Epilogue
After a year of being a neurotypical girl for my AS, I’m able to dispel more than a dozen myths about people with Asperger’s syndrome. Here are the most important ones:
He can, as long as you are honest with him and don’t draw his attention in another direction.
Example:
A moment, let me assume a puzzled grimace on my face… Oh, there it is!
“Cigarette? What cigarette?” I look at Jan with a face saying, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“The one you threw into the bushes a while ago. Also, I can smell that you smoked. Again.”
“Oh, that.” I dismiss it with a wave of the hand.
“The neighbor just lit the fireplace and I stink of smoke. And what you saw was nicotine chewing gum. And I just had to take another one.” I pack a disgusting lozenge in my mouth.
“I know, I shouldn’t litter, I’ll clean it up right away.
Have you already prepared our ski equipment? ”
“Yes.” He peeps into the bushes, so I immediately cover his field of vision.
“You are irreplaceable.”
“Thank you.”
“Then why not pack some sandwiches, in case we get hungry?”
“Great idea.”
“Excellent. Will you start? I’ll be back right away, I’ll call Toska and arrange the details of New Year’s Eve.”
Yes, I’m a mean liar and I deceive my guy that I don’t smoke. But there’s progress because I’ve quit probably seven times now, and as a result I’ve gone from one pack to two cigarettes a day.
The one just getting wet in the snow was my first one today. The best one and the one I waited a whole fourteen hours to smoke.
So far Jan has caught me smoking three times. This was the fourth. I feel stupid and angry at myself. I never perceived it this way before, but since I’ve been with Jan, I feel that cigarettes rule my life, force me to lie and manipulate. I need to get them out of my life once and for all.
With the New Year, I’m quitting these fuckers for good.
Myth #2: AS has no feelings.
Bullshit! He has, and they can be intense. He can be sensitive, gentle, compassionate, and passionate, just in his own way. Unfortunately, there are times when emotion loses out to logic. The latter is unquestionably Jan’s favorite.
Example:
“Wait.” I mute the sound of the TV, where the news is currently running, and turn shocked toward Jan. “You mean to say that you’re not moved by the fact that this fucking bomber got out of a truck that was a moving bomb, grabbed a random child in the square, then blew himself up with him?”
“Thanks to the fact that he got out of the truck and grabbed the child, the boy’s father was able to notify the police, who ordered the immediate evacuation of the square. As a result, only two people lost their lives, not two hundred.”
Empathy vs logic 0:1.
Myth #3: AS is sometimes boorish.
No. He is just a great observer, honest to the bone. He says what he thinks, and unfortunately, neurotypical people have trouble accepting the bitter truth.
Example:
“Jan, how about this one?” I look at myself in the mirror in the store’s dressing room.
The dress is in our national colors because it’s for a volleyball match that we plan to watch on TV with friends. It’s wide at the hips and shoulders, a fitting style, supposedly very fashionable now.
Jan squints.
“You look like a van of the Polish Post Office courier. Let’s get out of here. This bright light is killing me.”
Asshole!
Myth #4: AS is selfish.
I would rather call it a focus on the activities being performed, which totally distracts him from reality.
Example:
“Jan, we are leaving in ten minutes. The party starts at eight.”
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have other plans.” He glances at his watch.
“But we made arrangements. We have been preparing this New Year’s Eve with Toska for a month.”
“And I had been planning it for six months.”
“But what? This is some damn excuse not to go to the party? I told you that everyone will have their Bluetooth headphones, so the music won’t bother you.
The lights will be subdued. They’re supposed to serve roasted potatoes and pickles separately, and the tenderloins will be well done.
Just the way you like them. Everything for you, and you say you’re not going. I have already ordered a cab.”
“Then cancel it.” He adjusts his tie in the mirror and glances at his watch again.
I’m about to start howling, feeling totally helpless. My guy is so damn selfish!
Take it easy, just take it easy.
“But why?” I try to speak in a composed voice. “You are ready, and so am I. What is so important now that we can’t go to New Year’s Eve?”
He turns toward me. He is focused, tense. Once again, he adjusts his tie. Shit, why is he so pale?
“What’s going on?” I ask, and then he gets down on one knee in front of me, pulls out a black box from his pants pocket and opens it.
“Maria, I want you to be my wife.”
I freeze. Oh. My. God! I stare stunned at the ring with the sparkling stone and I’m at a loss for words.
Apart from the fact that this is the dullest marriage proposal I’ve ever heard of, and I’ve seen quite a few romantic comedies in my life.
But the truth is, I couldn’t have imagined a better one.
Because it’s sincere, because it’s so Jan-esque, because I love this guy more than life.
“Have you been planning this for six months?”
“Yes.”
“Why today?”
“Because nine is your favorite number, which always stands its ground.”
I don’t believe he remembered that.
“Well, yes, but today is December thirty-first, Jan.”
“I know.”
“So? Where’s the nine here?”
“Nine thousand hours ago you kissed me for the first time. I thought it was an appropriate occasion to ask you to marry me.”
Jesus, what a sweetheart he is. I’m tearing up. I walk closer to him.
“Now I’m going to kiss you.”
“Does this mean that you will marry me?”
“Hmmm.” I put on a thinking-cap face. “Let’s say I’m ninety-eight percent sure.” I quote myself from over a year ago or, if you prefer, from nine thousand hours ago, when I kissed him for the first time.
“What about the other two percent?” Jan looks me straight in the eye. He smiles. He remembers this question.
“You can consider that a statistical error.” I take his face in my hands (hard) and kiss him even harder on the lips.
“Maria?”
“Hmmm?”
“The roasted potatoes you mentioned will be from the oven or the deep fryer?”
My, oh, my! There is certainly no one like my guy!