Stop Making Sense

Gibs and I were talking about the individual job hunts last night when she dropped the Can I Use You As A Reference? thing on me.

"Don't you need to know the person for at least a year?" I responded.

And it was all downhill from there.

What I thought was protecting the honesty of her qualifications became her interpretation of my fear of association—committment, more specifically.

So Gibs got rid of me rather quickly, we exchanged a few text messages during Edmonton's improbable Game 5 victory in Raleigh, and we were back on the phone before the shorthanded overtime game-winning goal.

Our differing points of view did nothing to resolve the situation, and Gibs maintained I was not, in fact, simply looking out for her best interests. They just wanted a name, she explained. One they wouldn't call, but just a fucking name.

But if it really were just a name, of course, then my caution of "not really knowing me that long" isn't all that big a deal. There are plenty more honest acquaintances who can further your chances better than me, I thought.

Wrong.

After work today, Gibs and I meet up for a drink at the bar so I can take advantage of good, cheap burger night. "I'm only staying for one," she says, explaining her money situation. Fine. Fair enough.

The regulars show up and sure enough, that's enough to make her hang around for another. A gentleman I've met before, but cannot remember the name of upon being reacquainted, sits beside her and talks with us for quite a while. He's a good guy, buying me a drink and talking about the NBA Finals.

He remembers meeting me, thinking I was dating Gibs and asks me why I'm not actually dating Gibs. He seems to like her. He says she's cute, and asks me if I think she's cute, and of course I think she's cute.

I say something to the effect of us wanting "different things"—presumably meaning kids, marriage, etc. But that's not good enough. So I elaborate with, "She wants more certainty."

In a relationship, I meant. But he understood. He was older than both of us.

But Gibs is older than me, and this year's been different simply because of continually being involved with someone older than me—which is still basically foreign. Their expectations seem wildly more haunted by past heartbreak than I'm used to.

And so when Gibs explained (with some overexaggeration, might I add) to said older gentleman my hesitance (or, outright refusal, if you took her explanation of it) about the whole meaningless "reference" incident, I think he should have come away with a very good idea about why I'm not trying to date Gibs.

She called the thing off because of the exact reasons I listed for us being different types, although even then, she didn't want to seem to say there was anything wrong with me, you know, "as a person." I could respect that.

But we resolved to maintain a friendship because she tells me I'm "sweet" and I say, "You're sweet too."

It's a sickeningly sad story of two people who both see each other as genuinely nice and kind human beings, but are too nice and kind to admit to the other that they cannot form—no matter how much either has tried—any genuine long-term benefits to merely considering a relationship. Rather, they ignore that and cater to random moments of shared sexual interest.

That, of course, is okay—for now.

But sooner or later, somebody is going to finally break that kindness bubble and just say that they've met somebody else, or they want to see somebody else, or they simply just do not want to see each other any more. And that's when the "friendship" part of the deal really holds up if it's genuine.

And for some reason, I'm hoping that the person that buckles first and says we can't keep doing this is her. After all, I don't want to suddenly become viewed as an asshole.