I just an e-card from Cristi, sometimes she sends me stuff, some of it's cursi, and some of it's great, like this witty tidbit of wisdom . Lately she's been sending cheesy e-cards en ingl�s. Anyway, a not-so-Hallmark-ish line in today's selection read: �Just because someone can't love you on your level, doesn't mean you have to sink to theirs�.

Last night I drove about a bazillion miles south to a party/dance with a bunch of other Mormons, mostly because my friend Dave Shaw was DJing, and because Reva and her brand-new brother-in-law wanted to go. Those of you who have never experienced something like this are missing out on a very unique sub-cultural experience. It's fun, not because it's conventionally fun by normal standards, but because when you stand in the midst of it you can't believe there are so many people actually enjoying themselves dancing like idiotic monkeys to often lame music (Dave does a far better job than most) without the aid of any intoxicating substances whatsoever. It's, well, different. Not being fundamentalist-flavored Christian, I've not experienced one of those youth lock-ins that I kept hearing about in the South, but I wonder if they have as good a time as we do. The whole concept begs the question of how locking teens with raging hormones into a building together overnight hails back to early Christianity, much less whether its a good idea, even if said building has a cross on top. If you've ever been to one you'll have to let me know.

But . . .back to the point at hand. I saw and chatted with and dance with lots of friends and met some new people and overall had a great time. However , I was being stalked (that would be the token �however� for today's news). Background info: about two years ago my brother Ben met this guy at church, he's odd but friendly enough-- �demasiado amigable?. Ben's been back and forth between here and various army bases since then, but this guy, we'll call him Cowboy (he's not really a cowboy, I just made that up), kept calling. He never asked me out (�blessed be!) but he kept inviting me places (church things, parties, etc.,) or asking if I was going to be there. Sometimes I went, sometimes I didn't. I'm slow to catch on at times, and I was just normal and friendly to him during those four or five months it took me to put two and two together. I fear he misinterpreted my generic kindness for deep affection. Eeep. He volunteers a few days a month with my friend Fabio, and since Cowboy knows that Fab and I are good friends he asks him whether or not I'm seeing anybody. Eeep. I thought I had it figured out, smarty pants that I am, and the last time Fabio told me that he'd been inquiring again I hatched a plan. Sure enough, Cowboy called a few days later to invite me to a party, and asked me to spread the word. F�jense, here's where I got sly. I asked him if it was allright if I brought a friend . Sure, bring a few friends, said Cowboy. I only brought one friend. A male friend. I owe Tait a favor and endless thanks for posing for me, because the dear came with me. I didn't clarify our relationship, but I figured I didn't have to. A few of Cowboy's friends assumed he was my boyfriend or at least my date, and I didn't correct them. Cowboy didn't take the hint. I've been told recently by other men that this was not a smart move, that Cowboy probably took it as a challenge instead of a bubble burst. Eeep. So. I ignored Cowboy while I was in M�xico. Forgot about him, in fact, until I got email from him. Drippy, cursi, gag-inducing email. It was yet another invitation, this one over a month in advance of the event. It made me sick to my stomach, that nervous kind of sick when you know you have to face something that you'd rather avoid. I felt horrible because he'd really put himself out there-- he signed the letter, �Your friend and whatever else you want me to be, Cowboy�. Subtlety isn't his forte. I didn't know how to respond to that. I agonized over it for two weeks, and then I replied with something vague like �I don't know what my schedule will be like six weeks from now, so I don't want to say I'll be there and not follow through�. I saw him a couple of weeks after I got back, but I just gave him the obligatory �Oh, hi Cowboy�, and it came off allright because I was in the middle of a conversation (thank you Jill!). Out of the corner of my eye he looked like someone had just torn out his spine and I felt horrible but it isn't my fault that he persists even though I don't pay attention to him except when etiquette and decency absolutely demand it. Anyway, he hasn't called me and so I thought that was the end of it. I was, yet again, wrong. Last night he kept following me around, and every time Dave played a slow song (another oddity of Mormon dances) I had to escape. When I exited �casually� into the hall (does it look casual if I'm almost running?) he followed me, and I had to duck into the women's bathroom and hide out for a few minutes. Then to my car. Then to dance with a friend who doesn't dance. I felt stalked.

Tom Reyes, a guy who went through some military training thing with my brother, said to him that there's a fine line between �charming� and �creepy�, and that the line is usually defined by whether the girl likes you or not. I don't like Cowboy in the slightest, and therefore he's creepy (though some guys think he's a little creepy, too). I just want it to end. I'm a wus, and my least favorite conversation in the wide world is the �I'm just not interested� conversation. It doesn't even matter which end I'm on. I hate it. I'm selfish, and Annie just wants to get out of this without having to have The Conversation. I just want him to figure it out, but I don't think that will be happening. Can't he just fall for someone else? The worst thing about it, the biggest repellent, is that he puts me on a pedestal. It drives me up the wall, and in a way it's demeaning because he barely knows anything about me and yet constantly tells me what a good and wonderful person I am, that I'm special and blah blah blah. It's not that I can't take a compliment or that I don't think I'm special, kids-- I have very healthy self-esteem. I don't mind someone telling me that I'm special, but only if they actually know that I'm special. Cowboy doesn't, and it just comes off as desperately insincere. He has a defined idea of his Perfect Woman, and since I apparently fit a few of the superficial qualities he's automatically assigned all the rest to me without knowing me well enough, or well at all. It makes me feel like a piece of meat, only in a non-sexual way. He's obsessive. It kind of scares me. I will never, never be attracted to him, and though he offered to be my �friend and whatever else you want me to be�, I don't even really want to be his friend anymore.

I will never feel the same, I will never love him on his level. The line from Cristi's e-card sounds like something to console yourself with when you've dropped someone you loved because you know they weren't good enough for you, but today I read it otherwise. Cowboy loves me on his own idealized level, and I can't love him back that way. I won't . I love people because of as much as inspite of their imperfections and like to think I'm realistic about people. I'm not a pessimist, actually I believe that humankind has amazing potential and that we can progress and improve ourselves and be a powerful force for good if allowed to grow. But we have to be realistic-- there are no perfect people and we have to be generous with each other's mistakes. Smothering isn't generous. He's on a different level, the Pretty Girls Are Perfect level. He shouldn't sink to my realist level. I am not his porcelain doll who never does anything wrong. Don't tell me I'm perfect, for you will be sorely disappointed. I get noxious farts when I eat soy, and I get angry and I yell at people in traffic, and even if I do clean up well you should know that I dress like a slob before 8pm on non-Sundays. I am a human being and therefore I have flaws . I am touched by someone telling me I am a good or beautiful person when they know these and other unappealing things about me and I know that they love me anyway. I am conversely insulted by the same estimation given me by someone who doesn't know me at all. I don't mean in the way of people telling me that Jesus Loves Me and Therefore I Am Precious and Special. I'm okay with that, that's true of all people. I have a problem with relative strangers telling me how wonderful I am on an individual level. This is as bad as M�xican men (and boys) giving me the whole �me gustas porqu� eres guapa� crap. I need room to breathe and grow, I need to be allowed to have imperfections. I will not live my life on eggshells because I'm afraid I might blow my cover of being June Cleaver.

So, if you're out there reading this as you stalk me, Cowboy, take a cue from wisdom and let it go. I am not the woman for you. Just because I can't love you on your level, doesn't mean you should sink to mine. The bright light of my realistic expectations might burn the rose right out of your glasses, so if you're comfortable with your head floating around up in the atmosphere, well, keep surveying the scenery. You just might find your princess of perfection someday, but in the mean time leave me alone. I'm just a normal human being.