My crush on Muse Derek didn’t come out of nowhere, this guy started it, get these things this guy said to me…I asked him what he got for Christmas, he said he got a little cam-corder. He said he likes to make little films. And then he said…get this…”I might ask you to play a part in one.” What else did he say? Geez, I can’t remember. It may have been when I said “wow, you already have friends here?” and he told me about a former client of his who is a “true friend” who didn’t just want to hang out with him because of “who he is.” Awww, sensitive large maaaaan!
Anyway, often when my thoughts get the best of me, and I start fantasizing about Derek doing more to me than showing me excercises, I keep feeling this little disappointment. Derek, while still seeming like a really cool person, would not make a good match for me, and so fantasizing about him tends to be a disappointment, because while I am dating him in my mind, I keep knowing that I have taken a step backwards.
I sort of question how great this crush is, because I realize what I am doing by having it, I am completely distracting myself from my reality with Charles. And that reality is a great disappointment, a long fall from a very high place. Charles really let me down.
I really thought Charles was someone I could depend on. I thought that I had found someone truly phenomenal, and the fact that the sex wasn’t red hot was a worthy price to pay for love that was so sweet. I knew that I had moved forward in my life, that I had gained the skills of identifying a good man. I thought that I had found one of those kinds of love that would last, like we would be together and still sweet into our sixties when everyone else had gotten divorced or bitter. The last thing I expected was that sweetness would end so soon. The last thing I expected was that he would ignore me, after all, I am his baby. He said he loved me.
I was so excited for the love letters from my sweet baby, I figured the seperation would make the intensity increase. I so looked forward to the stories of his adventures in Kenya, and I, lucky me, would get to be the girlfriend of the sexy, smart professor, going into remote villages and helping to create curriculum to engage the young men and women who’s whole future depended on their education. I could share these remarkable stories and pictures on my blog and to my friends and family, gushing with pride of the man I chose as my partner, and who in turn chose me.
I wrote a long conversational e-mail to him days after he left. I kept the phone next to me, waiting for that first call. After a few days I wrote him a second long conversational e-mail. After a few more days I just didn’t want to write anymore. I heard from him two weeks after he left. Not even a short call when he arrived in Kenya to let me know he made it all right.
I spend a few months feeling elated when I would receive his short phone calls, but after awhile I just whined a lot. I did it in a joking manner, as if it was the circumstances, and that I was actually being a big baby. But fuck him, I was not being a baby. I wanted a relationship with my boyfriend, that is not expecting too much. He disappoints me by thinking that I am expecting too much.
It’s over. It’s really, really over. I have broken up with him already, it’s just a matter of telling him when he gets back, which shouldn’t be long. I have decided to say to him, before he can start explaining the “pressures” he was under that “I am no longer willing to be in this relationship.” those are the words I feel I need to choose because they don’t leave room for argument. I just want to take him to a McDonalds near his house and say it, and have it last 10 minutes, and then leave. I don’t want any “catching up” I don’t want to “come to an agreement” I want to say it and go. Why? Because hearing his side of the story is like being slapped in the face, over, and over, and over again. Hearing the man I thought loved me explain why it was okay to ignore me is just like hearing my dad, who I thought loved me, explain why it was okay to ignore me. It’s one thing to be treated like I’m nothing, it’s quite another to expect me to agree with it.
So now a bodybuilder is flirting with me. I’m not nothing. If I fantasize about having a relationship with him, the one who has paid more attention to me in two weeks of knowing me, than my own boyfriend, then I suppose I feel like I exist.