I mentioned that I was going to try to catch up with Jane to let her know different I am. I was amazed at the number of people who commented on this blog, saying what a bad idea that was.

I wish I would have listened. No, just kidding. The people who comment on this blog are about twice as screwed up as I used to be.

I figured, though, that since she didn’t email me telling her to leave her alone when I posted my intention to reconnect with her, it was because either she doesn’t read the blog anymore–and therefore doesn’t know how much I’ve changed–or she does read the blog and by not saying I couldn’t get ahold of her, she was tacitly asking me to get ahold of her.

I’m not sure my logic would hold up in a court of law, but I’m sticking with it.

Last night, after work, I drove up to her house and waited in my car until she got home. I waited down the street a little bit, so as not to alarm her. Then, after she had been there for about fifteen minutes, I went up to her door, knocked, and waited.

And waited.

After about two minutes (seemed like ten), I knocked again. I waited another minute, then rang the doorbell (even though I hate doorbells) a couple times.

Finally, she came to the door, looking miffed as she opened it.

Then she saw me and went from miffed to what I like to call a perfect mix of "frightened, angry, and surprised."

And right then, I realized I had made a huge mistake, for the following reasons.

First, I hadn’t thought about what I would say when I saw her. I should have had something prepared, or better yet, a whole bunch of different things, depending on how she looked.

Second, I knew as soon as I saw her eyes that she is not capable of loving me. No matter what, I will always be the strange, thieving, IT goober as far as she’s concerned. She’ll never see that I am also a man with dreams and needs.

Third, she doesn’t look like I remember her. Maybe the Celexa has cleared my mind and removed the soft-focus lens I seem to have reserved for Jane. Or maybe it’s that she was wearing baggy, food-stained sweats. Or maybe it’s that I no longer am so desperate for love that I see perfect beauty where there’s actually nothing but a woman of average height, average weight, average face, and a surprising amount of grey in the brown regrowth of her blonde, permed hair.

"Look, don’t even start," she said. "Just turn around and walk away."

"Fine by me," I replied. And I meant it. I was relieved.

So I went home, so happy that I have visited Jane’s house and discovered that I no longer give a damn about her.