So, I hate “The Bachelorette.” Especially this season. Desiree was the epitome of phoniness. And yet last night, we saw real, raw emotion as her beloved Brooks — the only one she loved, the only one to NOT tell her he loves her — dumped her on national TV.
I have dated plenty of men who look like Brooks (dark hair and strong jaw with sexy facial hair. *quiver*) and every last one of those bastards walked away from me. The nerve.
Anyway, I didn’t feel sorry for Desiree but I found myself really feeling bad for myself. I mean, I just KNOW that feeling. Whether they just want out or else they’re passing you over to cater to some (other) hot-ass mess, the common denominator is that they just don’t love you enough.
You can tell yourself they do love you on some level, and I think they do. At least, that’s what I tell myself because I always find out later that they did. They just couldn’t hang around long enough to see where things could go.
Or didn’t want to risk being uncomfortable — whether they stayed with someone else who couldn’t ignite their soul but they had too much time invested, or whether they really were happier where they were, it was my heart that was expendable.
Of course, you can credit them for breaking your heart early AND all at once. That’s how I like to do it. No sense incrementally shattering their soul with moments you’re not “in” and eyes that are always on the door as you tense your body and plot your eventual escape.
It’s a sign of respect when I do it. Mostly for myself, but still.
Anyway, Brooks wasn’t perfect either, which I needed to see because I wasn’t watching “him” on that TV. I was playing reels at warp speed from various talks I’ve had in my day with his doppelgangers.
I was Desiree at that moment, lighting up like a palm tree with LED Christmas lights when she saw the one who held her heart. I stopped breathing alongside her when the boy clearly had something to say but couldn’t get it out … we both thought, maybe just maybe, he’s about to make me his. That he’s searching his heart for the words that will make this the best moment of your life.
And then … it comes. The letdown. The “I don’t love you.” “I’ll never love you.” “I don’t even want to try to love you.”
I made a mistake and put a comment to this effect on FaceyPages, one that I ripped down while speeding to work this morning. Because, I have had more than one of those conversations in my day and even though I was aiming it in one specific place, well, I have plenty of rugged Brooks lookalikes — for whom I’ve learned to be happy because it’s either that or a bitterness I don’t have the heart to carry where they’re concerned — to think any less of me.
After all, I am still the one who got away, even if it was one of those rare occasions when I wasn’t the one going anywhere.
My takeaway is that we never end up with the one we want. Desiree has a boatload of men who want her but the one she can’t have is the only one she wants. I can’t imagine why there is even a finale next week — how could anyone go try to pick a husband from the remaining contestants when, let’s face it, the show is over for her?
I remember with my last Brooks-like experience, I went over it in my head eleventy frillion times … what had I said or done? What is his perception of me? What could have made him love me if only I’d just done something differently?
And I came to realize, over time and certainly watching my life on the TV screen last night, that you can’t do that. If you’re being true to yourself, you’re doing a disservice to YOU if you’re trying to figure out what ran them off.
My Brooks, as it were, is a scared little wabbit who doesn’t feel he deserves anyone good. So he hangs around with riff-raff if anyone at all. He dismisses someone like me as being out of his league instead of raising his game.
Someone like me … or just me? *stabbing temple with a pencil*
Either way, we’re two of a kind. I’d rather be alone than wish I were. Ask anyone I know … if they can even remember me!
Anyway, I ramble. Per usual. I felt like my heart broke all over again last night but maybe it needed to. I spent enough time feeling like shit that they (collective they, not just the Whorothy fan) chose no one or someone else over me.
Frankly they chose themselves. And isn’t that the REAL lesson to take away from all of this?