Word Perv

Yesterday I got an email from #9. On our first date, I mentioned I (very briefly) took piano lessons, but had to quit due to grad school consuming all my extra time. His email asked if I could play this piece:

I replied, no I couldn’t play that piece and reminded him that I had only briefly taken lessons. Then I moved on, thinking nothing more of it.

Later that evening we met for drinks and he inquired about it. I again stated I couldn’t play it, that my piano skills had been marginal at best and that despite having played an instrument for eight years my ability to read music was, well, crap.

He laughed, “Did you recognize the piece?”

“Yeah, it’s Ode to Joy,” I wondered what he was getting at, after all, the damn title was written across the top of it.

“Also known as Beethoven’s 9th…”

I looked at him, not quite that deer-in-headlights blank stare, but one that was a bit perplexed.

“Number nine… Your blog…”

“Oh shit… You found it…”

He laughed, “Yeah.”

Well hell, it had happened. I wondered if perhaps it was time I take my friend’s advice and stop blogging about my adventures in dating.

“It’s okay, you actually summed up our date quite well.”

I laughed, “Well thanks. I am smart about what I write, not everything makes the blog. How far back did you read?” This is always the question I dread asking. No, I take that back - it’s not the question I dread so much as the answer.

“Not far…”

We then talked for a bit about it. He admitted that his closest female friend and he were going over ideas as to how to be clever and let me know that he knew he was #9. My favorite idea: send me flowers with a note that read: From #9, may there not be a #10. It’s my favorite because let’s face it - women love getting flowers and it is quite creative.

He then stated that knowing I have a blog, and knowing that I write about my life, including those I date, was a bit intimidating. That he might censor himself a bit, be a little cautious about what he reveals to me.

Well #9, here’s the deal - you’re going to have to trust me. You’re going to have to trust that I am careful about what I post, and that I will consider your feelings when I’m writing. And I’m going to have to trust you too. I’m going to have to trust that you’re not going to go all the way back to July 2007 when I started blogging and read forward. That you like me enough to want to get to learn about me through me, rather than reading my entire history.

Of course I do have friends who have done this - gotten bored one night, or suffered from insomnia, or perhaps just had me on their minds and so they spent far more time than intended, reading the back-story of my life. And that’s okay. Some of those people have become my closest friends. But it doesn’t always work that way, so I hope #9 waits a bit before deciding to dive headfirst into what can occasionally be the cluster-fuck I call my life.