Vulnerable

I’m 25 years old, and I’ve never been on a date.

But it’s snowing outside, and it’s the middle of April. Wisconsin is notorious for weather patterns that make rare sense. In His humor, God grabbed the snowglobe marked “La Crosse” and shook it vigorously just to watch us all scatter in here-we-go-again.

But I can’t find a shirt that fits me. A strict diet has contorted my body, and now I feel a little more sexy but unsure of what sexy really feels like. My belly doesn’t protrude like it used to but it hasn’t removed the swollen muffin top.

But my scars will show. Hundreds of pale streaks across my arms, stomach and legs stare back at me in the mirror. Of course she won’t see them all tonight, but she will see moments. Moments of never-good-enoughs and why-don’t-you-give-ups. Moments of what I feel inside hurts too much, so move that pain somewhere else.

But what if she’s too good to be true? A sweet comment over her beauty and an inquiry of location, and suddenly what seems impossible is right down the street. We texted for hours and conversation seemed so natural that when the words “Would you like to go on a date?” shown on my screen, I was astonished that I had written the question myself. Confidence?! Where did you come from?!

I’m 25 years old, and I’ve never been on a date.

But it’s almost four o’clock, and I’ve bought a new shirt that I was too anxious to try on, a pack of gum–just in case!--from Kwik Trip, and I’ve never really believed in God but is He trying to tell me something with this April snowstorm? I sit in my car, teeth chattering, and text her, “Are you still able to go tonight?” She is quick to respond, “Yes! Are you?” I smile and can’t believe I’m about to meet her.

“But” and “What if” never leave my mind as we sit down to dinner. It’s impossible for me to believe that this girl is real and right here in front of me. She steals the conversation instantly, and I’m entranced by her face and her voice as she talks about what she loves. We enjoy beer and wings, and I’m unashamed to indulge in front of her. She compliments my new shirt, and I relish in her words.

“But tell me about you,” she says, claiming that she’s spoken enough about herself. My face is crimson as my mind goes blank. The pressure is on. What’s interesting about me? What’s so great about me? I look down to my left arm and stare at the white scars that I never thought anyone else would see.

But here I am: exposing myself to someone new. Telling her about my passion for writing stories, poems, essays. Telling her that I love belting rock ballads in my car. Telling her that being outside my comfort zone is the scariest thing in the world. Telling her that there were days I didn’t think I would make it because I didn’t think I could ever be so vulnerable to someone and they would still want to stay with me.

But, almost four years later, she still is. She testifies that I am one of the strongest people she knows. The courage it takes to put myself in front of an audience, whether thousands or one single being, and display my lights and darks. There are days when I still don't believe that I should be here, but she always reminds me of my importance. "Not everyone is willing to be vulnerable," she says. "You give them that voice."

I'm 28 years old now, and going on that date was the best decision I ever made.