Hope Dies Last

The last time…

…a man’s hand held mine was 10 months ago

…I purred a name into the night was 9 months ago.

…I asked for the phone number of a boy was 8 months ago.

…a hand lingered on my waist was 7 months ago.

…I was loved was 6 years ago.

…I knew the way to be a girlfriend was 5 years ago.

…I was kissed was 4 months ago.

…I met a cute man was 3 weeks ago.

…a cute man kind of asked me out on a kind of date was 2 days ago.

…I kind of said yes to a kind of date was 1 hour ago.

If I knew  that love was going to happen to me, would I be different? If my Future ManFriend and I had a fixed appointment to meet made by my destiny and his destiny, would my attitude be different?

Maybe, I wouldn’t be so nervous when I meet a new man and my tongue twists itself into silence by all the internal questions. Is he someone? Is this look a look? Are their hidden messages in his messages?Does he like me? Would he ever? Do I like him? Oh, just kiss me. I’m tired of thinking.

If I knew, without a doubt, that he was coming and I knew the date and the time, but I didn’t know who he was exactly, would I be different?

I don’t think I would; not drastically anyway.

It is like the time I told a friend:

‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a year.’

And I replied.

‘I know. But I’m still going to miss you for that entire year.’

It’s kind of the same concept.

Even if I knew he was coming on the 20 June, 2012, I would still be the same person. I would still meet other men and maybe I wouldn’t be as hurt when it eventually did not work out (Because I would know that it was NOT supposed to work out), but I’d be still be hurt. My heart would still blush when foreign hands lingered on my spine for a few attention grabbing seconds. I would still find quirky funny. And I would still be attracted to all the unavailable men this side of the Acropolis.

If I knew the date, I would still go through grumpy days. Could he like be here already?

If I knew the date, I would still have days where I wouldn’t really want him here just yet. He can take his time. I still haven’t started watching The Vampire Diaries and I know that I’m definitely going to need a lot of me and Cookie Dough time for that.

If I knew, I would still get lonely because I’m lonely now. But I guess, if I knew that I wouldn’t be lonely for ever, the present loneliness would begin to feel like a guilty pleasure.

If I knew he was on his way, I would still whine ‘Where is he?’ to anyone who will listen because–let’s face it–I’m impatient like that.

So if I knew the day he was coming, I’d live my life exactly the way I live it now. Except, maybe, I’d flirt more. Maybe, I’d sprawl across my entire double bed instead of curling into the one end. Maybe, I’d sigh less. And maybe I’d be more patient with men. Maybe, I’d be more patient.

Maybe.

If you knew the exact day you would meet the man of your future, would you be any different?

Over the last three months, Illicit and I maintained a strict  friendship. There was no further kissing and I had convinced myself that we were friends. If you had asked my girl friends, they would have agreed. Except, they would have added air quotations to the label  friends.

And so it came to pass that I asked him:

‘Does your girlfriend know that we hang out?’

‘No, she doesn’t.’ He replied; arguing that there was no point in telling her the truth since she may–from afar–misunderstand it.

I, not one to beat around the bush, then asked:

‘Why do you think you flirt with me?’

‘Do I?’ he said smiling. ‘I don’t mean to.’ He argued that I was probably misunderstanding his sense of humour.

Last week while we had lunch, I knew that I had reached my limit of denial. I knew the main reason that I spent time with him was because I wanted to be there if and when he broke up with his girlfriend. I was there because I was too scared of not being there. But by being there with him  I wasn’t elsewhere with someone else. I was scared that I would lose my chance. I was scared that I would lose him. Even though, I never really had him.  I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t let him keep me back while I waited for his synapses to snap, crackle and pop into action.

So I looked him in the eyes, took a deep breath and told him the truth.

And he replied,

‘I like you but I’m not attracted to you.’

As I waited for my own nerve endings to react in some way, I was unable to believe that this was his truth. But it was. He was convinced that we could be friends, that my crush would fade away. I was convinced that this would not happen if I continued seeing him.

And so it came to pass that I ‘broke’ up with him.

I told him that I could not see him again. Later that day, a cloudy gloom settled over Athens.  And I got rid of all evidence of our ‘friendship’. Facebook. Remove. Contacts. Delete. Photos. Slide and delete, slide and delete, slide and delete. Messages, incoming and outgoing calls. Delete. Delete. Delete. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fall into a deep blue pool of endless questioning or of cyclical self-pity.

