The Thrill of the Chase
I have always loved it.
In preschool, I publicly proclaimed my love for John Waterfall before he’d said a word to me.
In middle school (pre-email), I spent days drafting the perfect letter to mail—with a stamp and everything—to M., the tannest, richest, most popular girl in our grade. In it, I confessed how much I wanted to be friends with her and asked if we could maybe “have a playdate.” She took me aside in homeroom after she received it: “I got your letter. It was real good. And, yeah, we should hang out sometime.” We never did. But at least I had tried, would never have to wonder what if.
In high school, after being twice rejected, I asked out the boy who ‘took’ me to prom. Third time’s the charm.
In college, at the tailgate for the Harvard/Yale football game, I ran into an old fling—we drunk-flirted, and eventually I asked if I could kiss him. “That would be so nice,” he said, “but actually I’m dating someone right now.” Oh well.
After college, at a holiday party, I somehow persuaded a man—a real man, he was eight years older than I was at the time—to give me, well, not his number, but his email address. The next day, finally pressing “send” on a carefully-crafted message asking him out for a drink, I could feel my heart beating into the soles of my feet.
In grad school, I pursued a few men, who did not become my husband, while the man who would pursued me—but passively enough I could feel it had been my decision to date him when I finally capitulated. A few months later, I proposed.
Growing up, I had elaborate daydreams in which my latest crush wooed and pursued me—and yet, even then, being pursued turned me off. I wanted to be the one in control, the one holding the reins. The subject, not the object.
Whenever I’m called upon to give love-life advice, I always say something that amounts to—just say it, don’t beat around the bush, you’ll never know if you don’t ask. In theory, it is this final point—you’ll never know if you don’t ask—that historically prompted me to act (or text). I am always looking back and tormenting myself with what if?
In practice, it is the physical thrill that brought me back, again and again: the sudden throb of pride in my own daring followed by a nervous shiver then the constant thrum of anticipation—a tingling that keeps me awake late and gets me up early, that makes the day newer, better than the one before, crisp as a sheet of shiny, blank fax paper. What will the answer be? The mind holds the question in one corner while going about its daily chores made undaily by its secret presence. That pleasurable pain of not-yet--knowing, of living in the space between yes and no, your question waiting, aquiver, in space.