Series 2, Episode 4:  ”Ramona”—The Pains of Being Pure at Heart

But I don’t need time
I just need you
To wake me on a Tuesday morning
And tell me there’ll be peace in our time
Because I can’t take another warning
Like the night we should have just left behind

I returned from Argentina with a wicked head cold and without my luggage.  I found myself choking back tears at the Philadelphia airport as I realized that my house keys were in my mysteriously absent suitcases.  Normally I would be able to handle a crisis of this nature with the greatest of ease.  However, the combination of super-strong south american decongestant and all-american Benadryl was affecting my ability to problem solve.   I considered just living in the airport for the rest of time.  It was surprisingly close to my office!  I could just buy clothes at the airport Gap and eat all of my meals at the airport Saladworks.  Of course, there were also an airport Starbucks and an airport medical clinic at my disposal.  I was virtually sold on the idea of never returning to my apartment.  And then I remembered all of the great clothes I had bought in Buenos Aires.  The souvenirs I had chosen for my family with great care!  The proof that I had spent time in the southern hemisphere.  The luggage had to be recovered!  After a few frenzied phone calls to the airline and my roommate, I was in a overwhelmingly vanilla-scented cab heading for my apartment.  

It’s amazing what a hot shower and a few episodes of Gossip Girl can do for one’s health.  My head was clearer, my nose was no longer running like a salty faucet, and I actually felt HAPPY to be home.  And oh yeah, my luggage was delivered around midnight.  One contained only my dirty laundry, dripping with fernet thanks to a bottle that had been shattered during the transport from the airport to my place.  That bag has smelled really herbal and antiseptic since then, despite various attempts at sobering it up.

The next day, Monday,  I was at my desk, answering emails with the enthusiasm that can only come after a long, amazing trip.   I was actually thinking to myself, “Maybe it will be okay to stay in here in Philadelphia, at this job, in this life, because it allows me to really travel.”  Yes, everything was going to be fine.  

And then he jumped in to my mind, via the magic of internet chat.  “You’re back!  How was it?  I can’t wait to hear all of your stories.  Let’s hang out soon.”

Sure, sure.  Yeah, I was going to be very busy that week, but maybe some time.

Soon it was Tuesday:  “Okay, seriously, I hate to admit this, but I miss you.” I scowled at his talent for saying exactly what I wanted to hear.  “Let’s get together soon!  What are you doing this week?”

Well, I was awfully busy.  Work and social commitments.  Laundry and family time.  It was amazing how many obligations could pile up when one left the continent!

I spent Wednesday in Manhattan, trying to find hats and scarves for next summer’s assortment.  Alas, this was before I succumbed to the siren song of the  smart phone, so I was virtually unreachable.  And therefore, freed from the  temptation to hang out with him.

But then there was Thursday.   “What are you doing tonight?” Actually this time, I had a legitimate excuse:  my company’s holiday party.  I didn’t actually want to go because I felt like such a weird outsider, despite working there for years.   I just hadn’t drunk enough of the Kool-Aid.  And so, spending boozy time with my hundreds of co-workers did not sound very fun.  

He was disappointed.  He wanted to me to accompany him to his own company holiday party.  He really wanted to see me, blahblahblah.  

I said “yes.” Partially because I wanted to see him (as much as I hated to admit it), and mostly because I just couldn’t bear the thought of another drunken night at the office.

After approximately 100 glasses of wine at his party (in my defense, they were small), we staggered to another bar for an unnecessary pair of whiskeys.  And wow, he was even cuter than I had remembered.  Even from across the table, he smelled like everything good all at once.  He said all the right things and oh my, his eyes just killed me.  

 I gave him a bleary-eyed existential tarot card reading.  “There are people in your life that you should not trust.  They say what you WANT to hear, instead of what you NEED to hear.”  Imagine hearing this with the appropriate amount of liquor-induced slur and lisp.  Apparently South America had transformed me into a reasonable mystic.

As I returned my tarot cards (Gypsy Witch, the best brand) to their box, I said to him, “Can I be honest with you?”

He nodded his head.

“Well, while I was in Argentina, I decided that I would never see you again.”

He had suspected this.

“Also, my friends and I made fun of you sort of constantly…”

“In english and spanish…”

“With individuals from several different countries…”

The joke usually went like this:

Friend:  Where should we have lunch?

Me:  When you ask me where we are going to have lunch it makes me think that you think that someone else thinks that I think we are in a relationship…

And so on.   Sometimes the lines switched roles, but they were followed with laughter no matter who delivered them. 

Time passed rapidly after this declaration.  Maybe he was sad or angry…possibly even embarrassed.  Regardless, he paid the check, next he asked me to come back to his house, and then a taxi was hailed.

In the backseat of a yellow cab, I lost my hat, and moments later, I lost my head.  His mouth tasted like whiskey and fresh ginger.

At his house in Fishtown, I shed my clothes, followed by my resolve.

The next morning, bits of sunshine crept through his bedroom blinds, rousing me from my dreamless sleep.  Like the Liz Phair song, “I woke up alarmed.”   

Rubbing my eyes and surveying his unconscious face, I said to myself, “You can either forget this ever happened or  remember it until you regret it.”

I chose to wake him for coffee and then spend the next months torturing myself.  Even now, thousands of miles away, I swear it was worth it.

P.S. Photo from the necropolis in Recoleta, Buenos Aires.