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November 02, 2006
You won't be surprised to know that I met him in a bar. Or that we
had both been drinking heavily when we met. Or even that we made out in
the parking lot later that same night, groping each other voraciously
like teenagers at Spring Break in Cabo with a camera crew hovering
nearby.
It was a night like so many others I'd had in the past four years of
being single on Maui. But while the fun and frolic usually ended
whenever the alcohol wore off, I had a sneaking suspicion this time was
different.
One reason was that despite the fact that his face was severely
bruised and battered—a random event not really worth mentioning—or that
his T-shirt was dirty and his hands rough from hard labor, I thought he
might've been the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
I'd watch the light in his blue eyes flash when he spoke,
occasionally stopping to return my probing gaze with a sly grin. While
I listened to the slight rhythmic lilt of his speaking voice—an island
boy, born and raised in Hawai`i—and later, the impressive range of his
falsetto at karaoke, I'd focus on his mouth and marvel at the supreme
fullness of his lips.
Yeah, so it was lust at first sight—you get the idea.
Relatively speaking, that first meeting was quite brief. We didn't
exchange numbers and made no plans for future entanglements. I really
didn't give it much thought either—I knew we would meet again—and I was
casually dating some other guys at the time anyway.
It was a couple months later that we ran into each other at the
supermarket. Actually, I didn't recognize him right away—his face had
healed nicely—but this time we made plans to hang out again, and to
take it slow.
Over the ensuing weeks, I discovered how different he was from any
other man I had known. And I was beginning to think that was a good
thing for me. We didn't really have much in common—he surfs big waves,
I channel surf; he has two kids, I have a lot of fabulous shoes. But we
developed a profound respect and faith in each other that often takes
my breath away.
I'm not gonna lie; it's hard to be in a relationship. I'm not one of
those chicks prone to endlessly blather on about how fabulous my
boyfriend is or how we're so in love or how we have sex five times a
day, sometimes six when we don't eat, and blah blah blah. That
happy-couple talk makes me want to vomit on the spot.
Plus, that shit just ain't true. There are times I wonder how we
ever got involved in the first place or how we manage to stay together.
I question my motives everyday, constantly deriding myself for doing
the one thing I swore I would never do again: trust and commit to one
person.
But then I get it. Usually the reminder comes in the form of a
simple moment: He's serenading me with his `uke while we sit on a cliff
overlooking the ocean, or I'm rolling off the bed with laughter because
he—startled and embarrassed—just woke himself up with a thunderous
fart.
My usual M.O. is to over-think and worry too much about how much I'm
doing, or not doing, and how I can do more in the future. I'm usually
so wrapped up in my head that I take for granted what's going on around
me. He doesn't realize it but the main thing he's teaching me is how to
live in the moment.
And he knows me. He knows my quirks, moods and insecurities, but
he's not scared. He says he's sometimes intimidated by my intellect, my
knowledge of music and my fiery temper, but he doesn't run away. And he
doesn't say it all the time, but I believe him when he says he loves
me.
And for me, that's kind of a lot.
Samantha Campos is currently preparing a "six degrees of separation" chart of her MySpace friends. MTW
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