Because it bears repeating and because I still love this man.
28 March 2004
For the Jewish boy who lives in Gardener:
My very dearest Jewish boy who lives in Gardener,
The other day, I went to the cafeteria to eat lunch and there you were. I don't know how to make you understand how very excited I was at the thought of being in your presence. You were in front of me in line. I tried to play it cool, you know: studiously aloof. Mostly because I knew there was more of chance that you'd be interested if you thought there was no chance that I was interested. Secretly though, all I could think about was if the part in my hair was properly centered. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I tried to keep my posture upright; not so much so that my back wouldn't slouch but moreso so that my breasts wouldn't sag. Heaving and sagging really don't go well together. And I was indeed heaving. The mere idea of being so close to you ... well; it flustered me is the thing. But never would you have known: I’m actually quite proud of the way I conducted myself with such terrible apathy.
We had to part ways because you wanted the main entree while I opted for the sandwich aisle. I’d thought for sure that was it ... undoubtedly you'd sit with your cool nonchalant friends and act all coolly nonchalant as you made jokes about the prime minister and cherry strudel. But then, much to my chagrin I’m more than willing to admit, you sat by yourself. And not in an angry or above-the-plebeian-masses sort of way; in a ... vulnerable manner though, of course, you did an expert job of concealing this verity. In fact, had I not been paying such close attention to the wayside idiosyncrasies (the furl of your eyebrow in that pseudo-"thinking" manner for instance) I’m sure I would never have noticed. I sat by myself too. You were sitting at a four person table with your back to the wall. Then there was another table in front of you, between what I’ll dilutedly and, yes, delightedly refer to as 'us.' Then there was me, also at a four person table but facing the wall to which your back was against. The connection was palatable - your back literally against the wall, mine figuratively so.
I had four pieces of white bread and lots to do: toast the bread, get peanut butter and butter, slice the banana, grab hot chocolate (mmmm, buttered toast dipped in hot chocolate (coffee and milk would be better but one makes due)). I couldn't wait to sit back down, across from you. I was listening to my walkman at the time and as I walked around the cafeteria running these various errands I’ll admit that I not-so-subconsciously swayed my hips to the music. I thought maybe you'd notice my long torso and "legs that go on for days" and what I’m hoping isn't too much of an intimidating chest. Once you noticed these things I don't know what I expected you to do with the knowledge but I sought to educate nevertheless. I sat down at the table and set to preparing my meal; pretending to be oh-so-enthralled in the process. Interestingly enough, I should note that I do consider the process of preparation (especially where PB-and-banana sandwiches are involved) to be enthralling but, when you're around, and I am fully aware how pathetic this sounds, when you're around Jewish boy who lives in Gardener, nothing else merits my attention.
Oh Jewish boy who lives in Gardener, I know it sounds silly, but I couldn’t help thinking, maybe even, dare I say hoping, that you would notice the care and time I placed into slicing my banana ... my quick strokes ... my thin layers; the joy I know you’d take in the simple awareness that I am, if nothing else, a woman who knows how to slice her banana. Then again, just the fact that you noticed if you did indeed notice is plenty to tickle my fancy. Sigh. Thoughts of you tickling my "fancy”... By the time I was actually ready to eat the meal I'd so absent-mindedly prepared (for you) I looked up and found that you were nearly done and, alas, about to get up and leave. I took a bite into my sandwich in an effort to distract myself from the sheer heartache of disappointment but it just didn't provide the sort of solace peanut butter and banana so often does. As you got up to leave the song begging for my auditory attention was appropriately titled "Creep" (please tell me you like Radiohead ... oh who cares; I’d love you anyway).
When you were here before, couldn't look you in the eye. You're just like an angel; your skin makes me cry. You float like a feather in a beautiful world. I wish I was special. You're so fucking special. But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. I don't care if it hurts; I want to have control. I want a perfect body; I want a perfect soul. I want you to notice, when I'm not around. You're so fucking special. I wish I was special. Whatever makes you happy. Whatever you want. You're so fucking special. I wish I was special. But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. I don't belong here.
