The Man

I'm standing in the middle of the road in the middle of the night while Molly attacks beetles.  And I'm feeling sorry for myself.   It was probably 5 minutes before I realized it wasn't so safe to be standing in the middle of the road.  So I took my pity party home.  But before I can tell you that story, I must tell you this one..

I've been in love with boys since I was 6 years old.  My first boyfriend (tongue in cheek) was Chris Thomas, and we were both in grade one.  He had a treehouse that said, "No Girls Allowed" and then underneath it, "except Catherine".  He had blue, blue eyes and thick, blonde curly hair.  Next there was Bobby, then another Chris (first Chris' best friend...oh yes, scandal in third grade!!), Scott Bailey, Adam Dickens, Tim Crews, Mike Royan, Art Pike.  Oh....Cameron Holroyd broke my heart when he accepted a baseball scholarship and moved away to Missouri (or something like that.  It was far away, that's all I know) and the list goes on...

After a while, you get used to the broken hearts.  You move on to the next.  As you get older, the broken hearts are fewer and farther between as you become more monogamous...or God willing, at least a little less stupid in your choices.  From there, for me anyways, came a string of married men.  Now, this is not anything I'm any way proud of...but stick with me for a moment while I paint the background.  I spent 10 years of my life with an a-hole.  During those 10 years, all the 'good' men were getting married.  Then they met me.  I cannot even tell you how many times I've heard, "She doesn't understand me."  "She's angry all the time."  "She doesn't want to have sex with me anymore." "Where were you 5 years ago?"   The last (and greatest) was, "I can't wait for you to meet her." Seriously, after stringing me along for I don't know how long, and a series of business trips together, he springs on me that he's married.  And that his wife is meeting him at the airport.  And that I'm going to love her.  Another Mr. Married boldly told me that he would leave his wife for me only after I showed him what I had to offer in the bedroom.  And believe me, I only wish I could be making this up...I cringe as I write it.

Now, I am notorious for falling for a certain type.  Older - always.  I know you're all thinking I must have father abandonment issues, but I don't think that's it.  I guess it could very well be, me not being a psychologist, I'm not really qualified to say either way, but my father and I have a very cordial, polite relationship and I don't feel I need to replace or fill any void he may have left.  I just like older men because they're established.  They have their lives together (presumably), they're financially secure (again, presumably) and that's an attractive quality to someone like me, who also has her life together.  And I'm not going to lie...the thought of being taken care of is really very appealing to someone who has to be everything all the time.  It would be more than fabulous to put this strong exterior away once in awhile and be the one taken care of...the weak one, the soft one, every so often. 

The last year and a half has been filled with no married men.  In fact, the last year has been filled with no men at all.  And I cannot even begin to tell you what a fabulous year it has been.  Having been a serial dater my whole life, I've been able to get to know me on an entirely different level.  And get this, I like me.  I like spending time alone.  I like who I am and who I've become.  I'm not waiting around for someone to complete me or call me or give me the moon and the stars.  If I want something, I go and get it.  It's been a liberating year, not depending on a man for happiness or blaming him for my misery. 

And they say it happens when you least expect it...thus the pity party in the middle of the road.  You see, I met a man.  Although it's completely irrelevant where I met him, I will tell you that whilst walking my lovely Molly I have found a dog park, and therein I found the man.  The man shall remain nameless, and will be referred to only as "the man"...

The man is probably about 20 years older than me.  He has a moustache and leathery worn skin.  He has crows feet and beautiful laugh lines around his mouth.  He has a deep voice.  I don't know much about him, other than when I see him my heart goes pitter patter.  We began to run into each other at the park, and started with small talk and then went on to other, larger talk items.  This morning in the dog park the man and I had a good long talk, but there was tension.  There was this feeling of things that were being left unsaid, and as a gal who knows what she wants and goes and gets it, because she wants it now, I blurted it out that I was enjoying our chats and was growing fond of him.  Ugh, and I actually said these words, "there's a little piece of my heart that has your name on it."  Ugh.  It makes me want to vomit now, but I wanted to say it in a way that was the least obtrusive, and as platonic as possible. 

And he said (after a veeeeeeeeeeery long silence), "Me too.  Me too."

So, good right....

"But...."

Right.  The but.  Always the but...

"The thing is (loooooong pause) she's as sweet as you.  And so I can't.  And I never would."

There you have it, folks.  That is the story of my life.  Men.  Married.  Whether I know it or not.  I'm feeling sorry for myself on so many different levels.  I mean, first of all...it's been a year.  I have been so selective and picky and then the one I start to get all gaga over is taken.  Like seriously??  How fair is that??  What bothers me more is that I wasn't expecting it at all, and I couldn't control it.  It just sort of...was.  Looking forward to seeing him, if for no other reason than to see him.  To smile just to see him smile too.  And it's just always this way, isn't it?  I don't get that happy ending.  I should have remembered that.  Happy endings are for those in fairy tales and romantic comedies.  The happy ending, for me, is the one I create with my son and my family.  I'm feeling like life is unfair.  I'm feeling like I want to just crawl under the covers for a week or so.  I'm feeling like standing in the middle of the road in the middle of the night while Molly attacks beetles. 

What strikes me...what I think I forgot since the last broken heart is the physical hurt.  I can feel my heart breaking.  And it's not enjoyable.  And Tylenol does not work. 

Ahhhh, and **laughing** here...what the eff was I thinking, I mean he's like 20 years older than me....with a 'stache...come on, right?  And grey hair???  Dude, I pull those out!!

So, do I change dog parks?  Or do I enjoy the friendship?  Knowing it cannot be anything more than that, accept it for what it is?  Oh how I long for the treehouse.  The simpler days where no girls were allowed...except for me...