Say Goodbye

Heading homeward, but tell me what becomes of us?

Last night I said goodbye to The American. We had spoken some words few and far between since the last time I saw him - My friends and others had reiterated to The American that I was a taken woman and my dwindling presence at the gym hinted at a nervous mind and an uneasy heart. I had made up my mind to be with Vegas - and not just anyone, not even this old-school romantic soldier could sway my decision. But I admit there was still something about him that made my breath laboured and my heart beat just a moment faster. I didn't know what was going to happen when I stepped out of the change room after an hour of choeographed weights with my instructor friend, but as I saw him sitting on the couch waiting to say goodbye I knew that a final conversation was going to be had.

It was a warm evening - (with the exception of the wind) and temperate for this city - so I elected to walk home. In my normal pace on a night where my winter jacket was but a burden on my arm I could have made it home in 15 minutes. However with The American by my side until I said otherwise, we meandered through the city admiring its beauty, knowing that he may never see the city, or me, ever again.

I asked him why he would ever want to move here. Not that I dislike this city - it's lovely. It is and forever will be my home - or at least, the closest thing to home I've ever had. It's just being an American soldier and having the opportunity to travel to far and distant places to see breathtaking and history-laden sights, why chose just one to remain in for the rest of your life? His response? "I was just always drawn to Canada; and now I know why."

I didn't ask for his 'why' - not because in my heart of hearts I knew his answer, but because it wasn't mine to know. The American was leaving for a mission not 2 days long before flying to Europe for a month and then, well, who knows? He was obviously energized and nervous but at the same time sad to leave; after dropping me off he was heading to a local martini bar to say goodbye to other friends he had met in his short time in the city. I wasn't going - it didn't seem right. But at the same time not saying goodbye didn't seem right as well. Without knowing or caring what my past was, The American thought of and treated me like a lady - even when it was evident that he would not get what he wanted from me. So on a park wall 5 blocks away from my apartment, after walking and talking for what seemed like forever, we stopped to speak.

The conversation started as I had imagined: the easy banter between strangers was seguayed by The American mentioning that one day, in the future, I would make one man very lucky and very happy. I dropped my head and looked away, saying thank you but in the middle of my sentence, as if out of a scene from Gone With The Wind, The American lifted me off the ground, effortlessly, and placed me on top of the wall I was leaning against. Startled but grateful that I was able to rest for a while I continued to speak, confiding in The American that Vegas had hurt me in the past. Startled, he asked why I had let him back into my life, and as I began to contemplate my answer he took off his sweater and folded it up and placed it next to me. He mentioned that while he too cared deeply for his ex's, that he would give her his last dime, it didn't mean that he would ever think to let her back into his life the way she used to be, let alone his heart. Before I could give him my response - in fact, just as I was about to open my mouth - he placed his arms under my knees and my back and lifted me onto his sweater, mentioning that it was never good to sit on something so cold.

After that gesture of kindness that was as unexpected as it was overwhelming to my heart - I wanted to cry because my answer didn't change. The American's 'dream' of whisking me away and giving me everything I wanted, all the while being the officer and gentleman I dreamed of as a little girl in my mothers high heels couldn't remove the face of Vegas that was and is on my heart. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, and with my hands in my lap and my face to the moon I gave him my answer - one I've given many a times to friends and strangers when I let them know that Vegas and I are back together, but until last night did I truly understand the meaning behind the words I speak.

"If I made a mistake like that, and I was truly sorry, I'd want to be forgiven. I can not expect to receive that kind of love, the love that I want, if I am unwilling to give it first."

The American was silent. I could sense an understanding and a level of respect eminating from him, even before he started to speak. "You have a good heart - too good", he said, "but you're a good woman." He nodded his head as he lifted me off the wall and placed me back on solid ground.

We said goodbye shortly after that. In a final attempt to sway my heart The American proclaimed that if I ever wished to see him again, if there was ever a chance that he could call me his woman, that all I had to do was tell him and he would make it happen. I nodded - and told him to be safe. After a kiss on the forehead and a first and final hug, I walked away from my American soldier without a phone number, an email, or even a last name.

I believe that every person we meet, have met, and will ever meet, has a lesson for us to learn. I had asked The American why he thought he had met me, and although I disagree with his interpretation of the events from this month, I know the lesson that The American taught me. Perhaps it is the offshoot of the Sexual Revolution, but the fact is until now, for 22 years of my life, I had never been treated as well as I was by The American. In his mind a lady deserved to be treated as a lady, no matter how she decides to act. I may disagree with the last part, but thanks to The American I no longer have any reason or excuse to not act, or more importantly treat myself, like a lady. I'm not saying that I wish to convert back to a chauvinistic view of male and female roles, but damn did it ever feel good to be viewed and treated like a lady, and I'd like to keep that feeling going - even if it's only by myself.

So... While this may not be the happily-ever-after ending I once dreamed about as a little girl in my mothers high heels, but as a 22 year old girl in my own high heels - it's an ending that I am happy with. And in the end that's all that matters.

At Dawn

(Photo: Corbis)

… this is not what I do, it's the wrong time, for somebody new

I was thinking about The American after not seeing or talking to him for days. He was constantly on my mind – like a shadow on my conscience you know is there but can’t quite catch as it disappears from your view. The initial shock and awe was wearing off, the romantic ideas of being swept away and cared for falling back to the reality of my future and what plans I had made and ideals I want to live up to. But the way that he was in my thoughts wasn’t as I expected. There was no rhyme or reason for me to be thinking of him – I just was. And that got me to wonder, was this the famous ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other sensation that Ms. Bradshaw was talking about? But more importantly was the question, do I even want it?

When I take a step (or 5) back to contemplate this entire situation the attraction that I have to The American and the attraction that he has to me is completely irrational. I have no idea who he is, what he does, how he is, where he is going, what he wants or how he plans to get it. He met me a week ago and already has planned our entire future together and is ready and willing, and has even put into motion moving to my city. He claims that I am “the One” to me, to my friends, to anyone who would listen. And when I found that out – reality hit. The romantic ideal, the movie-script come to life feeling quickly fell into the familiar sense of fear that I have of men who, at the beginning, place you on a pedestal only to one day place you in a cage. When viewed through the lens of scientific rationalization – The American seems to be a man who would use my compassion against me and my need for love as a way to control me.

