It was a particularly sunny Sunday morning in mid-November.
I called Brett as I pull the car around for him to bring down my things, a gym
bag with running gears and an overnight change of clothing, an insulated bag
with a crockpot half full of the leftover chili I had made the previous day,
which he thought for sure was spoiled because it had sat out for more than 3
hours unrefrigerated. An assortment of emotions and thoughts cycled through my
mind like a merry-go-around. I wanted to hide in a cozy cocoon and not think or
feel anything. Instead I took a deep breath and blanketed it under every bit of
gratitude I could gather inside of me.
The sunlight felt warm on my black leather jacket as I waited
for him outside. I was calm and composed. I didn’t know what to say but what
did it matter? Words were never my forte. Despite a lifetime of experiences,
saying goodbye is just one of those things I’ll never learn. I loaded the bags
into the trunk, turned to him and did the only thing that probably felt natural
to both of us. We kissed and hugged each other. He felt unbearably good, which
only made me sadder. He thanked me for the chili and I wished him a good trip.
Just like that we parted, for the last time, like two very civilized and
grateful people.
Our paths had crossed rather serendipitously. It was sweet
in the beginning but it has thoroughly run its course. By now I had clearly
overextended my stay. This is it, I told myself, no more visits. I know I said
that five visits ago but this time it’s for real. I pulled up his contact in my
phone and pressed delete like it’s going to save my neurotic self from a total
elapse. People who say I have good self-control don’t know how often I
fail.
Rose had always said that what is more hurtful than breaking
up with someone is the loss of a dream, a future of togetherness you had built
in your mind. In my case, I wasn’t in a relationship. I had created a fantasy
in my head. I had sculpted a perfect individual who was successful, smart, handsome,
active, charismatic, cultured, sensitive and funny. Surely some of these could be justified, such
as the fact that he was well traveled (soon to be 28 countries), well read
(always had books around), fit (always worked out) and adored children
(volunteered as a big brother). But then everything is justifiable if you
looked hard enough. We see what we want to see. At end of the day I am guilty
of plastering all the traits I’d like all over someone I had barely known. It
was a disappointment waiting to happen.
There are things that I’ve done in my life that could be considered
shameful by the general population but I feel no shame. Up until now I had no
idea what exactly made me feel shameful. But now I know. Shame is when I catch
myself willingly and knowingly let someone treat me less than I what I deserve.
I can count the times I have let this happen to me on one hand. It runs counter
to everything I believe in. I’ve always been proud of the people I’ve dated and
associated myself with. They respected me because I respected myself. But every
now and then I fail regardless how confident and secure I build myself up to be.
It’s so embarrassing I want to pull the sheets over my face and imagine myself
disappearing from this world.
It wasn’t anything he did that was upsetting. In fact, he
had done nothing at all. I had let myself be the victim of disengagement. Why
didn’t he have the courtesy to uninvited me had he been so disinterested? Why
did I come here for someone who is obviously oblivious to my presence? I hit
myself over the head with these questions over and over again. Was it more polite in
his mind to give someone the silent treatment or perhaps he was just in it for the
convenience of someone showing up at the door for sex? I’ll never find out what his thought process was. It’s hard for me to admit that there are
things I so desperately want that I’d let down my principles for. I was looking
for affection, intimacy and something new and exciting. All the things I’ve
always looked for, probably and hopefully will never stop looking for. For a moment I wanted to live out that fantasy even if it wasn't real. It would have had been a perfect story to tell the grand kids. Still, fantasies only belong in storybooks. Adults need to go to work and deal with real life and contemplate questions such as: have I always traded sex for affection?
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