I realized something while driving to a gig recently.
As I swerved and maneuvered the vag-mobile down the QEW, I wondered how long it would take for my broken-heart and bruised pride to fully recover from my crush.
It’s getting annoying and boring at this point.
It was a couple of months with a man who I didn’t even sleep with, let alone actually enjoy a real relationship with. So this grief surrounding it is disproportionate. It should be over by this point. It’s been months since last we spoke, and I should’ve moved on by now.
His memory still haunts me when a sad song shuffles on my iPod, when I’m horny, and (obviously) when his mug appears on my TV screen.
His name often comes up in comedy conversations (as many hold him in such high regard), and I silently cringe. I hate that I still find him so funny. It would be so much easier if he were a dick or a hack. But he’s still amazing – just not for me.
I’m acutely aware of all the things that could/should turn me off about him, but he’s a bit like Lex Luthor: he doesn’t have any real superpowers, but he’s a constant menace to my peace of mind.
I haven’t been able to figure out why he has had such a lasting effect on me.
Honestly, I’ve dated men who are more famous, younger, hotter and wealthier, etc… who technically “should” be more difficult to move on from. Unfortunately and fortunately for me, I’ve never really given a shit about any of that crap. I thought maybe it’s because he’s the funniest person I’ve ever met, and it really disappoints me if a sense of humor means everything to me. It shouldn’t mean everything.
But I think I’ve figured it out: It’s because of the Manbbatical.
Ordinarily, I’d have not only dated, but slept with someone since him by now. (I know there was that slip-up in Halifax, but that was but a wrinkle in time.) I know it’s not the prescribed method of dealing with heartache, but being with another always speeds up my recovery process immensely. This is because while I suffer, I’d prefer to think of anything else, and do what I have to in order to make that happen. I know it’s not healthy, but it’s been my pattern.
The whole point of this year without men was to be completely on my own, but maybe it’s good that I fell in love with him. I’ve been forced to deal with it in an unusual way (for me).
I mean, I’ve had to actually deal with it, instead of hopping in the sack with some random dude. It’s been a tough lesson, but a good one, I suppose. At least I’ve had the time and compulsion to examine where it is I went wrong. Though it sucks in the moment, I’m sure (I hope) this investigation will help me to become a stronger, healthier, more confident partner to someone when the time comes.
Like with most types of pain, each day feels a little better though there are setbacks from time to time.
I guess I’m just learning to stand on my own two feet, instead of taking my usual route of collapsing backward into someone’s bed.