Perhaps I am being paranoid – but in this day and age of the dating/relationship game you have to be. The lines that defined a relationship that were once clearly drawn have been blurred or even erased by the actions of both men and women who were either in a relationship, in an affair, or hell in both. Apparently the term ‘boyfriend/girlfriend’ may not always mean exclusivity… I mean, I had to spell out for my friends what ‘seeing – dating – relationship’ meant to clarify that I wasn’t a whore. Sure; I admit that I told The American that I wasn’t getting married. I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that I am fair game to any and all potential suitors that got it into their heads that this Manolo-lite is "the One". Now my interest in the opposite sex is for friendship and friendship alone; I shouldn’t have to stop being my polite, friendly and funny self to men just because there are some out there who cannot control their raging emotions, or those men out there who believe that if a pretty girl is nice to you it is actually an invitation to get in her yoga pants.


I have a boyfriend. I know I wrote about taken-attraction in a tongue-and-cheek fashion, but now with The American it went from being funny to being ridiculous. The American knows that I have someone in my life – someone special, someone I know, someone I (will again) trust, someone I care deeply for and who cares deeply and truly for me. As romantic and adventurous and exciting as it would be, at least in my mind, to run off with The American – my body says differently. It says ‘hell no!’. I don’t know about you, but I believe that your body is the most beautiful thing you will ever possess in your entire life, save for that awesome pair of Christian Louboutin shoes. I say this because I found my mind being tricked into this imaginary Hollywood-story while my body stayed steadfast in its ‘no way nuh-uh not while I’m warm and alive’ opinion. As the song goes, my hips don’t lie and I’m starting to feel nervous.

My instructor friend and her boyfriend gave The American the old "If you love/care for something let it go" speech, which got me thinking; if you never really had something, how can you let it go? Granted The American had me going for a while – that is, until I left to see Vegas on Sunday. I admit I thought of The American during my visit with Vegas – but when I compared the two side by side, Vegas won the battle hands down.

The only positive thing that I have realized throughout this entire ordeal with The American is that although Vegas and I had and will have our issues… Vegas is actually a decent guy. His level of jealousy and possessiveness has not crossed over to the dark side – He’s attentive without being overbearing, he’s interested without being obsessed, and he’s eager without being controlling… that is, unless I want him to be. I understand that I could have another man in minute but a guy like Vegas, a guy willing to admit over and over that he messed up and is walking the walk of action to prove he’s sorry… that kind of guy isn’t so irreplaceable. As charming and wonderful as The American has made himself out to be - he's actually taught me - or brought to my attention, inadvertantly - that Vegas is one of the good ones, which I guess means I am one of the lucky ones.

Even if I have men falling at my feet.

Dazed and Confused

Whenever I’m caught in the middle of a predicament like this, or whenever I really needed some alone time; time to think and sort out my thoughts, I used to go to the gym. I mean, I pay for it every 2 weeks so might as well use it. This particular gym, more specifically the classes it runs, was the place I went to after Vegas and I ended our engagement – it kept me moving when my world fell apart and gave me a sense of purpose, enough to get me out of bed and to work. And now, 3 years later, I am a fully fledged addict. I’ve met many of my friends and acquaintances through the gym, and I’ve brought along and addicted many of my friends to the exercise classes and ambiance of the gym-going world. Basically, it was home away from the hospital.

However with the arrival of The American… I’m finding it difficult to go. Since the last time we spoke, conveniently at the gym, it seems as if every single word that rolls out of his mouth makes it so hard for me to step inside a once familiar and welcoming environment - like entering your childhood home after it's been sold and remodeled by perfect strangers. A part of you knows that it is the same building; the same structure, the same memories; but a part of you knows that something is missing.

Let me explain; last night I saw The American - saw, not spoke - briefly in between my classes. I had left for the evening and spent a little time meandering around the mall until I realized that I had left my necklace somewhere in the change room. Now this particular necklace, although picked out by Philippe and purchased by my mother, has significant sentimental value to me. It is a teardrop moonstone and both the shape and particular stone is very difficult to find; it truly is one of a kind. The problem is I had managed to avoid speaking to The American that evening, only because I was still in shock and awe to his very existence – and the fact that I had spoken to Vegas not 2 hours ago about my impending visit. Perhaps I felt guilty, or nervous, or both, however the outcome was still the same: I didn’t know what to say or how to act. But knowing that my necklace had mere hours to sit before someone with a keen eye and fabulous taste in jewellery decided to make it their own I had no other choice but to go back. So with a deep breath and cautious step, I re-entered my gym to retrieve my necklace.

The American was sitting at a table outside of the yoga studio – which just so happens to be right beside the entrance to the ladies locker room. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watch me walk down the stairs, so an all-out avoidance tactic was completely out of the question. He was surprised to see me back – he didn’t expect me to return, although I instantaneously clarified that it was for my necklace. I asked him why he was seemingly waiting, as he was neither jumping rope nor lifting weights, and he said that he was going to dinner with my instructor friend after yoga. He asked if I would stay for a chat after retrieving my necklace, and under the impression that he was waiting for my friend, I agreed to sit with him for the remainder of the class.

I wish I hadn’t.

The American started the conversation by asking me how my day was. Fine, I thought, as small talk between strangers that is usually a good place to start. He began to drop hints as to what he actually does as a job – not that I can explain what he does. (I’m not being coy. Honestly I have no idea what he does). He mentioned that, at 31 and in the service since 19, he was beginning to get the urge to settle down as so many of his colleagues were doing. The work he does is dangerous, at least from the bits and pieces he’s told me, and as much as it is his ‘honour’ to serve his country, if he found the right woman he would stop. He would give up the service, the one thing he loved in the world for a woman… And apparently that woman is me.

I turned away at that point and took a deep and audible breath. After meeting some men in the military I could somewhat understand his eagerness to remove himself from the dangers of service and the anonymity of his existence. I can only guess that living an extraordinary life for so long, the urge of normalcy when presented is too much to dismiss so quickly. However it was still rash; I mean, The American had just just met me, and now he was willing to give up his career and life for a girl he scarcely knows? To me it just didn’t make any sense: I mean, what would he do? And more importantly, and I had to ask this question, what makes him think I want that?

To that he responded “Picture this” and as I closed my eyes The American started to tell me a story… about how he'd take care of me from the second I walked in the door after a long day at work. How I’d walk in the door, tired beyond belief, and drop my purse to the floor, but before it even touched the ground he would catch and carry it, and me, and bring me to the living room. On the way I’d see the dinner table – perfectly laid out for a meal he’s prepared; The American would remove my shoes and socks and proceed to rub my feet as I talk about my day. Knowing that I was hungry but exhausted he would give me a strawberry smoothie to satisfy me before carrying and putting me in a milk bath to relax away the tension in my body. After dinner we’d then go for a walk before going to bed, only for him to wake up before me to prepare my breakfast and coffee and have it ready for me to go. He finished the story, or I guess I should say fairy tale, by proclaiming that he would do that for me every single day.

