Thought Experiment: why life without Doug isn't worth living, Part II

If you haven't read Part I, go do that.

Today, I want to tell you about Doug. If you were present at Doug's Final Curtain Call, or if you read my eulogy, then you know part of the story - but only part of it.

Just to set the stage, remember: you're putting yourself in the mindspace of a 50-year-old woman, who's spent her entire life believing that she is unlovable, unattractive, and will spend her life alone. She's finally comes to grips with that, and built a happy life with plenty of filial love, but without romantic or passionate love. Many of my friends are actors, so consider it an exercise in building a character. Get into my head, kids!

Cue our hero's entrance

The eulogy recounts our meeting - from my perspective, at least. I found out later that he'd been checking me out as well (evidently, it was my smile rather than my eyes that entranced him, which was unusual), but he thought I was too young for him.

What's important is what happened on our first not-a-date. You see, I think we were both so over the bullshit gamesmanship of dating that we simply refused to engage. (Yeah, I know, his insistence that it wasn't a date could be construed as game-playing, but it was really that he was nervous and astonished by my openness.) No small talk for us; we headed straight for our real stories and our real baggage.

As we sat on his couch talking, Doug told me the very first story about his childhood, and it was a doozy: his family had a housekeeper (not a maid; an honest-to-God, didn't live in the house but did everything from cooking and cleaning to taking care of the kids housekeeper). Her name was Classy; Classy was a black woman, and Doug adored her. (This also should have been my first clue that there was some family money somewhere, but that went right over my head, which led to hilarity about 10 months later.)

One summer night, when Doug was young and his parents were going out for the evening, Bob (Doug's father) asked Classy to take Doug to the drive-in to see a movie. This was in Knoxville. In the late 1950s. I'll bet you can see where this is going: they wouldn't let her in. Because she was black. And she was embarrassed (and the fact that SHE was embarrassed is infuriating to me). And she cried.

And Doug cried, telling me that story. This was a key moment in our budding friendship, because it told me that he was compassionate, that he was not a racist, and that he was both willing and able to show his emotions. I immediately knew that, at the very least, we were going to be great friends.

Our romance - the early days

Those first few months were tricky for us both. We immediately fell into a pattern of spending the weekends together, talking every night before bed and texting first thing in the morning and then again midday. But even though we were a couple right from the start, it wasn't easy. Well, it was easy, in that we felt like home to each other; but it was also tricky, in that neither one of us wanted to admit that, even though it was completely obvious to anyone who was paying attention that we were made for each other.

We were both terrified. We knew we'd found something special, and we were so scared that we'd screw it up. Some days, it was as though we were competing to see who could be the least demanding of each other's time. There are, quite literally, whole strings of texts that were some variation of, "I'd really like to talk to you after rehearsal tonight, but honest - if you're too tired, it's okay;" "no; I want to hear your voice too, but if you need to get to bed, I promise not to be upset." We really liked each other, and we really wanted to make sure the other didn't feel obligated. And we REALLY didn't want to seem at ALL needy. It was kind of exhausting, honestly. But sweet. Very, very sweet.

When we first got together, I didn't watch college football. I didn't understand why anyone did. But it was important to Doug, and I liked football, so that's how we spent our Saturdays.

And then there was New Year's Eve.

New Year's Eve is like the senior prom for grown adults: it's an excuse to get dressed up, eat a fancy meal, slow dance (and it just hit me that I'll never slow dance with him again 💔), and maybe get lucky. But on that first New Year's Eve, 2015, all the major bowl games were being played. So we got dressed up, I cooked a lovely dinner of fettucine with homemade alfredo sauce and garlic bread, and we watched bowl games. And slow danced. And kissed at midnight (DAMMIT, I'll never kiss him at Midnight on New Year's Eve again - I find new things we've lost every time I turn around). I'll refrain from telling you whether we got lucky. 😘

And you know what? I didn't feel like I made any kind of sacrifice. It was a beautiful evening, with a beautiful man and great food, and great football. At one point, Doug wrapped his arms around me as I was at the stove, and whispered in my ear, "You're so lovable - for real." Now, I'd never told him about my deep-seated belief that I was anything but lovable, but this wonderful, handsome man - this man whose smile melted me - he'd decided that I was lovable, and that he needed to tell me so.

You know what? This is going to end up being more than two parts. I'm wordy, and I know that can be hard on folks. So I'm going to leave this here and continue tomorrow.