i fell in love with the cashier at southern grounds

Somehow, even in her work uniform, I’d predicted her as a “Thanksgiving at memaw’s, Simply Southern, t-shirt wearing Evangelical, heterosexual” white girl. That being said, I was puh-retty surprised when she flirted with me. 

I asked her how she was; she returned the question. I paused before responding- wanting to make sure that she knew this wasn’t pleasantry, but rather, a genuine exchange, in which I wanted to give a genuine answer. And from that moment, it was still eye-contact, soft giggles, and subtle blubbering.

The whole interaction lasted for only a few minutes. 

But, as I walked away, I pulled out my phone to text,

“I fell in love with the cashier at southern grounds.”

Unsurprised, my friend laughed. Just this past year alone, I said, “I have found my wife” about the new coworker who’d just walked in for her first shift. I’ve left my phone number for baristas, and waiters, convinced that we were destined to be together. I’ve given the words, “I love you,” two separate times, within a month of dating.

I think it’s appropriate to have been labeled a hopeless romantic. 

Not just in my love life, but also in platonic ones. I’ve asked my best friend to marry me. I’ve promised a lifetime of bond based off of one conversation. I’ve felt butterflies- actual, belly-shaking butterflies, seeing the names of friends flash on my phone screen. 

For as long as I can remember, driven by an intense desire to know people on a personal level, I have romanticized all of my connections. The result? I don’t do casual very well. Even in social settings, I find my conversation starters to fall along the lines of, 

“What’s something about yourself that you don’t tell people immediately?”

“When’s the last time you cried?”

“How’s your relationship with your parents?”

Because of this kind of forwardness, my relationships happen to be very intense. 

And it’s only now that I’m realizing the consequences this has had on my ability to set emotional boundaries. Or even further, my belief in their importance. Don’t get me wrong, my method thus-far has been the pathway to the most sacred, shared moments of my life.

And also, I have to admit, to the most defeated, drained points of my life.

Regardless if they proved themselves trustworthy, I have enthusiastically welcomed others, even strangers, into the innermost recesses of my thoughts, feelings, and stories. And in this, I have overlooked that these same innermost recesses are indeed my honor- my telling of self. And to give self, so recklessly, and without intention is not healthy vulnerability. This is not the Brene Brown version that brings about life, but rather the one that denies the treasure of our identity. The glory of being known, and knowing.

I think my lack of emotional boundary making comes from my perpetual need to be validated. I think we as humans, because of a distrust of our own conclusions, generally struggle with affirming our inner world on our own. So then the appeal to having an external force agree that our inner world is as we described, makes sense. 

But, the truth is- brace yourself- I secretly don’t trust the conclusions of others, either. Eek! I know, I know. I find myself in recurring cycles of, searching for validation of my story, receiving it, and continuing to be unsatisfied anyways. And in my delusion, I amp it up- opening the door to myself, to the entrance of other selves- convinced that if I just get more, my restlessness would wane. 

I’ve unintentionally, in my belief of what external validation could bring me, created a community of relationships where I always show up vulnerable and expectant. Consequently, “casual” hangs can feel disappointing, or empty- even if I enjoyed them. I’ve grown to prefer soul-bearing, even at its consistent high emotional cost, for hope of the benefit of being affirmed. 

Insert here, my poor emotional boundaries. 

And it’s only in my own solitude- in the forced quietness where I remind myself that I am real- that my fears, my wounds, my dreams, my desires, my perspectives, all exist within this 160lb black body- can I lay down the incessant need to over-share my inner world, and practice healthy boundary setting. Only here, can I begin to understand that the presence of connection goes well beyond unfiltered sharings of our sensitivities. 

There is beauty, yes, in the weight- in the co carrying of burdens. And yet, there can be beauty, still, in the leisure- in the stolen glances, and playful teases. So then, what does this say about beauty? I think it says that She is everywhere, isn’t she? That all is of meaning. Whether childhood friend, or beloved cousin, or cashier at Southern Grounds.

This is what I want to move towards. 

To the girl at Southern Grounds- I don’t need to know you. I don’t need our story to be anything other than what it has been.

I’ll think of you for the rest of the week. I’ll think of the short moment that your mask had fallen, and I caught your smile. I’ll think of the sound of your laugh, how it reminded me of a bird that I’d probably really like. I’ll think of you how excited you’d gotten when I told you how much I enjoyed the pecan-flavored coffee you recommended. 

How honored are those who get to share time and space with you. Those who, in your shared intimacy, have been privileged to watch you as jealous, or unkind, or self-serving, or insecure. And for me, how honored, to have witnessed you soft, timid, blushed. 

I am content. 

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