A Slip?

 
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Just between a week and two ago, I pulled my back out in the shower. Who knew it could lead me to an emotional conundrum of such mixed emotions as I've found myself in...

I've got a bad history of hurting myself. In many ways...but in this particular case, my back. Last winter, after shoveling three feet of snow from around my car, I slid in the compacted snow in the street, where the cars had carved their way through the treacherous powder. The winter before, I was lucky enough to hit the only 3 inches of ice hiding on a 4 foot slab stair as I was stepping up. Both times it was just a little jerk, not even a complete fall, just a slip. And yet both times I was nearly incapacitated with pain for months.

This time, all it took was a slightly-awkward, sleepy-eyed bend at the waist to wash my feet in the shower.

But this time, I also had a membership to LA Fitness and they'd just opened a brand new facility not two blocks from my home. I've also been privy to visiting the location near my work for an Aquafit class or two. So I knew just how great a little stretch and a little swim could really make me feel.

For the past ten days, I've been going to various LA Fitness locations 2-3 times a day to fit in a swim. It has been the only relief from the annoyingly excruciating pain. Thirty minutes to an hour usually, sometimes almost two -- and I go from lurching Quasimodo to normal. For a whole five minutes. Or however long it takes me to sit down (usually in my car). Then I'm crumpled over again, having taken two steps forward and one and a half steps back in recovery. But at least my progress is forward.

But forward progress in physical recovery may have possibly sent me several steps back in emotional recovery.

Two nights ago, I was taking a late swim at the facility near my house, a thing I am loathe to do, thanks to the generally-low-caliber quality of people that frequent it in the busy hours of after-work-to-close. I was a bit frustrated at having to finagle my way around casual dippers clogging up the lanes and hard-core swimmers splashing their way obnoxiously down them. But I got my swim in.

As I was back-stroking, a sudden rush of water could be heard, muffled beneath the serenity of the water, and several annoying lapping waves caused me to sputter to a stop. Clearing the spray from my eyes, they found the cause - a rather large man who took a huge dive into the pool clearly marked "no diving."

He moved gracefully, quickly, surprisingly swift and graceful for a man his size. As I continued my swim, my eyes were drawn to him (I rather like large, cuddly men) and I noted he was quite attractive.

When I'd finished my laps, I hesitated at the foot of the pool, clinging to the side as I stretched and cooled down. The large man approached in the lane beside me, also taking a breather.

"You swim fast," I said with an amiable grin, which sparked off a conversation that lasted at least an hour. Part of it was a fearful embarrassment to emerge where he would see my long-neglected unshaved legs (rather hard to shave when your back is in agony); the rest I attribute to the fact that I was severely enjoying his attention and the conversation.

My fingers were pruned and the hour was growing late when he asked, "So you'll be here tomorrow?" And, though I hadn't intended to attend the next evening, I agreed. I made my exit and moved through the rest of the evening and the next day with anxious anticipation.

Now, all of this seems rather commonplace and simple...perhaps even sweet. But the treachery lies in the fact that I am currently abstaining from all romantic and sexual involvement as I journey through a 12-step program for sex and love addiction.

In this program, it is standard to wait until you've completed your fifth step and developed a healthy dating plan with your sponsor, before you begin pursuing any sort of dating or relationship (so long as you're single when you're working it). I am only about halfway through my fourth step, and have been stuck there for nigh on a year now. I am definitely not ready to date.

How does one judge sobriety in a program like that? It's not like AA, where you just don't drink, or like NA where you just don't do drugs. Issues with sexuality can be so intricate, varied and ambiguous. A nebulous mystery to try to bring healthy meaning to.

Sobriety, for me, means no physical sexual contact outside of a committed monogamous relationship, for starters. Which is very difficult to adhere to in this day and age.

But excitement ran high as the hour drew near to meet at the pool with my new-found friend. My nerves were a-rattle and felt as though they would snap, especially since he was late.

Fifteen minutes passed and I swung from disappointed, to aggravated, to resentful, to accepting...at least I was getting my evening swim in. Fuck him, I don't need him anyway!

I came to the decision to swim my ten laps and leave.

And then, just as I began my ninth lap, he appeared. With his big, goofy grin and sexy highlights. I pretended not to notice him at first. When we both drew near to the head of the pool, he caught my eye and I smiled. "What's up," I drawled casually before kicking off to finish my lap, duplicitous to my true emotions, which wrestled between relieved and resentful.

