It It It
I was hanging out with the guys a couple of weeks ago, and after a few hours of consuming beverages, it became obvious that I had spent the better part of the evening discussing “her”. What was even more noticeable was that in my last relationship, it wasn’t often that I spent much more than a courtesy mention of the woman who was once in my life. But now, with my mouth fully liberated from the effects of spirited beverages, I couldn’t keep my tongue from wagging or my thoughts to myself.
Eventually, one of the beer sages disclosed a profoundly philosophical revelation. He, in all of his fermented hops and barley wisdom, had determined that I had “it” bad. “It”, I thought… What the heck was “it”? “It” to me is something tangible. Something you can put your hands on. “It” is an object, a thing, or something so insignificant that you don’t even bother attaching a name to.
“It” made me think of something dirty, something I didn’t want to have, like a virus or something. “It” is a nameless something-or-other that no one really cares exists, except, of course, unless you had “it”, or for the “It” of some Stephen King suspense thriller.
Shocked by the insinuation that I had anything more that a good beer buzz, I adamantly denied that I had “it” at all, never the less, had “it” bad. But one by one, each of them recited something from my hops inspired praise of “her”. And they laughed, because I didn’t remember saying half of what they repeated. This, of course confirmed to them that I had “it”, and that I had “it” bad.
It wasn’t until later that evening, while at home lying in bed, that it hit me like a slap from a wet towel. I began to realize that, despite my initial reaction, “it” didn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. I remembered that, after all, guys hit “it”, women want “it”, couples do “it”, and Michael Jackson beats “it”. I realized that at times, I do like to touch “it”, fondle “it”, caress “it”, and kiss “it”. And to be honest, right now I miss “it”.
Most importantly, I realized that “it” can be a feeling. “It” describes that accelerated heartbeat and belly flutters that come to life when she’s in my presence. “It” makes me smile when I hear her voice, pick fresh flowers, choose a wine, or take a shower. “It” is helping in the kitchen, holding her while in complete silence, or talking late into the night about nothing in particular. Yep, after thinking about “it”, I have to admit that I do have “it”, and I guess I do have “it” bad.
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