One of my favorite things to have come out of The Year of Living Promiscuously is my relationship with The Confidante. He was one of my first matches. In fact, I met him on the same day that I had my first coffee with The Runner.
He planned an ambitious first date: dinner, bowling, improv comedy show. We did a little improv of our own and cut out the bowling in favor of a meandering trip through Target, during which I purchased a fantastic conversation starter and a head scratcher that has since disappeared and cat leggings — which, in case you are wondering, are cat-patterned leggings for humans rather than leggings you would put on a cat.
Everything was good, but for reasons I shall not presently delve into, it wasn’t a romantic connection (from my perspective). When he asked me out again, I agonized over my reply, settling on something lame along the lines of “you’re great, but I’m just not feeling it.” He was gracious and said that we should be friends. I hadn’t had male friends since high school, was out of practice, and took his words as a platitude. And then, to my surprise, we became friends. I can’t recall how exactly that happened, but I’ll always be grateful that it did.
I have lots to share about The Confidante, who remains a daily touchstone of sanity and wisdom and laughter and sympathy and authenticity, but I’ll save it for other posts. Like any good super hero, I felt The Confidante deserved his own origin story. And since I know he’ll read this, I hope I did it justice.