This weekend I’m heading up to my cottage up North.
Bear country. Fishing country. Nature…country.
Whatever you want to call it, it’s not the cement jungle in which I’m used to. However, like a true fashionista, I have packed 2 bags for a three-day weekend with friends because…being in the wilderness allows me to tap into rustic and stereo-typically Canadian outfits which would otherwise look ridiculous.
Other than the lumberjack plaid, touques and hiking boots…I’m not looking forward to leaving behind my creature comforts.
It’s been about a week. I find I’ve been struggling with writers block. No, not even writers block…creativity block…no…a living block.
So where I left off, Samantha was coming over. Where theres Samantha, there are boys. However, we didn’t go out to find them. Like 12 year olds - we sat on Facebook…window shopping if you will.
"Look at him! He’s cute right? I’ve slept with him. Oh and this guy…most amazing body. THIS GUY HERE! Ah! He wrote me a song!"
I’ve always been jealous of Samantha in that way. Her ability to make guys fall hopelessly in love with her has always been something I lack. Actually, I lack that skill severely. If I were to publish a book today about my life up until this point, I think it would be called “Never Been Loved”.
"They do love you." Olivia said to me the other day. "They just tell you in weird ways."
Those ways she’s referring to include:
- An boyfriend of a year couldn’t tell me to my face that he loved me, so he’d whisper it when he thought I was sleeping.
- Mr. Big - and drunken late nights texts which I would receive saying “I love you, but not like that.”
So here I am, with a few newly purchased boys to pursue. However I find myself doing a rather bad habit which many of us girls have. When we meet a cute boy, and we want to find a reason for why they are ‘the one’ we get a bad case of the ‘Me Too’s!’.
This is when we find ourselves agreeing to something the boy has said. We aren’t saying “Me too” because we truly agree. No, our me too means “I can live with that.”
As much as I enjoy the person I’m becoming, I find I miss more and more the days when I was just getting to know Mr. Big. We didn’t even have to have the conversations like “What was your favourite subject in school?” Or “Scenario: It’s a Friday night at 6pm, what would you be doing?” Because with Mr. Big, I know what his favourite subject is, what he would enjoy doing, what his favourite artists are…and all that comparable crap we all try to relate to, because he is a male-me. I already know what he likes - and it’s what I like…with no settling or compromises.
For all those dealing with a ‘bad break-up’, I must tell you…you are blessed. There is nothing worse then a ‘good’ break-up. Does that exist? You ask. Oh, yes…yes it does.
Mr. Big and I broke up just under a month ago. For the past few weeks I have spent that time mourning him. What is THAT? That’s not normal. I found myself wishing it would’ve ended messy. I found myself recalling the past break-ups. How I would spend a couple weeks crying, and then suddenly something would click. Something that would let me think “I’m better then that.”
Well, I am happy to tell you that he finally pissed me off.
Tomorrow, Samantha is coming over. She is ‘Samantha’ in every sense of the word - with the added bonus that her name is actually Samantha. We will crack open a $10 bottle of Rosé…
And at that point I will have some grand revelation that will allow me to finish this post.