He approached me at the foot, once again, in the same spot we'd conversed the night before, and we struck up yet another frank and flirty conversation, which led to him asking me out to dinner. Ten minutes later, we were both dressed and smelling nice outside the gym and on our way to my favorite Mexican restaurant down the street.

He opened the door, pulled out my chair, paid for the meal. A perfect gentleman. It was awesome.

Perhaps the night could have ended there and been serenely complete. But neither of us wanted the evening to end. We drove to a bad neighborhood and stopped at his "guy's" house to pick up a little something to make our night a little blurry at the edges. Then drove down Lakeshore Drive, music blaring, hearts soaring in the revelry of what might be the final nights of summer in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

We landed, perhaps an hour later, in the darkened shadows of a small grove of trees circling a pond behind the Museum of Science and Industry. My back was feeling great - after a swim and the remedy we'd indulged in. But beyond the haze, there still laid a throb of warning in my lower spine.

There was a beaver...or, more likely a rat, but I'd like to believe it was a beaver, that scurried the ridge of the pond and sent me shrieking into his arms. Our first real physical contact, which softened into hand-holding as we skirted our way to an overhanging terrace of sorts. The moon - or perhaps the park lamplights, I don't quite remember - reflected brightly on the placid pool and our shoulders touched as we slouched over the thick, concrete railing.

Looking up, I was surprised to see stars. And not just one, but several. Nothing I would call a smattering, but far more than one grows accustomed to seeing in the city. I gasped and giggled with delight, my back protesting just a bit as we spread out on the concrete to star gaze. His head nestled next to mine, his left ear only inches away from my left ear, our legs sprawled out in opposing directions as we gazed and pointed and talked ignorantly of the constellations we knew nothing about. Silly city-folk who were abundantly blessed to see more than one dingy little airplane flicker mistaken for a star.

Oh, how I wanted to kiss him. And I could feel his desire for the same, every time he turned his head and his breath brushed ticklishly against my neck, my ear. But I had only known him just a bit longer than 24 hours. I only know his first name. I didn't even have his phone number!

And it all tumbled out. Someone I'd known just a bit over a day, in addition to all you strangers reading this, now knows about my addiction. And the real reason I just can't kiss him, despite the fact that I desperately want to.

"Can we just be friends for a while?" I asked, plaintively.

"I don't know," he replied doubtfully, "If you don't kiss me, maybe we can't hang out."

Don't get upset...he was joking. But I got a bit upset.

"Well, if I'm not worth waiting for, perhaps you're not worth hanging out with," I chided, lifting myself up with a groan of pain, the haze wearing off just a bit. He followed suit, lifting himself up and trying to console me, convincing me that he was just joking (It was pretty easy to believe).

On our way back to the car, a blind divot in the grass caught my foot and I sunk quickly, further contorting my nearly-healed back. I cried out in surprise and pain, clinging instinctively to him. He held me, comforted me, rubbed my sore back. God, he smelled good. And he was so cuddly. I could have lingered there forever, had it not been for the fear of breaking my sobriety.

Nine months.

I'm sure you have absolutely no idea how hard it is to be nine months sober. I can't imagine what it must feel like to be sober from a substance. But being sober as a sex addict. My God...it's like denying your very existence. So close to a year, but so far. And so easy to throw it all to the wind, if I'm not careful.

The conversation didn't die after that. We continued on in friendly back and forth, singing along to music as I drove him home. (Yes, I drove him home, a car is a luxury in the city). I was looking for my phone to change the song (actually, I was hoping to get his number and used that as a ruse), but he brought out his phone too.

"When can I see you again?" he asked, sending my heart throbbing in my throat.

"I'll be busy until Friday, and then I'm going out of town," I said, almost apologetically.

"When are you coming back?"

"Sunday."

"So, I'll see you Sunday, then," he said declaratively, with just the slightest hint of a question at the tail end, sending me blushing and agreeing to meet him again at the pool on Sunday night...and into a whirlpool of emotion: fear, excitement, trepidation, but with the still small voice in the back of my mind reminding me how important my sobriety is.

Oh, please, still small voice...be insistent enough to conquer all the other voices vying for my attention. I can't afford another slip that sends me into agony.

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Part 2: http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/217197-date-two-falls-through-turns-impromptu/