It’s Not You, It’s Me
I know those are the last words you ever want to hear, but if you think about it, it’s true. I just got over an *ahem* six month mourning period of a relationship that didn’t even happen. I spent half a year getting over something that wasn’t even real, something that was just a figment of my own imagination. He didn’t even have the courtesy to break it off; one day he told me he was too busy to hang out and then the next day he had a girlfriend. Whatever, I told myself, it’s no big deal. But, oh god, it was.
As I’m sure most of you do, too; I do all my big thinking in the shower. I was just innocently shampooing my hair when I realized I hadn’t thought about him in a while. I smiled proudly. In fact, I hadn’t thought about him in a long while. I couldn’t even remember the last time I thought about him willingly, a time where the thought of him made me happy. Yes, I reminded myself, there was a time when the sight of him or the sound of his name used to fill me with butterflies and plaster a huge smile on my face. Now his name was just a meaningless three letters that just happened to fall together.
The more I thought about him, the more I cringed. Right after the big “breakup” — for lack of a better term — all I could think about was his perfection. I couldn’t understand what went wrong. It’s been long enough now, though, that I remember with clear accuracy all the weird things we used to do. I suddenly remembered the hour-long conversation about working out, or the time he named off the drugs he was on the day he lost his virginity. I used to be attracted to that?
And that’s when it hit me.
I didn’t have to get over him. No, it was much worse than that. I had to get over me. I don’t remember why I ever loved him because I’m not the person who loved him anymore. Sure, I may look the same as I did back in April, but I’m not her. I’m not even the girl I was in September. Back then, I was the girl who was in love with him. I had to become someone new. I had to become the girl who liked crafting and who wore bows and who actually finished NaNoWriMo before I could stop loving him because I had to stop being the girl who loved him. He wasn’t even part of the equation, it was all me.
In fact, I might not have even loved him. I think I just loved the me who loved him. I loved being the girl who was dating the smart doctor who made her smile and massaged her back until she fell asleep. I was so busy being in love with who I was to notice all the fact that our “relationship” was doomed from the start. We were polar opposites. Sure, he made me happy, but I hated everything he loved. I’m not outdoorsy. I hate the gym. I hate Adam Sandler. But, damn, I was so happy being the girl who loved him, and that’s what kept me there with him, missing him, for all those months.
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If this doesn’t become the biggest video on the Internet, then I have no faith left in humanity.
Describe for us the threesome with your OKCupid hookup.
I visited synagogues all over the world—from Syosset, to Beverly Hills, and back again to Jericho. Studies were made, tests were run, I tasted the blood of a virgin Jew and even conducted my very own bris.
He was a perfect date. I later got drunk and hacked his phone (who uses their birth year for a password? It was 1986, by the way #teamcougar). What I found was a text to a Kristina explaining his aforementioned sex dream he’d had about her while sleeping next to me in a luxurious hotel bed.