Sunday

Last night, I flitted like a social butterfly around The Bar. A fake smile on my face; allowing a faux excitement to dance in my eyes.

I’ve met many men over the last two months. Probably, more than the entire five years that I’ve been single. Yesterday, they all seemed to descend on my local; one more disappointing than the other. This one is too young. (Most of them are too young); that one is too good looking to be trusted. He’s shallow. I have nothing in common with that one. This one’s not interested in me in that way. That one is unavailable even if he was; he doesn’t have Zing…!*

None of them have Zing…!

None of them even come close to comparing to Him. I came to that conclusion while driving home. I knew that I’m nowhere near ready to move on or forward or over.

But I know that I have to because that’s what you are supposed to do. I know that I have to because Jack Penate says that I should. (And because his voice is captivating and because melody is the language of the soul I should listen to him.)

I listen and hope that one day, soon, I’ll manage to ‘pull my heart away’.

(*Zing…! Not my own word; rather that of my new friend and awesome-st wing woman ever, A)

Twenty dates

After the first date, I sent an email to my four closest friends. The subject read, “Would it be too much if I said I met my soul mate?”

On the sixth date, I was certain I had. It was this feeling in my gut that translated into happiness and peace and calmness. People I hardly knew would look at me and laugh, “You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” I was radiating complete confidence, self acceptance and joy.

On the tenth date, I realized that my soul mate was not actually perfect, I began to withdraw out of fear.

On the twelfth date, I realized that my soul mate, while far from perfect, was also not looking for the same thing I was. “I just want to be left alone.” he had said. I–single for the majority of my life–understood that sentiment; I didn’t even take it personally. “OK” I countered. “I can leave you alone.” He–in committed, long term relationships for most of his life–did not know what he wanted. “No, don’t leave me alone” he had replied.

On the seventeenth date, I could feel my soul mate chickening out. He had got caught up in something far more complex than he was ready for; he couldn’t handle it.

On the eighteenth date, I was so scared that the end was near that I withdrew even more. I pushed him further away. Then, I pulled him closer. Then, I pushed him away again. He employed the exact same strategy.

On the twentieth date, we both gave up.  He made a choice and I did not even attempt to fight for what I wanted. All because of fear, insecurity, bitterness and anger of issues that had nothing to do with him. I suspect he unfairly judged me and our brief affair in the same way that I did.

Two months later, I still believe that I met my soul mate. But sometimes, even when soul mates do meet, it doesn’t mean that they will–or should–be together.

He wasn’t the one. But he was a kindred spirit. He was a soul mate. And for this reason alone, I still miss him.

Fuck.

Almost

‘Time heals all wounds’, the tongue-tied tell the broken-hearted.

As seconds roll into hours and hours roll into relentlessly long days and those days turn into weeks with lines crossed through them to indicate that painstakingly slow passage of time gone, the open wounds do indeed heal.

But when the pain eases, when the stabbing, numbing ache of loss fades, all that is left is a sweet, sweet sadness. It is that sadness of almost. I almost got him. He almost got me. We almost got it right. At the core of sadness is resigned anger; no matter how much we want, how hard we try, how much we yearn nothing in the past is in our control. I get angry at him for not seeing the ‘we’ that was. I get angry at myself for allowing my fears of losing him to invade the ‘we’ that was. I get angry at the both of us for giving up, for not trusting, for not letting go.

Four weeks later, I am out of despair. I am healing nicely.

But, I’m still sad. Because we almost had it. We almost got it right.We stood at the edge, we even held hands, we looked down into the unknown, and instead of  closing our eyes and taking that giant leap forward together, we stood on that edge–eyes wide open–and we argued. ‘Should we should jump on three or should we  jump after three?’ And because we took too long, because we could not make a decision,  because we were both too cowardly to jump without wings,  our hands fell to each of our  frozen sides and we walked away.

It was easier to do that, I suppose. I suppose, it was the safest, most logical strategy. I suppose, I am better off. I suppose, he is too.

So four weeks later, I am finally there. I have accepted that it is indeed over.

Well, almost.