Timer

I've been told that one day it will happen. That even if it ends badly, one day it will happen. That one day, I'll be standing in a coffee shop, or a party, or a meeting, and then he'll walk in the door, and everything will change. That I'll have met HIM. And everything will be dated bc/ad after that first meeting.

And the worst part? It's not just popular media telling me this. Although I will admit I've had a LEEEEEEttle too much red wine and have had Ally McBeal on nonstop, I know it's not just me or the popular media or Hallmark because I've seen my best friends fall victim of it. Meeting someone and knowing, within the first 48 hours, that this is, well, IT.

And it's devastating. Because I KNOW it's real, because I KNOW it's a possibility, I'll always be looking. Always. I'll always be looking for Him because I know he's out there. I mean, he has to be. There wouldn't be such things as kismets or soulmates if there wasn't one for everyone. I mean, the cosmic injustice would just be too brutal to withstand.

And there are kismets. And there are soulmates. And there is someone for everyone.

So this is hard. This waiting. This knowing. And worst of all, this uncertainty. Maybe it's already happened for me. Or maybe, because of karma or whatever, it will never happen.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's just about to happen.

There is a word in Spanish that means both waiting and hoping. And that, I'd suppose, is what I've been doing. In my own, young way. Hoping that one day I'll have earned it.

But my heart has grown weary. Because whereas before, I used to hold my breathe every time someone new walked in the door, now I don't bother. Now I don't try to dress my best because I probably won't need to. Now, I eat too much and don't try to do my hair.

So where am I? In the middle of youth and forever. In the middle of hope and apathy. In the middle of Ally McBeal and too much red wine.

But with too much belief for my own good.

God, I miss him.

I'm embarrassed. I shouldn't miss him. I never really knew him. But I miss him. A lot.

We loved each other from the first minute we met. We made the mistake of liking each other too much when we slept together. I was too young. He was too reckless. But he was (is?) smart, I was pretty, and he was long from home and, in his own way, lonely.

I was too young. I didn't understand. I didn't understand that when a man tells you that you're beautiful, you have to take it with a grain of salt. I didn't understand that when a man sings to you, you're not special, you're just at the right place at the right time. I didn't realize that when a man cries to you, you're nothing more than a spontaneous therapist. And I definitely had no idea that sleeping with a man ruins all the esteem he ever held for you.

I was young, and I thought I was in love. I fell in love with him, I know, when he sang his favorite song to me in his hoarse and rough voice. It was a Gallic song, and he smiled when he sang it. I still remember his drunk, embarrassed grin, flashing quickly in the orange lamp light.

But I was stupid. And he was drunk. We met in the summer, and he was wearing a stupid Hawaiian shirt, and I was earnest and bright.

I miss him. If he had asked me to, I would have done anything for him.

Yet I learned. Hard. And maybe I should thank him one day.

I learned that men will treat you like shit. I learned that blind dedication and uninvited loyalty gets you nowhere. I learned that men don't respect you if you give them leeway to make mistakes. I learned that goodness on your part isn't necessarily reciprocal. I learned that men are men. And that the ones who are wrecks won't change just because you hope they will.

I learned that no one owes you anything, not even decency, and that being a young girl is perhaps the most painfully hopeful existence on the planet.

I can't forgive him for looking at me and asking "why do you allow me to treat you like this?" I'm forever grateful, but never forgiving.

And, despite all this, I just, god, I just miss him so much.