THE TROUBLE WITH A DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD

Such wonderfully peculiar things can happen when the mind is unrestrained—daydreams, anticipations, and great expectations.

Instead of securely wandering amongst the dreamy unknowns in the safety of her four-corner bedframe, she caught herself creating conversations inside her head as she applied lotion to her freshly shaved legs. She made contorted faces at candid discussions (they didn’t yet have) while she tore through her closet searching for the perfect outfit. Before she put on her makeup, she had already played the entire evening through her brain like an audition. The anxiety evidently worn in the creases of the elevens plastered in between her eyebrows.

What good did it do to prepare like this? Things are almost never the same in real life.

She placed her head in her hands as she thought about the questions he might ask: what’s your family like or tell me something about your childhood? The truth was, the entire ordeal made her nervous and worrisome. The thought of explaining her broken life made her want to crawl out of her skin. To this day, no one knew her past, because she’d never let anyone ask.

This evening felt expected but unexpected. It started with a couple of small pleasantries exchanged about the weather or a similar complaint. It rounded off by a few hellos in the hallway and a glance across the parking lot. Then suddenly, she was aware that he was aware, and vice versa, and then he asked the million-dollar question: “so, what are you doing Friday night?”

They’d hardly talked much before that. He didn’t know her apart from shallow conversations. And she really knew nothing about him other than the fact that he was a nice person who seemed to come from a nice family. He looked nice, too. Tall, handsome, and strikingly mature for his early 20s. The sort of guy that hung with the popular crowd but didn’t act like them. He was sought after, but not overly desired as he wasn’t the head of the pack.

She watched him pull up in a freshly washed car, her stomach turned as she glanced in the mirror once more. With one last pucker, she finished hours of anguish with an, “oh, hell with it” and grabbed her coat and ran out the door before he could reach the sidewalk.

“Hey,” he said. He seemed jumpy and nervous in his visibly new outfit. “Hey,” she replied. “You look really nice,” she added. And he smiled and sincerely replied, “You, too.”

Could that be it? The beginning of it all?

Don’t be daft. He’d never actually like someone like you.

They sat down in the car and he started driving. They exchanged small tidbits about their day until they reached the restaurant parking lot. It wasn’t just a normal restaurant, but one of the most expensive and exclusive spots in the area. She looked at him in astonishment, and she glanced down at her jeans and felt underdressed.

“We are eating here? Are you sure?” she replied in wonder as she watched the valet team addressing vehicles at the entrance.

“I got us a reservation on the patio. It’s supposed to be really nice,” he stared up at the restaurant sign with a smile and looked back at her, proud of this moment.

The hostess took them back to a brightly lit patio filled with cascading lanterns and ornate iron tables. Greenery covered every inch of the walls. The glistening fountain gently waterfalled into a stately stone pond. She observed it all in awe and perplexity. It seemed almost too much for a first date. She felt overwhelmed but grateful as they sat down at a romantically decorated table near the fountain ornate with a low bouquet of ivy.

“This is incredibly nice. Are you sure it’s okay?” she draped her purse on the arm of the chair as he pushed her seat in. “Of course. I’m excited to be here...” he trailed off—it was too soon to say anything more.

She scanned the wine list, vowing to find the cheapest merlot on the menu. She could only imagine what each entrée cost.

The waiter approached the table, “Good evening, my name is Clara and I’ll be serving you tonight, may I get you something to drink?”

“Ah yes, can we have a bottle of your best merlot?” he glanced from the wine list to the waiter. “Of course, sir, I recommend the Hourglass. It’s quite popular,” the waiter replied. “Sounds lovely,” he handed off his menu and placed his napkin in his lap. He glanced up at his date, “Merlot is okay, right? I heard you liked it,” worry fell over his face as he glanced up at her startled expression. “Oh, yes. But how did you know I liked it? I’m not sure we’ve ever talked about it,” she replied, placing her napkin on her lap, too, dashing through all of their conversations in her mind—no mention of merlot. “Oh, I just do my research,” he said with a smile.

Research? What else did he know?

The waiter brought the wine glasses and the bottle of Hourglass. They drank their glasses of smooth merlot and ordered their entrees. As the hourglass drained, she waited reluctantly for the conversation to steer in the direction she wasn’t ready for.

He’s about to ask. You should have never come.

Her doubt burned the back of her neck as she went in for more pasta. But between bites, he opened the floodgates, “So, tell me about your childhood.”

She finished chewing and brought the napkin to her lips to clean any debris. His voice was affectionate, exposing he was ill-prepared for her response. It finally came—the moment.

He can’t handle it.

But he seems sweet, perhaps it’ll be okay. Look at this restaurant… the whole night… he really seems to care.

