moment of mutual understanding is precious. I treasure this rare connection we have much more than the actual visit with the guy.
My mom and I are opposites: I’m an emotional and sensitive person, who wants to talk about her feelings excessively, cry openly, be cuddled and hugged and reassured repeatedly that she is loved, despite screwing up.
Mom doesn’t care for this trait of mine. She is the kind of person who keeps her feelings hidden deep inside her, and doesn’t want anyone – not even her children - to see them. Open displays of affection are not her style. When pressed, she once told me that “you know how I feel about you, why do you want to hear it all the time?”
(Because I’m needy. I didn’t choose to be this way, but somehow ended up with an extra dose of neediness and insecurity. It’s at least as frustrating to me as it is to my mom.)
If she were to play a character in a movie, she would portray the tough, ice-cold Russian spy, while I’m the overly emotional, gushy, touchy-feely Disney princess. Minus the hair and glamorous clothes.
She is a highly private person, and believes that self-doubt, insecurities, and feelings should stay tucked safely away from the prying eye of the public.
I have the powerful urge to share my doubts and weaknesses, to feel less alone. I believe that sharing them will make me stronger. She believes that it will make one look weaker.
To make a long story short: Our approaches to life couldn’t be more different.
But, I’m just a person (and an above average insecure one at that), and I crave her approval. Closely followed by resenting everything she stands for and wants to teach me.
As you can imagine, the past few years have been a battle ground, and we are both raw and bruised from it. Our relationship is fragile, always on the verge of the next fight.
Sharing a moment of mutual understanding and genuine joy is rare, and precious beyond words. I’m so happy about it, my excitement about meeting Oliver pales in comparison.
Nevertheless, I have a date (it is a date, right? I’m not completely sure about that), and that beats my original plans of staying home and watching TV. What to wear? That’s the big question. One of the problems I’m having is that most of my clothes are in my apartment three hours away from my parent’s house. I’m only home for the weekend, and all I have brought with me are jeans and nondescript sweaters. But even if I would have all my clothes with me, the other problem is that I have gained some considerable weight over the last couple of years, which means that most of my clothes don’t fit. I hate to buy a bigger size, instead squeezing myself into clothes two or three sizes too small, making me look and feel like a sausage. The few items that I have reluctantly bought in the right size are plain and unexciting, because I also happen to be in a major style crisis.
There is only one solution: I have to go shopping. A quick look at my watch tells me that I have enough time to squeeze in a quick trip to the mall before tonight’s date to buy something half-decent.
At 7 o’clock that night I’m ready. I look at myself in the mirror, trying to see myself with Oliver’s eyes: Shoulder-length hair, dyed auburn, framing a round face prone to break-outs (thankfully none tonight, what a miracle!). My body is clad in an entirely new outfit: Dark boot-cut jeans, with enough stretch to make them feel comfortable, and a simple black top, low-cut to show off some cleavage. I plan on leaving my jacket on to hide my arms, because I hate their chunkiness. I don’t like what I see, but there is nothing I can do about it now. I promise myself to go on a diet tomorrow, sigh, and turn away from my reflection.
“I’m leaving!” I yell to my parents, and they call back to have fun, and remind me that I have to get up early tomorrow.
During the ten-minute drive to his place, the butterflies in my stomach go wild. The last real date I have been on was when I was fourteen years old, with a boy from my class. I was so terrified of going, that I took my best friend along. Romantic, no? We went to a movie and had ice cream after, and I didn’t say a single word to him the entire time. My friend did all the talking, and I sat there, mortified, not knowing what to say. Since then I’ve had relationships, but every single one has started out with us being friends first. Dating is something I am neither familiar nor comfortable with.
Before I know it, I arrive at the restaurant. “Well, you got this far,” I mutter to myself, quickly jumping out of the car and heading to the door, before I can change my mind.
I didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly isn’t this. Instead of a bustling, busy restaurant thronged with people, I step into a silent room. All the tables are empty. The lone waitress is perched behind the bar, flipping through a magazine, looking bored. At the sound of the door opening, she looks up hopefully. “Good evening!” she greets me pleasantly. “For one?”
“Uhm, no,” I stammer, turning red. “I’m looking for Oliver?”
“He’s in the kitchen,” she says, pointing behind her and returning to her magazine.
I walk the short distance to the kitchen, where I find Oliver sitting on a stool, smoking and staring into space. “Hey!” I say softly, and he turns towards me, a smile spreading across his face. “Miriam, you came!” he says, and I nod, smiling back. “What’s going on outside?” I ask him, gesturing towards the dining room. “The dining room is empty. Are you closed today?”
He looks away, blowing a smoke ring into the air. “Nope,” he says. “It’s a slow night.”
Then, in an obvious effort to change the subject: “Are you hungry?”
I’m not. I’m nervous and off my game, and the last thing I want to do is eat. Besides, I don’t know how to handle myself: Should I eat just a tiny amount, to demonstrate my ladylike self-restraint? Or is it more attractive to dig in, demolish a huge plate-full, to demonstrate my un-diva-like behaviour? I have read that guys like that, but I suspect they only do with skinny girls. If skinny girls eat a lot, they are regarded as super-cool, uncomplicated chicks. If chubby girls do the same, everybody is looking at them as pigs. Life isn’t fair.
I decide it’s safer to decline for now. “Not really,” I tell him. “Maybe later?”
“You want a drink?” he offers next. Now we’re talking. “Yes, please!” I reply gratefully. Just what I need to take the edge off. He gets up and walks outside to the bar, and I follow behind. “Hey Rosie, could you get me a beer?” he asks the waitress. Then he turns to me. “What would you like?”
“I’ll have a beer as well.” Not knowing what to do with myself, I start wandering around the dining room. Oliver leans against the counter, lights another cigarette, and chats to the waitress, Rosie. “Your beer,” she calls out to me a moment later. I return to the bar, take the proffered glass from her, and take a sip. There is silence for a moment. God, this is awkward. I simply can’t think of anything to say.
Rosie doesn’t have that problem. She starts asking me about myself, teasing Oliver, and chatting about village gossip and whatever else pops into her head. It’s my first date all over again. I suck at this!
An hour later, Oliver’s neighbours Lou and Wayne drop in, and the evening takes a decidedly raucous turn. Lou is outrageous, swearing like a sailor, saying whatever pops into her head, and entertaining us all night long with stories about her and her husband Wayne’s sex life and various bodily functions. Wayne sits quietly next to her, not saying much, and I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed by his wife’s indiscretion or resigned to it.
We laugh, drink and talk for hours, and when I leave shortly after midnight, I’m grinning from ear to ear, because despite the fact that as a date, the evening was a disaster, it was still fun.
To my delight, Oliver keeps inviting me back over the next few weeks. Friday nights become a weekly ritual, and I look forward to it more with each passing week. We usually hang out at the restaurant, with an assortment of different people around, chatting, eating and drinking. He is interested in my family, asking endless questions about our store, my parents, and what it was like growing up in a family business. I’m flattered by so much interest in, what I consider, a pretty boring upbringing, and tell my parents all about it.
They are thrilled. With one daughter learning the trade of being a goldsmith, and the other one studying Forestry, my parents have resigned themselves to the fact that the business will die with them. Despite assuring us that we can do whatever we want with our lives, and never pressuring us into taking over the business, knowing that we aren’t interested must have hurt them more than I realized. Having someone outside the family show so much admiration gives them fresh energy and pride.
And who gets the credit for that energy and pride? Me! Well, Oliver does, but it is because of my friendship with him. The glow of my parent’s approval elevates our relationship to formerly unknown heights. Suddenly, we are close. I haven’t told them details about my life in years, fearing my mother’s disapproval and her power to say no to my choices.
