I have just been broken up with after an unplanned relationship. I am not jilted, scarred nor fading into the abyss of dumpage. I’m just really surprised.
I was in what I thought were about to be the golden years of my youth. I had just come from a semester abroad, a bout of bulimia and was now happy go lucky on Prozac. Life was good. I was desired, attractive and prime. On a whim, I met the one. He was the one, the one of all one’s that were ever created. My counterpart for life, my befri, my guy, my piece of the puzzle. His excitement matched mine and we became inseparable.
We progressed to the honeymoon stage. Now this had to be golden. That funk that sweet that nasty that gushy stuff. During hurricane Sandy, we spent the whole storm nestled up in my apartment, sleeping, sexing and smoking. It was idyllic and perfect. I felt like Ashley Judd pre- Ray dumping her in Someone Like You. Utter bliss. But Ray was not the last man she was ever going to love.
My then (wonderful) boyfriend listened to me complain bitch and moan about all the things I wanted. Particularly I spent an ungodly amount of time talking about wanting a Polaroid camera for this new retro image I was trying out. As an NYU student, I need to keep up with the times, yo. Being hipster is apparently the shit. “I have a surprise for you.” read the text he sent me. I was enthralled, surprises are to me are the next best thing since sliced bread . The doorbell rang and I opened up to a smiling face with flowers and a package swaddled in bubble wrap. In the bubble wrap was a beautiful Polaroid camera with film. The Polaroid was even more perfect because it resembled the Instagram icon. I felt like Terry Richardson.
It only seemed fair that the first photo I took with my new pet should only include Mr. Wonderful. I posed in the photo with him, wearing the ring he recently gave me (with a note attached that said: just because I love you) and we were cheesing so hard. I waited like an anxious child for it to develop. After an episode of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, I looked at my photo. It was yellow stained, and tainted, unclear and did not do our happiness justice. The Polaroid was out of order.
To my dismay, several test shots after the initial fail whale, I acquiesced to the fact that it was broken.
Several weeks later, my relationship and I braved the rough waters of finals week. Blood, sweat, and tears later, it was over and life went on. Except that I was to be away from Mr. Wonderful for 2 weeks. He was off to Europe, as was I. I felt a type of separation happening.
We had been away for about five days when I noticed he hadn’t told me he genuinely missed or loved me in nearly 5 days. This in our version of time was eons. Concern settled in and the anxiety commenced. What. Is Happening. Is this real life? I began to conjure up all the possibilities that caused this untimely rift. I could not speculate anything that answered my questions.
Two days prior to being homeward bound, my beloved was home, so I cordially invited him to a Skype to chat “face-to-face.” It was awkward, we had nothing to talk about. “I think we should talk when you get home” he uttered and I freakishly replied “No we’ll talk now what do you have to say?” “I think we should break up.” Silence. “Why” I said stupefied, “We’re different.”
A month later I’m still in a state of confusion. Had I been dreaming? Did that really happen? Then I remembered the Polaroid. It came to me as damaged goods. Was he warning me? Was he damaged, or flakey? Out of order? Again, stupefied. I should have taken the Polaroid literally. It was something I was pining for because it made me envision myself as the person I wanted to be. He made me that person. I fell deeply and selflessly in love with him, only to be left wondering if it was me who blew it, or if he ran?
Then what I realized was that it didn’t matter. Our millennial generation has an innate need to speculate and analyze every situation, and social media websites and apps are our means of discovery and hypothesis. Now began the competition of Instagram and Facebook. Who was keeping busiest and having the most fun? Erroneous. Was it about the sex? Even more irrelevant. We’re all doing it for the thrill.
I want to leave you with this: move on. Because it’s actually not as much about you as you think and would probably like it to be. Take this as a favor to you from any higher power you might believe in, your feelings are being spared. This story was not written to promote a hate for love. We we’re in love. It’s all relative, and in the end we will all end up where were supposed to be. The next time you feel like cupid shot you in the face, just remember, all I got was a broken Polaroid.