I ran out the door a few minutes after 7 fearing that I was late and everyone was waiting on me (a perpetual fear of mine) only to find that ManLove and Babs had yet to shower, everybody had to dress and the restaurant we were planning on going to (the Melting Pot) was closed for renovations so we had to pick a new place. No worries. That gave me some time to compose myself before what felt slightly like the most important interview of my life.
We finally left the apartment a little before 9 with a well past hungry Babs and only a vague idea of where we were going. Finally we decided on sushi (which, as I’ve mentioned before, is a HUGE deal) and it only took us 20 minutes of parking lot driving to find the place.
We were served by the funniest little Asian woman (she started off intimidating us, forcing both couples to engage in romantic behavior, and by the end it seemed she had adopted us as her children, even giving us free food).
A lot of the conversation was dominated by the Minimalist and ManLove speaking inside joke-code and reminiscing about past sexcapades, but I didn’t mind. It was funny (and a little endearing) to see him acting the way he was. Babs wasn’t so happy about the ghosts of hook-ups past, though (nor about ManLove buying a pack of cigarettes on the way home).
Once back at the Minimalist’s place we drank some whiskey (ManLove was shocked when he saw me drink from the Minimalist’s glass, saying that he never thought he’d see the day).
ManLove was leaving in the morning so there was a bit of an emotional g’bye. Everyone hugged everyone. Tentative future plans were made. And by the time he walked out the door (despite not spending too terribly much time with him) I was quite sad to see ManLove go.
If you don’t remember, allow me to remind you: in the Minimalist’s circle, going on a sushi date means that you’re officially dating. I didn’t exactly push for a clarification on “officially dating” and I don’t want to. Some may scoff at the situation I have worked out—the presence of affection, but lack of a title.
I don’t care. It works (oh-so-wonderfully) for me. And him. So I don’t know what “officially dating” means. I won’t put it on FaceSpace or start calling him my boyfriend. I don’t suddenly expect him to start calling me every night before I go to bed or carrying my books. I don’t want/need that. To me, titles are often based on insecurities and a desire for status and gloating rights.
I’m confident in what I’ve got going.
And now onto another piece of business:
I got an email tonight. An email that I had been very nervously expecting all day. Or, at least at the back of my mind, all week. This was an email from my editor-in-chief. This email contained my fate for next year: the announcement on whether or not I got the forum section editor position.
When I submitted my application I felt like I was qualified, but still a long shot.
So tonight, after a wonderfully relaxing shower, my blood pressure once again shot through the roof as I saw The Email waiting for me in my inbox.
Oh god. Oh shit. I can’t. I want to so badly. But shit.
With more than a little trepidation I clicked the highlighted message.
“The Editorial Board is pleased…”
Pleased to crush my dreams? Please to announce they found someone better?
“…to accept your application for Forum Editor.”
Holy fucking shit goddamn balls!
I got it! I got it! I screamed/squealed/made a sound like a dying pig, and probably scared the shit out of Roomie and whoever she was on the phone with at the time.
You have no idea (or maybe you do; I don’t know your life) how happy/intimidated/shocked I am. It probably won’t fully hit me for a while. I’ll let you know when it does.
Until then…I don’t even know.