“It” In Spades

It came to my attention this Sunday that I have caused a man of God to break commandments.

Another time, a man who had not touched alcohol in years drank an entire bottle of Captain Morgan’s after our breakup. And made surprise visits to my entire family (two separate trips, two separate states).

Clearly, I need a warning label.

In spite of this evidence that I am desirable to the point of questioning morals, ethics and pride, I sit here alone.

Of course, I don’t particularly feel ready for another relationship right now. But that’s not going to stop my little pout. Hmm…perhaps a break will cure me from the high of infatuation and lead me to more responsible loves in the future.

If that is the case, I certainly won’t miss the heartbreak and confusion the above incidents caused. However, I’m not going to stop reflecting on them with a shameful sense of pride. Because whatever *it* is, I had it. In spades, baby.

(In retrospect – neither of those men were my soon-to-be-ex. Although we had our ups and downs, he never showed such tangos with humanity for my affection. Perhaps I need to heal, flirt, and go out there and do it all again, just the same)

Nothing to Speak Of

He used a ton of unnecessary references in his email. “My youngest sister”, “My other niece”, etc. before mentioning them by name.

I’d love to remind him not only of my incredible (and annoying at times) memory, but also the fact that just two months ago we were close enough that their names dropped from our tongues as if speaking about mutual friends rather than his family whom I never met.

But I won’t.

He seemed to ignore the real reason I wrote him. I know Thanksgiving is not a happy time for him and I wanted to make sure he’d reach out for a friend if he needed one.

I’d love ask, “Did you see your father?” because I know him well enough to realize he needs some prodding to speak of such things and might thank me later.

But I won’t.

I’ll answer his questions and inquire on his decision to speed up his schooling. I won’t mention my upcoming trip. I won’t mention the fact that I can read through the lines no matter how much he edits.

My intuition always awed him, but also freaked him out.

I was eager to show him how much I understood. It made me feel special when his voice would get soft and shaky every time I gave him a peek inside his own thoughts. I’ll admit it, I showed off a little.

I missed how much he didn’t understand. And how much I didn’t as well. I remember thinking, “Did he realize I was just joking?” “Why didn’t he tell me about her before?” “Why didn’t he ask about the necklace?” “How can this work?”

I brushed them aside, stuffed them in a journal, and chalked them up to nerves and insecurities. And in hindsight, that wasn’t very honest of me. I should have shared those questions, they were part of my intuition as well.

So, now I’m going to trust my intuition and keep my mouth shut (or keyboard un-touched?). Because I can only do so much. I might not like it, he might not even like it, but it’s what fair to us right now. Because I’m not allowed to ask those questions I brushed aside anymore.

I don’t believe in second chances. I believe in one chance that stretches for a lifetime. There is no do-over. There is no clean slate. There is only learning, forgiveness, and time.

Flying Solo

I can’t decide if I like to fly or not.

I used to be very scared of it. But, like many of my fears, I feel comical about it. I’ll shake my head furiously and my eyes will get very big as the conversation turns to planes, frogs, or love.

But do I really mean it? Am I really scared? I certainly was scared on the prop plane I flew to the wedding. But on the way back, melancholy and cold, I fell asleep despite the cramped space and deafening roar.

Flying at night is beautiful. I love to see the lights of the cities. I imagine jewels laid out on black velvet. It’s comforting and exotic at the same time.

On the last leg of the flight home, I pulled a pewter statue out of my coat pocket (all the business men in first class weren’t very receptive to a woman wearing a motorcycle jacket sitting in their midst. It was classic) and cried.

I didn’t mean to. I just looked at the statue, rubbed it over and over with my thumb, and tears fell out. I don’t know if anyone noticed. I didn’t look around to check.

I cried because deep inside I know I have an amazing connection to someone. I’ve been ignoring that fact, skirting around it. I put away the journals that describe our recent visits with each other. I hid the pictures. I built up logic around me. I confided details to friends who would shake their heads and say I deserved better, he shouldn’t have reacted that way, he needs to figure things out, I need some time to myself…

I have a great list of reasons to put him out of my mind. But sitting there in first class, darkness everywhere except the pool of reading light which illuminated my hands caressing that statue, I allowed myself to remember that I can’t put him out of my heart.


You can’t think of anything to write because you’re too busy being astonished at yourself.

You just did the most sad, pathetic thing anyone on earth could do.

You also promised yourself you’d shutup about men, but since you can’t think of anything to write, and you think it’s unfair to state your sudden plummet into pathetic-ness (see! You can’t even think of a good metaphor you’re so disgusted with yourself!) without stating the reason, why don’t you just go ahead, say it, get it out of your system, and never speak of it again.

You just put the empty cat treats bag in that “special place” in the closet.

That’s right, you saved an empty foil bag as a memento of someone. A person, mind you, who hasn’t called or written. You’re not even sure how you feel about him anymore. But you want to make sure you have keepsakes just in case.

So you’re holding onto trash.

There is a line between romantic and idiotic. Sometimes that line is thin and hard to see. Not this time.

Let us never speak of this again.

Happily Ever Never

My mind is everywhere tonight.

Today I spent time in large social groups, intimate clusters, and by myself.

I even spent time across a booth from a member of the opposite sex. We then went back to his apartment where he showed me the ring he plans to give his girlfriend. It’s beautiful.

My ring was beautiful. It was passed down 5 generations. And I suppose it will continue to be, just not with me.

I’m thinking about the man that gave me that ring (and in the same breath as asking me to dinner to reconcile, asked for it back). I’m thinking about the man that told me I was too busy and how he perhaps knows me better than he wants to. Better than I want to be known right now.

And I’m thinking about a third guy whom I want to get to know. Maybe I just want to get to know him because the other two aren’t possibilities. Maybe it’s because he seems as screwed when it comes to relationships as I am. Misery loves company?

Can misery really understand each other? Or do you just think you understand each other, that the suffering you’ve felt at the hands of the opposite sex makes you special when the reality is there is no possible way either of you can understand the first thing about another person because you don’t understand the first thing about yourself.

Dinner was a success. The 8th person had to work, so no stress over the seating arrangement. Although I was teased for the step ladder. But that didn’t last too long, once they tasted my cooking. I rule the kitchen. Such a waste of a domestic goddess.

While I spent time by myself today, I cried. Then later I laughed. It’s like there’s a bad movie playing in my head.

Where’s my happy ending? If I can admit to being a drama queen, then I can take a minute to pout and say the following: I deserve a happy ending damnit!

And some chocolate-covered peanuts.

Not Fine

There are some days you think you’re fine.

And someone posts on a writing forum, wanting information about Destin, Florida.

“Destin? I just drove through there for a wedding! I should post a response about how beautiful it was!”

Because it was beautiful. You loved it.

So you start to post a response. Then you think of the vacation information the bride gave to everyone. You pull it out from under pictures and a package you’ve been meaning to send.

You go back to posting the response, searching the information for relevant facts.

But all you can think about is the drive to drop off his rental car. The stop at Goodwill and the red dress you wish you tried on. You actually ate an omelet that day and liked it. You hate eggs.

You want to tell this stranger that it’s a beautiful quaint little area and you can’t wait to go back.

But what you really mean is you want to go back with him. You’d fly to the closer airport, stay at a different house, but eat at the same restaurant with the OK omelets.

You want to help this fellow writer continue her story of Destin, Florida but you can’t.

You’re pretty sure you’ll never go back. Your story is over.  But you almost erase the words even as you type them because it just can’t be true. It was too beautiful to give up yet.

And that’s when you realize you’re not fine, and you’re in no shape to help anyone.