My Own Mr. Knightly
If you've read Emma, or at least seen the movie, you know how it is. Mr. Knightly spends half of his time reprimanding Emma, downright scolding her at one point. It plays out well in the book, like Mr. Knightly's the good guy anyway—he's so damn solicitous otherwise, and besides, Emma usually deserves what she gets. She's always doing these silly or stupid things, like trying to hook up her completely incompatible friends or falling for a shading character with obvious ulterior motives. Still, if I were Emma, I probably would've clouted that Knightly a time or two.
- - - - - -
Christian has known me since before I had breasts, and apparently thinks that with such a long acquaintance comes certain liberties—like letting me know when he disapproves of whatever I'm doing. Lately he's gotten into this bad habit of telling me off when he thinks I'm being ridiculous, and acting like he's doing me the favor. And I'm thinking: this has got to stop.
I'm already near boiling point when I college on Monday, driving dangerously fast and almost flattening two cats on the drive home. But I make it home without killing myself or anything else, and stomp into the apartment, slamming the door behind me. Today was not a good day.
Usually when I'm this pissed off I do something brilliant like eat my weight in cheese curls or see if I can hit the wall with my fist hard enough to break either the wall or my arm. Today, however, I'd like to channel my aggression into a more constructive venue. I hear some people exercise to let off steam. I call Christian.
I ask him if he'll go jogging with me and he answers flatly, "No."
"But how am I supposed to get in shape if I don't go jogging?" I ask.
"I suppose there is no way," he says dryly. "Anyway, it's not like I'm stopping you from jogging or anything. Go to it."
"But how am I supposed to go jogging if my best friend won't come with me?"
Best friend. That's a new one. We're both silent on our respective ends of the telephone line wondering where I pulled that best-friend thing from. People will say some pretty twisted things to get what they want.
"Okay," Christian answers, after our moment of bewildered silence. "I guess I'm in."
"Good."
We meet by the bridge in Trexlers. "Why are we jogging again?" Christian grumbles.
Because Elton walked into the café today with Jennifer Hanson around his neck and in chemistry Luke Emerson spilled some sort of green chemical substance on my Abercrombie khakis that I'm not sure will come out and my dad called this morning to let me know he's moving in with his bimbo girlfriend.
I say, "So I can get hot and skinny."
"Hot and skinny, huh?" he grunts. I notice a little censure in his tone, and if I were in feeling any less self-interested right now I would probably try to steer the conversation in a different direction. But today I am in no mood to be planning dialogue around Christian's temper.
"Sure, hot and skinny. How else am I going to attract Adam Levin and marry him?" I say jokingly.
"Adam Levine?"
"Yeah. Lead singer of Maroon 5, sexiest man alive."
"Oh. I thought you were going in the John Mayer direction." Christian is sounding a little condescending, but I'm trying to ignore this. I don't want a battle today. I don't even want a serious conversation.
"Well, you know. Adam Levine, John Mayer—it's a tough choice."
Christian snorts—not laughs, actually snorts. "So that's the life plan? Get skinny, marry a hot guy?"
"Pretty much. Oh, and write my award-winning, best-selling novel."
We are jogging past Texico. The sky has been overcast all morning, and it is just now starting to rain. Big, heavy drops that roll down my face and soak into my clothes. Soon my hair will be soggy and clinging to my head, and my mascara will be running.
"You know, Becka, sometimes the things you say make you seem a little shallow," Christian accuses.
Well, don't mince words Christian. See, now this is what I'm talking about when I say he's gotten into this bad habit. Who the hell does he think he is?
I come to a standstill. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Christian stops, startled, and turns around to face me. "What?"
"Who. The hell. Do you think. You are?" I repeat, slowly this time, emphasizing every other word. The rain is pounded down on us now. Christian takes a step closer to be heard above the storm.
"Christian Lewis. Age 21. Height 6'1''."
Cocky bastard. He's a little bewildered, but still so annoyingly self- assured. I'd like to have him quartered, or his eyes gouged out, or made to suffer some other form of medieval torture. I say, "I am so tired of having you always on my back telling me what I'm doing wrong like you're superman or God or something. It's like I've got my own fricking Mr. Knightly." I'm speaking very evenly and deliberately, making sure that he catches every word I say. "I have had about the worst day of my life today, and the last thing that I need is you coming off all high and mighty and treating me like I'm crap. So seriously, Christian if you really think I'm such a horrible person whatever, that's fine. But just leave me alone."
Thunder. And Lighting. Isn't there some rule about counting the time in between them and that's how far away the storm is? In that case it's pretty close. Maybe we'll both get struck by lightning standing here. Right now I'm thinking that might be cool—a very climactic close to our lives, at any rate.
I don't have anything else to say, and Christian doesn't seem to have anything to say at all. He's just standing there with his mouth open, either in shock or absolute hatred. I turn sharply on my heels and begin walking away, pulling my dripping jacket closer around me in an attempt to generate a little heat.
Christian catches up with me three minutes down the road, jogging after me and shouting "Hey, Becka!" He slows to a walk when he reaches me and hands me his water-resistant backpacking jacket—a peace offering. I take the jacket.
"Sorry," Christian says, and offers no other explanation or excuse.
I shrug. "It's okay."
We walk back along the road in silence—somehow the rain makes talking seem gratuitous anyway. When we reach our cars I think about giving Christian his jacket back, but I decide not to, for now. I climb into my car, and drive home.
Christian and I will be friends for a very long time.
