| Twelve o'clocktails. |
[Nov. 1st, 2009|02:01 pm] |
Halloween is never fun for me. I don't know if that impression has been made, but I honestly haven't enjoyed one at least since 2005. And I think that one was only fun because it was three days of friends in town, an onslaught of parties, no real costumes, all culminating in our going to see Gogol Bordello while I was pantless, dressed like what was supposed to be a Roman slaveboy. The things I did at twenty-one.
Last night, after fretting all day and half-heartedly attempting to cheer myself up, Smug finally called me and invited me over to his house. I purchased a bottle of wine of which he hardly partook. We watched Candyman on the computer and at one point I warmly turned to him and said it was turning out to be a really good Halloween. The burden of some stressful news sent him over the edge early on, before I was even around, and a moment of sentimentality from me ( and not even directed at him ) lead to brief kissing. And whilst kissing, he broke up with me.
The normal stages: I got mean. I told him I didn't have any feelings for him. He embarrassed me. He was going to get back together with his ex and never have the courage to leave town. He was stupider than me, his stunts were bush league. He's a failure, a flake.
But then I realized how futile and unbecomingly desperate it is to argue yourself out of a breakup twice. So I shut myself in his bathroom and sobbed like a saint, murmuring, "I wish I never met you," and other such nothings. He cried too, a little bit. He was at times a self-absorbed asshole. He said that he had felt like he was in love with me, but his real-life dilemmae have blocked any further capability of romantic love. He felt like he was being unfair to me, because I'd expressed that I was growing feelings for him.
Okay: which was bullshit. I mean, of course I probably loved him somehow, but the thing I have learned is that I at least know when it is that I love totally and when I am just loving for the sake of love, which happens often. I like being in love; it becomes me. I like having men around to worship and dote, I like having sex whenever I want to with someone I care about, I like pampering someone who deserves it. But I know the damned difference between sincere heartbreak and hurt pride, being duped, feeling like somebody's mark taken out, some sweet rube girl at the mercy of a feelingless Binx Bolling; hell, maybe I am Binx Bolling. Anyhow, brother: that wasn't love. That was just feeling like a chump. It was being rejected by the first person you've liked in quite a long while, and someone that you knew you were kind of just settling for to pass the time, and even though they simply won't do for the longhaul, they undo before you. That's what smarts your cheek and makes you want to lock yourself in a vehicle you can't drive and call up every man who still loves you and actually knows. Though I only called one, and he was the perfect one to talk to.
There's a whole new element to this relationship business that I've developed with age. On one hand, I feel like the caliber of men I attract has decreased enough for me to be a little concerned: maybe I'm not as hot as I previously was, maybe I'm too picky, maybe I'm just old news and my social currency has wavered. But really, I know that I carry myself with sexual agency, amusing intelligence, politeness and certainly, above all things, an emotional composure I was sorely lacking as a flailing twenty-year-old beer-spitting thing. And I will continue to age well, as my parents are aging well. I know what I deserve and what I need and these shouldn't be mutually exclusive things. So why is it that all of my exes are such sexy lively things and every guy I meet is like a pale flicker of their handsomeness and vitality? In many cases, I would be embarrassed to bring some round the others, honestly. And embarrassment, in any capacity, is grounds for immediate dispatch. You simply cannot ever be embarrassed of your partner. It's horrible.
But having lived these few months with an old maid, I know I could not become one. I thrive on the companionship and affection. I need a sounding board for my ideas and paranoid delusions, if left alone I will be in significant danger of convincing myself that I'm right all of the time. And then I will be so insufferable and disgusting absolutely no one will want me. I'm never going to get fat or sloppy because I'm too vain, but I'm sure I could become mighty annoying in my lonesomeness.
The best advice I've received so far is from the publisher-friend at work. We don't work in the same office but we've found ways of passive communication and so forth. One day this week I woke with such a profound desire to see him and when I entered the building he walked out of the door of the first office and met me in the hallway, while I shook my umbrella. We're psychically connected like that. I do actually believe that our souls, if we have any left, are akin. He said so first, actually. I asked him if he and his wife would adopt me. He said it should be easy to adopt a twenty-five-year-old, he'd look into it. He says I remind him a lot of himself. I feel compelled to tell him anything. He assured me that I won't be alone forever, but with my isolating, diesel-powered intensity, it's best for me to wring it all out during my twenties. Basically, he says I have no business pretending I want to be in a serious relationship until I'm in my thirties. And then I should find someone whose personality is my complement ( my ex, for instance—which was the very problem at the time, his being ready to live like married people and my fear thereof ) and settle down. I believe everything he says; he told me jokingly that he was my everything. He's a good person. When we drunkenly walked the streets of Nashville I could feel his wedding ring pressing boldly into my fingers.
And all that being said, I like suffering. It also becomes me. |
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