On My Knees (13 page)

But this time he didn’t preface it with “I think.”

S
o while all of this was very intense, it was also really refreshing and part of what I liked so much about Guy. He wasn’t afraid to tell the truth—even if it was scary or crazy or made him vulnerable. He was very up-front about, well, everything.

He was also super laid-back about pretty much everything and other than that one fight, being with him was just
easy
.

My parents, of course, wanted to meet him. At least my mother did. She was all up in my shit about it, too. I suppose I could understand that after the year of insanity I had been through she was dying to see what I’d gotten myself wrapped up in. I wasn’t so sure I was ready for this—if for no other reason than just the sheer fact that I didn’t want to deal with a barrage of questions.

I knew my mother would love Guy. I wasn’t so sure about what my father would think. On a good day my father was doing you a favor if you managed to get more than a sentence out of him. But he had spent a good deal of time in Israel for work and he had a soft spot for Israelis. Plus, they actually sort of had a lot in common. They were both really into sports and they’d both served in the army. And they were both kind of quiet no-nonsense kind of guys, but once you got them going they had a really dry sense of humor and were actually really funny.

When I told Guy my parents wanted to meet him, he was like, “Okay. Let’s go meet them.”

I was way more apprehensive. In my world, introducing someone to your parents was a big deal. To begin with, it has all sorts of implications and I still wasn’t sure what this relationship was or where it was going—if it were going anywhere at all. As crazy as my parents drive me, they’re pretty much the most important people in my life and I didn’t want to introduce them to someone who was not going to be around for a long time. Plus, I knew I was going to have to field a million questions from my mother. And at this point, as into him as I was, there was really no way to know anything. I mean we were having a blast and we totally adored each other, but we lived like six thousand miles apart.

But Israeli culture is very family-oriented and Guy was so casual about the whole thing that I acquiesced. Before I did, though, I was like, “For the last time, are you
sure
you want to meet them?”

And Guy said, “Well, I’m going to meet them at some point, so why not now?”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with that, but his nonchalance was reassuring.

Uncle Bark was having a Chanukah party and my entire family was going to be there. I figured with so many people there it was a safe bet that we could get in and out within an hour and with minimal damage.

Uncle Bark, who is charming under pretty much any circumstance, was mildly intoxicated from his white wine spritzer when we got there and was as amusing as ever. The second we walked in, Uncle Bark came over and started talking to us in broken Hebrew. But the person Guy got along with more than anyone was my father. My father, whom you usually have to beat over the head to get him to talk, was in the corner with Guy, chatting away for the better part of an hour. After a while I sidled up to them to investigate what they were going on about. What else? Sports. Or more to the point, sportswear. Specifically, sneakers. My father, who has been playing paddleball (like handball, but more street) religiously since he was in his twenties, is completely obsessed with sneakers. Because my father has an obsessive personality, the man owns more sneakers than even Shaquille O’Neal would need for a lifetime. I’m talking in the hundreds. In Israel, which is a tiny country the size of Rhode Island, huge sporting goods stores don’t exist. So when Guy discovered them in New York, it was like a dream come true. When my father then offered to take Guy to Modell’s, the biggest sneaker store on the planet, I knew it was all over.

My mother eventually made her way over and started talking our ears off. She asked Guy, “So, what’s your favorite thing about New York?”

Guy said, wholly and without reservation, “Periel.”

Between that and his newly found best friend in my father, my mom was totally sold.

After we left, Guy took my hand, and was like, “Where did you come from? Your parents are so nice and you’re, well, such a . . . little monster.”

O
ne of my favorite things about Guy was that he says what he means and he means what he says. That and he always does what he says he is going to do. You can also always count on him to say what he thinks. This I could sometimes do without. This may have been a cultural phenomena, but whatever it was, Guy had no filter.

Once, for example, right after we had sex doggy style, he said, “You are very sexy and I love you but the hair in your ass is so long I could braid it.”

Who says that?

A girl less self-confident than I am would have probably never had sex again. And while it was true that maybe I had gone a bit more au naturel
,
I wasn’t sure about the braiding part. Beyond that, Guy wasn’t a gorilla but he certainly had his fair share of fur.

I was as mortified as I was amused. I was like, “You are
such
a misogynist.”

Guy said, “A what?”

I was like, “Never mind. Hang on.”

I hopped off the bed and bent over in front of the mirror to investigate my anus. He actually wasn’t that far off. I was like, “Well, whatever. I may have some hair in my butt but I’ve never had any complaints and before you start talking about my ass, you should look at your own!”

Guy said, “I’m a man. I’m supposed to have hair on my body.”

I said, “That is a social construct that you’ve been brainwashed to think is the natural order.”

Then it took me an hour to explain to Guy what misogyny and social constructs and the natural order were. And if you think that’s a task for the faint of heart, you are sadly mistaken. Finally he got it but still maintained that he felt like he was having sex with a goat.

Later, I found a shoe box on my desk with a Post-it on top and thought,
How cute, a gift.
Guy had taken to leaving me Post-it notes all over the apartment—little notes that said “I love you” or whatever and I thought this was a more sophisticated version of that. When I got closer, I noticed that instead of saying “I love you,” the Post-it said “ASS KIT.”

When I opened the box, there was a can of hairspray, a brush, and a hair dryer.

(Of course I didn’t tell him this, but I thought this was hands-down one of the most brilliant things I had ever seen in my life.)

O
n the flip side, I knew I could always count on him to tell me the truth—which, as my grandmother used to say, is nothing to sneeze at. Plus, I appreciated his sense of humor. I could tell him anything and we always had a great time together. Other than the fact that he lived in the Middle East and I lived in North America, everything was perfect. Or, perhaps, everything was perfect precisely
because
he lived in the Middle East and I lived in North America.

