I spent seven hours on the phone with a friend of mine the other day.
He’s going through a break-up and is somewhere near the acceptance stage.
“You need to find a nice girl to just have fun with for a couple of weeks. Nothing serious,” I tell him.
So, we went online and posted his profile on a bunch of dating sites. I haven’t heard from him in a couple of days, so I’m hoping he got some hits and is on his way to having fun with someone who won’t stomp on his heart.
Break-ups suck. It’s a death, of sorts. A life dies. You have to go through all the same stages of losing a loved one, and yet, they’re still breathing. Dammit. And, no, you don’t really wish they were dead. Of course you don’t. But it would almost be easier to accept that end:
“Oh, we were so happy together. We had plans. We had dreams. We had a great life together. But then she died.”
There’s no self-doubt. There’s no crushing ego blow. There’s no division of assets and friends and pets. The pictures of happier times can go in a box to be treasured, not ripped to shreds and burned in the sink during a drunken pity party hosted by your best friends. There’s no hope for reconciliation. That phone’s not going to ring. They’re not going to suck you in again only to toss you back to the curb once they realize that the person they missed is still the person they really didn’t want. (Something that happened to another male friend of mine, quite recently.) The relationship is just over. So sad.
Somewhere between getting to New Guy’s house and ten o’clock on New Year’s Eve, I bailed.
Earlier in the day, he’d said something that had weighed on my mind, and I wasn’t able to let it go. He’d said:
“I’m looking for The One.”
Seriously, that’s the first thought that popped into my mind.
So the whole time I was getting ready to meet him, all I was thinking was: I’m not it.
While I was driving to his house: I’m not it.
When I got to his house, a cute little place across from the beach: I’m not it.
When he suggested we meet a bunch of his friends and their wives for a house party: I’m not it.
When I thought about the kiss that was going to be required of me at midnight: I’m definitely not it.
So, I bailed – right after the lobster ravioli. A girl’s gotta eat, right?
I’m pretty sure he won’t be calling again, and yeah, I feel bad. And I feel bad that I felt so relieved as I was driving away. Still, isn’t it better I left sooner than later?
I don’t want to be the person he’d rather think was dead than just absent from his life.
Besides, if I’m really honest with myself, I have to admit that even though I’m pretty happy on my own and even though I don’t look at dating as just a means to an end, at some point I’d also like to find The One.
And he’s simply not it.