But all this is different now. I tell her everything Oliver and I talk about, and she couldn’t be happier and more approving of our friendship. Several times she asks if there is a future relationship in the works, but I have since learnt that he has a girlfriend. Oliver didn’t mention her until our third Friday night, and even though I should be mad about him skipping this rather important part of his life, I’m secretly relieved. So that’s the reason why our friendship hasn’t progressed to the next level! I was sure the spark between us is real and not just in my imagination. She lives and works in a different town, and they haven’t seen each other in weeks. Oliver assures me that the relationship is over, that he doesn’t love her anymore; he just hasn’t gotten the courage to break up with her yet. I think he is waiting for her to do the breaking up.
Since we first met I have developed a serious crush on him, less because I like him, and more because I have the full approval of my parents for the first time in my adult life. Oliver has managed to fix our strained relationship, he makes us all feel prouder of our family business, and he is great company. He is like wonder woman with a penis!
And it’s about to get even better.
(Closely followed by getting worse. A LOT. But luckily, I don’t know that yet.)
“Hey, can you come over? Right now? Something happened.”
The phone call comes only minutes after I have arrived at my parent’s house. “Sure!” I exclaim, worried. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”
“I did it!” Oliver says, his voice wobbling slightly. “I broke up with Susie.”
“What? Your girlfriend?”
“Yup. And I need to see you. Can you come?”
“I’m on my way.”
I grab my coat and purse and fly out of the house. My heart is singing – he has broken up with his long-time girlfriend! He is free! And he wants to see me! This can only mean one thing: We are about to start a relationship.
I drive to his place in record time, and run into the house. Oliver is sitting behind the desk in his office, staring out of the window, eerily still. When he turns to me, his eyes are red and he looks miserable. Wordlessly I go to him, take him into my arms, and let him cry.
“It was awful,” he whispers into my hair. “I thought she felt the same way about us, but she didn’t. She said she had given me space because of the restaurant, because she didn’t want to distract me. I guess I told her that I need to focus all my energy on the business until it takes off, but that was just an excuse! I thought she was as relieved as I was that we didn’t have to pretend any more. Oh God, she was so devastated. I think she will never forgive me.”
I listen, rocking him gently, making soothing noises and rubbing his back.
“Of course she will,” I assure him. “Break-ups are horrendous. Once she’s had time to digest it, she will realize that your relationship was over a long time ago. It’s the best for both of you.”
I lean back and look fiercely into his eyes.
“Listen to me, Oliver. You are a good man. Sometimes we have to make painful decisions in life. It hurts now, but it’s kinder than dragging on a relationship that doesn’t make you happy any more. Sooner or later it would have ended anyway, but with even more pain and hate. You did a good thing.”
Oliver stares back at me, desperate to believe my words. Then he puts his hand on the back of my head, and slowly pulls me closer. I automatically close my eyes and hold my breath. Is he going to kiss me?
A moment later, our lips touch. The kiss starts out hesitantly, our noses touching clumsily, his stubble rubbing my chin. He tastes of cigarettes and salty tears, of hurt and longing. I pull him closer, wanting to give him all the comfort I can. He clings to me tightly, like a man who is drowning.
I move into his apartment the same night. Oliver asked me if I could stay the night, and, of course I said yes. How could I not? He needs me, and I’m thrilled that he chose me to be by his side during this difficult time. I still don’t know exactly what is going on between us, if it is a friendship with benefits-thing, a budding romance, or the beginning of the rest of our lives together. For the moment, I push the question aside, deciding that I will deal with it later. I go home to pack a few things, and tell my delighted mother that I will stay at Oliver’s. She couldn’t be more excited, and sends me off with a rare hug and a conspiratorial “Good luck”.
For the next eight days, I put my regular life on hold.
