Hope Dies Last

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.

When Cute Man casually asked me if I would like to go for drinks sometime after work, I had reservations but agreed.

Throughout our three week correspondence he has mentioned his recent break-up in every single email. And I have tried to end that topic in every single email. But, he has persisted. In his latest email, he claimed that there are two types of feelings that one needs to get out of their system after a break-up. The habitual ones and the meaningful ones. Never mind the fact that I am quite intrigued by the way his mind analyzes details this way, it sent shivers down my spine. Especially when he admitted that at the moment his feelings were a combination of habitual and meaningful ones. Say what?

In the very next sentence, he confirmed a day next week for us to get together.

I’ve been on the first date after a man’s long term relationship has ended. I arrive on a wind of hope and a prayer. He arrives with mud in his eyes. It never bodes well for me. So before I replied to his email,  I lay down all the lessons I have learned over the last ten years on the table. I thought for a few hours. I discussed it all with a friend.

Sure, I could go for a drink with him and scope the situation out in person.  That sounds like the adult thing to do. But knowing me, as I do, if I go and he is as cute and charming in person, I will ignore all the warning signs and crush on him and date him and think about him and then he’ll break up with me and then I’ll be sitting in the exact seat I am sitting now writing, Dudes, I shouldn’t have let it start.

I also know that none of that could happen. I may go and not feel a thing for him. I know that the exact opposite could happen. We’ll got out, get on and date happily ever after. If I don’t go, I’ll never know. If I don’t go, I’m closing a door on heart break but also on heart warming. Instead of doing the adult thing, I did my thing.

I was honest.

Here is a relevant excerpt of the email I sent.

“Sigh. As I said before, break-ups are tough. They’re complicated and they’re messy. And it sounds like this was an important relationship to you. You sound confused and attached. It gets better, I promise. So, I’m going to suggest this. When it’s not complicated and when it’s not messy and when you’re not confused and when your feelings are not deep, but really, really, really shallow, then we can go out for a coffee, a drink or whatever else you like. Deal?”

My hope is this: be real and I’ll get real back.

Eventually.

But for now, I’m smiling much brighter than I was yesterday. Because now I know this to be true.

I’ve got my back.

Almost two years ago, I began thinking of customizing my blog design.

Its been such a battle. Between the design studio that did not fulfill its obligations and my own arrogance that I could do it myself, its taken a full year to make my dream a reality. And finally its here.

The delightful and hugely talented –Ms Cina–is the illustrator of the gorgeous header and footer. Thank you so much, Cin! But I couldn’t have done this without my brother. Early on in my DIY process, I recognized that while I love technology, my brain could not compute HTML and CSS. My brother–who is not a web designer or developer–stepped in. For eight months he listened to what I wanted and quickly and quietly learned to do it. T, you are my hero.

I’ll be double posting for awhile until I sort out all the kinks. So, update your readers and bookmarks and stuff. And then I demand that you de-lurk and let us know what you think.

But wait! There’s more!

As if this is not exciting enough, today is also the launch of a new collaborative STOG. Five Bloggers. Five Photographers. Five Stories. Peter (and Jen) start off the festivities with this piece.

A new year cannot really feel like a new year until the previous year has been dissected, right? So here it is. 2009.  (2008 can be found here)

In the first hours of 2000, I spun around a dance floor in South Africa. I was blond. I would line my eyes with kohl black. I was in love. Later that year,  I learned that men lie, sometimes out of fear; sometimes out of guilt and sometimes just because they can. After a successful interview (where the course leader suggested I study English Lit instead of psychology) I was accepted into a good university. I saw Germany for the first time. I wasn’t impressed. I made tons of new friends. I don’t speak to any of them now. I tried pot and sex for the first time. Was left completely indifferent to one of those, I’ll let you decide which one.

In 2001, I broke up with a man for the first time because no matter what anyone tells you LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS are hard and don’t usually work out. I lived it up. I drank far too much and ate far too little. I was thin! I kissed a couple of frogs; they did not turn into princes. I met two of my closest friends. We would coffee it up all the time. With about a year of general psychology courses under my belt I was that annoying 20 year old that thought she knew all about the human psyche. I was an idiot.

Much of 2002 was about falling in love. He was kind and gentle and quirky and fun. He hated buttons and was a writer. I was inspired. I lived with my best friends.  I wore the coolest black and white PUMAS. My hair was still blond. And long. And dry. I smoked Muratti cigarettes because their filters were white. Even though I had payed a six month gym membership, I never stepped through those doors. Addicted to chimichangas.

In 2003, I chopped off my hair and went back to my natural colour. I learned the importance of backing up all my files; after I lost most of my final year dissertation two weeks before the deadline. I loved Barcelona! I graduated from university. I began learning how to teach. Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’ turned out to be damn addictive. I was a girlfriend. It didn’t make me as happy as I thought it would. But, balance. I had that.

2004 began so quietly and unobtrusively that I had no inkling that this would be a year that would forever be ingrained in my memory as the beginning of most of my woes. The good? I became a teacher. I began to write. ATHENS OLYMPIC GAMES. I lived in the same country as my best friend. I bought my first pair of black leggings.
The bad? I was dumped. I had surgery. Sex and the City and Friends ended. I wore a short, dusty pink faux fur. A terrible fashion moment.

The first few days of 2005, I was in denial. I had residual anger and sadness from the year before. Then, I began to make decisions. I’ll be happy! I’ll learn French! (It worked  for a little. I speak no French today.) London was bombed. I started my masters there a month later. (I was paranoid.) Walked the streets of Brussels. Panic attacks began. I fell in love with Michael Scofield. My sister got married.

In the first six months of 2006, I studied harder than all the previous years combined. I discovered Grey’s Anatomy and Snow Patrol.  I tried Belgian Beer. It was awesome.I graduated with distinction with a useless postgraduate degree and became a shop girl instead. And an aunt. I learned that rich people can be extraordinarily cheap. And that friendships change. I wore black a lot. Shoes became less pointy. I stopped wearing heels. I joined Facebook.

In 2007, I started this blog. I wrote a screenplay. I got on a plane for the last time. I thought that I would never, ever meet another man I would want to date. At this point, I’d been single for three years. My lips had not kissed another set of lips for the same amount of time. I was desperate and lonely and petrified that nothing would ever change. Then, I met The Man and had an intense, one month affair into…

…2008. This year was marked by a wee nervous breakdown and a diagnosis of Crohn’s. Lost hope. Began therapy. I examined my life. I ate well. I quit smoking for awhile. I got paid for writing. I spent far too many hours watching Jon Stewart. Became single, cat lady. My new bangs changed my look from average girl to cute girl. I still had a hard time calling myself a woman.

In 2009, I met and then almost immediately lost a soul mate. It was tragic. But not as tragic as disappointing all the people closest to me. But even more tragic than that was that I began wearing leggings as pants. My sister from another mother got engaged! I missed it and still cringe at the way fear has set limitations on my life.  Still committed to flats, I ironically became a contributing writer for Running In Heels. I met a new friend whose poetry leaves me weak at the knees. I began writing my first novella. I found hope again.

I wish for me–and for you–that  the next decade is as equally varied and fun, educational and inspiring. I acknowledge that there will be some inevitable pain; but please Universe, easy on the heart-break.

How have you changed over the last decade?