Please Don’t Be Nice

So you have a relationship that’s all about fun and all about sex. You don’t share problems. You don’t share morning coffee. And you especially don’t share distressing life information. Weighty words like ‘girlfriend,’ ‘boyfriend,’ and ‘commitment’ don’t exist in the stratosphere of this non-relationship. It’s that fake grey relationship that I’m perpetually harping on about, primarily because I’ve so many times been a willing victim of it. The only requirement in this self-indulgent love affair is to revel in each other while partying like rock stars. It’s childlike. It’s sexy. It’s simple. And by not adhering to the rules of a real relationship, you still have tons of free ‘single’ time to be an ambitious workaholic, get your laundry done, and watch tons of bad TV while giving yourself at home facial treatments. Life is near perfect.

And then something terrible happens.

A teeny tiny section of your sternum (yes, I truly believe this particular sentiment originates in the sternum) begins to wonder: ‘What if?’

What if this person (who I don’t even really know), who I always have so much fun with (mainly because there’s a lot of alcohol involved) is actually boyfriend (What? Who said that?) material? What if this grey relationship was just a romantic detour and our lifelines are actually leisurely converging? The slow but steady blossoming of something wonderful. Wonderful in the sense that we massage each other’s feet while commiserating on our taxing work-party schedule, not so much wonderful in the sense of kids and a white picket fence (come on, I’m delusional not insane).

All the questions and comments above exist in a realm I like to call ‘Wow That Girl’s Totally Deluded’ or charmingly abbreviated, WTGTD. I can be aware of my mind creeping over into WTGTD territory, yet somehow still slip into this not-so-even-appealing fantasy until I feel like a woman possessed by the object of my affection. What spurs this dreadful sickness nastier than a full-on flue? What upset the ‘no strings attached’ equilibrium my grey relationship existed in so healthily before?

In my case, it happened over early morning / late night (think 4:30 am) breakfast with me, Mr. Grey, and two friends. Why we were even having breakfast together was inappropriate to the nature of our dysfunctional relationship in the first place. Thank God we had other people with us so we couldn’t be mistaken for an actual couple. I guess we let the intimacy of the situation slide since the sun wasn’t up and we still both had house music echo ringing through our ears. Club? Restaurant? What’s the difference.

The four of us were laughing and drinking. My emotions were intact and everything was going swimmingly until my pizza arrived, which had been mistakenly covered with anchovies. I hate anchovies. And I didn’t order them. But I guess waitresses who work at five in the morning think an error on an order here and there won’t come back to haunt them since the majority of patrons in the restaurant are too drunk to form sentences. Yet before I could politely bitch about the mix-up, our uniformed server had spun on her heel to attend to some gorilla-like men by the bar. Believe it or not, this wasn’t the problem. The problem is what happened next.

In a quick moment, Mr. Grey somehow understood my anchovy predicament, even though I hadn’t the time to fully voice my complaint to our waitress. He slid the pizza toward him, and painstakingly embarked on the mission of removing each anchovy from its bed of cheese. All this without a word. And when he finished, he sprinkled some Parmesan on the pie to kill the anchovy flavor. He proceeded to methodically cut the first few slices for me as if I were an incapable little girl. He then returned the pizza to me with a smile.

Now don’t get me wrong, time did not stand still and romantic music didn’t suddenly swell. During this surprisingly affectionate moment, conversation continued between us and our friends as usual. But as I started eating, I knew something had changed. It’s not just that Mr. Grey and I aren’t tender with one another; I don’t think he’s tender in general. I’d never seen him do something so simple and yet so caring with anyone. Ever. And it got to me. It got under my skin just like that whole pizza got into my stomach. And from then on I knew I was screwed.

Why did he have to be nice, and by consequence, three-dimensional and attractive? When our relationship functioned so splendidly on uncomplicated bouts of random fun? The whole thing got me thinking about him in sappy WTGTD language. And I really wish that acronym had vowels so I could effectively chant it to myself on a day-to-day basis as a reminder not to act like a total douche. Because it’s in those moments that you realize you’re not in a super part-time relationship that leaves you oodles of “you time.” You’re in a truly real grey relationship: despite how much your psyche may protest, emotions are involved.

For the ladies and gents who can keep this stuff super straight all the time, my hat’s off to you. But I have a hunch that for most of us, it’s never than simple. At the end of the day, if you’re lucky, you can console yourself with the fact that your partner’s probably just as confused as you are.