Psycho?

Why is it that as I get older things I crave are never as good as I imagined them when I craved them?

I bought doughnuts this morning. There's a Winn-Dixie right next to my office building. I had skipped breakfast and decided that once I got to the office, I'd run to the WD and pick up some low-fat yogurt to eat with the bagel I still had in the office refrigerator.

I turn on the computer at my desk and check my e-mail. Nothing urgently pressing to work on. I check my personal e-mail. Nothing from "Write2Dawn." I wonder if she liked the picture. I wonder if I've heard the last of her. Oh, well. Time to grab some breakfast. Priorities.

When I walk into the store, I realize I'm closer to the bakery side of the store than the dairy aisle. I usually walk that way because the deli and bakery are in the same area and I often pick up lunch there. That's when it hits me. Doughnuts! I need to get some doughnuts. I love doughnuts. Or at least I used to. Now I seem to like the idea of doughnuts -- the sweetness, the softness, the decadence -- much more than I enjoy actually eating them. Maybe they would taste just as good as I remember if I weren't so concerned about the consequences. So much fat and sugar in one shot after so little exercise in my abbreviated workout this morning. Maybe that's guilt not a greasy gut-bomb sitting in the pit of my stomach after I eat them now.

Even simple pleasures aren't so simple any more.

I sent that to Dawn this morning. Not long after, I check my e-mail again to find two messages. One includes the long awaited picture. She took it holding the camera in front of her with her left hand. No one photographs well from that close up. But the breasts inside the bikini top were enough to distract me from the distorted view of her face.

Then 13 minutes later, according the time stamp on the e-mail she follows up with this:

hey jack,

write back,

OK?

Donuts will not change the fact that you like me and I like you.

That gave me a chill. And not the good kind. But I do write back after I get home from work:

That last line scares me more than a little. It smacks of the kind of obsession detailed in that movie starring Glenn Close, Michael Douglas and a dead rabbit. I have no idea whether I like you. You've told me very little about yourself. Read over the e-mails you've sent me. What are you giving me to go on here? I do appreciate the picture you sent but as far as having any real sense of who either one of us is, all we can safely agree on based on the available evidence is that we both have pretty good racks.

Your assessment that I like you also happens to touch one of my pet peeves. Other pets make my cat jealous so I try not to keep too many of them but this is one: People who think they know what I'm thinking. Trust me, you have no idea. And you'll have to know me very well for a very long time before you can even begin to figure it out.

Remember the rock group Heart? I was driving home from work today when a song of theirs called "Barracuda" came on the radio. Heart is a fantastic group and this is one of the signature songs of their early days. If a panther made noise as it sprinted after it prey, the guitar riff of this song is what it would sound like. As I listened I remembered back to junior high school. Heart wasn't cool at the time and once when a friend who DID like the band asked if I liked it too, I denied it, even to him! I still remember his incredulous look as we stood on the school's front patio where we gathered before the first bell rang. "You don't like Heart? He asked.

"No," I said.

I was a dumbass. Worse than lying to my friend, I was lying to myself. Every time I hear a Heart song now, I remember that incident and my promise to myself that I will never pretend to like things I don't or deny liking things that I do. I'm still a dumbass but I'm a more honest one now. For one thing, it requires a lot less effort to keep my stories straight.

In that spirit, here are some things you need to know about me: The woman I seek is not clingy and desperate; she is strong and independent. She's going to have a full and fulfilling life before I enter the picture. She's going to look forward to seeing my face, hearing my voice and reading my letters but if I don't write, call or see her immediately she's going to be too busy doing other things to worry about it. She's going to be smart and funny and thoughtful and it's going to come through in our conversations and letters. And she's going to like writing because we're going to trade a lot of e-mail before we ever meet. I've never met a date through an Internet want ad and I'm going to make quite sure of what I'm getting into before I do. I look forward to making time for the right person but I have no time to waste on whack jobs, idiots or jerks. (Or some true things of beauty who are combinations of the three.)

While I needed to see your picture, I need to see more of what's inside you. Show me. You're a writer? Show me something you've written. You're funny? Send me something that will make me laugh. Something original. Something YOU. Show me.

Let's see how she handles that. She does have nice breasts, though.