Last year I met a boy. He was gorgeous with a boyish charm that made him completely disarming. As if I couldn’t be made weaker, he had a boxer pup on his arm matching my own. I don’t know who felt it first, us or our dogs.
He told me he liked me. I told him about my boyfriend. He told me I shouldn’t have one. Soon enough I didn’t.
Just when I thought we were destined to walk off in the sunset together, dogs in tow, he tells me his ex wants him back and he’s giving it another shot.
Yep.
For many reasons, most of which perpetuated by him, I had a difficult time letting this one go. It was a short-lived fairy tale, so I was thrown off guard by the profound sadness I was feeling. Meeting some new people and strategic attempts at dodging his path got me over it. I got to a place where I could tell the story with laughter, chalking it up to bad timing and my fantastic luck.
Then I met her. I’m happy to say that as I’ve gotten older I have grown not only secure, but happy with who I am. There will always be someone better looking than me, funnier than me, better dressed than me, smarter than me, more successful than me. But there will never be another me. I can walk down the street without being afraid of who I might run into, I have the greatest friends in the world, and I am completely comfortable in my own skin. So how can it be that meeting this woman could make me question the “me” that I had come to love?
My first glimpses of her were when I stumbled across her public Facebook page. I was sitting in bed with my laptop on my knees casually perusing through the site, when I realized who it was I was looking at. As I scrolled through her pictures, I felt as if I was being dragged across a razorblade.
Other than our blonde hair and blue eyes, we were very obviously nothing alike. She looked as if she was awoken every morning by doves singing in her window and when she walked out of the house, the wind blew ever so lovingly through her hair while bunny rabbits gathered at her feet. I on the other hand, hit snooze for close to an hour, then hustle my way out the door begrudgingly, and late.
