Be Brave Project, Day 40; Recovering Doofus

Most people know this (and I am sure that my very few but gem-like readers know all), but it is very much frowned upon for people to date for the first year they are in A.A. Dating seems to kick up the worst of our character flaws, accentuate our weaknesses, and bring on the jones to pick up.

This rule against dating has been used by rehab storytellers and memoirists as a 21st Century form of creating Romeo + Juliet style forbidden loves: Augusten Burroughs in Dry falls hard for a Mel Gibson-esue meth user who turns him on to the drug before disappearing beneath the steam rising from NY streets; Sandra Bullock in 28 Days is cooped up with Viggo Mortenson but nobly refrains from showing him how congenial she really can be; and of course old slab-faced James Frey, in A Million Little Pieces, wrote about re-claiming the soul and trust of an abused girl, and saving her from a crack den (by literally dragging her from the crotch of an old man who was providing the drug for her). Lily loved James with strength and intensity but couldn't, oh she couldn't bear life without him--so within 24 hours of his release from jail she hanged herself.

Of course, now it's come out that Lily probably never existed, and there is no record of a girl of "Lily's" age found dead by hanging in Chicago at that time.

And James Frey never did go to jail.

So perhaps ex-drunks and addicts should be forbidden to date OR to write, for a decade (or more!) after quitting. Just to give us some time to get used to telling the truth and bearing the consequences without a tumbler of vodka. Between paying off our old debts and internet games/netflix/gossip sites (whichever is your choice)--there's plenty to do.

But, no matter what you might think about the fact that a dry drunk has been running this country into the ground over the last few years (I in all honesty think that recovering addicts and lushes should not be qualified for the presidency, but that's another day's topic), drunks are people too. They get crushes. They sometimes find themselves dressing a little more carefully than might be strictly necessary. . .perhaps they have an incredibly nice pair of open-toed spectator pumps made in Italy they're dying to flash around town with a crinkly-eyed male in tow. Yes. Perhaps they do.

All of this is leading up to a rather interesting development on Sunday. As usual I had hauled 2 shopping bags down to the new apartment, and then was planning to go to a meeting near Central Park West. Rather a tony location for someone in dust-creased cargo trousers and flip-flops, but what the hell. Who cares, right? I've never regarded meetings as my personal dating pool, never jokingly referred to my early time as "90 outfits in 90 days", never been at all receptive to the occasional man who suddenly swans up after a meeting with a business card in hand.

I walked into the school basement where the meeting's held, and there was only one damn seat available. In the back row, and next to a man I haven't seen since I was counting days. Jon, a sculptor. And I'd always really liked him, and his crinkly eyes. And curly hair. He's not my usual type--he's not very tall, and he's not younger than I am. But I just always liked what he said in meetings and what he looked like saying it.

Desperately I looked for another chair that was available. There was none. I thought about dodging out and going home. But he'd already turned around and smiled, which was SO like the scene in Pride and Prejudice where Jane sees Bingley at the Bennet's dinner party, that I had to sit down.

And it was a long hour. I sat back, to look relaxed, but it was very uncomfortable. I sat forward, but felt I looked as if I had to use the bathroom. I crossed my right leg over my left, and noticed he was doing the same--didn't want to send a message of mimicry. I finally just tucked a foot up on the chair and wrapped an arm around it. Unless he'd been doing yoga, he couldn't achieve that pose.

Every time he brushed his hands down his jeans, the sound reverberated as if it was miked.

He'd laugh at sometime funny and look over at me, which was very nice but unnerving.

At the break we exchanged swift "How are you doing's?", but the real horror was after the meeting when we stood and chatted for a bit. . .or, in my case, yammered.

Am I making this up, or was I talking about waffles and the Korean influence on Bryant Park this year? Oh my dear God.

Finally, a woman came up who wanted to talk to the poor man, and I made my escape--probably yammering in half-sentences until I got out the door. Thank God for that woman: I would like to buy her a spa-day and a fruit basket. She did a sister a favor.

And perhaps someday I'll see that man again and behave like someone who hasn't had 37 coffees and a recent lobotomy. . .but I doubt that'll be happening anytime in the near future.