Often, I come here and write about the failed attempts at love that I have managed to fumble my way through. I have more misadventures in love than one woman should have suffered, but it’s the premise of giving up completely that keeps me coming back to the beginning again and again.
Although I talk of the wrong ones with the salt of humor that makes it worth the discussion, I play a couple of them close to the vest. All of the times I really and truly loved someone, that for whatever reason didn’t work, I usually don’t mention them much. I think that’s mostly to keep the gift that was them all to myself. I don’t want to share the couple of times I nearly got it right.
It is funny to look back on the complete trainwrecks that I called relationships and tell the tales of dumb shit they said and did, and the ways in which I chose to cut them loose. But, there is another part to my misadventures in love that I never publicly discuss, and that is my blinding fear of relationships. I am an emotional cripple, it seems.
The same humor I apply to the relationship woes I tell y’all about, I use to limp through any attempt to get to know me. I deflect the entire process by making everything so disconnected by humor, there simply isn’t a chance of calling it a dating opportunity. I won’t allow one. I can’t allow one.
Currently, I have perhaps the smartest, funniest, most awesome guy who is definitely in like with me. What am I doing? Making a joke of it, duh. I’m refusing to engage. Because what is there to really come of it? What, marriage? A fucking white picket fence? Be serious.
This isn’t the me in my 20’s. This is the me that knows better. The me that has heard every sorry ass line and even worse excuse, and still came out standing like a fucking champ. What did I learn?
I will never go another 10 rounds with love, never allow myself to get stars in my eyes, and hope in my heart. I know what that feels like when it’s crushed to dust beneath someone's heel. I know what it feels like to be betrayed by love.
So, if you tried to approach me, and it turned into a stand up comedy hour, I’m not going to apologize. I’m not going to say “perhaps I should have given that a chance”. The truth is, I’m not ready to be eviscerated for the entertainment of another. I have left my mangled heart on the floor and sewed my breastplate shut in an attempt to feel less like it was killing me to breathe.
I think that, in matters of love, I am broken. I am somehow less than what I put in. Less than what I lend. In matters of love, I will simply never measure up.
In matters of love, I am the Bozo. The honking nose and lapel flower a dead giveaway. I’m the reason they just can’t keep a straight face.