Tuesday, March 10, 2009

In like a lion, indeed.

It's been a hell of a ride these past twelve months. It was a year ago this month that I finally manned-up and asked someone to marry me. At the time, it was the most wonderful thing I could think of. Imagine the most "in love" you've ever been and multiply it by 100. I mean, I asked someone if they wanted to spend the rest of their life with me, have children and raise them with me, be with me through the good and bad, and to sit by my bedside with my children and hold my hand when I eventually shuffle off this mortal coil.

I mean, that's really what it's all about: finding someone who will live with you and all your faults and be happy to do it because to them, you are as much their world as they are yours.

But it's not always like that and the world isn't always fair. If you'd just said no I could have gotten on with my life but you said yes and THEN no, and you tore my heart out. I just want to hurl insults and curse words at you but it would really do nothing but rile me up and I'd just be throwing those words at the equivilant of a brick wall.

So now my life is filled with not-so-childlike wonder; what do I do now, where do I go from here, am I ever going to find someone like you again, etc. Then again, maybe I shouldn't be looking for someone like you...you know, since you were pretty much the lousiest significant other EVER toward the end.

It's so funny; I sit here every night, checking out Facebook, reading my email, clicking on box scores...and staring at the red box on my desk. The red box that has settled quietly as a fixture next to my monitor in a Ziploc bag with the GIA booklet included, collecting dust and waiting for someone to buy you off of Craigslist. It's not that I haven't tried to sell it but it seems to be happy just sitting there, reminding me of the daughters we won't raise, the house we won't buy, the life we won't have together. It's your last scornful hurrah, I guess.

That's what I miss most you know, the promise of raising children together. Someday, I hope to be able to measure the success of my life someday by looking at my kids and bursting with pride. But they won't be the same kids you and I would have raised.

I still get angry and argue with you in my head. I always win. I'm pretty sure the real arguments would have gone the same way.

Am I better off now than I was a year ago? What's a good measuring stick for that? I'm single, my hair's a little thinner, children are a long way away, and I'm not sure that anyone else is ever going to fall in love with this huddled mass typing away in his room. On the other hand, I'm not living a lie, rushing into marriage with someone who doesn't want to be married to me. I've made new friends and reconnected with old ones, and I'm learning more about myself than I ever could have under the dark cloud that is you.

I go on dates, although I seem to find big faults with all of them. Maybe I'm being too picky. I don't believe it's too much to ask for a non-smoker with a decent grasp of good grammar and a healthy dose of humor. Women who are easily offended aren't for me either; anyone who knows me knows at least that. I guess I haven't hit the Desperation Zone yet, which is also why I won't join a dating site. For me, the best way to meet someone is to, well, meet them. In person. The day I join one of those sites is the day I give up on a lot of who I am.

I also want to be sure that the people I date are people I'd easily be friends with if I weren't dating them. My wife will have to be someone I share common interests with, someone I can laugh with and share stories with who gets me; not just because she's trying to make me feel good but because doing those things makes her feel good, too.

Someday I'm going to find someone who will help me raise little Lorelai, Rosalin, and the others who are unnamed but will be just as cherished. It hurts a little knowing that it won't be you; it makes me sad in the places I don't want to admit exist anymore.

I just hope that someday, they don't.

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