I had decided not to write anything more about my
relationship with Tim. First dates—awesome ones at that—made for a welcome,
happier tone in my posts. I felt there was also a unique story to be told in
having a budding romance put on hold by a pre-planned six-week escape from my
rural home. Returning to British Columbia, I wanted to keep the rest of the
relationship private. Let it grow and blossom in private.
But then he snipped that beautiful blossom, stomped on it,
picked it up and yanked off each colorful petal, all the way down to He loves me not. Some of the most
stunning flowers have tragically short growing seasons. Getting dumped sucks.
And so I’m back to blogging. My site has a long track record
of chronicling isolation and dating woes. Aren’t you tired of it? Have you
really ogled every cat video on
YouTube? (If so, may I suggest this clip with talking nachos? It
garnered repeated viewings and hearty laughter from my cousins at the cottage
last week. But then, my aunt was generously refilling everyone’s wine glasses.)
I could be hateful. I’ll leave that to my comrades on
Twitter. They’ve endearingly shown their support by referring to Tim as a
douche, an a**hole and a cognitively and visually challenged bat. Dan made me
laugh out loud—no, I will never opt for the overused, now meaningless
“LOL”—when he tweeted, “I say we destroy him.” We need people like that. I
think of Elizabeth Perkins and Jim Belushi in “About Last Night”. (The original
movie, adapted from what is likely a superior David Mamet play.) Removed from
the immediacy of the situation, they diffuse things and ensure that negativity
doesn’t fester within. If things take a comical bent, all the better.
Truth is, I don’t have a drop of anger for Tim. I am deeply
frustrated, disappointed, disheartened and just plain sad. (Sorry, anger.
There’s no room for you!) Dumping happens. I get that. I am not immune. (I
never get a flu shot as I have a faint-inducing aversion to needles, but if
someone created a dumping shot, I’d be first in line. Both arms for safe
measure. Let me just lie here on the floor first.) Before I left for the
summer, Tim and I could not have had better dates. Even this week, Tim talked
about the second date that didn’t seem to end. He referred to us being in a
bubble. He talked of the sparks from the date before I headed to L.A. It was
not a one-sided feeling. I had every reason to believe in our potential.
Had I stuck around this summer, I doubt I’d be blogging
about Tim. The momentum would not have been interrupted. But I had made a
commitment to be in Los Angeles for five weeks. I served as
dogsitter/housesitter for a very close friend. And, really, before Tim popped
up, there was nothing I needed more than a long vacation in La-la Land. After
my darkest spring ever, I needed the summer retreat.
L.A. served me well, but it created too much distance much
too soon. We never got back on track. Our last date showed glimmers of what we’d
had. The conversation was inquisitive, an exchange of sharing our perspectives
which continued to feel in sync. It was playful, punctuated by at least one
long, glorious laugh. I never thought a nudging conversation about progressing
physically would kill it all.
The disappointing end to something that had such a promising
start leaves me where I was pre-Tim. I am profoundly bewildered. After getting
a glimpse at something great, the state of bewilderment is even greater. Didn’t
think that was possible.
When people don’t go the “He’s a douche” route, they show
support with empty, hopeful statements.
“He wasn’t the one.”
“The right guy will come when you least expect it.”
“You will find love. Be open and he will come.”
Fortune cookie sentiments. How do I remain hopeful after
nine years of hopelessness? If he is
out there, what the hell is he waiting for? Where is he hiding? And why is he hiding? It is cruel to
continue to dangle the thought of him
in front of me all this time. This is the slowest form of torture.
This one did not work out. He was not The One. Fine. His quick exit affirms that. Okay. But I need
something more substantial than a fortune cookie for sustenance. (Does anybody
even eat those dang things?) I need real hope. I need a sign. Hell, I need The One. Sooner rather than later. This
week would be dandy. Next week will do.
Please let the waiting be over.
