hope to hear from you soon

“Hope to hear from you soon. Ciao, bella.”

Ah… The third unreturned call.

He’s been a great friend. He’s a wonderful person. And by all accounts, he possesses all of those, um, attributes so favorably looked upon by most women.

I first met him when we lived in the same old neighborhood in Cincinnati. I was the crazy twentysomething climbing up the scaffolding outside my apartment building at 2 in the morning when I realized I didn’t have my house key. He was the mature, charming veep of an international company who always laughed at my (many) mishaps.

A slight age difference didn’t prevent us from having great fun when we met for the occasional drink and we started hanging together a couple of times a month. He was from Washington, and we often ruminated together about the places and people we missed out west.

He moved back west several years ago. I’ve seen him a few times when visiting Seattle. We spent some memorable afternoons together. Enjoying leisurely, alcohol-laden sushi lunches on the Sound. Drinking buckets of beer and eating lobsters in the San Juan Islands.

He moved to Washington to start a new company, and then left the company to care for his ailing ex-business partner. Never tending to himself, and somehow never finding anyone, though with the scarcity of good men in Seattle he’s a real “catch.” And still we talked. We made a pact to speak on the phone once a month. And we’ve stuck to that promise over the years.

A few months ago, in a fit of vulnerability and a true gesture of warmth, I decided we both needed a break from hospitals and families. So I asked him to meet me in Seattle for an upcoming weekend.

And now we’re on unreturned call number three.

So, what’s the problem? Nothing. I mean, he’s absolutely perfect.

Oh yeah. I guess that’s the problem.

Everything that I’m trying to avoid, everything that I don’t want… that’s what he represents. Suburbia. Tennis clubs. Upscale cocktail parties. And if I was with him, that would be me, too. There’s nothing dirty about him. Nothing less than perfect. He’s shiny and clean, with beautiful manners. And he always knows exactly the right thing to say: He’s the first to notice my streaky hair. A pair of sexy new heels. Five stubborn pounds lost.

And for some reason, I just can’t return that call. As usual, I have to over think everything and turn it into much more than a phone call. It’s not a fear of the unknown; it’s a fear that I’ll be swallowed up by the other country club wives and end up hanging around the pool, plastered on pills and regretting too many things. The little wifey. Having affairs with stable boys and spouting off in front of the other wives at weekly barbecues. Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad.

Damn. What’s wrong with me, anyway?