B is For Blurter.

I'm sorry for saying... inappropriate things last night.

Because, you see, I wasn't taking the words back.
Or sorry for saying them.
They just weren't... appropriate.



Apt F Me.

 I've had a terrible week. But one of those terrible, awful weeks where the world shows you exactly how lucky you are. The kind of week where everything hits the fan, and life shows you that you have a strong network of people there to help you clean it. I've done a lot of reflecting on the past year, maybe its because we're almost at Thanksgiving, and goddamnit I am lucky. Now, I just have to work on - well, finances, really. But that's a whole other story that would make for a verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry dull blog. But I digress... So, I can be wildly inappropriate. On Halloween, when someone was dressed as Freddie Mercury I made an 'pnemonia' joke. Yeah. Awful, I know. So, with a knack for saying the wrong thing or simply not thinking before I speak, I tend to blurt.
I'm a Blurter. The words just come out.
Hence the apology this morning as I stepped out of the shower.

For.
Saying.
Inappropriate.
Things.

Because I woke up this morning with a certain three words resonating in my head. Shit.
And it wasn't followed by the usual 'as a friend' that I like to tack on to the end of it. He said not to worry about he; that he was on the same page - That he understands. I don't even know what I meant by it. I don't even know if I meant it. Do I feel that way about him? I get these ideas in my head and they seem wrestle with my mouth like its the championship match. And they always seem to win.
One time he said it to me, somewhat casually, and I looked him square in the eye, and added 'as a friend' for him. He did not correct me, nor did he respond.
And this morning, on the phone, I went to apologize again & he said,

Don't apologize. I care about you & you care about me. 

My girlfriend asked me if I had butterflies when I saw him. I said No.
Bijou asked if I do indeed feel that way about him, and I rolled my eyes and made mention of him being puffy. Her response? Oh well, you're puffy too sometimes. So am I.*

*I'm obsessed with puffiness.

So here I am, white wine seeping out of my pores after an amazing night with my flame-haired favorite & her fiance, after a night of Pinot Grigio on the backyard patio & the blurry memory of a dance-off wondering what the heck I was thinking.
It's way to soon.
Have I been thinking this all along? Yes.
But! But! But! No.
Yes.
No.
Oh God.
Can I even differentiate between realllly really liking someone and being in love with them? Without butterflies, without that elusive Spark. Puffy & all. But with a level of comfort and of caring that I haven't felt in a long time. I once told him (er, blurted) that if he ever read this thing down the line, he'd look at me and go, You realllllllly didn't like me when we first got together. I know I whine, and I know I fought it like my mouth does my words & I roll my eyes and I panic about Goldi meeting the Doctor's parents because it reminds me that I may someday have to meet Apt F's. The word 'boyfriend' makes me sheepish, and I have only referred to him as that once to his face, and even that was in recounting someone else's words.
But I tell him everything - well, almost everything. Why? Because I'm a blurter. I am an Apt F-induced blurter. That filter that overtook me in my month with the Dutchman, where is that when I need it??

Do I love him? Yes, as a friend. I love our friendship and yes, I am... I can see the possibility...

See, I can't even type it.

But those words on that 'same' page we are on, those damn three little words... They wrestled their way from the paper to my lips to the air between us.

I said them.

I am happy. Why can't that be enough? Why must I go blurt all that is inappropriate?

He may understand but I sure as hell don't.