Francesca used the word "docile" to describe me today. I don't know about anyone else -- ah, the subjectivity of the English language! -- but I have always associated the word docile with cows. Related words that spring to mind: mindless, pushover, timid, dispassionate, frigid...

It was a casual remark; I shouldn't blow it out of proportion. But if I truly were none of those things, wouldn't I have demanded, "What do you mean by that?"

Well, I don't feel like any of those things. And it troubles me deeply that anyone might take me for that at face value. I know anyone who knows me is well aware I have a mind of my own, can stand up for myself, and am quite passionate. Still it drives me crazy that people's first impression of me might be something along the lines of docile -- that most people no matter how I present myself or feel still peg me as shy.

And I don't care what people think of me -- except I don't want to be taken for this. People may perceive me as strange, a bitch, an elitist, a prude -- all sorts of things I don't feel I am, but just not shy. I have spent a good portion of my life shy -- it is one of the main traits I associate with a self I have labored to leave behind. I promise you, I know what shy feels like; I am not shy.

But I am an introvert. And I do dislike most people -- I distance myself from most people. I am content with small groups. I do not like parties. I don't mind solitude. I'm terrible at meeting people and making conversation -- I hate irrelevant conversation. I still prefer not to speak in class; sometimes my voice wavers when I do. If I seem nervous, I cannot control how my body chooses to react to stimuli; I don't feel frightened -- I am not frightened of almost anything or anyone.

How is it that Josh always seems fearless, even in situations when perhaps I am the only one who knows he is not? And how is it that I seem either an imperturbable cow or a helpless deer in headlights perpetually?

What is it in my face or voice or body language that leads nearly everyone I meet to assume this about me instantly? Or maybe I'm just too fucking sensitive.

Anyway. I'm not shy if I don't want to talk, not unfeeling if I don't show my emotions to you, not docile if I don't make a fuss over things I couldn't possibly care less about. And I am the opposite of helpless.

(later)

I can't claim total repression and I can't claim not to understand eroticism. I've spent too much time thinking about John today to pretend I'm never attracted, to pretend I never want physically.

As far as I know he hasn't quit smoking in the last four days, but I am considering sending him the following short, nondescript email:

John,
It was really great to get to know you a little this weekend. I hope you're having a good time settling back in at your university. It's back to research on 19th century dress reform for me! Feel free to email anytime.
Lauren

Which is barely an invitation at all, and I can rescind it at any time.

Still, I am suspicious of myself: I all but ran when we actually had some time together, and now I'm all gung-ho when it is potentially nothing more than a relationship of words and couldn't possibly do me harm. And, perhaps most significantly, I know he wanted me, which satisfies this sick need in me to be pursued without really reciprocating.

Yes, I find my motives highly suspect. Either I'm about to plunge into an utter relapse or, not much better, I just want someone loosely fitting my demigod expectations to provide me with the physical affection I often pretend I don't want or need.

Let's break it down, then, yes? I find him reasonably attractive. Never a big fan of facial hair, expecially the immaculately trimmed goatee that just looks like the guy's trying too hard, but that's acceptable. Basically my "type": tall, dark, and not-too-handsome, and skinny, skinny. At once nervous (or is it just around me? I flatter myself) and confident: he's got this don't-fuck-with-me posture, and, I will say, if you're going to smoke, you've got to be able to use a cigarette -- puntuate with it, flick it away carelessly -- yes, god, that can be sexy. And with his cigarettes, posture, black goatee and black leather, he looks like something he is not until he opens his mouth, and that makes me feel like I know a secret about him. Okay, so Saturday night I saw him get slobbering drunk which was not in the least endearing. But did I mention he's an English/philosophy major with a 3.9 gpa in pursuit of his PhD? That's redemptive. Soft-spoken, sarcastic, and doesn't play well with others, though perhaps is more willing than I to fake it. That is the sum total of what I know about John which, clearly, is not a lot.

And it doesn't take much to realize how thoroughly, ludicrously I have romanticised everything about him to fill in the gaps. And then there is the not-insignificant consideration of when the hell I think I'm going to see him again.

And my motives -- whether I actually do want to see him again, and why -- of course.

All right, most likely I'm either a creep or twelve years old emotionally. Or I'm inexplicably lonely and craving physicality, which I would probably never admit to myself.

But there's absolutely no harm in sending that email tomorrow and thinking of him as I drift off to sleep tonight.

PS - Francesca recovered her wallet completely.