Goodbye to All That

Contrary to its well-worn title, this post is neither a feminist screed nor an eloquent essay nor an impassioned political endorsement. This is simply more of the truth, as I know it. Or as I come to realize it. Maybe it is a distinction without a difference. Knowledge or realization, either requires me to be hit over the head to accept them.

The cold hard facts? He moved back here. He didn't tell me. He passed me on the street. He didn't say anything (granted, neither did I, but in my defense, I thought it a mirage of wishful thinking as it couldn't possibly have been him. After all, he doesn't live here. So why would he be ambling around the neighborhood -- walking a dog no less?) He lives in my neighborhood -- within a matter of blocks. He hasn't told me any of this. I found out by accident. He may or may not be working with many of my friends. They may or may not be avoiding telling me he is back. He may or may not be attending a party I am supposed to attend this weekend. He may or may not be living with someone (the dog, in my view, seems to be a pretty good support of that idea).

I may or may not be a total fool.

So what to make of these facts? It all just feels strangely familiar.

I have been down this road so many times, and, frankly, I am just tired. Contrary to a longheld belief of mine, I do not actually fall in love fifteen times a day. I am too picky for that. I am too afraid for that. I don't know how to accept love. Rejection and withholding, however, I am familiar with.

"I don't want to start something with you because then it would have to end, and I respect our friendship too much."

"It is like the difference between pizza and chicken breast.... you, of course, are the pizza."

"Someday, I want us to be like best friends, but for now, you are the least self aware person I know."

And those were the ones who sought to explain themselves. Others spoke more loudly without a sound -- my how I love those men of action: canceled meetings, forgotten birthdays, disavowed anniversaries, showing up at non-date functions with dates, ignoring correspondence, e-mailing about their impending nuptuals, finding out about impending nuptuals or other more person things from a third party, and, of course, stealthily moving back into town.

The parade of horribles is not insignificant.

But the saddest part is, that they aren't unexpected. As a wise person noted to me, my choices, for all of their extroverted, ebullient, extraordinary qualities, also beget a certain emotional tin ear. I, like others, bask in the glow of their presence. I derive energy and light from such a presence. I feel energized and ennobled in a way that is so foreign to me -- so rare, and so intoxicating. But I never feel loved. And I made the choice long ago, that the price of residing in the solar system of the extraordinary, might require a more independent-minded affection than that which I had dreamt up in my overwrought head. I would not be clingy and demanding and ridiculous. I would be self contained and ask for nothing, because, nagging as my desires are, they are ridiculous. Indicative of my inherent and unshakable core weakness. Oh the weakness. Oh the shame. Oh the truth: I am needy. I need someone who will look after me and my emotional well being. I need someone who cares what I did with my day, from the mundane to the ludicrous. I need someone who sweats the details. But above all else, I just need someone to hold my hand.

He is never going to hold my hand. None of them ever were.

It is a difficult and onerous job, where the risk/rewards calculus is not evidently a positive one, and I am not sure there are many (or any) out there who really could do the job. So, apparently, I have taken to choosing to bestow my affections on those that won't even try. This way I do not have to be disappointed when they fail -- I can just be disappointed all the time.

Today, I feel a sliding spectrum of emotions -- both heavy and lingering all at once: I feel stupid. I feel foolish. I feel like a dope. I feel angry. I feel rejected. I feel ill. I feel betrayed.

But at least there is this: his actions do not make me feel less than. I have known, but not cared to admit, for a long time that he doesn't care about me as I care for him.

What I did not know (or refused to believe even in my heart of hearts) till now is that he does not care about me at all.

The Last Best Chance

Logically, it would seem that bringing a whole lot of crazy to the table is not going to help one's case in finding true and lasting love. In fact, I could point to my entire dating history as empirical proof for that eminently reasonable proposition. That being said, given that I know that the crazy is detrimental to my achieving what I ultimately desire, why can't I leave it behind?

When I was younger, clearly it was because I simply didn't know better. Passion and obsession and commitment and loyalty and honor and desire were all the same thing. Love was a one note proposition. A short staccato note at that. Today, I no longer have the excuse of naivete. I ought to be able to achieve better range, if not perfect pitch. So why is the crazy still a component?

It is because every date I have, every relationship I consider, is my last best chance. I cannot help it. It has absolutely nothing to do with biology or its associated time pieces. I assure you. It also has nothing to do with sociologically mandates rituals. I promise. If it has to do with my age, it only does so peripherally, in that, the ever resonant chant of "you should know better by now" is always with me. I am a slave to my own selectiveness. I am picky. I know what I like, and what I like is very, very rare. Less flatteringly, I am an elitist. But I do not want to settle. I want to feel that feeling, that feeling that my fingers are skimming the sky and my toes are nestled in the cool grass of the earth beneath my feet. I fit anywhere and everywhere. Without thought.

And so I do select. I don't go out with anyone -- hell, I don't talk with anyone -- who doesn't seem to have Those Possibilities. But such people are so rare. And when I find one -- A Possibility -- the rarity and the promise of the situation itself drive me to distraction. The pressure is maddening. My insecurities magnified by a thousand. Each of these rarities, my last best chance. My last best chance at the happiness I envision in the deep recesses of my heart for myself. The happiness I dare not speak of for I will be wistful for its absence and cursed by an outward expression of its desire.

But oh the pressure of the last best chance. It makes things impossible. It stifles. It frightens. And the fear -- The Fear -- it brings the crazy.

Do I want more than I deserve? Quite possibly -- my behavior indicates that subconsciously I believe this to be true. Neuroses are a foolproof way of thwarting all happiness. Could I settle for less? Unfortunately, I just don't think so.

I don't know what is wrong with me that I can't just embrace the nice, or the friendly, or the good and just find happiness in these singular qualities. Ignoring whether all else may fall short of my traditional standards.

But I just don't think I can.

And so I keep believing in and overburdening The Last Best Chance. And so they each successively fail. Another inevitably comes along, so I suppose that the Last Best Chance moniker is itself a falsity. But I never believe that at the time. Every one could be the last. The last before I am forever locked in to that life of being alone. And when I will look back and regret my craziness, my elitism, my stubborness, myself.

But even this fear can't change the picture in my head of the way the story should end -- how it should look, feel and sound. It feels so certain when I think of it. In fact, I don't think of it anymore. I just feel it. I know how it will feel and I want that feeling. I want it more than anything.

Feliz Dia de Santo Valentin

For all the ladies (and all the men that appreciate such things) another pretty picture of a very pretty man.




Yummy.

With regard to my earlier post, the fact that JT brought his mom as his date to the Grammy's only makes his stock rise. The fact that BZ is dating a nineteen year old. Ummm, yeah, well. Good luck with that Barry. Sell, sell, sell.