By the next morning, the sun was bright again.

And so it came to pass that I sit here now–happily–hoping that I will remember this story; hoping to remember this lesson.

Truth begets truth. Do not let fear of losing love (or the potential of love), keep you in a headlock. Ask. Get your answers. Get what you want. Do not let fear of the worst case scenario keep you in the unfulfilling reality.  Let go. Move toward that awesome potential of tomorrow.

I told the truth. And I didn’t get what I wanted.

I’m still standing; eyes open, heart ready, hope fully charged for the next story.

Often conversation among my friends will turn to my perpetual single status. My girl friends do not understand the reason that men are not slamming doors, crossing intersections and vaulting over electrical fences to get to me. (My friends are awesome.) Acquaintances and male friends, on the other hand, are quick to fill me in on all the potential reasons I am still unattached. Some have been on the mark, and others have been absurd.  I’ve collected them all (and included some of my own reasons) in this list.

I don’t have a boyfriend because…

…I don’t go out consistently enough.

…I don’t work in an office.

…my friends’ friends are apparently ‘not good enough’, ‘not old enough’, ‘not liberal enough’ for me.

…I live in Greece. (Apparently, I do not possess qualities that Greek men find attractive.)

…I don’t drink alcohol.

…I don’t do one night stands.

…I’m too aggressive. (Rawr.)

…I’m too shy.(Miao.)

…I have high expectations.

…men are hunters. And I don’t let them be. (I know, I know. It is scandalous that I like you too, dude. How dare I?)

…I don’t flaunt my cleavage.

…I’m not ‘fun’ and ‘laidback’ (That is an outrageous lie. My definition of fun is getting laid on my back. Boom!)

…I don’t present myself as a potential girlfriend. Instead, I present myself as a friend.

…I’m desperate. (Your face is desperate.)

…I’m unlovable.

…I’m unlucky.

Why don’t you have a boyfriend?

I’m not a natural flirt.

I have spent quite a few years actively observing the friends that are and have spent a few more years trying to imitate their behaviour. I’ve yet to master it.

Natural flirts are like ballerinas. They’re graceful. I watch them dance and think  How hard can it be to balance your body on your toes and twirl?  Then when I attempt to do it, on the balls of my feet, I lose my center of gravity and fall into an accidental squat with my butt parallel to the ground and my arms outstretched like a toddler while both hands try to hang onto whatever wall, or person, or plant is closest.

I’m a clumsy flirt.

When I’m careful, I drop meaningful glances in the direction of the object of my lust. If it is a loud night and he is close, I’ll lean in and talk into his ear. My fingers will be close to my mouth. I’ll pretend that I can’t hear so that he is forced to come close to me too. Sometimes, I’ll twirl a strand of hair. I’m subtle. It’s a defense and it works. Because if said man does not reciprocate with an inflated chest and his hand softly on my back move, I don’t lose any face. Problem is, with this discreet flirting, if the dude blinks he might miss it.

When I am a little confident (because of a great hair day or vodka), I flirt with my tongue.  My body freezes and my words are ballsy and provocative. They are not subtle at all. ‘You’re not leaving until you kiss me.’ was my most recent gem. It is only when horror crept into the eyes of the recipient that I realized I had tripped over the line and fallen face first into FlirtFail territory.

I sway from flirting that cannot be detected by the human eye to flirting that can be seen from space.

I’m clearly not a natural.

Are you?

It occurred to me on Saturday night that my heart has hardened.

I don’t mind this change at all. Indeed, I’ve welcomed it. I’ve used up too many tissues and ruined too many perfectly drawn lines across my eyelids to last me quite some time. It seems about right that I put up some defenses. I sat–alone–once my plans for the evening had fallen through and it made sense to be alone. It was easy. I picked up a DVD effortlessly and secretly smiled as I watched couples and friends arguing over movie titles. I ordered food for one without looking at a menu and I poured my body into an over-sized t-shirt and torn leggings. I twisted my hair into a bun and ate ice-cream from the carton and I couldn’t care less that I’d become a cliche.

Once the heart hardens and once its gates are protected, there is no way for sadness to sneak in.  Hope is lost and the silver lining is that it will force me to stop looking for fulfillment through other people. My heart feels stronger. Even though my head knows  that the only reason I feel stronger is because I’m closed to the potential of feeling vulnerable.

Whatever. It’s working.

In fact, I’m smiling more. Inside, at least. And I think bright thoughts like:  Colour your life with lipstick. Even waterproof mascara has been known to smudge. So, I paint my lips pink to show that I can play this game too; even when I know that my lips are lying.

I’m not a pink kind of girl at all.

I’m a lips bitten to a raw red  girl;  a deep red that will always  match my short, neatly squared nails. And even though they’re short, and even though they’re square, they are still nails that will scratch. Particularly those who ask to come close to me and when I do, huff and puff and blow the house down. And, I’m still rebuilding from the last time.

I’m lying through my teeth. I say that I don’t believe in me. I say that I don’t believe in him or us or the future. But, I do. I say I’m over him and I say that I don’t care about him and I say that I’m friends with him but I do and I do and I’m not.

I lie because I don’t want to give in to feeling. I want to stay numb. So, I paint my lips pink and pretend that I can play too.When the truth is that I’m all lies.

My heart hasn’t hardened at all.

I only realize the pasts influence on my present, when I’m in smack bang in the middle of a brat attack.

At 16, I met a man while holidaying in South Africa.  This man was–and still is–my first head over heels reciprocated crush. I adored him. We lived a continent apart and yet we would exchange letters regularly. He confessed that he liked me, that he missed me and that he wished the distance between us was smaller. In time, his letters stopped coming. I would ask my close friend that lived five blocks away from him if she had seen him. Her responses were vague. I was too young to understand triangles. I was too young to understand that sometimes people will evade because they don’t want to hurt you. Then, finally, one day I learned through a mutual friend that not only was my friend and my long distance crush dating but they were in love.

It was a hard lesson to learn and accept at sixteen. It is easy to find flaws in the woman that is dating the man that you want. But when that woman is your friend, it is impossible. I knew her, I loved her. I knew all her good qualities and I knew that she deserved someone exactly like him. I wanted to hate her. I wanted to hate him. But I couldn’t–they were so damn cute together–so I quietly surrendered.

Since then there have been moments were I have been worried that the man I like will choose a friend over me. It is not beyond the realm of possibility; my close girl friends come in insanely attractive packages. They are all smart, pretty, independent, funny and strong women. Over the years, the same scenario has unfolded a couple of times. Never in the same intensity and never with the same ending but the story has been the same. I like him. He likes her. She likes him.

Right now, a similar story may or may not be unfolding. My gut feeling tells me that a new man–let us call him Apollo–who I find–let us just say–interesting seems to find my friend quite interesting. There is a possibility that my past is colouring my interpretation of his actions, but I can’t tell. She is adamant that it is all friendly and besides, she is smitten and taken by a very lucky fella.

Still, I worry. I worry because I adore this friend but I have these uncontrollable feelings of anger, resentment and jealousy towards her that I can’t put a handle on. Really,  I’m being a brat.

And it blows.

So I’ve gotta know:

Have you ever found yourself in such a triangle with a friend? How have you dealt with it?

I see him looking at me and I have no idea what he’s thinking.

I see him looking at me laughing and I hope that he’s thinking ‘She has a pretty smile‘. I hope that my smile makes the corners of his mouth twitch until he can’t help but smile too. I’m quietly content and I feel like most of my worries can wait for morning. The sun is setting and there is a buzz and it’s the first time I’m eating today and he’s making me laugh with quirky jokes and I’m happy.

As I make my way back from the restroom my mood changes. I see my past and his present sitting cozy and I’m jealous. I’m so jealous that I want to return to my table and make my present my birthday present. But you can’t do that. You can’t force feed feelings. You can’t self-gift. Instead, I tell him about the thing I just saw to explain my sudden shift and he’s sufficiently understanding. I continue in the way that I do. Unveiled and unapologetic. I talk of ‘giving up’ of ‘frustration’. It’s dark now; the sun has fallen asleep. So I talk of being alone and I sigh and I imagine that my eyes are reflecting sadness. I don’t know. I can’t see them without the light.

I see his eyes though. I see him looking at me. And his expression has changed. He’s looking at me in…in disgust. I think.  And then his lips are moving and he is saying that I’m needy. And then he’s saying that maybe that’s the reason that all these guys haven’t wanted me. And I’m sitting there wishing that I could disappear. I’m wishing that I hadn’t shown my vulnerability to this person. I’m embarrassed by my admittance. I’m embarrassed that my honesty is actually pathetic. I’m embarrassed that when he looks at me he sees ‘needy’. I’m angry at myself. If he sees that then everyone else sees that too. And if that is my essence, if my essence is needy it’s no wonder that I’m single. And then my anger becomes louder and shit now I’m actually angry at him because I want him to see past that. I want a man to see me. But he doesn’t. He sees what most of them have seen. A girl who needs. A needy girl. And you know, most of the time,  I’m so much more than that.

