Caterwauling

There was a question in yesterday’s Reader Poll Monday that’s still bothering me, about whether one would rather be known worldwide as a racist or a child molestor.

It bugged me because I remember some guy I dated years ago. Nice guy. Really. But he just didn’t *do* it for me. I miss our friendship sometimes, although even that might have been a matter of convenience and circumstance as well.

Anyway, he was convinced that I wasn’t into him because of his race. He told me as much. Man, did that bother me. And I think he said it to get under my skin, because I admit, I thought about it.

For a minute, anyway.

But all told, he didn’t want to admit that “I just wasn’t that into him.” Nevermind the fact that he had a longterm (and long-distance) girlfriend who he kept swearing he’d break up with if I’d just supposedly come to my senses and be with him. Never mind that one of our mutual friends had stolen/broken/vaporized my heart and my dumb ass still wasn’t accepting that he was unworthy of my affections. And never mind that I finally said what the hell and let it go to *that level* and that didn’t help matters, either.

I had figured that maybe he’d known something I didn’t know, that maybe while I was dating all over the place and pining for the one I couldn’t have, I was missing something wonderful right in front of me. So when he declared that I must just have had a problem with race, that blew my fucking mind, because that’s not the type of person I am or want to be. And I thought he might have had a point, given my history up to that point. But in retrospect, I wish I would have been smart enough to answer, “No, I don’t have a problem with your skin. I have a problem with the way I do and don’t feel about you.”

I hate even writing this, because on the rare occasion I check my SiteMeter, I see a domain that might or might not resolve back to where he lived at the time. But on the other hand, I am fine with him knowing how much he could hurt me with just one sentence, after promising me the sun, moon and stars once upon a time. I always, ALWAYS wonder what my life would have been like if I’d just been able to love him back.

My life would have been very different. I’m no idiot — I knew that he would take care of me. I honestly believe that if I’d returned even a fraction of his feelings, I’d have a house and an expensive car and couple of kids in a suburb of Pittsburgh. I probably wouldn’t have had to work another day in my life if I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t guarantee — or even promise — him or myself that love could grow.

I think we all want a comfortable life, materially. But emotionally? No thanks. Give me passion and fights and fire and torrid, all-consuming addiction to someone. I don’t mean in an unhealthy, codependent kind of way. I mean, if someone’s going to touch me, I want to feel them. I want to know they’ve entered the room not because I see them, but because the energy becomes balanced.

I don’t fight for something I don’t care about losing. I don’t really have it in me to pass the time with someone until something better comes along, and I certainly won’t stop looking until I’ve found someone who makes me tingle all over with just a twinkle in their eye.

I might never get that materially comfortable life. But if I can just find someone who ignites my skin just by brushing against it, I will have done all right for myself in life.

*kicks the person who made me question myself*

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 15th, 2006 at 9:02 AM and is filed under Existential Meanderings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.