I was holding a tumbler full of green tea as I watched. This is a Starbucks Halloween tumbler that my mum gave me for Halloween one year, and it has kind of a difficult sipper lid. This resulted in me scalding my lips on the very hot green tea as it poured much more quickly towards my mouth than I had anticipated. But on the plus side, it seemed to clear up a bit of my illness.
Watching Amélie, I was reminded of something very stupid that I did a few years ago.
I was taking a creative writing class, and in the class with me was a beautiful French girl named Alban. She wrote things that made whole stories out of simple images--that is, a scene with a man having an espresso at a café was so pregnant with meaning that she could weave an entire short story of such scenes and you felt as though you'd just glimpsed one of the underlying, foundation threads of our emotional reality.
Unfortunately, at that time I was somewhat asexual. I mean, I'm certain I exhibited signs of being attracted to and interested in her, but they were signs that I was not precisely aware of myself at the time. And what's more, I considered it just completely outside the realm of possibility that something could actually happen between myself and a girl of my age, and I just took it for granted that she had no interest in me. Or if she did, it would only be best for her to staunch such interest for it was bound to go only absolutely nowhere.
And looking back, what makes me feel especially foolish is I think she was indeed very interested in me--she always made it a point to sit as close to me as possible--she wrote a part for me in her play that called for my character to kiss hers passionately at the climax. And the most astonishing item of all is that she gave me her phone number.
And what is doubly astonishing is that she gave me her number because I asked for it. Just bold face, "Say, can I have your number?"
And my real astonishing idiocy here is that I actually, genuinely, did not grasp why it was I felt compelled to get her phone number. That is, there was some part of me that was saying, "Hey, maybe we could go out with this girl. On a date," but that part of me was not communicating with my conscious mind. Instead, the reason I thought I was trying to get her number was for un utterly ludicrous scheme I was hatching, and I had to be thoroughly delusional to think that I would ever actually end up implementing.
At that time, for whatever reason, my mum had been getting on my case for not having a girlfriend. She was at the point of bullying me like a Goddess of Fungal Rashes. So I thought to myself, "Well, Alban has to return to France soon. I could have her pose as my wife, and I'll say, 'Look Ma, I'm married to a French girl, so you can lay off now,'"
Oy vey! I'm incredibly stupid!
Alban was indeed returning to France, but only for Christmas. And she told me to call her in January. And I never did.
That fact is I lost her phone number--she wrote it on a teeny tiny piece of paper. Although, even if I hadn't lost it, I think I would have been too shy to ever try calling her anyway . . .
Ack! And she prolly thinks I'm a complete jerk for not calling her too . . .