I seem to have a bad habit of pessimism when it comes to my lovelife lately. It's SO hard to relax into the now... to just enjoy what is and not spend time lamenting what it may not become. Sigh. I guess my successful relationships have been about anticipating and planning a future... it's hard not to think in those terms. And when I don't think in those terms, I live every week like it's the last -- ie, in an underlying nagging state of dread.
None of this is why I'm here today.
Last week, I spent the week feeling that dread solidifying around me like cooling melted butter, for no better reason than absence. Seriously, daily contact, absolutely NOTHING from him that would lead to a bad feeling. It's totally conjured from my insecurity closet -- my pet name for the trapdoor that opens into the seething hell mass of monsters and ugliness in my psyche. Everyone has one... um... right? .... Guys? .... Hello??
Still not at the point of the post.
So Saturday was the day of T's birthday party. Guiltily, I bad-mother motored my way away from my child (leaving her with my super terrific roommate) and headed to T's place for the party, fighting to unglue this hardened plaque of dread from around me. Deep breathing.
When I got there, his friend P was already there and both were drinking (T's Aunt was also there). I had a beer, caught up, fun times (okay, so I didn't get to demonstrate as I came in the door how much I'd missed him last week, whatever. A little abstinence hasn't killed me). We danced to Van Halen, general foolishness. Then everyone else arrived, fun, beer, beer, fun.
Fast forward to about midnightish (I think) when I'm crying in the bathroom and tweeting to the world about how sad I am. WTF? WHAT? What just happened here??
Seething pit of monsterhood was a bit ajar that night already. After a week of feeling like Everything Is Coming to An End (jesus, some days I'm so 14), there wasn't enough reassurance to keep up with the beer. So that's one thing.
T's very very good friend, Y, who happens to be a young, beautiful female was there. I had a few moments of 'Poor me, I shall never be the sexy chick / beautiful princess who turns heads on entrance into a room'. Wah, wah. Yes, television has had me in its clutches from a young age, stuffing my head with such nonsense.
P, who with every beer became more THAT friend, the bad influence womanizing charming juvenile being-a-girlfriend-around-him-instantly-makes-you-every-humourless-bitch-in-every-bad-movie-ever guy, became less and less married as the night went on. As a matter of fact, he hit on Y like giant wrecking balls hit on condemned buildings. There was no finesse, no flirting, no charming banter. It had all the delicacy of an enraged ogre with a hard-on, his approach.
I must at this point interrupt myself to say I've seen P with his wife. His wife is smart, beautiful, and an over-the-top amazing woman. P and Mrs. P are absolutely in love. I know he loves his wife. I have to say this out of fairness because I know the picture I'm painting is unflattering. He's really a lovely man... normally. Drinking, he's a frat boy.
Y demanded dance music and danced and I, who would generally take any opportunity to dance, could only hastily retreat, completely uncomfortable, out of my element, feeling useless, pointless and about as attractive as a potato bug. There was something about P's salivating, panting appreciation of Y's charms, and her not shutting him down cold that made the context of the whole evening (at least for me) about a narrow definition of sexy, and one I couldn't compete in. I didn't want anyone to hit on me (as I fruitlessly tried to explain to T after). Honestly, I'm head over heels for him and him alone.
But if that was the focus, I wanted him to benefit. I wanted at least for his friends to say appreciatively that he'd scored a good woman. Yeah, part of that is ridiculous anti-feminist pandering and part of it is unabashed bruised vanity, and at heart, I knew that this criteria I could not compete in. So whereas generally I'm happy with myself and my brains, my humour and good heart, and I suppose pretty face, all I could dwell on was how old, unattractive and frumpy I was. And I wondered if trying to be in a relationship was worth this.
Someone, as I relentlessly kept trying to analyze myself today, pointed out that this could be a symptom of the age difference... that whereas I don't feel it with T, I may see it more with his friends... and that is perhaps accurate. Also, am I still full of insecurities? Well, of course. When the least thing goes wrong, do I look down and see the abyss that I dropped into after Sean, waiting for me, licking its gruesome chops? Yup, I sure do. And I'm feeling pretty protective of this Charlene. It's taken me a long time to bring her back and I don't want her to get hurt again. She insists on throwing herself into situations where it's likely to happen, though. Damned reckless.
If only I could wrap myself in Kevlar and be happy baking bread and taking care of Maddie and sketching and knitting. If only I didn't insist on falling in love. Dummy.
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