I blow off school, my friends, my job. All I want is to be there for him, to get to know him better. We spend our days making elaborate plans for the future, about us running the restaurant together, and combining his and my family’s businesses. Never before have I considered to take over my parent’s store, but suddenly, the idea doesn’t seem so crazy. Maybe that is my destiny after all?
I hang out in the kitchen with him when he cooks, and help serve the few guests that come in. When he is busy, I take his dog Freddy for long walks, dreaming of a future where we will work side by side, co-owning a successful business, amongst the leading members of the community. We will work hard but also play hard (I must satisfy my rebellious streak, remember?) with our large circle of friends, who drop in spontaneously and often, and life will be full and rich and wonderful.
At night, we make passionate and slightly desperate love, which leaves me lying there long after he has fallen asleep, staring into the darkness, wondering what in the hell I am doing. The nights are the only time where I can’t escape the truth: This isn’t me. This isn’t my life. I barely know Oliver, who is an enigma, despite us spending every minute together. We seem to be speaking different languages, unable to communicate with each other.
He is a mystery, with many secrets, and it drives me nuts and keeps me captivated in equal measures. I desperately want to get to know him, to be able to glean an insight into his mind and his heart. But despite him talking, and me listening, I have no idea who he is. I get the distinct sense that he is putting up a wall, hiding behind it, and I can’t penetrate that wall.
But for now, I eagerly gobble up every crumb he throws my way. He is putting me into his dream, assigning me a role for his version of a perfect future, and I am flattered by that. I don’t realize at the time that it isn’t about me, or us – it is about himself. I have so little idea about what I want, that I am quite happy to have someone else make that decision for me. Not only happy, but grateful. He is saving me from myself.
Our arrangement is built on a relationship that has just fallen apart after four years, an insecure girl who is desperate for the approval of others, and the mutual desire to start afresh. We are both stuck in lives we don’t like, and we are looking for an escape. We think we have found it with each other, but it will dawn on both of us that we haven’t.
The only problem is: It doesn’t dawn on us at the same time. (These things rarely do.)
On day eight, it collapses.
I have been feeling morose all day. There is a weird undercurrent between us, and we keep our distance, Oliver puttering around in the kitchen, me hiding in his unfinished living room, listening to music, smoking and brooding.
Eventually, he joins me, sitting down on the floor opposite of me. I avoid his gaze, feeling raw and unbalanced and close to tears.
“What are you doing?” he asks after a while.
“What are we doing?” I counter, voice wobbling.
“What is this, Oliver? This weird thing we have going on? I don’t know if we are in a relationship, or just sleeping together. What are we doing?” I repeated, looking at him pleadingly.
“I don’t know,“ he whispers. We look at each other miserably.
“I think I should go,” I finally say, willing him to tell me to stay.
He doesn’t. “I think that’s probably for the best,” Oliver says instead, and I see a flicker of relief cross his face. “I need some time to think, to get over my break-up with Susie. I’ll call you, okay?”
He leans forward to give me a kiss, but I pull away, hurt. “Okay then,” I say as flippantly as I can manage, and get up with some difficulty, my legs cramping from sitting cross-legged on the floor for so long. “See ya,” I call over my shoulder, limping out of the room towards the bedroom to get my stuff. ‘Why couldn’t I walk away more gracefully?’ I berate myself, focusing on this one detail, so I won’t have to face what just happened. ‘I couldn’t have looked more awkward and clumsy. Damn it!” I throw my clothes carelessly into my bag, then storm into the bathroom to grab my wash bag, flinging my toiletries into it with unnecessary force. After a moment’s deliberation, I take my toothbrush out again and place it back into the cup, next to Oliver’s.
“Just a little reminder that I was here,” I say aloud. Back in the bedroom, I hesitate, wondering if I should leave one of my panties behind for the same reason. I decide against it, unwilling to remind him of my size 14 ass.
Looking around for a moment, I wonder when I will see this room again. I’m sure it is only a matter of time, a question of when, not if.
Not for a moment does it occur to me that this is the last time I will ever see it again.