It was as though Thom Yorke were speaking directly to me only his name was Jewish boy who lives in Gardener. I felt I was in an episode of Degrassi High with the line "I wish I was special" uttered by Yorke just as you began to walk away. My eyes grew wide and my eyebrows curled into one another and my lips began to extend themselves into a pout. I couldn't keep up my game face; my hopes that we would make at least a moment of eye contact betrayed me. You walked out the cafeteria and, alas, out of my life. I’ve thought of our time together more often than my pride will allow me to recount. What if I would have sat with you? What might have been? I know our love is foreboden and, yes, forbidden, however, that doesn't stop the incessant belief that somewhere deep in the bowels of you heart you also feel this connection neither of us wants to admit to.
Like that time I was at the gym “playing basketball” and I saw you at the other court. Wearing that three sizes to small Lakers jersey tucked into your sweatpants (and sweating you most certainly were) and running around like a winded forty-five year old man trying to prove, at least to himself, that he's still young to hook up with his daughter’s friends. Oh, who am I kidding? I loved you in all your self-involved Woody Allen reminiscent weakness. I saw you notice me. And look over more than once. At me. Giggle. Or that time we were at that bar together and felt the mutual disdain for the privileged "my father did well for us" idiot South African boy. And, chagrin, you've lived in Alabama. You understand what it's like to be the only politically disenfranchised and yet socially enlightened creature in the tri-state area.
Jewish boy who lives in Gardener, I have to be honest, I just don't know what to do. I’ve never been in this sort of situation before. I know that my love is pure ... too pure to ever be able to convey, perhaps. I don't think I’ll ever work up the courage to tell you the depths of emotion you extract from my secret heart; were that I could, the revelation would go something like this: "hey, what's up?" I suppose this has all been quite pointless, Jewish boy who lives in Gardener. You’ll never know how flooded you make me feel but, in any and every case, I’ll be thinking of you.
Always and only yours,
Muslim girl who lives in RVC
For the Jewish boy who lives in Gardener:
My very dearest Jewish boy who lives in Gardener,
The other day, I went to the cafeteria to eat lunch and there you were. I don't know how to make you understand how very excited I was at the thought of being in your presence. You were in front of me in line. I tried to play it cool, you know: studiously aloof. Mostly because I knew there was more of chance that you'd be interested if you thought there was no chance that I was interested. Secretly though, all I could think about was if the part in my hair was properly centered. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I tried to keep my posture upright; not so much so that my back wouldn't slouch but moreso so that my breasts wouldn't sag. Heaving and sagging really don't go well together. And I was indeed heaving. The mere idea of being so close to you ... well; it flustered me is the thing. But never would you have known: I’m actually quite proud of the way I conducted myself with such terrible apathy.
We had to part ways because you wanted the main entree while I opted for the sandwich aisle. I’d thought for sure that was it ... undoubtedly you'd sit with your cool nonchalant friends and act all coolly nonchalant as you made jokes about the prime minister and cherry strudel. But then, much to my chagrin I’m more than willing to admit, you sat by yourself. And not in an angry or above-the-plebeian-masses sort of way; in a ... vulnerable manner though, of course, you did an expert job of concealing this verity. In fact, had I not been paying such close attention to the wayside idiosyncrasies (the furl of your eyebrow in that pseudo-"thinking" manner for instance) I’m sure I would never have noticed. I sat by myself too. You were sitting at a four person table with your back to the wall. Then there was another table in front of you, between what I’ll dilutedly and, yes, delightedly refer to as 'us.' Then there was me, also at a four person table but facing the wall to which your back was against. The connection was palatable - your back literally against the wall, mine figuratively so.