At this point I can barely open my eyes in fear that at any moment tears would begin to fall… so instead with my eyes closed I asked him “Won’t you get tired of it?”. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had boyfriends in the past who would make me dinner and breakfast and sit with me and talk about my day – but that usually ends once the honeymoon phase is over and the reality of fights and priorities seep into the time once occupied by romance. Also it was those very same boyfriends who seemed to only do those things for me as a way to ‘bank’ favours back in return, or hold it against me when I was unwilling to give in to their demands. Perhaps I am extra cynical after my ordeal with Philippe, but when it comes to relationships I’d rather have nothing if something is demanded in return. When I give to the one I love – no matter what – I don’t ever expect anything in return. But every man I’ve been with, I guess with the exception of Vegas, had an ulterior motive to giving me something, be it gifts, dinner, or otherwise… so I learned to live with nothing to avoid having a previous deed or favour given to me held over my head.

The American, however, proved me wrong. “No” he said, shaking his head while looking at me with sad eyes, not out of pity, but true sadness. “You never get tired of treating the one you love right.”

As I sat there in silence he continued to speak – “Listen Carrie; I know you just got back with this guy and you haven’t even been with him for a second, so I won’t come between you two. It’s just that… as my grandfather said, you will think that you are so cool, but then along comes that one woman who will make your body shake and your soul nervous… and you do that to me. But it’s like that song, ‘Hey Lover’. I’m not going to do anything… I’ll let you be – but I’ll be waiting. If he doesn’t treat you right, give me the chance to show you how good it could be.”

The class ended right on time. My instructor friend stepped out of the room, surprised to see me and The American there. After helping me with my coat and chatting with some friends, all three of us together exited the gym. My friend invited me to grab a bite afterwards, but I shook my head no, still unable to speak – my mind still processing what I had heard and imagined courtesy of The American. So I watched the two of them walk to the food court as I climbed the escalator I shook my head in wonder, moving in slow motion towards the bridge to walk home, asking myself if this was indeed my reality.

And then in my pocket I felt a vibration. Startled out of my dreams I reached into the pocket of my pink coat to retrieve my now loudly-ringing phone, wondering who could be calling me so late in the evening.

It was then when the tears finally fell from my eyes, for the person who was calling me was Vegas.

The Name Game

"I have given you my soul... leave me my name."

It's a big question - one that has followed women ever since the Sexual Revolution. I first heard it in grade 6 - my science teacher, Mrs. K, introduced herself to us as Mrs. because it was too much work and way too much of a hassle to fill out the paperwork before the ceremony. This question is - of course - "Will you take your husbands name once you're married?".

In my circle of friends this question was never brought up - maybe because (for my friends) we're all 22 and marriage is the furthest thing from our minds. Maybe because we're too busy asking pertinant questions, like which dress should I wear for which formal, or where did my other shoe go, or the ever popular necklace/no necklace problem we all run in to. But maybe because all of our mothers, mine, Mackenzies, Angelicas, Christies, Nicoles and countless others - are Mrs. Every boyfriend I've ever had - his mother is a Mrs. Grandmothers too. It seems as if Mrs.' are everywhere, an inescapable future if a girl chooses to get married.

Not to say that is a bad thing - my mother says her married name often and with pride. Vegas' mother responds lovingly to my 'hello Mrs. ___' as have every mother I've addressed who took her husbands name. But when I was discussing this with Vegas and with anyone who has asked me - I am of the opinion that I should never have to take my husband's name so much as to choose to take his name - and if called Mrs. by an unsuspecting person, be able to correct them with the salutation of "Ms." followed by my last name. Not maiden name, not fathers name. My name.

For as long as I've been out in public alone - not under the shadow of my brother or with my family - teachers, friends, colleagues and others have always called me "Ms." - jokingly and seriously. With the exception of French - the term "mademoiselle" for a young lady and '"madame" for a married woman - I have been and plan on forever being, Ms. And apparently that is a problem - at least, it has been for past boyfriends and lovers and their families.

I remember one time with Philippe - I was discussing with him the potential of getting a new hockey jersey with a player's name on the back. He said i "You know what would be really hot? If you got (his last name) on the back". To which I replied "No, why the hell would I do that?". "Why not?" He asked, insulted that I would dare to reject his name. "Well", I replied, "a) You don't play for the team, b) I'm not your wife and don't plan on being your wife and c) It's not my name. If I were to get my name on the back of MY jersey it would be MY name and no one elses". Clearly this started a fight, but really - when were we not fighting?

But most recently it has been with Vegas. When I mentioned the previous story and how I'd never take on someone elses name - at most I would hyphen but still sign legal documents Ms. - he too didn't understand this. Now my stance on the Ms. subject has not changed since we were dating back in high school. When I reminded him of this, he responded "Well, I thought you would have changed your mind."

Isn't that some men in a nutshell?

I get that in Vegas' family it is 'tradition' for the wife to take the husbands name. My mother did it - my grandmother did it- and I'm pretty sure my great-grandmother did it too. However, this is 2007: and I've never been good at following, or at least, I've managed to follow until I can lead. As much as I adore Vegas' family - I am not willing to forego my family of origin if Vegas' doesn't have to as well. Gone are the days when the wife was a piece of property to be exchanged between one man and another. Isn't it now "husband and wife" instead of "man and wife", implying maybe a hint of equality? So why the name game? Why is it when I chose to keep my own name after being able to chose if and whom I marry do I come out as the bad guy?

In a relationship I understand that I will eventually have to compromise. A lot. Kids, 'home', education, hell even religion - meaning I'd accept yours but never convert from mine. But my name stays. For me - my name is my identity. It is the one thing in this world that defines me and my accomplishments - my struggles, my past, my achievements, my potential. Why would I willingly give up my greatest sense of independence in exchange for the title of 'someone's'?

I retorted back to Vegas, to Philippe, to each man I've dated: "Take my name" - and boy oh boy were they insulted beyond belief. Laughter, pity-looks and dismissals galore. "Degrading, isn't it?", I replied, "that you'd take my name." So why am I supposed to be overjoyed at the potential of gaining a mans name when the shoe is on the other foot is it the most degrading concept ever heard by the ears of men?

There is one woman I know who is a Ms. It's Chris' mom. I called her Mrs. by mistake the first time I met her - she kindly but firmly corrected me as Ms. and I have never made that mistake again. She is easily one of this country's most powerful women - intelligent, successful, not to mention really hot for a mother twice over. She has a better body than I do! But what makes her so incredible is that she is everything: a wife and mother, a success in her career and her life, and she did it all as Ms and not Mrs. She is the epitamy of what I believe is the update to the saying - "Behind every great man is a great woman". Chris' mom is "Beside every great man is a great woman" - not his Mrs. but his Ms.

