First, as you may remember, there was my Slovak. With him, I am still in love. And after a few weeks of hating his girlfriend for being so sweet in person, I came to terms with the fact that they are as well. The fact that she has taken to me in the same way as him lets me know that he’s in good hands, and for this I’m happy. Yesterday he came to me with the news that they would be married next summer. It’s hard to believe, but I was actually so excited about it, that I had to hug him twice. I’m happy he’s happy, which means I’ve discovered a new and healthy kind of love.
Next, we have the Edinburgh Englishman, a man young enough to bring the term “cougar” to mind. But thanks to him, turning 30 wasn’t quite as miserable. And while helping me to perfect my fake British accent, he was able to pinpoint the dialect and region it’s from. He was a nice little ego boost, but there was no future to be had.
Now, as you may recall, comes the stupidity with the ex, but we’re just going to pretend that didn’t happen.
And here is the point where I make my resolution, which precludes a heart-wrenching mess.
We have the Renaissance man, who literally does everything. I’ll be honest, my feelings for him are lukewarm, as I believe his to be, although, his behavior seems to suggest otherwise. I have since learned that Czech men are particularly shy so they are loath to make a move. I’ve made several, but his hesitation remains. Although I admit, the man has some serious potential, and I have found myself fantasizing about a future with him.
Then there is my Paris love. Oh, how I was swept up in the romanticism of the entire experience. The pouty way he’d say my name, how he would tell me to smile, lift my chin, look into my eyes, and call me his princess. But I wouldn’t go back, as the briefness and perfection of the memory is what makes it feel like love.
This is where it gets rough, both for the reader and myself.
One month away from my return to the states, and along comes Mr. Perfect. I mean that in such a literal sense, it makes my heart ache while writing it. My Slovak was nothing; this is the be all and end all of love (okay, so perhaps the melodrama will wear off post 4-day lovesick).
I first saw him two years ago in Brno. Upon sighting the 6’7”, goateed, green eyed, long, dark-haired Moravian (look, we all have our tastes), my immediate thoughts were “Holy crap, that’s my dream guy!” But I was undergoing culture shock, and approaching him at the time was unthinkable.
One year later, I meet him formally at the Czech YSA conference. I’m introduced, and he kisses my hand (a gesture I realize is incredibly nerdy in the states, but adorable when done by European men). He doesn’t say much, which leads me to believe that he may not be very confident in his English. I ask him to dance a few times, which were his only moments not standing on the sidelines, and his smile was unmistakable, he was definitely enjoying himself.
Oh, if only I hadn’t wasted so much time on my Slovak!!!!
This brings us up to one week ago, the first day of the YSA conference in Poland. I made the mistake of thinking that Poland was using the Euro, when in fact they are still using the Zlotych. A senior Elder offered to drive me down to the post office for an exchange along with the only other person to make the same mistake . . . The Moravian.
On the way, I discover that his English is much better than I had originally thought, and I’m able to find out more about him. 5 years my senior, 3 years converted, so on and so forth. The friendship is formed, and a closer proximity throughout the conference is maintained.
Next comes the dancing. Four consecutive nights of dancing, and by the third night, we dance with no one else. For him, it was owing to the fact that the night was dedicated entirely to Latin music, and he found my partnership advantageous. For me, it was because I wanted to spend every possible moment in his arms. Once he perfected a proper dip (the kind where both arms are wrapped around my torso as he drops me two feet from the floor), I’m in sheer heaven.
The following day was utter agony. “When will I see him again?”, “How does he feel about me?”, “Why doesn’t he come over to talk to me?”, “Is he looking at me right now?”, “Has he said anything about me?”, “Is he going to come sit next to me?”, “I wonder if he’ll hold my hand”, “Why do I have a throbbing headache!?”
Every moment he is or isn’t there is analyzed, and I just keep praying that my heart will stop racing at a million beats per second. I go back and forth between “He’s so perfect”, and “He’s such an idiot”, about once every 10 minutes. My neck and eyes are strained from looking for the tall man with the ponytail every 5 seconds, until the night of the final dance. For the first hour, he’s nowhere in sight. I feel stood up, I decide once and for all that I’m the idiot, and I convince myself that I’m completely over him. Finally I find him in the corner talking to a friend. I sit next to him, he asks me to dance, and I’m right back to the infatuation of the night before.
The bus and train ride home is spent chatting with him, and we naturally spend the time sitting, standing, and waiting together throughout the long trip. My interest in knowing every detail about him borders on obsession, and one part of my brain is fighting this as the other part is noticing how adorable the wrinkles in his face are when he’s straining to find the right word in English.
I found him to be faithful without judgment, humble and introverted, definitively laid back yet at the same time passionate. I ask him if he’d ever want to come to America, and he tells me of his dream to see Temple Square. I tell him every wonderful opportunity awaiting him in the US, where I would take him should he come to visit, and what sort of work he could do if he would ever by some miraculous circumstance decide to live there. He tells me that if he could have any job in the world, he would be a teacher, most likely for young children. Can we say kismet?
Then comes the kicker.
He tells me how it wasn’t easy for him to join the church. How his parents haven’t accepted his faith as they are both devout Catholics, and how they were so disappointed in him because until he had joined the church . . . he was studying to become a priest.
If there was any time in my life where I was likely to swoon, that would have been it.
But that’s the moment when I realized, this guy is so incredible, a relationship with him is probably the longest shot of my life. The Slovak naturally made me a better person. The Moravian makes me want to go far beyond what I know I‘m capable of. I haven’t a chance.
It brings to mind a portion of Shakespeare’s “All’s Well That Ends Well”:
“'Twere all one
That I should love a bright particular star
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself [. . .]
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his reliques.”
Ugh, I hate myself.
Thankfully, he is a two-hour bus ride away, so I have time to decompress before I see him again in two weeks. Though I have learned that you can be completely neurotic in front of European men, wear your heart on your sleeve, and just plain make a fool of yourself, and they don’t freak out or run away. They just don’t make men like this in America (sorry guys). It’s a fact of life that girls are more prone to love’s obsessions than guys are, and this rant is indeed part of that insanity.
But one thing I do know. As insecure as I am about my looks, and despite my crippling camera phobia, never have I felt as beautiful as I do when looking at a picture of him and me.
If only I wasn’t leaving. If only I spoke to him a year ago, two years ago. If only I was more confident, more active, more spiritual . . .
If only . . .
