Rories Wobble

It is six months—almost to the hour—of when Samuel and I ended. Not broke up—that happened over the days and weeks afterwards with drama and phone calls and sex and too many words. Useless words as it turns out—words that better writers than us would have edited out of the story, the script. But six months ago is when I knew that things were over.

That all that we had been working towards, building towards, making allowances for had been in vain. That he was leaving, that I couldn't make him stay, that for all of the best reasons and the worst of emotions we had reached the finale. No goal or end result. Just an end.

And so I made a deal with myself. I could have six months to work through it. Six months to get over all of the moments and the memories and the missteps. To take a deep look at myself and see where I went wrong. That I could only examine myself in all of this—that I could try to understand where he was coming from but how many of us can do that. No one really can.

So I spent my days on ledges, sometimes the constant bitch, my own Margo Channing storming the stage, sashsaying down staircases, being smug and demanding and mean. The half of the time I was Mrs. Habersham, in my moth-eaten wedding dress, speaking of sad love gone away, pacing the interiors of my mind. I took myself to task.

I wondered if I loved enough, did enough, changed enough, was fair enough, believed enough…. Whether I was ever really there in the moment or just watching from the sidelines and waiting to see how the story ends. I do that more often than not and while it makes my wit, it also makes me aloof. But I came to certain realizations

That I am not a lover—at least not in the Dante's meaning of the word. I am not some wide eyed romantic, I don't long for the wooing, I don not take much delight in the first bite of the apple. That when it comes to being in love—I don't pursue it. I don't live for it the way some do. I don't need to be married or have the family or the whirlwind of courtship or any of a million things that a million people more than I could count. It's not who I am.

I am sure that part of this is from the grab bag of emotion weirdness I grew up in; that all the little things that brought me through childhood shaded and coloured how I would always view relationships. This is not to say I that I push away love—I'm more like Drew Barrymore in 'Never Been Kissed'; I live on the pitcher's mound, I am waiting and meeting love half way and the timer hasn't even started yet.

It may not be the best start but it is the one that I am best at. So when I wake up tomorrow I'm going to allow myself to be over it. That all this stuff I have been holding on to gets pushed out finally. It's not perfect and I'm going to force myself. But now it's time to wobble—not fall down.