And I can definately live with something like that.

Bells & Blues

... do I look like a maid?

I was talking to my boss yesterday about, oddly enough, weddings. Perhaps because he and I are just short of creating a pool as to when the receptionist will get a proposal, or when our other co-worker will have a baby and finally bag her long-long-long term boyfriend. Anyway I had mentioned Angelica's upcoming nuptuials to Joe in August, of which yours truly is one of her bridesbabes. He brought up that old, awful and oh-so-annoying 'insult' of "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride!" to which I responded "Do I look like a maid?"

Again, I guess I've been slacking on the memo department, but since when did getting a boyfriend automatically bring up the awkward wedding questions, the proposal dreams and the choice of flowers at the ceremony? And in a place of business, where the majority of employees and maybe 1-2 management are in fact female? Am I missing something - perhaps an emotion that most girlfriends are supposed to have when it comes to weddings and white picket fences?

Another blogger wrote about this not too long ago - how she, at 28, still had no idea of what her perfect wedding would look like. And for that post I wish to thank her. Vegas and I were talking and he brought up the 'fact' that "All girls have their perfect wedding planned out from the beginning." Um... the beginning of what? A relationship? Isn't that a little freaky? I mean - I got freaked out like nobody's business when Philippe got to talking about how I'd raise his children and how we'd be married in a Catholic church in French. It just didn't make sense to me then and now the concept of planning out such an elaborate event when you never know what tomorrow will bring in a relationship. Seriously; as in the case of Philippe, one morning he could be making you pancakes and strawberries and walking you to work, and the next day he could be chasing you down the main street of your city calling you a lying cheating waste of space. Why spend all that day-dreaming time on one day when you could spend it dreaming of your future - career wise, friends wise, travel wise, everything wise?

I must admit, however, that I have thought a little about a wedding. Why, Carrie - you ask? Well a few years ago yours truly was engaged... to Vegas. Did I mention that? Yeah... well anyway. The extent of my planning? My dress is Vera Wang. My shoes are Manolo Blahnik, or maybe Christian Loubouitin. Uh... um. My ring is Tiffany's. And that's it. Everything else was shades of grey or on my to-do-list after finishing my degree, getting a good job to pay for more school, getting my MA, PhD or even MD. Back in my 18-year-old mind that was what was most important to me - and it still is today. In fact, now in my 22-year-old mind other things have entered the realm of 'most important to me' that were not so clear as a know-nothing-know-it-all teenager.

A good point that was brought up in a comment is that most couples, men or women, whatever, think too much of the ceremony and not the actual marriage. What comes after the celebration - when the guests all leave, the food all gone, the presents all open - the reality of married life kicks in. Back in the end of my relationship with Philippe entering my single summer, my cynical self once though that the smallest pair of handcuffs in the world were wedding rings. And in a sense this is still true.

Vegas is a home-body. He dreams of white picket fences, children (with HIS last name), roots and neighbours, routine and stability. I, on the other hand, am a nomad. A gypsy in the hot-Esmerelda kind of way. I dream of travel, of far away places, of giving back to the world everything it's given to me and more. Of joining MSF, of lecturing on a little known but so important topic to future generations of those following in my footsteps. Of having former teachers who didn't believe in me call me DR., and have former teachers who did believe in me celebrate my success as their own. And maybe, after all that, or at the end stages of that, do I begin to accept visions of children and a hint of stability.

To me, a wedding represents both a celebration of a beginning and of an end. Sure I wrote how the Bachlorette Party is a celebration of the end of the single-fling life, but what about a wedding? It is a celebration of the beginning of married life - but what if it's not what you want? It sometimes seems, maybe only to me and others who've experienced twisted forms of relationships, that a wedding means you're exchanging your freedom for a party and a pretty dress. And to me, my freedom is worth far more than that.

The receptionist at my office seems really happy that she will be getting a proposal. She is more than willing to move to be with her soon-to-be fiance and start a life anew. And to her I say - right on sister. My co-worker wears her engagement ring with pride and brings her man with her whenever she can, and on her spare time plans her wedding with the same force and passion that she does her work. And to her I say - right on sister. Angelica is running a tight ship with dresses, fittings, parties, hair, plans, placement and of course food. And to her I say - right on sister. I will gladly attend, send gifts and stand up at the alter of my girlfriends weddings because it is her choice and I will celebrate it as if it were my own. But it's not my choice. At least, not yet.

I've got too much to do.

The Politics of Relationships

Does absence makes the heart grow fonder… or does it make the heart go wander?
This weekend is my formal – a graduation of some sort into the ‘adult’ phase of my life. I’ve known about this for 2 months know, and in turn so has Vegas. He planned on coming to the city on Thursday night, seeing me, and then meeting again on Saturday for the evening out. Great, I thought to myself, because Thursday day I work and then head to the gym until the late evening, and Friday I have class all day and work all night. So while this weekend I would love to see him as much as possible, 3 out of 4 days is pretty good and significantly enough for me.

Wednesday night we chat online and Vegas tells me that he is sick. How come, I ask, because on the weekend I went out he sounded fine, energetic, a little buzzed but overall well-enough to withstand his activities. Well, it’s because of the weekend straight of partying that he’s sick because the late nights have continued on as he scrambled to get his work done for looming deadlines and group meetings that start early and run late. So as a result, plus family obligations, our together time has fallen from 3 days to 1.

Fine, I said, just see me on Saturday, because I did not want him to get sick before then and be unable to accompany me. We proceeded to get into a disagreement (not argument) about the time issue, with me saying no to anything before Saturday in concern for his health and my previous obligations, and him say yes to see me on Thursday because he missed me. He was wondering why I was mad at him (I was not mad) for being sick, that he didn’t plan on it, and that he couldn’t control it. I was upset because I beg to differ.

I am of the opinion that every action has a reaction – and that every action has a consequence, and if you are not prepared to lose then you should not take the risk. Vegas partied a lot the first time around and it was a major issue in the ending of the relationship because it became priority #1 followed closely by school work and new friends, with me somewhere at the bottom for whenever it was convenient. When we got back together he had said that he was a changed man; and little actions like this tell me otherwise. He still readily and willingly gives into his friends to join in the party, which as a senior I can understand, but not attend the pity-party when the price is being paid in the form of sickness, insomnia, late assignments and all nighters.

Without trying to sound like a nag, some people, like Vegas and at one time myself, just don’t understand that they simply can not do everything, and even when they try 9 times out of 10 they’ll just end up doing nothing. During our conversation I was trying so hard not to say anything that could resemble a lecture from his mother, since he already has one. After Philippe I’ve obtained a very laissez-faire mentality when it comes to significant others; I believe that Vegas and any other man I decide to date is a grown man and can do and will do as he pleases; therefore he can also deal with the consequences of his actions. I too am a grown woman and can react as I please, which will be not speaking to him until the following Saturday when I make the trip to attend his formal, for which no doubt he will be well rested and anxious to attend.

