“There is freedom within; There is freedom without; Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup”

Her angelic voice is welcoming and encouraging. Her demeanor is unique, unafraid, and a breath of fresh air to anyone lucky enough to get to know her. But her aloof attitude is reprehensible. She’s a modern-day enigma who I adore and evade.

As I hit the notorious “send,” I squirm in my seat, wondering what response I will receive. Our last correspondence was a 2020 Zoom call in which I had a persistent Freudian slip. Each time I attempted to say “COVID-19,” it came out as “COVID ice cream.” She giggled like drunken fairies: a soft, yet high-pitched whimper.

It's then I remember one double date in which we play our own version of “Chopped.” She and my other half, whose personalities are akin, cooked up weirdly delicious dishes with ingredients picked out by her husband and me. I like her husband. We are kindred spirits. We laughed and playfully critiqued their dishes. At the end of the meals, we praised their efforts, gave out plastic medals, and toasted their achievements, laughing and drinking all the while.

She replies almost immediately with an easy candor. We chitchat about the past year, and our ups and downs. She tells me they miss us and want to hang out. If my face could twitch on demand, it would. Anxiety shoots through me. I know this routine. Too well. Despite an easy relationship, there’s an absurd number of proverbial hoops to jump through when scheduling plans. It’s like testing an obstacle course … blindfolded.

I put out feeler questions, anticipating the answers. When it seems safe to proceed, I argue with myself.

This is what we wanted, right?

Yeah, but we know how it goes. We KNOW the outcome.

The two sides go several rounds but can’t agree, so I put out a stipulation to her: no double booking us.

On several occasions, we have driven the hour trek to their house, expecting to spend the day or evening with them. We’ve planned on a meal, games, talk, and laughter. We walk into their home and are welcomed with open arms. We chitchat and catch up on the everyday occurrences. Then, and only then, we learn we have to leave in sixty minutes because they have different friends coming to visit them.

She agrees and we pick a date, three weeks out.

We KNOW what happens next, right?

This time will be different. She knows how we feel.

But does she?

This is the textbook definition of insanity, I realize it.

As I wait for the November sixth date to arrive, I secretly jump each time a text comes through. This obstacle course isn’t over. A surprise challenge is added. The contestants think they have to run through, around, or over a mud puddle. Unbeknownst to them, with each moment they delay to determine the best route, the puddle widens. After they pick their course of action, they’ll discover it’s not a puddle but a lake with a depth of twenty feet.

The days pass without word. I know the puddle is widening. I wait.

Within weeks, the inevitable text comes through. I envision myself sprinting and launching myself over the puddle that’s now the size of an Olympic swimming pool. Unsurprisingly, I fall and plunge into the water.

“I hate to do this, but we we’re going to need to postpone our Nov. 6 play date,” she messages.

“What happened?” I ask, feeling myself treading water in the murky pool.

“Our nephews have to come to stay with us that weekend. There is nobody else to watch them.”

Of course. With a life vest made of weights, my body is pulled beneath the surface of the gloomy water.

Yup. We knew this was coming. This is the other thing she does – cancels on us when a “better” invitation is offered.

I tell her I understand. Just as I’ve understood the other times she’s postponed and canceled our dates for other plans. I add this is frustrating and will no longer be tolerated. It’s not OK. And, going forward, just understand why I will not initiate plans. She doesn't respond.

Like a resurrection, I feel myself take off the weighted life vest and kick my way to the world above. Breaking through to the surface, I gasp for air, and swim to edge of the pond-like puddle, eager to get out and start anew without looking back at the “puddle.”