He doesn’t want your baggage.

But he seems to have good intentions.

You’ll ruin it all.

The good and bad voices were chewing away at her as she innocently met his gaze. He had prepared a beautiful night. She wanted to be honest with him but was there such a thing as too honest? She wasn’t sure whether to coat herself in armor, or remove it all and bring out her double-edged sword, telling him everything so he understood what it meant to be with someone like her. He might be happy to hear it all, or he may be pushed away because it’s too soon. Spilling her guts could help or hinder.

What is there to lose?

And so, she told him everything, without limitation. As the words left her lips, she realized immediately that it was too much for the first date. That’s the trouble with a double-edged sword. She shared, but did she overshare?

At least he can walk away now.

But what good does it do to pretend?

He nodded earnestly, unsure of how to respond. Her words were sad and severe but truthful and honorable. She couldn’t change her past, she didn’t ask for her past, and now she couldn’t go back from her decision to share it.

He watched her with difficulty as she opened up, but he strangely felt like he had pushed her into a place where she wasn’t ready.

The rest of dinner was a wash of obstinate silences, dusty responses, and shame radiating through her coarse body language. He pulled up to her house and looked over at her.

A kiss?

Though her stomach was full, her body felt empty. “Thank you for tonight. It was really nice, almost too nice. I’m not used to being treated like that. I’m sorry if I made things awkward. It wasn’t my intention. I just thought you should know about me before… well I would never expect anything else. I guess I just…” she trailed off, unsure.

“It’s fine, it really is. Don’t feel regretful. You shouldn’t. I’m happy we got to go out tonight,” he assured her.

What’s next?

But before he could decide, she opened the door and walked out, placing her hand on the window frame and genuinely mouthing a, “thank you.” Tears filled her eyes as she walked to her front door.

That is the trouble with a double-edged sword. If you use it, don’t be surprised if it comes back to hurt you.

She had suited herself in an armor of hope, trusting in the power of honesty. But in other ways she had taken off her armor and left herself vulnerable. She leaned against her front door, happy that it was over, but amiss in her judgment of it all.

You might have hurt yourself, but you didn't necessarily hurt him. You offered him an invitation. It's his choice to accept or reject it.

---

“How was it, honey?” his mother took off her reading glasses. He closed the door and leaned against it. “I’m not sure,” he said, breathing in a deep sigh.

It took him weeks to muster up the courage to ask her out and weeks to set aside enough money to take her on a proper date—new outfit and elaborate restaurant. It was more than he could afford, but he had his heart set on making it perfect.

“Well, what happened?” she inquired. He could hardly explain. “She brought it all to the table. She was incredibly transparent and authentic. But I’m not sure if it was all good because she seemed upset that she was telling me so much about herself. I didn’t pry. I just asked her simple questions that anyone would ask,” he thought back to the afternoon, he planned every question he would ask and dreamily marveled in the thought of her responses. All day he had envisioned them connecting fully and incredibly, almost like they had known each other for years.

“Oh honey, perhaps she was just nervous. You’ve been nervous, too. Maybe you’re thinking too much into things. Are you going to ask her out again?” his mother asked. He shrugged his shoulders. His mother hugged him tightly, “Sometimes we dress up preparations and expectations so much that we’re let down in the end. Being too prepared can be unfavorable. It takes away from the authenticity of life. You dressed up tonight and you look so handsome, but the most important thing is to dress yourself in truth, peace and faith. Sounds like she had faith in you. Maybe you should try to have some faith in her, too.”

---

In separate parts of the city, they took the weekend to muse upon Friday night. They ran through conversations again, investigating the things that happened, exploring modified circumstances, responses and outcomes.

Monday arrived as it always does. She sat down and he was there, too, and they realized this was the moment. They both prepared for relational combat. She prepared for rejection, and he did, too.

He leaned over and whispered, “Hey, do you have time to talk after class?”

“Oh, sure. Of course,” her heart raced as she went back to her notes.

Here we go.

They met on the benches outside, a flowerbed faced them as they sat on the bench. She felt herself beginning to sweat as she waited for him to talk, preparing her armor.

But he, armored in strength and willingness, smiled at her and asked, “So, what are you doing Friday night?”

Let’s try this again.

“I realize that Friday was a bit much. Maybe too much. I really wanted to make it perfect, but I think I made everything overwhelming. I realize that and I want to try again. If you’re up for it?”

Could that be it? The beginning of it all?

“Let’s just grab take out and take a bottle of merlot and sit by the vineyards. We can just hang out and talk,” he looked at her willingly.

That’s it.

“I’d love to,” she replied with a smile. Her worries washed away, a new armor established, one of freedom in her fears and confidence in honesty. She sheathed her sword and dreamt of Friday.