So in Cali, on Saturday, I ran out of my medication. I had the option of calling my doctor back in NJ and having him/them/it call in my perscription. But
1) I was having too much fun to make a pharmacy pitstop,
2) I was being transported, as opposed to transporting myself, and so I didn't want to interrupt their flow
3) I missed a med before and figured I'd just ride it out until I got home.
So let me tell you the two things that happened to me on the plane rides back to New York. I hesitate to give too many details because I don't want the ladies in question to somehow find this story from a Googlation.
But anyway, leaving Cali, I had an aisle seat. There was a young couple next to me. The fella asked me if I would trade seats with him because his wife was feeling ill and it would help if she had an aisle seat. So I got the window--a nice view. (Whatever meds left in my system let me enjoy the scenery. I'll be posting pictures.) When the fella said, "My wife," the girl in question made a little gasp and said, "You called me your wife." It took me a few minutes, but I asked, "So you guys are just married?" Happy nods. I sidled into the window seat and spoke briefly with the groom. They were heading out to their honeymoon. They'd been married in one of the San Somethingorothers. His name was Such-and-such. Me, I took some pictures out of the window, put on my mp3 player to drown out the dental student in the seat behind me who had that kind of voice (proceeding to use it for the ENTIRE trip), and when "Save The Best For Last" came on, I bawled for a half an hour. Good thing I had a window seat.
Now, it seems likely that this happened to me as a result of being off my meds. However, the elements were also in place for a good drenching. First off, I was leaving my friend behind and there was no telling when I'd see him again. I missed him even though it was only just three hours since he'd dropped me off at the airport. Secondly, here was another example of the M-word sitting next to me, young and fresh and new, just starting their adventure together while I was going back to Alone Street. Thirdly, "Save The Best For Last" by Vanessa Williams has some sad-ass chords in it.
Eventually I dried up and the bride justified the need for the seat change all. the. way. to. Texas. Barf bags are your friend. Unfortunately, she ran out of them and commenced to using a plastic (read; poorly insulated and in no stretch of the imagination airtight) bag. It helped eliminate my doldrums like Raid helps kill roaches.
Okay, now for the connecting flight from Texas. My seat was on the two-person side this time instead of the three-. To remind you, I was off my meds, so I didn't want to hear it. On Headphones! Switch to Janet! I was in musical bliss. EVentually my seat partner came in the guise of a normally configured gal who slept for most of the flight. Me, I read comics (my stash from the Comic Con) and eventually used my laptop battery power on some script pages for My Hero's second season of audio. This seemed to get her attention. When the battery beeped at me, I saved the document and put the comp away ... and she asked me what I had been doing.
The conversation that ensued was an anomaly from out of time and space, largely because it was happening to ME and not Joe College, backwards-fitted hat, flip-flop wearing, "dude"-sayin' Johnny Square-Jaw. She opened up immediately, revealing her profession. The nature of it was a cross the Scarlet Witch and Psylocke. (Sorry non-geeks, but I can't describe it any better. In laymen's terms, she was a mystic.) Of course I was skeptical. She tried to give it as much legitimacy as she could manage, but it was coming out like this; "mwah, mwah-mwah, mwah mwahhhhh" (my best typed impression of Charlie Brown Adult speak). Then I went and told her what I did (for the uninitiated, I'm a therapist) and it seemed like my attractiveness factor went up exponentially at that point. Oh she went into her manic depressive ex-husbands and boyfriends, and her New York friends, and why did her life take this direction, and what she told this one and that one and "honeychilde" this, and "okay?" that and rolling her neck, and snapping her fingers. And no, she was not black. She was adapting to me, who is. Not my favorite style of communication, may I add at this point. After she'd brought herself to tears, she started in on me. She actually asked me ... ACTUALLY ... "When's the last time you had a lover?" This came on the heels of her showing me a picture of herself when she was a model. It was quite a tasteful b&w pic. Topless. I sh!t you not.
And then I got them digits (ie; phone number). Again, no sh!t content to this.
But here's what needs telling. She was a total wreck. She was as manic as Brad Pitt is famous. She was completely inappropriate with me, a stranger. She was over the top.
And she was ready.
I know with all my heart and soul that she'd be an AMAZING lay. She'd sing opera. She'd have me swinging from the ceiling and speaking Portugese.
Now, here's the question. Should I call her?
See, I was off my meds. I had a real life crying jag that morning. But even so, I didn't feel attracted to this gal. (Isn't that just the story of my life?) In fact, I felt a little scared. This was something out of a comedy movie like that one with Ben Affleck and Sandra Bullock--she was a nutter and he was getting married. But her wildness attracted him and he threw everything away to be caught up in her whirlwind. But here in my case, it wasn't scripted for maximum laughation. And it wouldn't end conveniently with a roll of credits.
And Scott, also also notable is that she lives in your city, not mine. She invited me to go hang with her, but all I was thinking about was that it would be an opportunity to go hang with you as long as I was in town. Now that's no way to treat a lady, right? And as sure as I have size 9 1/2 shoes on, I just know that even if she and I made an arrangement to be eff-buddies, she'd catch feelings and make my life miserable if I didn't commit. When I said she brought herself to tears, I mean literally cried as she mentioned one of all those exes. Now, I'm a good therapist, but damn. I wasn't doing therapy per se--I was just making conversation.
So tell me people, is this the second coming of Glenn Close, or is this the unmedicated fearful me talking? Guys, what would you do? What have you done in the past?
Meanwhile I hadn't started my meds again until this morning, and I'd been dizzy for the past two days, which the doctor's office said was a side effect of stopping the meds so soon. Which sucks. Doc offered to have me come in to have my blood pressure checked, so evidently the meds affect my circulation in order to assist my brain. That's a little scary. And I hate being dizzy. But I like not being anxious more than that, so I re-upped.
Anyway, I need feedback on Crazy Plane Girl. Let 'er rip!