Unrequited love. It is one of the most agonizing states of humanity. I have never felt so terribly small. I have spent the past year fooling around with someone I shall name Tennis Player. He's the boy in high school that all the girls wanted to go to prom with -except this is college. And the boy is an athlete, 6'3'', and 180lbs. A beautiful specimen really, and not surprisingly has a sense of entitlement.
So the story starts at a bar, as most of the stories of this kind do. Drunken dancing. I spot a tall shape who brushes by me. "You're hot," he says. Subtle. So I ask for a drink. "No, no. I know what you're gonna do. You're gonna as for a drink and then forget about me. I'm out with my team right now. Tennis. I'm number one." Ignoring his words now and just thinking of what he'd look like naked.
So for a year, we played, whenever either of us wanted to. And our relations were implicitly clear: just for fun. And I thought to myself: what a perfect scenario we've got going on here! What a perfectly low-maintenance and high-pleasure situation. How incredibly naive. How incredibly predictable this girl is, you must be thinking. Because for the longest time I prided myself on being unlike other girls, disdainfully shaking my heads at the "psycho bitches" who cared at all about a boy. Silly girls, I think, with their silly boys. And here I had a man; and I a woman. And it was so sexual and experimental. I thought I was so European. I even tried on red lipstick.
I couldn't like Tennis Player. He didn't know what cynical meant. He was a college drug dealer and was trying to grow his own in his closet. He wanted to go to law school because he "knows the law well. Oh, and the money." He would regularly encourage me to ask my girlfriends to join us in threesomes. Oh, it was all so European. No, I couldn't like Tennis Player.
But during this year, I caught glimpses into his heart, little insights into his soul. The way he wrote music and played it on his guitar, Angels falling in love with humans. Scoff, right? But a little bit lovely. The way he found fancy French sweets unpalatable but would kill Funfetti cake. His laughter. The way he'd stay up until early morning watching the travel and food network. The way he turns on the heater all the way up for me. The way that he lives alone most of the time, and prefers his apartment to at school than being home. The way his favorite female tennis player is Henin: "smallest player, biggest heart," he said.
And yes, these little glimpses made me a sucker. And I wanted to learn more. And I found myself daydreaming about him, lying awake for him, missing him sorely. Funny how much energy one person can put into it while the other is really just bored. So today I told him. And predictably, he says he's "not looking for something. I've been through too much drama." I told him he shouldn't contact me anymore. "Whatever makes you better," he said. I don't really know what he meant by that, but okay. Numb.
This story is really way too played out. And really I probably deserve a slap on the wrist for even getting involved with a player (12 women and by 21). But today I learned that I was like all those girls I would simply raise an eyebrow to. I am just as a emotional as them all. And though I do ache a little, it is ephemeral pain. And what's so wrong about being emotional? Why do this country see it as a weakness nowadays? Once upon a time, there were great stories written about it, great wars, and great journeys traveled because of it. I am Jill's hurt soul. No, heart. My soul isn't hurt. And I'm relieved to know that I'm not so jaded that I can keep up with hook-up buddy without feeling an ounce of affection or longing. No...no, I sincerely hope no human is that strong.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Middle
I'm going to start out pretending that I've always been blogging so I there aren't any awkward introductions or self-indulgent explanations on why I'm here. I'm also going to start out pretending I have readers just to save my ego. Because I realized today, not too long ago, how fragile my ego is. And how incredibly small my life has become, and not even particularly valuable. Just small. And my troubles and delights all very...unknown. And it made me suddenly very sad. Because everyone should be known in some manner, even in the smallest of detail. So I turned to my longest and most loyal friend, the Written Word. And while I realize there is something so self-centered about the concept of a blog, I really refuse to be small. And I want my troubles and delights heard and laughed about.
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