Okay, Franz Wisner, if I meet you in real life, I am going to punch you in the arm hard enough to bruise and then punch you in the bruise. I am almost done reading How The World Makes Love, which I mentioned in my post yesterday. In it, Wisner summarizes lessons on love learned from residents of six continents and intersperses those lessons with the story of his romance with the actress Tracy Middendorf (who I always quite liked and thought should be more famous than she is). Wisner proposed to Middendorf in New Zealand after a six-month courtship and then, despite his fertility issues, promptly knocked her up.
The amazing part, to me, about Middendorf's pregnancy is that Wisner knew before she told him. He had gone off to Botswana for a month as part of his research for the book, and I guess kept having weird dreams, so he asked her on the phone if she was pregnant and she was. I got goosebumps when I read that. I can't remember the last time I got goosebumps when it wasn't temperature-related. Tears flooded my eyes. Happiness for these two people -- these two complete strangers -- overwhelmed me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Ever since I met Goose, I've turned into this leaky bucket of tears and feelings. Turning lachrymose might be okay if he reciprocated my feelings, but he gives no indication that he does. It sucks. And it leads to all sorts of horrifying scenarios, like reading a book about someone who, after a major romantic disappointment in the form of being left at the altar, eventually finds love and starts a family with a nice person and thinking, "That's what I want." And then having images of being hugely pregnant with Goose's kid, and thinking, "I want that too." No. No. Nonononononono. I need Xanax.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment