Hope Dies Last

Under any other circumstances, I would have refused his offer. I am not a casual woman and I don’t do casual affairs. It’s not my style. But the combination of the man, his timing and those invisible cicadas made me think that maybe I should play a different role for a change. Maybe I would even like it.

The truth is, I thought I could do it because this man doesn’t inspire me to write.

With others, I could find a story in every lingering gaze. He doesn’t look at me that way. He hasn’t even seen Me through the cloud of alcohol and debauchery that is his life. So he doesn’t inspire me to write about his lines or his kisses. There is no pushing or pulling. There is no story here.

He is merely an interruption. He does not inspire words because there are none with him. There are no sounds because his want is on mute. I can’t colour him because he is the very definition of black: he is the absence of any colour. He doesn’t inspire me to write which means that he must not inspire me to feel either.

I like that: it is safe.

(If only it was true.)

See, when I hear of his other women, accidentally slipped into casual conversation, I bite my bottom lip and flinch. It is reactionary, from those collective experiences that have left me feeling that I will never be a man’s priority. I am just one of many options. When I learn that he dates other women, I dig my nails into my arm to brace myself for the punch that follows in my gut. It is a gag reflex; I want to be a protagonist even in a story that has no story. And when I learn that I won’t even be auditioned for the part of the female lead, it stings.

But those long minutes of flinching, stinging and self-imposed scratching are to be expected. My ego is fragile after the perceived rejections I’ve faced over the last six years. And I’ve been scared and I’ve been bitter and I’ve been angry and I’ve been neurotic and I’ve pushed people away when I wanted to pull them in and when it mattered I pulled too hard and it all unraveled. I even stopped breathing for awhile. I refused to go outside and play. And when I did, I held onto skirts and hands and stayed close to home. And then I flew out and, without any consideration for the drop, I jumped. I chose to fall into this plot-less story as if I was a book with a hard spine.

The truth is, I am not.

I am not old receipts thrown away and then fished out again to use as scrap. I am paper thin. I am loose pages of a manuscript in the wind. I may tear and I may crumple and I may rip easily, but I have value. I can float and I can do casual.

But I am not a casual woman.

And the reason he doesn’t inspire me to write is because he does not recognize that difference.

I own a pair of plastic shoes. With metal studs.

(Yes, before you ask, I was possessed.)

Nothing else can possibly explain this:

To be fair, I have never worn them. It appears I only practice good judgment after I have handed over my credit card. (Um…Reason #3, 488 I’m still single?)

Do you have any items in your closet that cause you to pause and say, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’

Your weekend project is to crawl into your wardrobe, find your tackiest pair of shoes, accessories, clothes WHATEVER and then head over to the Hope Dies Last Facebook Page here and upload your photo in the super, cool album I’ve aptly titled ‘WTF?!’

Let’s share in mutual embarrassment, shall we?

Recently, I was told that I come across as a bit of a man-hater. Had I been on my game I would have responded, ‘Man-hater? Pah! I’m a people-hater!’ Alas, I was tired, a little disoriented and what with the ex-lover sitting at the next table and all–a lot defensive. My mock outrage felt scripted.

‘What? No. Way. I. love. men?’

Admittedly, men do piss me off more often than not. But there is one little attribute that most men possess, that I not only love and admire, but also envy — their simplicity. I wish I could be simple. I wish my brain worked that way. However, as hard as I try, I will never go from A to  B without a maze of torturous thought. I like men because they manage to reign me in and balance me out.

Take for example the way I processed my last break-up.

I spent some time with a man that made me believe in men again and then he put an end to it. It was a short conversation and no explanation was given other than ‘It’s over. Let’s be friends.’ My mind screamed, why won’t he give me a reason? Why won’t he talk to me? I was told, early on, by a man that: “It is over. He just wants to be kind now.”

I just want him to be honest.

I would sit with my girlfriend’s in the first few weeks after the demise and we would discuss it all; in every excruciating detail. When I was alone, it was my mind.

I just want him to tell me what I did wrong.

I believed my thoughts could be  retroactive. If only I had done this, if only I had done that, it would have worked out. But pretty soon, someone would tell me that I did nothing wrong and that he is an idiot.

I just want him to feel regret.

My life went on and I met many men; some of them even gave me a little bit of attention.

I just want him to see how other men see me.

Time trickled by and I forgot the colour of his eyes.  I cooled down, I understood, I didn’t blame. I just kinda missed him.

I just want him to talk to me.

But he didn’t for his own reasons. And so, gracefully,  I forced myself to move on.

I just want him to be happy.

It was, of course,  only partly true. I wanted him to be happy as long as I was happy too. But he moved on and fell in love and I didn’t. This turn of events left me unmoved but gave me the motivation to get over it.

I just want him to have never existed in the first place.

Months later, I bumped into him and he looked at me in a way that he shouldn’t look at me. And he touched my arm and then said, ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t touch you.’ It was confusing. So I began to talk and talk and talk again. I got angry. How dare he? Who does he think he is? How can he treat me in this way? Then I realized that I never meant a thing to him and that he doesn’t think about me and that it is indeed over (it had been from the day it was actually over) and there is no drama here, no profound explanation for the end, no out of the ordinary experience. It was an ending just like all those other endings and the only sure thing about all endings is that they’re a preclude to a beginning. And so finally, ten months later, my delayed thoughts aligned with his.

I just want him to be kind.

I don’t hate men. I adore them. I love their simplicity. I want them in my life, I need them in my life because when I let them, they make me simple too.

He left me….

…while laughing.

…a sea shell. A common shell that once lived with its other half somewhere in the dark.  He gave it to me on our second date. He was the one that could dive deep into the sea with his eyes open;  whereas I floated on the top blindly squinting in the sunlight.

…confused. On the Friday, he had said, ‘This is a serious relationship, right?’ and on the Monday it was over.

…with one question. Wait, why did we break up?

…guarded. I am finding it increasingly difficult to believe the words and the actions of men.

…and I am stronger now.

He left me…

…a hot pink and black scarf from his travels.

…a copy of  ‘The Painted Veil’

…with a huge crush on Will Shortz.

…with hundreds of archived emails that still make me smile.

…with a new friend.

…and I am smarter now.

He left me…

…because we didn’t have another choice.

…with petals of lies in his wake that I still find scattered wherever I walk.

…a cocktail umbrella.

…thinking that all men really need to be much taller than me.

…and I am braver now.

He left me…

…for another country.

…convinced that in order to be loved I needed to fundamentally change who I am. (Thankfully, he left and I let him.)

…broken. (But I built myself back up beautifully.)

…with an intense need to be a writer.

…a delicious chocolate cake recipe.

…and I am so thankful for it.

He left me…

He left me…

…on my eleventh year.

…his last pack of cigarettes.

…fatherless.

…an intense fear of knives.

…his temperament. Quiet, studious, wise and impatient of fools, liars and bigots.

…and I survived.

What have the ones who have left, left you?

(Idea stolen from the ethereal Alexia at Say Another Lexi)

I’ve been carrying some baggage lately. I worked hard to get it because I spent the entire winter eating my weight in nuts and lollipops. As a result, I haven’t been in the mood to go shopping for Kyla Roma’s Six Months/Six Dresses challenge. But, I am still taking part because a) I’m not a quitter and b) I’ve got plenty of dresses already.

May’s Dress [Left]

I bought this dress two summer’s ago on sale from a small boutique in Athens. Since then, I’ve worn it a handful of times, most notably on my first date with my most recent ex. When I took it out to wear again at the end of May, all the memories came rushing back. This dress reminds me of all that potential I felt back then and I felt sad in it all day. (Hence the ridiculously solemn face in the picture) I chose to wear it again in June for a cocktail party and thankfully all the memories attached to it are beginning to fade.  Now, when I look at it it is not my First Date Dress but the dress that made a certain gentleman ask a certain bride-to-be about me. Now, it’s my Who is that Girl Dress.

June’s Dress [Right]

I bought this purple, silk dress on sale from Donna Karan three years ago. The first time I wore it was this past Friday to a wedding. So, it technically does count as a ‘new’ dress. (If I bend the rules slightly). While, I have always loved the colour purple I don’t wear it an awful lot because I don’t understand what colours match with it. The internet suggested gold or silver which I vetoed immediately because I thought it was boring and expected. Instead, I chose a blue-green peep toe. The wedding itself was beautiful. The food was exceptional (Mushroom risotto? Yum), the music was fun (We danced all night!) and the mood was merry. But it was the location that reminded me of the reason I love living in the southern suburbs of Athens: the ubiquitous, yet silent presence of that sea.

But back to my earlier, more important point. Do you name your dresses too?