We went back and forth like this—I would go to Israel; he would come to New York—for about a year. At which point things changed. The complete abandon had been replaced with caution. Things were getting serious and the reality that we lived on different continents had sunk in. Of course, the reality that I had fallen in love with him had also begun to sink in. Summer was coming and it was time to put on my big-girl pants and make some decisions.

I had always wanted to live in Israel and now seemed like as good a time as ever. I knew that no one ever accomplished anything in this world without taking a chance. But knowing something and actually doing something are two very different animals. I had just spent the better part of the year building my little nest. Was I really going to put all my stuff in storage and sublet my apartment? And what about work? I came up with a million scenarios. On the other hand, was I really going to
not
do something I had been dying to do for my whole life so I could sit in New York and babysit my pink couch? What it came down to was the only reason
not
to go to Israel for the summer was because I was scared.

That sealed the deal. Making decisions out of fear was not only the worst way to make decisions; it was also pathetic. And I may have been a lot of things, but pathetic was no longer one of them.

Plus, in the scheme of things, what was three months?

I thought Guy would be thrilled when I told him I was coming to Israel for the summer, but instead he sounded concerned. Guy, who as a general rule was much more practical than I was, started going through a list of “what ifs.”

What would I do all day while he was at work?

What if I didn’t like living in Israel?

What if I didn’t like him?

What if things didn’t work out?

What would I do on Monday nights when he played soccer?

On and on it went. But the underlying concern was clear. How would this relationship ever really work when we lived on separate continents? And furthermore, what if it didn’t?

As far as I was concerned, I knew I would never forgive myself if I didn’t give it a shot. But I understood Guy’s position as well. A relationship with me was way out of left field for him. He may have been well traveled and well educated and sophisticated in a certain way—he appreciated fine food and fine wine and film and music and art—but for the most part he was a much more conventional and practical person than I was. He was more responsible than I was. He was less reactionary. He had a good job. He saved money. He visited his parents every Friday. He played soccer every Monday. He played poker every Thursday. He didn’t drive if he drank. If he took a trip, he
planned
it. He used a condom. I mean not with me, but whatever. Naturally, some of this was just pure common sense. But the point is that when Guy made decisions, he thought them through.

I was more like a caveman—far from practical, totally unconventional and entirely self-indulgent. I made decisions on a whim. I spent more money than I had. I decided everything at the very last minute. I mean I wasn’t an idiot but I was much less measured. In short, Guy’s superego was in charge of his life and my id was in charge of mine. And although he was madly in love with me, this aspect of my personality scared the shit out of him.

He told me he needed a couple of days to think about it.

This simultaneously totally freaked me out and made me completely irate. I toyed with the idea of holding out for his “decision.” Then, at like two in the morning, I decided that I had zero interest in waiting a couple of days or, frankly, even a couple of hours. So I wrote him an e-mail. I briefly considered the possibility that perhaps I should stop writing letters to men who want nothing to do with me trying to convince them otherwise.

Then I hit
SEND
.

Guy,

There are no guarantees in life. It doesn’t matter how long you take to think or how much you try to plan, you have no way of knowing how our relationship is going to work out and neither do I.

This summer things may be wonderful. Or they may not. There are a million other things that could happen, too. You can’t figure out the future.

I understand your concerns but you are NOT responsible for my choices. I make my own decisions and I live with what happens. You are NOT responsible if things don’t work out between us.

I know you’re scared. It’s okay. Life can be scary.

You can live your life not taking risks and making decisions out of fear but I don’t think that really protects you from anything.

I will say this: I want to be with someone who KNOWS they want to be with me. I want to be with someone who is THRILLED to see me, not with someone who is not sure. And when you say you need a couple of days to think about it, it makes me think that you’re not sure.

And so in a way, I only need one answer from you: do you want to see me?

Yes or no.

A lot of things are not black-and-white, but this is.

You are either willing to walk away from this and risk never seeing me again because you are scared or you’re willing to take a chance. It’s the summer, honey. It’s not a huge deal. It is supposed to be fun and exciting and wonderful. And maybe a little bit scary and maybe even a little bit boring.

We can figure out what we want to do after when the summer is over. We can’t figure it out now. But if I don’t come, we will never know. I don’t want to do that. I’m not willing to live my life never taking risks because I’m scared. Are you?

Another thing that is black-and-white is this: I love you.

And then I went to sleep.

W
hen I woke up the next morning, which also happened to be Guy’s birthday, I rolled out of bed to check my e-mail and braced myself.

Guy had e-mailed me back, which was a good sign. It was a short e-mail, written in Hebrew, so it took me a few minutes to read it.

It said:

You coming to Israel for the summer would be the best birthday present I could have ever hoped for. I love you.

By nightfall, I had purchased a ticket to Israel, sublet my apartment, and spent hours online looking for a place to live in Tel Aviv. Since I was planning to spend the majority of my time writing, I had several requirements: the apartment had to be walking distance from the beach and it had to have a balcony. On Craigslist of all places, I found an American expat from New York City named Maya Silver, who had just moved in with her boyfriend. She had a one-bedroom apartment, dead smack in the center of the city, two blocks from the beach, with a balcony.

I was thrilled. I called Guy to tell him and I thought he would be thrilled as well. Wrong again. The way he saw it, if I were coming to Israel, in essence to be with
him
, I should be staying
with
him. The way I saw it, this was the worst idea I had ever heard in my life. I explained to him that hanging out with someone on your own terms is
fun
but that living with someone is a nightmare. I also said that given the fact that your primary concern is that you don’t want to be responsible for me, I’m pretty certain that moving in together more or less guarantees a disaster. Plus, I told him, no offense but I don’t
want
to live with you. It’s too much pressure.