Revolution

I wish I could tell you that I went to the former Soviet Republic of Georgia in that winter of 2003 because I wanted to help make the world safe for democracy, but that would have only been one third of the story. I went to escape the boredom of a serious relationship, and I went because I needed to be bad. I managed to accomplish all three.

That winter, I wanted to be Laura Croft, Tomb Raider. I wanted to leap out of buildings and shoot automatic weapons. I wanted to smoke cigarettes one right after the other, lighting one with the next. I wanted to have an excuse to not shower, stay up late, curse and be politically incorrect. In a boring existence where I was always striving to be good and do the right thing, I wanted-no needed-an excuse to feel naughty. And naughty I was.

This is the BBC and these are today's top headlines... polling stations open today in Georgia... could this be the end for Shevarnaze?

The vintage car radio carried the broken British accent of a BBC reporter through the one functioning speaker of a rusty red Peugeot speeding East through the snow dusted hills of Turkey towards Adjara. I focused on the crackle of the voice to deter the vomit rising in the back of my throat caused by the sort of driving one would experience on a Disneyland attraction. But at Disneyland, because of an ever rising litigious nation I can pretty much assume I wont die. But there is no such knowledge of safety on the backroads of a nation fighting for their freedom and poised on the edge of revolution. Little Ms. Adventurous gripped the door and prayed.

I wanted to save my accidental over seas death for something exciting, like being shot admidst a rush on Parliament. I would rather not die lying in a ditch, gripping my recently amputated left leg, waiting for another driver to happen by and stop to help. My efforts to slow the driver resulted in a 30 second reprieve of the foot against the gas. But as soon as my grip on the car door loosened and the blood returned to my fingers, the assault on the gas continued. I closed my eyes. I could hear my driver change the radio station and I could make out the local dialect reporting on the election.

Polling station number 168 has been.... masked gunmen…. Ballot Boxes have been removed….

Without turning my head, I addressed Henrik in the seat next to me.

“Did you hear that?”

The aging Austrian diplomat was silent. I risked an eye and looked over to see Henrik’s head dipping into his chest and then bolting upright with every turn of the cars wheel.

How the hell could Henrik sleep with this driving? He was pretty old, perhaps he was closing his eyes to concentrate on maintaining his breath. A retired member of the Austrian Parliament, Henrik had signed on to this mission to do some Baltic sightseeing. He preferred lunches and tours of the botanical gardens to primary school buildings filled with smoke, turned into make shift local polling stations.

This sucks! While the other observers are getting action, all we get is closed polling stations and people voting twice. The others are being overtaken by masked gunmen and my greatest thrill is watching Henrik try not to fall asleep in a position undignified to a National Diplomat.

I sulked in the back of the car.

But before long, I had a plan. I pushed myself up into the front seat, between my driver and my translator and used a little broken Georgian.

“Any suspect polling stations where we might find a little corruption?”

My driver looked sideways at the pretty young translator and then back at me through the rearview mirror. He turned down the radio.

"We are instructed to take you to station no. 34."

"Where would you like to take me?"

He paused and continued to stare at the road.

"Down in no.13 they stuff the ballot box. You can find a staff in the back office just checking off names and stamping ballots valid.”

“Ooh, that’s good. Let’s go there.”

My driver snuck a smile and traded a look with the translator. She flashed a grin back and our driver pressed his foot down on the gas sending me abruptly back into my seat, jostling the arm of poor Henrik and causing him to wake from his peaceful slumber.

"Is it time to eat? Or is it the faster we drive, the faster we arrive in the next town, and the faster our driver gets to smoke another cigarette?"

Henrik wrinkles his brow. "Please Tell him that I would rather he break the rules and smoke a cigarette in the front seat then kill us en route to his certain lung cancer."

But instead, I used my limited grasp of the Georgian language to ask the driver who sings the song playing on the radio.

Henrik turned his body and tried to rest his head against the window. And I got ready to uncover a little corruption. But had I known what I know now, about the sort of corruption I would discover at polling station 13, I would have asked the driver to keep on going until we got to Adjara.

“In a relationship”

Pumping my bike tires at the 6th Avenue Bike Shop this Sunday, a man leaned over my handlebars to ask if he could assist. While he aligned my tires and adjusted my breaks, he pushed a baby and stroller up against the nearest wall. “It’s not my kid. I’m watching him for my friend inside. My buddy. He’s a guy.” After he corrected my seat, he asked me out. And as I heard myself giving out my number, I suddenly realized that I probably should not. That I was now "in a relationship".

Last week, before Gabe and I had ‘the talk’, an attractive man gripping the leather of my seat would have been rewarded with a number and possible coffee date. But now that I have changed my MySpace status to “in a relationship” I need to gather some research on what that means.