I see him now and I wish that I could go back to the beginning.

At the beginning, I had no idea what he was thinking.

The most irritating quality of old friends is that two times out of three they’re right. They know you, they know your life stories and–dammit–they remember everything. While this does make one feel special, it also makes it incredibly hard to wallow in self-pity. What good is an old friend if they don’t coddle you when you’re being unreasonable?

The other night while discussing the possible reasons that I refuse to let go of  the potential of Illicit and I, The Best Friend rationalized:

‘Perhaps the only reason you keep going back to him is because you can’t get him–’

‘–And you always get who you want.’

Readers, I was floored.

‘Say what?’ I yelled.  ‘You think I always get who I want? Are we living on the same planet?’

I was certain that she was wrong. I was shocked that the person who understands me better than anyone else could make such a stupendous error in judgment. I demanded evidence. I demanded that we make a list of all the men I have wanted, calculate the yeas and nays and then present those in a two column graph with headings and everything.

‘I want numbers! I want proof!’ I said.

She grinned and began framing my own experiences in a way that I would never because the only thing I like more than statistics is feeling sorry for myself.

‘Dude. You walked into Starbucks and wanted the Barista. Two months later, he was yours. You wanted The Man and a month later, you got him. A complete stranger walks into The Store and two weeks later he’s insisting that he’s the luckiest guy in the world because he met you.’

‘You make me sound awesome.’

‘Seriously. Who have you wanted that you did not get?’

‘But I didn’t really get them, did I?’

That’s when it occurred to us that we were both right.

I do get who I want.

I just don’t get what I want.

And as much as I still think that isn’t good enough, I am forced to acknowledge–but retain the right to Epiphany-anic Amnesia–that it’s not too shabby either.

There are minutes–neatly spaced between fun-filled seconds and productive hours–when it physically hurts to be alone.

I know this because I feel it. First it comes as a breathless, stabbing pain in my chest. Then it descends to my gut as if I’ve just been pushed out from an airplane without a parachute. It is at once painful and terrifying.

There are minutes where I believe that this is the way it will be. Period. I will live a life of quiet, peaceful unfulfillment. It is at once a choice and a resolution. But mostly its a defense. A wall I’m building around the disappointed fragments of my heart (and mind).

And yet there are minutes where I feel so hopeful that I almost shed actual fucking tears. This optimism that I will find a person that will love me seems so incredible to me. Because ordinarily I believe in evidence based facts. And I have absolutely no evidence to suggest that I will. These unfailing minutes of faith feel at once beautiful and delusional.

These lonely minutes are usually few and far in-between. Some weeks pass without a single minute. Other times, there will be days filled with countless of these minutes.

Today was one of those days. Today I felt all one thousand four hundred and forty minutes of  painful, terrified, beautiful and delusional loneliness.

After you have crossed a line you feel you cannot go back to a time when you hadn’t. You cannot un-learn what you have learned and you cannot undo what has been done. Since you’re already going to hell, you figure ‘What the hell, I might as well carry on.’ Especially when you really want to.  And then your mind will come up with all sorts of justifications to let you do it. ‘I deserve to be happy too.’ You ignore the little voice that replies, ‘Yes. But does it have to be at some other person’s expense?’ You want to jump into the deep end of darkness (or is it lightness? You can’t really tell the difference) and you want to live in denial. His head is stuck in the sand and you want to join him there. But you can’t because your head is always up, floating in the clouds. You know what the right thing to do is, but one minute you don’t care because what if this is the right thing? And the next minute you do care and and you know that you know right from wrong and you promise yourself that you will not move away from the crossed line. Then he calls and leaves an epic voice mail just to cheer you up and you want to believe that it is friendly but you feel that its not. So you stay away until you can’t stay away anymore. And then you hope that you will be able to restrain and restrain and restrain yourself from crossing that line a second time. Because the first time could–technically–be justified as an honest mistake. But the second time? That would be a choice. A conscious, deliberate choice.

And how would you ever find a way to justify that?