I am typing this essay from notes scribbled upon a paper boat, smudged with pencil marks, that was folded ever so gracefully by a dear friend of mine over lunch today. She has been listening to me drone on and on and on and on and on about my love life for the last couple months, and with all of her usual grace she sat, endured again, and then proceeded to give me the biggest 'you jackass' look in history.
Our last conversation left us in a state of mutual understanding, that I was irrevocably out of love with my ex, that I wished him a barefooted eternity spent walking across Lego strewn floors. I was just going to ignore him forever, I told her. It's over. Sayonara. Yesterday afternoon I consulted her for math help (because math gives me hives) and in the midst of logarithmic functions and other things I do not understand, my ex walked up and I greeted him like a happy puppy, and produced from my bag a gallon of his favorite iced tea. He was equally happy to accept it and walked me to class, just like old times. Meanwhile, my friend is hovering over my math homework, looking like she was hit with a brick. Upon my return I had to explain to her the unexplainable. My ex boyfriend and I.... are friends. It sounds as twisted and bizarre as peanut butter on a tuna fish sandwich, or Kanye West at a KKK convention. The two just should NOT go together. It should not be. And somehow, in our case, it is.
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Watching myself navigate the dating world is sort of like watching myself navigate a circus hall of mirrors. For each new person that I step before, a new distorted version of myself appears.
For example, I fell severely for a coworker in my mid to late teens who was a hard core outdoorsman. He worked at an outdoor supply store, and enjoyed activities such as hiking, biking, frolicking in the forest, making friends with singing birds and woodland creatures, etc. My fascination with him was so deep that I began to adopt his mannerisms and suddenly I was an overnight hiker, health food freak, and environmentalist. I even found myself listening to the funky acoustic jams he played in the office, and uttering uncharacteristic phrases such as “Holy smokes!”. It took me many, many months to snap out of this but eventually I came to my senses. This clearly was not who I was inside. What did I care about going green? Or acoustic My Morning Jacket playlists? Or twelve speed mountain bikes? This is a pattern with me, it seems. Any time that I become fascinated with anyone, I ultimately become said person. I have never been so confused in my life.
See, I am an orderly person. I like to plan ahead, keep organized, and do everything exactly right. There is something supremely satisfying to me, in knowing that I am fully in control of my own life. This week I have forgotten two papers, been late to class three times, and I completely fucked up half of the professional work I actually managed to get done. I have gotten lost twice in buildings I have traveled through frequently for the last two months, and I cannot focus on freaking anything. There is something legitimately wrong here. Is this early onset Alzheimer’s? Did I fall and suffer a concussion? Have I completely lost my mind? Close. I think that, for the first time in my two decades of life, I might be in love. |
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