I made a promise to myself and my girlfriends to act differently this time around, to not put up with neglect, to not beg for attention and come off as the demanding and high-maintenance girlfriend. If Vegas is sick or unable to completely attend my formal, and we all know how much fun an event can be when you significant other clearly makes it known that they do not wish to be there, then I have decided on a costume change and that I will go by myself. Last year I had a smashing good time by myself, in fact it was the best formal I ever attended – but I will still make the trip and spend the money to attend Vegas’ formal the following Saturday because that’s what Audrey Hepburn would freakin’ do.

I’ve found in my past relationships that there are guys out there who like to test the waters, to see how far the can push the limits, to see what the limits are. I mean, if they want to do something you can’t stop them, but at the same time they cannot be surprised when we react the way we do. I understand that being 2 hours away makes things difficult – and that our lives shouldn’t be spent pining for the other when there is the joie de vive out there waiting to be experienced. BUT at the same time, long distance requires a tad more planning and effort than having someone close by. Balance is the key to long-distance and in-town relationship success and it simply can’t all be on one side. I say this because I stay in, I work 2 jobs and I get my school work done so that when I do have a chance to see Vegas I am well, well rested, work free and money sufficient. If it won’t go both ways with Vegas or with anyone else then clearly I am wasting my time.

I get that men will try and test the limit. I get that they want to have fun; I mean, don’t we all? I get that they want to experience life, and sometimes it’s something they have to do with their buddies. But if it get’s out of hand and he doesn’t realize it, problems can and will arise. However, and there is always a however, until Vegas realizes on his own things won’t change.

So why is it when I bring this issue up, when I try to communicate that maybe he doesn’t have to attend every single party that arises, do I come off like a nagging, self serving bitchy girlfriend when all I want is a healthy rested boyfriend that I booked 2 months in advance for an important event? I guess it takes time for some to realize that when you're in a relationship you're no longer the only one who has to deal with the consequences of your actions.

It seems as if I have forgotten the politics of relationships – the negotiations, the debates, the communication issues, the diplomacy, the his-story/her-story/truth conundrum. The balancing act between the interests of yourself, your friends, your obligations and your significant other. The problem with relationship politics, as with politics in general, is that one side always seems to get screwed over in favour of another, one that may or may not deserve the extra attention, one that may or may not be the popular or correct choice. And just like in real politics, it is only a matter of time until the side that’s being screwed either becomes invisible, or leaves the table altogether.

Perhaps I am being rash, being too harsh with Vegas – but a promise to my girlfriends is a promise I do everything in my power to keep, especially when it’s a promise made with my best intentions and my well being at heart. And those kinds of promises insisted upon by your girlfriends is a promise one should never ever break.

Declaration of Independence

Are all relationships, like people, created equal?

Yes my friends, it’s true. Your beloved Carrie has found herself in a relationship –her first in almost a year and a half. Suffice to say that I am a bit rusty in this area… I’m still getting used to and don’t think will ever get used to the concept of being someone’s girlfriend without the stigma that it’s had for me and many of my girlfriends over the past few years. Don’t get me wrong here; I’m not miserable in the fact that I have a boyfriend- it’s nice. It’s just that after being single and fabulous for so long, I can’t help but wonder how I and others adjust to the relationship world just as we were enjoying the single life?

I know a lot of people spend the majority of their single life searching for the one who will ‘rescue’ them from their supposed lonely and sad existence. I, on the other hand, never believed that. I believed in celebrating the single life for every minute of it – for we are lucky to have such freedom and endless possibilities in front of us. Not to mention the awful but so funny dates I went on, and might I add, after experiencing the good, the bad, and the as if of the dating game, it makes me appreciate more the good men who are out there. Especially when you have someone to call after a bad day, or someone to bring to a formal event, or someone to do nothing with is lovely, calming and stabilizing.

Except, of course, when you’re a twenty-something. Perhaps it’s just me and my weird understanding of relationships but sometimes, and irrationally I might add, serious long-term relationships begin to look like lace-covered forms of entrapment. Sometimes it signals the end of so much – many ideas that I know will never happen but the possibilities were often enough to keep me going. Maybe because I’ve been in relationships like that and maybe because I’ve seen my girlfriends fall into relationships like the ones I am describing - most recently one particular girlfriend, let’s call her Nicole. Don’t get me wrong here, she seems happy most of the time and when she’s happy I am happy – but we hardly ever get to see each other because she’s with him and even when we do get to see her, her man is never far away.

I was thinking about this on my way home from the gym – My inner city escape from school, work and people in general – how much I enjoy and value my ‘me’ time. I never understood how some of my friends who are in relationships can go from work to their significant other without a break in between to do the things that they need to do – alone. I mean, I enjoy the pleasure of Vegas’ company, but I also enjoy the pleasure of my own. As I had mentioned before I never had nor will I ever need another person to validate my existence, regardless as to whether or not I was in a relationship or not. I ended up asking myself if I could retain my sense of independence while being in a relatively committed relationship.


I decided to give Vegas another chance partly because I never stopped caring for him and partly because he was my most sane relationship. When he lived in the city our relationship was consuming… and yes, it got boring. Monogamy became monotony. We were too young for such a serious relationship that with age came every day responsibilities such as work, bills, kids and well-developed lives that prevent relationship-overkill. But this time around, with him 2 and later on 4 hours away from me with a job, separate friends and ‘adult’ responsibilities, maybe monogamy won’t become monotony. Maybe this is the perfect relationship.

A Matter of Attraction

Getting what you want... just not when you want it.

Among my circle of girlfriends it is generally accepted that the best way to get a boyfriend is to get a boyfriend, or in other words the only way to get sex is to have sex. Now I don’t know about you but as much as I’ve witnessed, experienced and ranted about this odd version of ‘how things work – dating wise’ this concept has never ceased to amaze and frustrate me.


On one hand I understand the logic: One cannot just sit around and wait for everything you want to literally fall into your lap. You meet people you can date by meeting people in general. You find yourself in a relationship by putting yourself out there, not by hiding in the background wondering why nobody is asking you for dinner, coffee or even if you need a hand with your laundry. But at the same time why is it when and ONLY when you find a significant other that you actually like do options all around you open up that were closed or unavailable or invisible when you were single? I mean, what shift in personality, actions, emotions or thoughts triggers such an influx of suitable candidates in a dating game only after you’ve stepped off the field?