I had four pieces of white bread and lots to do: toast the bread, get peanut butter and butter, slice the banana, grab hot chocolate (mmmm, buttered toast dipped in hot chocolate (coffee and milk would be better but one makes due)). I couldn't wait to sit back down, across from you. I was listening to my walkman at the time and as I walked around the cafeteria running these various errands I’ll admit that I not-so-subconsciously swayed my hips to the music. I thought maybe you'd notice my long torso and "legs that go on for days" and what I’m hoping isn't too much of an intimidating chest. Once you noticed these things I don't know what I expected you to do with the knowledge but I sought to educate nevertheless. I sat down at the table and set to preparing my meal; pretending to be oh-so-enthralled in the process. Interestingly enough, I should note that I do consider the process of preparation (especially where PB-and-banana sandwiches are involved) to be enthralling but, when you're around, and I am fully aware how pathetic this sounds, when you're around Jewish boy who lives in Gardener, nothing else merits my attention.
Oh Jewish boy who lives in Gardener, I know it sounds silly, but I couldn’t help thinking, maybe even, dare I say hoping, that you would notice the care and time I placed into slicing my banana ... my quick strokes ... my thin layers; the joy I know you’d take in the simple awareness that I am, if nothing else, a woman who knows how to slice her banana. Then again, just the fact that you noticed if you did indeed notice is plenty to tickle my fancy. Sigh. Thoughts of you tickling my "fancy”... By the time I was actually ready to eat the meal I'd so absent-mindedly prepared (for you) I looked up and found that you were nearly done and, alas, about to get up and leave. I took a bite into my sandwich in an effort to distract myself from the sheer heartache of disappointment but it just didn't provide the sort of solace peanut butter and banana so often does. As you got up to leave the song begging for my auditory attention was appropriately titled "Creep" (please tell me you like Radiohead ... oh who cares; I’d love you anyway).
When you were here before, couldn't look you in the eye. You're just like an angel; your skin makes me cry. You float like a feather in a beautiful world. I wish I was special. You're so fucking special. But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. I don't care if it hurts; I want to have control. I want a perfect body; I want a perfect soul. I want you to notice, when I'm not around. You're so fucking special. I wish I was special. Whatever makes you happy. Whatever you want. You're so fucking special. I wish I was special. But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. I don't belong here.
It was as though Thom Yorke were speaking directly to me only his name was Jewish boy who lives in Gardener. I felt I was in an episode of Degrassi High with the line "I wish I was special" uttered by Yorke just as you began to walk away. My eyes grew wide and my eyebrows curled into one another and my lips began to extend themselves into a pout. I couldn't keep up my game face; my hopes that we would make at least a moment of eye contact betrayed me. You walked out the cafeteria and, alas, out of my life. I’ve thought of our time together more often than my pride will allow me to recount. What if I would have sat with you? What might have been? I know our love is foreboden and, yes, forbidden, however, that doesn't stop the incessant belief that somewhere deep in the bowels of you heart you also feel this connection neither of us wants to admit to.
Like that time I was at the gym “playing basketball” and I saw you at the other court. Wearing that three sizes to small Lakers jersey tucked into your sweatpants (and sweating you most certainly were) and running around like a winded forty-five year old man trying to prove, at least to himself, that he's still young to hook up with his daughter’s friends. Oh, who am I kidding? I loved you in all your self-involved Woody Allen reminiscent weakness. I saw you notice me. And look over more than once. At me. Giggle. Or that time we were at that bar together and felt the mutual disdain for the privileged "my father did well for us" idiot South African boy. And, chagrin, you've lived in Alabama. You understand what it's like to be the only politically disenfranchised and yet socially enlightened creature in the tri-state area.
Jewish boy who lives in Gardener, I have to be honest, I just don't know what to do. I’ve never been in this sort of situation before. I know that my love is pure ... too pure to ever be able to convey, perhaps. I don't think I’ll ever work up the courage to tell you the depths of emotion you extract from my secret heart; were that I could, the revelation would go something like this: "hey, what's up?" I suppose this has all been quite pointless, Jewish boy who lives in Gardener. You’ll never know how flooded you make me feel but, in any and every case, I’ll be thinking of you.
Always and only yours,
Muslim girl who lives in RVC