Entry 9: A Comfortable Place
Summary: Trying to reclaim her youth brings Angela closer to Tony, but without the tell-tale feelings of fear and anxiety.
Something has changed. I'm not nervous or anxious or filled with false hope. I'm content. There is a tranquility surrounding me that was not there before. Without ceremony or even acknowledgement, Tony and I have reached a place of quiet comfort. The tension and fear that plagued us at the Ferguesons' wedding – among other situations – has been replaced by easy acceptance even in the face of what once would have been tense moments.
When Tony kissed me last night, it felt wonderful. Soft, lingering, intimate. It was a kiss that could put to rest any harbored illusions. But this time, I'm not agonizing over what to do or how to act, or even what it might have meant. My feelings aren't embroiled or confused. Did Tony kiss me because he wanted to or because he was simply helping me complete my list? It doesn't matter.
Last week, we went out together, a casual evening between friends after I lost the Armando Ghia account, and danced to the music of Frank, Dean, Glenn, Sammy and Vic. We talked and laughed about the kids and our jobs, favorite movies and childhood memories. It was nothing new, but the atmosphere was light yet secluded. He made me feel young in a way that teased hair and a skimpy dress never could. Afterall, I was hardly comfortable with that look when I was 20 – why would I be any different at 37?
I cringe now at the memory of my insecure behavior, leftovers of a youth filled with awkward memories and ridicule. I felt like I was right back in college – shy, overweight, and a fashion disaster. All of those sleek, beautiful, sophisticated – and young – women in Armando's office were reminders of everything that I thought I wanted so badly and worked so hard to try and achieve. And the worst part is that I would never actually want to be like that. I certainly don't want to be just a pretty face and sexy body working for someone else. It's sad to say, but none of those women will ever be anything but Armando's showgirls. They may be smart, ambitious and deserving, but if they want someone to recognize those skills and attributes, they will have to leave that environment and find a place that values their brains over their bodies. There's nothing wrong with having both as long as they're ranked in the right order. And as sure as I breathe, they will find themselves searching the want ads the very second that the sometimes harsh, sometimes enlightening, but always inevitable effects of time decide to descend upon them.
But I hate that I can still be so intimidated by youth and beauty, as though anything north of thirty-five is somehow ancient. What do I have to do to prove to myself that I am exactly who I want to be? It's easy to recognize my better qualities amid the bland business world of Madison Avenue, but there are still those unexpected moments when my humiliating past resurfaces. This time, I had Tony – as opposed to a pint of Chocaholic Chunk – to help me cast off the weighty shrouds of my insecure youth. Ironic, though, that he is often the cause of many insecure moments when I think of there being more between us. Even after three years, I can't help but ask what such a charismatic, personable, confidant man would see in me. Will I ever be able to answer that question? I don't know.
But this time there was something different. Tony was the solution, as opposed to the cause of my self-deprecation. While he never lets me doubt my abilities in my career, this time he restored my confidence in myself as a woman. It was more than his words or a dance around the living room; it was the way he looked at me, talked to me, held me. It was the way he made me feel that allowed me to forget the past and reclaim my faith in myself.
As we spun around the room, his hand curved snugly against my hip, mine splayed across his back, I drifted off into a world in which there was only us. We danced in a place only we knew, with no one to impress, and no need to be more than ourselves. And so we were at our most beautiful, moving together in a dream in ways the bonds of reality still won't allow – bold, confident, tantalizing, and together. Everything melted away but the feel of his body against mine, gliding me across the floor in a dance choreographed by my heart, until we held each other so close that as the final wisps of the vision faded away, we embraced in our home as intimately as we had in my mind.
There were a few, barely noticeable moments after the spell was broken that left us avoiding each other's eyes, but it lasted only until Tony asked if he and my legs still had a date for the evening – and if I'd be joining them. My only condition was that he give me an hour to peel off that ridiculous costume and return my hair to nongravity-defying heights, which I might add, took half a bottle of conditioner, plenty of elbow grease, and more than a few tears. But more than the whistle he directed at me when I reappeared in my favorite black dress with my hair soft and loose, his simply stated "So much better" made every strand lost in the battle between my brush and my Aquanet-doused coif so worth it.
It was a fun, stress-free night. I guess you could say we looked and acted like a couple, but there was no awkward pressure or polite embarrassment that often accompanies such "dates." We were just two friends enjoying each other's company, and if a slow song or two had us swaying in time, holding closer than simple friends normally do, it still felt right.
One would think such a reaffirmation would have lasting effects on my self-confidence, but not so for this former wallflower. A week later, and we were back at square one – and all it took was some innocent reminiscing by Mother and Tony in the wake of Sam's hard-won permission to spend the night at the mall to get Beastie Boy's tickets to send me into a youthful tailspin of regret. One minute, I had never thought twice about supposed lost moments of irresponsibility, and the next I'm dragging Tony on a hopeless trek to reclaim something I never had in the first place. I'm not a hell-raiser and never was and didn't want to be. Most of the time, I thought such antics were juvenile and beneath me, though I simultaneously craved the attention and peer approval that accompanied such behavior.
In the end, all I did was disappoint and embarrass myself as I looked around the dingy backroom of a bar that was no more impressive than the man who made it famous. It was also not lost on me that the person who showed me the true Inspiration Point was not Jake the Snake, but Tony, the man who stood with me during my feeble attempts to be something in my thirties that I never was or wanted to be in my teens.
As we sat in his van, high over Fairfield at the end of a road I never knew existed – and wondered how he did – I found what had eluded me throughout high school: acceptance as I am. Right now, I'm taking it at face value. I don't know how long this emotional reprieve will last, but it feels too good just being content. When Tony's eyes met mine across the span of a beat-up dashboard, and I saw the hesitant intent in them, I welcomed the flood of warmth that coursed through me. When our lips met, though it was only our second kiss, there was such familiarity, as though we had kissed a thousand times before. I knew this man so well that somewhere within me I knew what a kiss like that would be like with him, and my mind had not exaggerated. And when it was over, nothing needed to be said. There were no apologies or self-conscious stammerings, no explanations or worries of consequences. He didn't try to kiss me again when we got home, and I wasn't disappointed by it. At this moment, I have no regrets and no expectations. We've found common ground, where expression is no longer taboo, if still restrained. As I find myself at this undefined yet welcomed plateau, I'm in no hurry to leave.