Relationships 5/4/06

I like falling in love with the wrong kind of man. I know I’m doing it, in the way everyone always knows what they are doing, regardless of what they might say to themselves. Thus far, I have put behind me two alcoholics, one pot-head, and five republicans. These are serious men. They are serious about the jobs they lose due to their hangovers. They are serious about the clothing they wear. They are very serious about their political affiliations. They are not, however, serious about me. I am sure that I amuse them at first. They shake their serious heads at my clumsiness, they complement the passion of my kisses, and they openly admire the way my legs pop out of vintage skirts. They like me, I hope, but they are too serious and eventually they remind me that I should be as well.
Where once my laughter made them smile, it begins to annoy. “Do you think this is a joke?” they ask, their faces wrinkling at the brow. We are required to have serious talks regarding the nature of my activities. “Don’t walk outside barefoot,” they chide. “Are you really wearing that?” they ask. Finally, and with the most anger, they merely say “No.” Then it is over and I must say goodbye, an event always harder for me than it seems to be for them.
I spend a lot of time crying. I write desperate poems and letters. Things that never reach their intended audience but instead remain half written on tear stained pages of my notebooks. Eventually, I muster up the courage to be honest with myself. I finally come to terms with what I always knew, that it would never work.
I’ve been doing this for years, and my problems don’t seem to be going away. The only difference is that where before I believed that there were no problems, now I allow myself some concessions. If now I know his drinking is excessive, I imagine we’ll have it under control soon. If his close minded right wing supremacy is driving me crazy, I take it upon myself to open his eyes. Before I just thought that my loving him was enough to keep up together, now I imagine my love is enough to make him change so that we can stay together. It is a minor difference, but even that is progress.
These men are not so kind to me. They do not see my compromises. They never see the things I am giving up, the things I don’t talk about. All they see is that it isn’t going to work. Perhaps they are more sensible than I. Maybe their serious dispositions have served them well in this regard. I think that it is perhaps the reason I so admire them. We both know from the beginning that it won’t work, that I am not the right kind of girl, but they don’t let their emotions get in the way of this. For them, when it is over, it is over. My smile no longer causes theirs. My clumsiness is an annoyance they must live with. They are exhausted by my old tricks, while I retain my fascination with theirs. I lag behind as they move on to some simple blonde who has no expectations beyond a diamond in a year or two.
I am wondering why I subject myself to these most certain heartbreaks. I wonder why I chose these men, when there are so many reasons why I should not. Now I say this. Now, when these men are locked inside some drawer in a faraway corner of my mind. Now, when my memories of them contain more sorrow than they do fondness. I know that sometime, most likely in the not-too-distant future I will meet another one of these men and I will forget the lessons taught to me by those that came before him. I will fall in love with his serious countenance and slowly creep towards heartbreak once again. After all, men don’t fall in love with girls who laugh when everyone else is straight-faced. They cannot actually be with someone who appreciates the fell of grass between their toes. Even the most passionate of kisses is not enough to bind him to me.

I wrote this post after a bad situation with a guy, which I’m sure you could have figured out. I think that writing it was very therapeutic for me. The part about me finding another guy I wasn’t compatible with in again in the “not-too-distant future” didn’t really work out. I actually didn’t meet someone I was even slightly interested in for two years after this. It might have had something to do with the fact that I had just recognized a pattern for myself. I think that I still fall into patterns. We all do.

At the time I wrote this I was going through a period where I was trying to write creative non-fiction. I wrote a few essays and was actually really big into blogging on myspace (I deleted the profile, so don’t bother trying to find me). This was my favorite essay at the time because I meant the things that I said. The other ones seemed really forced. I think that creative non-fiction is a hard thing for me to write because I tend to focus on themes and life just keeps on moving ahead so I don’t have a lot of endings. You need endings with essays. You need them with life too. I’m very bad with endings.