I have always hated rollercoasters.

What I hate even more is being afraid of something. So, while I was willing to live with a keen dislike (verging on passionate hatred) of rollercoasters, I was not willing to live with the fear. Not when there was something (within reason) that I might do about it. So the summer after I graduated from high school, I packed myself and some friends into my means of transportation and off we went for a day of fun and excitement at 6 Flags Great America. I rode every rollercoaster they had at the park that day. Granted, I rode them all with my eyes screwed shut, my knuckles white and circulation-free, and ear-piercing shrieks emanating from somewhere deep within me from start to finish - but I rode them. All.

I have yet to undertake the physical act of riding a rollercoaster at any time since that day. Been there. Done that. Don't ever want to do it again. But, now I know that if I wanted to (read: had to), I am capable of riding said contraptions without any perceptible future harm coming to me (though I don't know that I can say the same for my companions that day - even now, I think the skrieks left them with permanent hearing loss).

So no love lost for the physical roller coaster. The metaphysical one, however, I seem to be a sucker for.

"You must be this tall to ride this ride."

How tall is that? Metaphysically speaking how tall (and, presumably, grown up) must you be to ride the violent wave of one's own emotional roller coaster from crest to trough? Zenith to nadir? Pie-in-the-sky to rock-bottom?

I have always felt I should be taller.

I am long-waisted. Perhaps I fooled the metaphysical sentinel into thinking I was qualified to ride this ride, when in fact, through a freak of body composition (which everyone deinies, but which I know is true), my legs are, in fact, too short to ride the ride safely.

Long shot? Maybe.

However I choose to rationalize it, the bottom line is this: I have a season pass for this meta-physical rollercoaster. Time to open my eyes, loosen my grip a bit, and replace my blood-curdling screams of terror with shrieks of delight. Someday, I might even be able to wave my hands in the air as the ride progresses. Anything is possible.

For now, however, I am still rather unsure of myself. Feeling precarious and vulnerable as a passenger here. I have taken the first few steps towards easing the motion sickness often precipitated by the amusement park of life. The happy pill does act as a sort of emotional dramamine. Still, there is more to it.

Calm. Rational. Carefree. Exhilarated. Exuberant. These are words I want to describe my ride, my journey. My approach.

Not just up and down and up and down and down and up and down and up. Hell, even typing that sentence was tiring.

For instance, this thing with the Boy. So I have been trying to approach it calmly and coolly and casually. But I can't. I get fired up about things. I get excited. I get hopeful. I get impatient. I don't think these are necessarily bad things. In fact, I think they are pretty cool things. Issue is usually just one of expectations. I don't know if I have too many, they are too lofty, they are just skewed or what. Either way, I tend to set them up and things always work out, well, differently, and not necessarily to my liking. Likewise, there are all these rules out there now about dating, which I have referred to before. The whole HJNTIY phenomenon. And, I must confess, I was in a bookstore today, and happened to spot a copy of the one and only original: "The Rules." I scanned the headings that made up "The Rules" themselves: Examples - never call a man, and don't return his calls too often; make yourself and elegant and mysterious creature; do not talk about marriage, kids, future - he should take the lead here; always end a date first; do not ask him to do anything till after the fourth date; do not accept a date for Saturday after Wednesday etcetera etecetera. Oh dear. I have broken half of these Rules if not more with the Boy. And, well, look how well that is going. We can't even schedule a second date. Ugh. People I talked to, both male and female, said I should ask him out again. They all thought it was a good idea. Not too psycho-crazy-manic stalker. Just nice-I-am-interested-and-would-like-to-go-out again.

Agh. I cannot deal with this uncertainty.

But I guess it comes back to the premise of the books - if I am uncertain, then.... he's just not that into me.

God damnit.

I hate it when self help books are right.