The Bigger They Are...

The seven-footer is unabashedly going for the gold. He called yesterday wanting to go out again last night--told me I'd made him happy all day. I was hungry and wanted to see a movie, so I said, "Sure." He dragged me out to the damn suburbs for Outback and the cineplex. Hm. All this great city and we're going where? I'm telling you. The lengths I will go to for free food and entertainment.

Anyway, the poor kid. He's starry-eyed and making a fool of himself. I now find myself a wee bit concerned he's going to get all obsessive. He seems like the type. Luckily for me, he also seems the harmless, annoying type rather than the creepy, dangerous type.

Now this guy also has a redhead fetish--it comes up at least once every twenty minutes. He keeps telling me about a friend of his who is so jealous that ol' Seven Foot's got a redhead to date. I said "What's a redhead got that anybody else hasn't got?" He said, "Freckles. Well. And they're crazy." Oh boy. I've been down this road before. I'll be expected to perform miracle stunts, swing from the chandeliers, and act delirious at the very thought of a bed. (All of the above do happen to come naturally to me, given the proper motivation, which isn't this guy.)

I suppose this means I don't have to feel guilty in the least for my curiosity about the seven footer's Little Giant. If he's just wanting a glimpse of the apparent freakshow often referred to by drunken hitters-on as the "fire down below," I think I have a perfect right to use him for his freakish stature. Even Steven, kids. Even Steven.

I have to say, though, as we sat in the darkened theatre last night watching Zach Braff and Jason Bateman beat on each other (speaking of freakshows), I did have to talk myself down from a near panic attack. I suddenly realized, my gods, he could just grab my hand or try to kiss me, and then what would I do? I'm so out of practice it ain't funny. I'm a Born-Again Virgin four times over. I'm absolutely positive my neuroses are going to take control and I'll end up hyperventilating in the emergency room begging for Xanax with a Scotch chaser.

All of which will only serve to confirm the seven footer's belief that redheads are indeed crazy and make him my devoted slave, hanging around outside my front door at all hours, thinking I need taken care of and all that happy horseshit. Why couldn't this happen with a wealthy, literary, devastatingly handsome man rather than a man for whom the word "slacker" was invented? I have GOT to work on my ability to faint dead away, so the next time I see someone promising I can be the damsel in distress. Men really do go in for that stuff.

Ridiculous. I'm a thirty year old BAV who gets anxiety from the mere idea of actual physical contact with a man. I'm like a Jane Austen character written into a Henry Miller novel. Granted, I'm not attracted to this man in the least; he's wrong for me in everything from his sign to his looks to his job to his taste in music to his ideas to his approach to living (come on, he is anti-Woody Allen!), but still. I'm a single girl. There are people counting on me to do things they can appreciate vicariously.

Courage, darlings. Send me the courage to do lots and lots of foolish things and have wonderful tales to tell.