I am talking, of course, about Paris. Now before I go into detail I must state that as a lover of science I know that I cannot base any theory of mine, no matter how outlandish or silly, on one case and one case alone. Ever since Vegas and I reunited I have somehow found myself the object of affection of known-platonic friends, new co-workers and randoms on the bus/street/gym. It's really as if the idea of a taken woman is the most intriguing, desirable, obsessive idea to some men – so much that given the opportunity he’d cross the line from platonic friend to homewrecker in an instant if there was the slightest chance that you’d discover you felt the same way. Text messages, phone calls, being extra helpful. Even when they know you have a boyfriend. Seriously - What is it about having a relationship that attracts more potential suitors for, well, a relationship?

Or in Paris’ case, the potential for a hint of truth; or clarity in his case. It all started with a quick hello-how-are-you phone call that after a mentioning of me running off with a man and how it would affect Paris’ plan, the conversation turned into an on slot of emotional confessions from a shade of grey did-I-or-didn’t-I man that I must admit I was not prepared for. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think he was prepared for it either. Paris is typically a smooth-talking man who is cleaver with his words. He gives you enough to make you curious but too little to solidify anything. But this morning he was going on about revelations and a deeper understanding... Oh and my personal favourite, how he’s changed.

In those ways he had changed – The entire conversation felt like he wanted to say something to me, something of obvious importance but for one reason or another the words were not flowing from his mouth in its’ usually symphony of grey, but more of a sharp staccato of black and white. It intrigued me enough to stay on the line without saying much, but at the same time not enough to probe and prod for a deeper understanding.

Why? Well because I am of the belief that people don’t really change – they evolve. Perhaps Paris had a revelation or two, or his radar went off that I was now off the market, that made him realize that ‘hey maybe this girl isn’t so bad’. He said so himself that when we first connected in November of 2005 he wasn’t prepared for the striking similarities and easy comfort that he and I possessed so effortlessly. It shook him and caught him off-guard, as it did me. He also said that he knows he affects me (duh) and that different emotions come up (shit) and neither of us know how to respond (fair). And then he brought up this that he wanted to discuss it at a later time.

The issue is, and this goes with all other platonic men who have decided to enter a race that has already been won, is that their time to discuss anything further with me with the hopes that further discussion will lead to further action has come and gone. Chris’ theory is similar to mine in that when a guy finds out that his attractive girl friend he’s flirted with on and off but never pulled the trigger now has a boyfriend, it is a rude awakening to some men’s (and women’s) innate laziness when it comes to opportunity. I know that a significant number of people do not realize what they have until it’s gone, and as Chris put it so eloquently, it’s like leaving something for later because you know it’ll always be there. But Paris and all others should know that when it comes to people, he or she may not always be where you left them last.

Vegas Calling

So I know I alluded to this post a while back – and I apologize for my tardiness in sharing the story. School and work and life in general have been busy for this City-Socialite. You know how it is! Anyway back to my original point. I’m sure you’re wondering who this Vegas is; I’ve mentioned him a few times over the years but never really got down to the nitty-gritty, which I realize is totally unfair. So here we go.

Vegas and I met in high school. In a school of less than 400 ‘seniors’ (so 9th grade and up) we managed to have only one class together – but that was enough. For the majority of the year he didn’t stand out to me until one day he caught my eye, with what he was wearing no doubt: a white beater that revealed his deliciously toned arms and football physique and immediately I was stricken. The problem was he was so shy that he could barely look at me, let alone say a few words that would lead to a date. Luckily, being a woman, I schemed my way into the good graces of his friends to plant the seed of assurance that yes I liked him and yes I would agree to a coffee date. So coffee we did – and started a romance of three years that until the final goodbye was like a rollercoaster of dizzying highs and terrifying lows.


The re-kindling happened this summer: It started as an innocent phone call on his birthday, I mean, you can’t know and love someone for over 6 years and not call or email on a birthday. I didn’t mean it to be anything more than a ‘hey happy birthday big plans ok bye have fun!’ conversation, especially being in the middle of my man-a-month summer and semi-affair with Paris. I also told Vegas that we’d never be ‘friends’ seeing as how I neither sleep with nor agree to marry my friends, but I am a classy lady so a phone call was in order.

Emails and phone calls followed but I didn’t make a big deal out of it – curiosity is common with ex’s and whatnot - Until he asked me out for dinner. A part of me wanted to say no – He had asked for me back a few times already but I was having too much fun, ridiculous or otherwise, to deal with a former lover during the summer. But when September rolled around I thought ‘hey, free dinner AND I get to pick where!’, so after my yoga class on a bright and breezy Saturday morning, I called Vegas back and agreed to meet at an Italian restaurant in the heart of downtown.

I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have a good time. We spoke with ease and joked like old times, he looked good but I looked better. Except at the end of the night he confessed his ulterior motive, even though I could tell by the way he was looking at me. Again I said no and immediately lost my appetite for my caramel drenched pastry dessert. Truth of the matter was I loved him still, but I needed someone who lived in the same city as me, not 2 hours away and potentially 4 by the end of this school year. Deflated and defeated, he agreed to drive me home as the bill was settled and the last of my cosmo passed my lips.

On the drive home he was silent; not unusual for a man who just got rejected but was trying to put a brave and gentlemanly face on, but something told me that he had something to say but couldn’t – So I let my instinct decided for me as I told him to pull over somewhere so we could talk. As the night got darker and darker we spoke: not about us, but about everything: Life, school, goals, the future, parents, friends… And then it started to rain. As I started to wonder exactly what time it really was, Vegas reached over and started to tickle me to ease the air of the past heavy topics. I laughed and squirmed to try and get away, but somehow, with the rain pouring down on his silver car, his lips found mine.

A couple of hours later he drove me home. We agreed for him to stop by my apartment the next night before going back home so that we could ‘discuss’ what happened between us. Half of me regretted what I had just done – I mean, I didn’t sleep with him (come ON! In a car? I don’t think so) but - I suppose enough happened to warrant a talk. I immediately called Mackenzie to discuss my options and to form a battle plan to avoid any awkwardness when we’d see each other again.

But the other half of me… well, didn’t regret it. Why should I? It was consensual, it was familiar, and it was hot! But I know that as an adult, or at least of legal age, consequences come with my actions – and this time around my consequence was having to talk about what happened with Vegas. It was Mackenzie came up with the battle plan: don’t sleep with him and don’t get back together! And as I organized my closet out of frustration I decided that it was the best route of action. I mean, what was I thinking?? We weren’t going to get back together, and what was with all this need-for-a-label business? Couldn’t we just call a spade a spade, realize that it had been a long time for the both of us since we felt the others touch, we enjoyed it and now we can move on?

