When I said in my last entry that I wanted to write about “more” and that it could very well be just the bitter ramblings of a single girl in her mid twenties, well, I was right. This next one was a hard and bitter pill to swallow.
We first started talking over our mutual love of coffee (apart from Pumpkin Spice, I hate that shit) and I’m sure that cheese was mentioned in there at some point or another (I love a mutual love of cheese). During this first interaction I never thought a lot of it, I never thought a lot of him, although, his witty responses had me on my toes. It wasn’t until I discovered that he was local and we had people in common that I started to see potential. Small world problems.
He carried excellent conversation for weeks, I was discovering that we had mutual understanding of each other’s sense of humor and laughter for me, is incredibly important. I hadn’t even met him yet and already talking to him was smoothly effortless. I had never felt at such ease since my previous relationship, yet, it was the first time I found myself not comparing the two.
I had been on first dates before this one but never had I ever felt this nervous. Never had I ever made so much of an effort. I felt sick, in a good way. Now, when I’m nervous I have a tendency to talk too much. During dinner, I talked a lot. About myself, my family, our history, my friends, to the point I was worried if I had said too much. I was conscious that I might be too much. Later, during the worst cup of coffee I had ever had (Pumpkin Spice) I asked him questions. I discovered how kind, intelligent, interesting and driven he was. I could of listened to him talk and talk. It was up there with one of the best first dates of my life.
This continued for a few weeks. The easy conversation and effortless banter. I introduced him to my sister’s because it felt right to do so. Yes, I know, this sounds familiar. Probably because I have wrote about him before (Entry – If at first you don’t succeed) and you might be wondering why I’m writing about him again. Well, I’ll get there eventually. Now, after a few weeks and a few more dates later he came to the conclusion that we weren’t on the same page anymore. I was just lucky that my heart was already in recovery.
I picked myself up and moved on, telling myself to be grateful for gaining, if nothing else, a good friend.
During the weeks that followed I realised that I had a few reasons to be bitter. Dating him was practically perfect in comparison to dating other men. I found he respected me probably more than I respected myself. He was genuine, he was sweet, he was caring, he was brilliantly sarcastic – just to name a few. What was crippling for me though, was the fact that I couldn’t hate him. It was sort of like Julia Stiles reading her poem at the end of “10 Things I Hate About You” – “But mostly, I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all”. Except, Heath Ledger came running back. Tail between his legs.
Around a month later, our paths crossed again. I mean, we never actually lost touch. Like I said, if nothing else, I gained a really good friend. It was one of my best friend’s birthday party and I drunkenly decided to take a risk and invite him along. Not for one second did I think he would actually show. But he did and I came to the realisation that I missed him. I think he had missed me too. To cut a stupid story short, I messed up. I showed him a side to myself that I never ever wanted him to see. The next day, once I was painfully sober, I was full of regret. Regretful to of blown what could of been my second chance. I apologised, profusely and we remained still, just good friends.
A week or two later, I purposely put myself in his path. I was out with friends, I knew he was out with friends the same night, therefore I came up with a reason to meet him. Cunning, I know (insert eye roll here). Again, not to drag this one out, I had a great night throwing myself at him in any which way I could think of. Looking back, it may of appeared as desperate but I was trying to be as desperately cool as possible. The outcome of that night was sort of a good one. I say “sort of” because it never progressed any further than what it was, a drunken night out.
The day he told me he was seeing someone was a difficult one. Like I said, we never lost touch. My best friend was convinced he was my “Lobster” *Friends reference. I was convinced that I was just his trial run. But alas, I didn’t hate him. It might of been easier though, if I did.
The day I saw his relationship status on social media was the day I decided to unfollow him. I basically turned into a lemon on this day. It’s not that I didn’t wish him all of the happiness in the world, that wasn’t it. It was that the reason for his happiness, well, it wasn’t me. It was sad because it was no one’s fault, it was difficult because I had no one to blame.
That brings us here, to our most recent encounter. It was so good to see him again. So good that I almost forgot about his relationship and my morals. So good that all of that bitterness came flooding back. What’s worse is that I told him so. I was drunk. Nobody likes the drunken, bitter ramblings of a single girl in her twenties. I can’t remember if I told him I didn’t like her name out loud or if I just said that bit in my head?. Yes, I know. I’m a terrible bitter person. I think I confessed to him that I blame myself a lot, for not being good enough for him, for drinking like a fish and sometimes smoking like a chimney. I’m pretty sure I listed more things that would of made him sound incredibly shallow. Something that he is most definitely not. I’m pretty sure he assured me that I wasn’t to blame, I think he even apologised. Really, he had nothing to be sorry for.
This, for me, is a perfect story of “right place, wrong time”. I still sometimes find myself wondering if things would of been different if only he had met me when I wasn’t so fragile and mercilessly trying to find myself again. The truth is, for the few weeks we dated he brought a sense of structure back to my messy life. He helped me pick up the pieces, without even knowing it. For that, I’ll always be grateful. He thought I was “amazing” during a time I felt anything but.
I think part of me will always be slightly bitter about this one. After all, he could very well be the one that got away. As well as the one who helped me discover my hatred for Pumpkin Spice and apparent love of Lemon’s.