|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Love Schmove
I get long-winded here people. . .
22 September 2000
I’ve been feeling really emotionally immature lately. Well, perhaps immature isn’t the right word. Behind. I’m feeling really behind.
I’m 24. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. Really in love. And I know there’s no timetable for this junk, that there’s no
place you should be. But still. But still.
All of my friends have had real, adult relationships. T dated her college sweetheart for 3 years. Now she’s involved with a guy who’s most likely The One. Mo – 2 years. And Kimi – well Kimi has us all beat. Even Pony. As much as Sean and I dislike each other; as much as I see she has the potential to be a lot happier, in a much healthier relationship, they’ve managed to stay together for over a year now. And Zep dated a guy for like 5 years.
My record? Ten months. Ten drama-filled, heart-aching months. And we broke up three years ago. And maybe I really did love him. I thought I did. I told him I did. And I honestly think he loved me.
When I close my eyes I can still see how blue his eyes looked when he’d lean his forehead against mine. How his hand felt pressed into the small of my back. How I thought our children would be amazingly beautiful – all limbs and blonde and big, light eyes.
We broke up about four times before it was all said and done. Never for more than three days, but I didn’t think I’d survive some of those breaks. I had to pass his house in order to walk to class and about a block before and a block after I'd get that acid-eating-my-stomach feeling and I’d look for someone, anyone, to talk to as I walked.
God, those feelings. Those youthful, shaky moments you think your whole life rides on. When you can’t imagine how it’s going to turn out without this person. This person, who really, you barely know. We used to drive out to the State Park a lot. This was the spring of the Hale Bop comet. We’d lay on the grass, or on a picnic bench, and just watch the comet make its slow, glittering trek across the sky. If you’d whispered in my ear that I’d cheat on him in less than 2 months from that moment, I would’ve laughed in your face. I was in love. Love! You don’t cheat on love.
And this was three years ago. Three years! And I think about it way too often. Perhaps it’s because I did the one thing I swore I’d never do. I remember telling him when we got together that if he ever cheated on me I’d dump him without question. That shocked him. That I’d be willing to toss it all without work, without trying to reconnect, without forgiveness. That’s what divorce will do to you. That’s what realizing the failures of your father will do to
you.
Oh, Alanis, isn’t it ironic?