My thoughts echoed this decision as he entered my door and sat on my bed – both of us not knowing what to say or how to act, or even how to feel around each other. So that’s what we did; just sat there.

He left the next morning.

Under normal circumstances I am not one for believing in second chances, let alone an unknown number of second chances that I gave Vegas. However this wasn’t one of ‘those’ situations. My curiosity was overwhelming as this urban relationship myth brought up the universal question of all relationships, be they platonic, intimate or somewhere in between. The question is, of course, can people change?

I am about to find out.

Liquid Courage/Fluidic Stupidity

The cause of, but not always the solution to…

Cranberry vodka’s are dangerous. Very dangerous. Don’t let the eye-pleasing red colour and smooth-but-sweet taste fool you; it is very dangerous. Unfortunately, cranberry vodka was my choice of drink for the previous posts holiday party with Paris… and apparently my drink was not the only thing that was smooth-but-sweet and red by the end of the evening. Or should I say the end of last week?

Homer Simpson said it best when he proclaimed “TO alcohol! The cause of… and solution to, all of life’s problems”. Except the whole solution to bit… haven’t quite figured that one out yet. At the current moment this is purely speculation on my part, but when Paris spoke to me today he mentioned that at the holiday party of horrors, I, who under normal (read: sober) conditions am calm and cool and collected, but most importantly guarded… let slip that he in fact broke my heart… and that he knew that it wasn’t a light hearted joke ( at the time I had tried to explain it away in my complete and utter shock and awe at myself for being so careless) as I followed it up with something witty and then promptly disappeared.

As you would expect, upon hearing what I had said in my inebriated and apparently courageous state I was mortified. Absolutely mortified. I mean, how could I have been so … open? So vulnerable? So emotionally slutty? Granted Paris has always had the innate ability to draw my secrets out of me with a look, a smile or simply just his presence but STILL… my GOD!

So what did I do? I couldn’t run away simply because we are in 2 different cities… which at this moment is working to my incredible advantage. My lame attempts to joke or explain it away over the phone were failing, partially because he knows me so well and partially… well, because I had nothing! No, I did what I always do in these types of awkward situations where I find myself unbelievably embarrassed; I said I had to go and stopped talking to him. And that was about a week ago. Luckily I was hospitalized for a brief period of time so I have the perfect excuse as to why I have been avoiding him… Well, and everyone else really.

But back to my point: I am partly mortified with my statement of ill-reprise of our are-we-are-we-not…-seriously conundrum of a year ago (never-you-mind what Blogger tells you; I had to re-post) because it is simply not true. Paris did not break my heart; he confused the hell out of me and made my heart ache… but not break. Only one man has broken my heart... no, wait, 2. 1 was my uncle who passed away not long ago… and the other is Vegas. I didn’t want to give Paris the impression that I categorized him on that level, where the emotional pain actually manifested itself into a physical and palpable form to the point of exhaustion. It hurt with Paris… but not that badly.

The other half of mortification comes from … well, my inability to speak the words I’ve written here about Paris to Paris without liquid courage, which we all know that in the best of times, it turns into fluidic stupidity. I don’t even know where, when or how I am going to explain myself out of this catastrophe… or even if I should. Maybe something’s are better left unsaid, or in this case, unexplained.

I just wish he wasn't so wonderful about it...

We're one, but we're not the same...

I really hate it when people should me. You know, “you should do this” or “you shouldn’t do that” or “you should be …..”, especially when the should relates to any and all events that contain emotions. One thing that I have learned in my studies is that there is a difference between sympathy and empathy in the sense that although you can relate to what someone is going through, you cannot truly know what it feels like for them simply because you are not them. Just because you had experienced a similar situation to someone doesn’t necessarily give you the right to decide where someone is in their recovery, or decide for them what they should do (see, there is that word again!). Particularly when you’re dealing with matters of the heart. As critical as your friends are when it comes to overcoming heartbreak, I can’t help but wonder how much help anyone can be with something so individual, as often I’ve found myself justifying my emotions rather than expressing them.

I was recently speaking to a guy about this, and maybe that was my first mistake, as men seem to be able to repress emotions better than women, about an ex of mine, Vegas actually, whose story still stings my chordae tendineae despite being two years over. This guy friend of mine, although well-meaning and wonderful, should-ed me in respect to the fact that I still am not completely over him… like I was wrong or inadequate for not being able to “look him in the eye and say ‘whatever I’m over you”. When I tried to explain that what happened really hurt and that since it didn’t happen to him it would be hard to understand, he shot back with a previous break up of his. Now under normal circumstances this would be all good and well, as empathy is always welcome when the heart hurts, however in this case the girl he broke up with that was so painful… well they are now engaged, not to mention that he got under his own free will and mind a permanent reminder of her etched on his body. So maybe I am missing something here, but all I could focus on was the fact that although yes they had broken up, yes both had experienced heart ache not unlike my own, their story had a happy ending, or should I say a happy beginning come this time next year at their wedding.

Half of me wished to respond in kind: to say “Well can you look her in the eye and say ‘whatever I am over you?’… Oh that’s right, no, because you looked her in the eye and said ‘marry me’.” Don’t get me wrong here: I am truly happy for them as they are wonderful people and even more wonderful together, but that fact, that ending negates all credibility in him emphasizing with my situation. What started out as a similar notion of love lost and pain found ended very differently for the two of us. In short he got what he wanted and I did not. He said those words to her that I wanted to her from my ex, but my ears are still half-straining for words that will never be said and an ending that will never happen. It confused me and still does now how he could say something like that knowing full and well that coming from him that expectation is baseless. It is one thing to be a “survivor” so to speak, of a particularly bad break up and to have successfully moved on and ask me why I haven’t been able to do the same. Granted I’d still be pissed off but I would understand: coming from someone who was there and maybe still is there, I can listen. But coming from someone who was there for a short time only to have their hope fulfilled and their wishes come true to ask me why I haven’t gotten over someone? It doesn’t seem right… maybe because it’s not.

The other half of me can see where this attitude is coming from. It is unfair to categorize this kind of behaviour to just teenagers and adolescence, the idea that “nobody understands what I am going through because NOBODY has hurt as much as I have/like I have… I’m such a victim”. In that scenario I can see how that kind of attitude is annoying, selfish and self centred. However I am well aware of the fact that there are people out there in the world who have suffered far more than I ever will in every sense of the world, that heart ache and loneliness has existed before I was born, and yes I have hurt, but the world goes on whether or not I chose to join it. Understanding all of this and trying to avoid the spotlight effect, it still hurts when someone expects me to be something I am not or do something that I simply cannot do right now, especially when it’s about love.

