False alarm
“I’m trying to put this thing to bed
I’ve drugged it in its sleep
There isn’t many memories
I’m comfortable to keepThis ball keeps rolling on
It’s heading for the streets
Keep expecting you to send for me
The invitation never comes.”— K.T. Tunstall, “False Alarm”
I rarely move published posts back into “draft” mode. (Because, let’s face it, the posts continue to live in people’s RSS feed readers.) Nor do I ever feel bad about anything I say because if I was driven to feel it, then I was driven to write about it.
Yesterday I felt like I compromised my plausible deniability. I aim, at all times, to be able to say, “No, that wasn’t about you!” Which, let’s face it, if you need help picking someone out of a police lineup, you’re going to want to choose me because I remember and analyze every last detail. But, I don’t want anyone ELSE to pick these people out of a lineup. Because, hurt aside, I don’t want it to come back and bite them.
And by them, I mean him. She’s still not my favorite person, but him? Don’t fuck with him. 🙂
I got to thinking this morning as I drove in early to catch up on work that I abandoned before 7 last night. (And now, I shall pay for that. Right after I finish blogging!)
Anyway, I wanted to make him my everything. He presented as everything I wanted — handsome, intellectual, generous (with money if not necessarily with heart or time), well-spoken. The kind of guy you want your mom, friends and colleagues to meet because they will go “Damn! Jackpot!” And you (i.e., me) will thank God for not forgetting about you after all, as you were so certain that He had before this incredible man entered your life.
And really, my problem is with the party I’ve never met. I have done exactly what most girls do and blame the other woman. Someone who barely knows of my existence, or doesn’t have the full story, or maybe DOES have the full story because I was, in fact, a part OF said story.
My problem with her is simple. My impression/assumption is that she’s a hot mess. Compare that to the fine male specimen that finds said package attractive … so much so that he gives up my greatness for it … and you can see why I lost a few screws in my brain over it.
As always, there’s more to the story, of course. I hinted at it the other day but it’s really not my story to tell. Not now, not ever. And I shouldn’t have alluded to one or two of the details; I need to keep my plausible deniability intact … for all of us!
Anyway, the thought I had this morning was simple. She has the heart of MY Mr. Right. And I have called her every name in the book — but that’s ME being an asshole. Not her.
I really can’t fault her because, if I were in her shoes, I’d be thrilled that he picked me. I’d say, wow, this great guy loves me? How fucking lucky am I? I’m not letting this go and I’m not letting him get away.
You might wonder where “free will” plays into all of this. Well, I’ve asked God that question eleventy frillion times. Look, I can’t explain the attraction. I’ve said I would like to ask God someday to explain it to me in very small words so I can finally get it. He simply nods and says he understands that.
So have I made this into a melodrama? Probably. Well, yes. I have. But I am never, ever going to apologize for falling for someone … for being both intellectually and physically into someone was really new territory for me. Territory I’d like the chance to fully explore next time around.
I am never, ever going to understand what happens to those feelings when they’re gone. What I do know is that when he’s ready to upgrade, I hope he thinks of me. Even if he doesn’t call, I just want to know that his life changed in some way because of me.
And maybe if I can figure out how to be his friend again, and if we can actually hang in there long enough for life to happen and see whether we can keep our connection intact, someday I’ll find out.