It’s been awhile since a man called me his girlfriend in public. It’s been since 2003. A lot has changed in the past four years. What has not changed, is the fantastic feeling of acceptance and appreciation when a man introduces me for the first time as his girlfriend.

“Hey Juan, this is my girlfriend Inrid.” Tingles. Really. But a moment of short lived jubilance barely had time to register before being replaced by a creeping fear.

Oh shit. Wait. What did I just accept? Have I been labelled. Do I really like that? And it’s been so long, what does it even mean to be someone's girlfriend?

So far, it means regular phenomenal sex, an assured date on Saturday night, someone to talk to on the way home from dinner parties, an excuse to order three entrees and two desserts, an increase in text messaging charges, not having to shave my legs, a regular receptacle for tales of my daily resentments, and a reason to lay in bed on Saturday until noon. But in my joy of all the things you get from being "in a relationship", I had completely forgotten about the things you lose.

My friend Max has sworn off sex for the last year in order to avoid an accidental relationship. He despises the thought of being tied to someone, a label or his own lust. Max thinks a relationship is being denied access to an independent life, the punishment of copious amounts of restriction. He reminds me every time we get together that if he were in a relationship then we could probably not be friends.

“Does that mean that when you are in a relationship you can no longer be friends with the opposite sex?” I ask him over Panini at Vesuvio’s on a Saturday afternoon stroll through Soho.

“Unfortunately, I think the answer to that is, only if they are grandfathered in.” He continues, “The social rule seems to allow you to maintain your current opposite sex friends, but limit your ability to make new ones.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. If your partner is worried that your friendships will tempt you to cheat, then wouldn’t your partner be more concerned about your long standing opposite sex friendships.”

Max sips from the small Espresso cup in front of him.

“Listen Ingrid, it doesn’t make any sense. It merely reveals the human frailty of insecurity. Two confident individuals should be able to make and maintain true friendships with others as well as each other. To be quite frank, it is exactly these types of ridiculous rules that drive me to abhor sexual relationships.”

A few weeks ago, Gabe and I went to see a friends band at Iriving Plaza and afterwards my friend introduced me to the bass player. Gabe and I cracked jokes and traded stories with Mr. Bass, but the next day, the married bass player sent me a MySpace message.

“You and I should get coffee some time.”

The single Ingrid wondered what his wife would think of the request, but then the “in a relationship” Ingrid thought maybe he just enjoyed my company and wanted to be friends. We do have common interests and he is really hot. Does being married mean he can no longer make friends with the opposite sex? Am I allowed to pursue new friendships with hot bass players?

When I told Gabe the story he just sort of shrugged his shoulders. Was that the protocol? Am I supposed to tell the boyfriend? Won't that hurt his pride? Does being "in a relationship" means I have to think about these solicitations with more care?

My Souther artist friend Bella has a boyfriend that lives in Upstate New York and she was recently asked to a gallery opening by a gorgeous male model/art collector.

“I love my boyfriend, but it would be so wonderful to go out to dinner with this guy.”

Bella and I are catching a late Sunday brunch at Cafeteria in Chelsea.

“Well, why don’t you just tell him that you have a boyfriend and see if he wants to be friends?”

She leans in and lowers her voice, because our waiter has sat someone directly next to us and Bella's southern sensibility makes her cognizant that the table next to us can hear just about everything we are saying. “But what if he does just want to be friends? Then I’ve insulted him by insinuating that he has romantic interests in me."

I lean into her, “That’s crap Bee. You don’t want to tell him you have a boyfriend because you are afraid he will cancel.”

She falls back into the chocolate booth and sighs. “Oh God, you are right. It’s just that this guy is so great. He’s interesting and funny and talented. And Jack is so far away and I’m starting to wonder if he will ever propose. I really want to be this guy’s friend Ingrid.”

Bella has demonstrated what the boyfriend label does not mean. It does not mean security. It does not mean that your girlfriend will stop dating other men. It does not mean that your boyfriend is ready to get married. And I am right back to questioning what it means to be "in a relationship".

I’m not going to over think it. I’m not going to let my OCD brain develop a list of bullet points, format it into a power point and present it to Gabe over our next dinner date. Now I wouldn't do that, right? But one has to wonder, why I, an independent and self-professed professional single, was so eager for the false security of this clearly bogus label. Is it too late to take it away? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy being "in a relationship". But, if we just take away the label, can I go out with the bicycle guy?

Why was I in such a rush to get here? And while honestly, there is simply no other man with whom I want to spend my time, perhaps Gabe was right and we don't need a label. You see, like most benchmarks in a relationship, once you pass them there is no going back. There is no such thing as a second first kiss.

The truth is, I really don't want to go backward. I'm just scared of going forward. Scared and confused. I haven't been here in a while.