Current research suggests that the old cliché of your “first love” has a scientific basis; that when it goes awry it will always hurt the most and more disturbingly will always be permanently etched in your brain and heart. This is so because before your first love our minds and bodies did not know what love was, so during that first intimate or adult relationship your brain is creating new synapses and connections, much like learning a new language, that you refer back to when you think of love, thus referring back to the person who helped create those synapses, those connections between your higher brain functions and your heart. So in a sense we are chemically doomed to refer back to our first love as a basis for our subsequent relationships where “love” is re-stimulated. It is a bleak picture, but it makes sense; therefore I am not surprised that I am not fully over him and know that I never will be.

Individual experiences are just that: individual. Just like you cannot literally feel another persons physical pain, such you cannot completely understand another persons emotional pain. Knowing this, it is very difficult for me to accept another person’s obligations or expectations when it comes to “getting over” anything in accordance to their schedule no matter who they are or what they have gone through. Seriously, I can barely follow the bus schedule to get places on time, let alone something as important as my emotional well-being. I guess what I am trying to say is… To put it another way, a similar injury, say a myocardial infarction of similar strength and severity, can harm one person and kill another. Such is the pain of the first love; a similar injury of similar strength and severity, which I guess in this guys mind is the case, can harm one person (him) and kill another (me). You wouldn’t chastise the patient who died from a MI, or make the comparison to their family in regards to why one survived and one did not, so why chastise someone for a slow emotional recovery, or for not recovering at all?

The bottom line is this: His story and my story and all other stories are all completely different situations. I appreciate his attempt and all other attempts to emphasize with my pity-party, however you shouldn’t “should” someone. Your recovery is your own, however way you want it to be and however long you want it to be. If you’re reading this and hurting about something remember this: don’t let anyone dictate how long you should feel bad; you know yourself best. Don’t let anybody should all over you.

To Want or Be Wanted...

whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...

They say that hope is sweeter than possession. Obviously whoever said that must either enjoy the sensation of pain or they have never really possessed anything worth holding on to. Now I don't know about you, but if I had the choice of either hoping for a pair of Jimmy Choos or possessing a pair of Jimmy Choos well... do I even have to answer that? So why is it when it comes to love, do I and many other women out there keep falling for the men we simply cannot have? And I'm not talking about celebrities here; I'm talking about real people; tangible, palpable people that you interact with on a daily, weekly or monthly basis. Oh sure, you say you're just friends but really... one of you or sometimes even both of you feel that extra little bit. And it's funny how that extra little bit can make things a whole lot more... complicated, that is.

Being on both sides of this predicament is a challenge, but not to up-play la douleur exquise, it's a hell of a lot harder being the want-er rather than the wanted. I know this because I've been both and while being the wanted is a great ego boost, it's not without its moments of awkward and feeling like an unintentional tease which is without a doubt the worst kind of tease there is. Either way, knowing that you are wanted is a power-trip as supposed to being the want-er where every moment spent talking to that person, being in that persons presence, feeling those feelings that you just can't help in the ends up making you feel pretty powerless. Right now I'm in the unique situation that I've found myself being both the want-er and the wanted. And I'll tell you right now; it sucks.

One of my ex's, let's call him "Vegas", has decided recently that he made a mistake when he broke things off... 2 years ago. He's come up with excuse after excuse about ending our relationship, and although I must admit I was heartbroken, it is also in the past. I picked up and moved on... apparently Vegas didn't get that memo. I stay in touch with him for old times sake, but I can't see myself with him again. I love him, but that kind of love is behind me and I have nowhere to go but forward. Vegas... well, despite attending a top-rated post-secondary institute in a challenging yet very rewarding program, cannot look to the future without being reminded of his past. Now, this is all very sad, but I am of the belief that both of us should not be made to suffer for his decision. The phone calls, the concerned looked, the drinks and conversations are all well and nice, but nothing is going to happen. In this case I am not the one that got away; I am the one he let go, therefore only he should live with that.

I don't mean to be an agace. I returned emails and phone calls out of politeness but more so curiosity. I have to admit it is always vindicating when an ex comes crawling back professing their stupidity and regret, but after a while the "I told you so" high fades and reality begins to sink in: that while this person may have toyed and crushed your emotions, that doesn't give you the right to toy with theirs. Unless they deserve it, but most of the time they don't. So how do you stop being wanted? You don't, that is not in your control. As it turns out, it's the want-er who has the power in this relationship.

Not to say that being the want-er is easier. Absolutely not. It is an exquisite pain, seemingly by choice to the outside viewer but really, internally, if I could stop wanting and re-gain my emotional posture, believe me I would, and sometimes I do. Sometimes everything is just fine and your relationship is neutral in a sense that it is so good it's bad. But then that person goes and does something that pulls at your heartstrings, or stirs up the feelings that just won't stay suppressed that I and many other of my girlfriends find ourselves tripping head over feet and landing smack on our ass.

There is this guy who is currently ma douleur exquise... let's call him "Paris", and has been for a long time. Our relationship didn't start that way; in fact it never does, but as hard as I tried I simply could not resist. It started out with the little things. A look here, a joke there... There was always something about him that I couldn't quite put my finger on, and once circumstances changed it grew to a conversation here, a similarity there... and then it got even deeper. I've known Paris for a while now, and I don't know what it is about him, but he can literally see right through me. Unless I am actually clear as glass, to which then I reply "oh" but... he can. And it's scary; normally I have to be poked and prodded and BEGGED to talk and give information and whatnot to people I don't really know but with him... I literally have to hold my tongue and not talk to him on the phone because I feel as if I could talk to him forever... and I haven't felt like this about someone in a really long time.

But just like Paris, France; he's not exactly here and I am not exactly there. The worst thing is he straight up told me that if things were different then... well things would be different. The problem is, this happened a while ago. Like a WHILE ago, and I had thought I had moved on.

I mean, it was awkward as hell at first, but I refused to let it affect what was going on, despite everything. I guess it would have helped if he had been an asshole instead of being... himself. But eventually, or so I had believed, I got over it. Hell, I even started seeing other people and yet here I am, trying to run away from someone I'd much rather be as close to as possible and in every possible way.

It's funny how certain people can rope you back in just as you're about to escape. Now I'm not saying that I'd prefer being trapped, oh hell no. It's just... in this case I can't be let go, even when I want to. I know for a fact that he isn't the one; I need someone more my style and someone who will fit into my life rather than become it, or worse even make me change my life to become theirs; but I feel he is one. And I, as I'm sure almost everyone else, don't like knowing that something I want is something I can't have.. let alone having it in front of my face. My rational mind keeps telling me that it is for the best but seriously... it sucks.

So to answer the question, is it better to want or be wanted? No... they both suck.