wish you weren’t here

I never imagined my recent…wait, can we even really call four weeks ago recent? I guess…recent dalliance with the magnum would be more than it was. I think I was more disappointed that, for all his supposed years of wanting, his desire to woo me seemed to have fizzled out. But the real kiss of death was something that came out of his mouth… (actually, there were a lot of deal breakers that came out of his mouth)… but there was only one that made me wish none of this had ever happened:

He brought up a mutual acquaintance, one he knew I’d liked, and suggested that the two of us must have slept together… And then the name of this man brought up his visage and the memories and the same feelings flooded back as viscerally as if the scab had been ripped off to expose an open wound. He was all I could think about, even as I still think he’s a fool! And I still think he’s a far better man than the one I was lying next to at that very moment and, suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get the hell away from there and never come back.

Thing is, this mythologized man is someone I wrote about a couple of years back: I wrote about how he had an uncanny knack of bypassing all my defenses, making me feel soft and sweet inside, coaxing out the very best in me and enabling me to relinquish control — and all we’d ever done is talk, hug and kiss. We’re creeping up on two years since that kiss and, despite fights and hurtful words and disparate values, I still feel that way. He still occasionally visits me in my dreams.

I texted him a few days later to see if he wanted to grab a beer before the holiday break ended, and he said he was flattered, but seeing someone, and that he’d bought his children a dog for Christmas. Four weeks have passed. My heart still aches.

I’ve since deleted our text history and his contact information. It’s a move meant to cut the cord for my own emotional health and self preservation. And my heart still aches to feel that feeling that, in more than a decade, I’ve only felt when with him. And, perhaps even worse, I wonder what is wrong with me that I can’t move on?

a man’s gotta be able to drive

…and by that, I don’t mean a car, necessarily, although it certainly helps in these parts. I mean he has to be able to grab hold of an opportunity and take forward action — not this lateral, side-stepping nonsense.

So, recently, when the magnum asked me when he could see me again, I replied to his text with “not sure. what do you have in mind?”

He replied: “wine. dinner. beer.”

Me: “ok. ask me on a date, then.”

Him: “ok.”

Days later, I had heard nothing and I thought to myself:

This doesn’t feel good to me. I want to be wanted, at least a little…pursued, if you will.
I don’t like the way we communicate. Not once has a text or conversation between us stimulated my biggest erogenous zone, my mind.
We’re in different places. I’m feeling myself again, enjoying my single life and thinking about being in an actual relationship with someone who’s also looking for a committed, life-long conspirator. The heart wants.
It’s a terrible sign when a man doesn’t take the lead. Just think about being stuck in a relationship with someone who constantly leaves all the relationship-related work to you… Ugh! That was my first marriage! (My wasband actually said — without a moment’s hesitation — to a marriage counselor — when asked who was in charge of our relationship that it was me. Not us, as should be assumed in any relationship involving two or more people, but me, the person he expected would always take care of everything.)

A little more context: the last time we’d seen each other, I mentioned that my ex and I were switching weekends so that my upcoming weekend was free — and, based on what he’d told me before, our child-free weekends were synched up. So he’d already had an open door to ask me out…if he’d wanted to. Over it.

So, if you’re reading this and you’re a guy, here’s your take-away: a woman wants to be valued, asked out, planned for, picked up (if you know each other well enough for her to be comfortable with that), taken someplace special / thoughtful — where you have, of course, made reservations.

It sounds something like this:

“Hi, this is Chuck. I’d really like to take you to dinner Saturday night. Can I pick you up at seven?”

And your love interest, who will be exceedingly more intrigued by this powerful approach than the lame “when can I see you?”, responds positively and then you come back with: “Great, I’ve made reservations at [restaurant] at 8, and I’ll be wearing jeans and a sport coat, no tie.”

You’ve now told your date that you value her (or him) enough to plan ahead, pick her up and give her an idea of what to wear. Kudos. Great job! A winning approach.

It’s entirely true that I may not be representative of all women and not all women may be turned off by a lack of good communication. Some women even like to take the lead. To each her own…

And my own is not to waste more time where I don’t feel cherished.

besieged by emotional earthquakes

Not earthquakes, really; more like tremors. A shaking and unease where there ought to be some foundation. Anxiety about the mountains of work awaiting after the holiday, overwhelm about the housework, too much time cooped up in a house with only my children with the weather too cold to go out and enjoy it.

Seems I feel this way every year in the interim between Christmas and New Years. Not sure why, really.

This year I had insulation put into my walls — a messy proposition. The interiors of every exterior wall of our home had holes drilled every 16″ between the studs and insulation blown in. Then workers filled each of these holes with a styrofoam disk and slathered them in drywall mud.

After two days of dust, noise and workers, I was left with my belongings piled in the center of each room and covered in plastic covered with a thick layer of dust, patches that required sanding and some re-patching and sanding again, then priming, painting, cleaning and more cleaning. I’m still painting and putting things back in place.

The good news is that several consecutive ten to twelve hour days of cleaning took my mind off the existential tremors of insecurity about my work, my life, my finances, my future, etc.

Next year, remind me to go to Mexico instead.