If you've read Emma, or at least seen the movie, you know how it is. Mr. Knightly spends half of his time reprimanding Emma, downright scolding her at one point. It plays out well in the book, like Mr. Knightly's the good guy anyway—he's so damn solicitous otherwise, and besides, Emma usually deserves what she gets. She's always doing these silly or stupid things, like trying to hook up her completely incompatible friends or falling for a shading character with obvious ulterior motives. Still, if I were Emma, I probably would've clouted that Knightly a time or two.
- - - - - -
Christian has known me since before I had breasts, and apparently thinks that with such a long acquaintance comes certain liberties—like letting me know when he disapproves of whatever I'm doing. Lately he's gotten into this bad habit of telling me off when he thinks I'm being ridiculous, and acting like he's doing me the favor. And I'm thinking: this has got to stop.
I'm already near boiling point when I college on Monday, driving dangerously fast and almost flattening two cats on the drive home. But I make it home without killing myself or anything else, and stomp into the apartment, slamming the door behind me. Today was not a good day.
Usually when I'm this pissed off I do something brilliant like eat my weight in cheese curls or see if I can hit the wall with my fist hard enough to break either the wall or my arm. Today, however, I'd like to channel my aggression into a more constructive venue. I hear some people exercise to let off steam. I call Christian.
I ask him if he'll go jogging with me and he answers flatly, "No."
"But how am I supposed to get in shape if I don't go jogging?" I ask.
"I suppose there is no way," he says dryly. "Anyway, it's not like I'm stopping you from jogging or anything. Go to it."
"But how am I supposed to go jogging if my best friend won't come with me?"
Best friend. That's a new one. We're both silent on our respective ends of the telephone line wondering where I pulled that best-friend thing from. People will say some pretty twisted things to get what they want.
"Okay," Christian answers, after our moment of bewildered silence. "I guess I'm in."
"Good."
We meet by the bridge in Trexlers. "Why are we jogging again?" Christian grumbles.
Because Elton walked into the café today with Jennifer Hanson around his neck and in chemistry Luke Emerson spilled some sort of green chemical substance on my Abercrombie khakis that I'm not sure will come out and my dad called this morning to let me know he's moving in with his bimbo girlfriend.
I say, "So I can get hot and skinny."
"Hot and skinny, huh?" he grunts. I notice a little censure in his tone, and if I were in feeling any less self-interested right now I would probably try to steer the conversation in a different direction. But today I am in no mood to be planning dialogue around Christian's temper.
"Sure, hot and skinny. How else am I going to attract Adam Levin and marry him?" I say jokingly.
"Adam Levine?"
"Yeah. Lead singer of Maroon 5, sexiest man alive."
"Oh. I thought you were going in the John Mayer direction." Christian is sounding a little condescending, but I'm trying to ignore this. I don't want a battle today. I don't even want a serious conversation.
"Well, you know. Adam Levine, John Mayer—it's a tough choice."
Christian snorts—not laughs, actually snorts. "So that's the life plan? Get skinny, marry a hot guy?"
"Pretty much. Oh, and write my award-winning, best-selling novel."
We are jogging past Texico. The sky has been overcast all morning, and it is just now starting to rain. Big, heavy drops that roll down my face and soak into my clothes. Soon my hair will be soggy and clinging to my head, and my mascara will be running.
"You know, Becka, sometimes the things you say make you seem a little shallow," Christian accuses.
Well, don't mince words Christian. See, now this is what I'm talking about when I say he's gotten into this bad habit. Who the hell does he think he is?
I come to a standstill. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Christian stops, startled, and turns around to face me. "What?"
"Who. The hell. Do you think. You are?" I repeat, slowly this time, emphasizing every other word. The rain is pounded down on us now. Christian takes a step closer to be heard above the storm.
"Christian Lewis. Age 21. Height 6'1''."
Cocky bastard. He's a little bewildered, but still so annoyingly self- assured. I'd like to have him quartered, or his eyes gouged out, or made to suffer some other form of medieval torture. I say, "I am so tired of having you always on my back telling me what I'm doing wrong like you're superman or God or something. It's like I've got my own fricking Mr. Knightly." I'm speaking very evenly and deliberately, making sure that he catches every word I say. "I have had about the worst day of my life today, and the last thing that I need is you coming off all high and mighty and treating me like I'm crap. So seriously, Christian if you really think I'm such a horrible person whatever, that's fine. But just leave me alone."
Thunder. And Lighting. Isn't there some rule about counting the time in between them and that's how far away the storm is? In that case it's pretty close. Maybe we'll both get struck by lightning standing here. Right now I'm thinking that might be cool—a very climactic close to our lives, at any rate.
I don't have anything else to say, and Christian doesn't seem to have anything to say at all. He's just standing there with his mouth open, either in shock or absolute hatred. I turn sharply on my heels and begin walking away, pulling my dripping jacket closer around me in an attempt to generate a little heat.
Christian catches up with me three minutes down the road, jogging after me and shouting "Hey, Becka!" He slows to a walk when he reaches me and hands me his water-resistant backpacking jacket—a peace offering. I take the jacket.
"Sorry," Christian says, and offers no other explanation or excuse.
I shrug. "It's okay."
We walk back along the road in silence—somehow the rain makes talking seem gratuitous anyway. When we reach our cars I think about giving Christian his jacket back, but I decide not to, for now. I climb into my car, and drive home.
Christian and I will be friends for a very long time.