I wrote a short story about my day on Twitter earlier but it seemed lacking in so much that I had to just come here and put it all in perspective.
I was taught by my father's mother that as a lady I didn't work on cars. I wanted to mind you, but I just never learned because ladies, as set in stone by my Nana, didn't do those sorts of things. So it happens that I'm 21 years old and barely know where the oil goes. Instead, my grandmother taught me that as a lady, a cunning one at that, I could coerce more knowledgeable people to help me and so far she's been right.
Tonight my car's oil light went on. I'm not surprised; Amber (that's the car's name) has a leak in the oil gasket that's getting a lot of blowback to the rest of her under carriage. It'll take approximately seven fifty to fix. I know this about Amber already. But if I have the hood up? Nobody knows that, as my face is a constant state of confusion.
So it happened tonight that a very tall, chocolatey man steps down from his Range Rover to help me and my little hoopty. I explained what I thought was going on and he proceeded to take the oil from my hand and put it in the car while I went to buy another bottle. Once those were figured out he then checked my lights, my under carriage, my brake fluid and let me know I had an oil leak. To which I replied "No? Really? That's such a shame..."
After it was all done I thanked him ever so much and started to get in my car when I saw him writing something down. Slipping his number in my hand, he gave me a giant smile and told me if I needed anything to call him; I smiled and said a polite 'thank you' and let him drive away first. All ten digits; his name was Thomas . And then I remembered something.
The guy I'm into, his name, starts with a T too. And he's taller than this Thomas dude. Probably with worse eyesight, but just thinking about him made me remember that this dude here? Couldn't compare. Sure, Thomas was sweet enough to help me with my car, and that's a lovely thing not a lot of dudes do for women anymore. But...he's not it for me.
Awhile ago, that would've been it. I would've been all over poor Thomas before his lights fully disappeared around the corner. But now? That number felt foreign in my hand, like someone had handed me a Martian monkey wrench and said "Do something." The guy I'm into means something to me to the point where this "potential" somebody? Doesn't measure up to what I feel for him right now. That's odd for me.
I'm scared of what that means for me. Does that mean me and this dude, Tarzan, are exclusive in my mind? And what are the implications of that? When I'm literally throwing ten digits of an attractive ass dude to the wind, where in my past I would've kept them as at least an option what's that really saying about who and where I am now?
I'll tell you. I'm not the same girl who was running after attention from men who I didn't care for. I'm not the same girl who's rushing to be someone to someone else. I'm just a girl who's fallen in love with a guy. Am I still insecure? Very. Am I still working harder to be confident? Definitely. But now that there's this calmness in my spirit from knowing that someone, somewhere thinks something of me to wait on me to get there? Nobody's worth throwing that away for.
The romantic in me is all out and vulnerable. Be gentle, ya'll >.<