A Not So Perfect Ending

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I knew this would end badly. I should say that right away because I don’t want to give the impression that I’m not fully responsible for the head and heartache plaguing me these days.

Years ago, he became the unwitting recipient of my wayward pregnancy dreams. I was horrified and my midwife assured me that my subconscious had a mind of it’s own whilst growing a human. My sweet baby was born, my whole world had imploded, and the craving only grew. He was never anything more than my Perfect friend. We worked together, and I could objectify him silently. He hung in the doorway with a whisk in his hand, asking me how the night had gone and I mentally undressed him, daily.

He met a horrible woman who moved him away. He continues to belong to her even though she’s moved away from him, too.

The first time he came to visit, I had no idea where he was coming from when he kissed me in the middle of the bar and we got a little too naked in the tent later that night. The hangover was intense, as he didn’t remember a thing and I erased him from my life with the horrified knee-jerk reaction of a broken heart.

Some people occupy space no matter the level of communication, or lack thereof.

Just the sight of kitchen utensils makes me fight back tears, and I love the kitchen.

So when I heard he was coming back this summer, I knew what I had to do. I didn’t do it, but I knew I should have avoided him, entirely. I offer fantastic advice that I never follow.

I knew it would be bad. I knew I shouldn’t see him and I knew I should leave well enough alone.

Shocker… I did it anyway.

One sight of him and I knew exactly how bad it would be when he left. I wasn’t wrong. I can’t cry about the state of affairs because I knew exactly what I was asking for, when he kissed me for the first time.

You can’t have casual sex with the man you’ve been in love with. Trust me. My retinas are burned with intimate images of me in his t-shirt, him under me, kissing him. I can’t get away from it and I can’t sleep. I packed the sheets away that he slept in because I can’t look at them without seeing him laying there. I had sensational sex with a friend in the hopes of changing how I feel about my bed. It hasn’t worked.

One text from him about the game he’s watching and I see his face on my pillow. He asks me how my day is and I can taste him. I’m torturing myself for anything of him.

Running. Trying to date. Doing my best to let go, then he’s back and I’m broken again.

Until today.

Today I quit him. I quit all of it.

If I wanted to feel shitty and insignificant, I’d date college boys. There would at least be some fringe benefits to THAT.

I wish I could say I felt better, but I’ll settle for smarter.

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Running Hot

I’m up at 4, running. Up until 11, running again. I’m coping with the intense level of frustration I’m living with, but walking up the stairs to my office every day has gotten increasingly painful. My ass is looking amazing in my jeans and I have three months to go. Part of me really enjoys this epic remodel of the playground and I’ve started shopping for tiny things that lace up, unsnap or rip off easily.

I wake up to songs he wants me to hear as his text messages whistle their way into my phone, his gorgeous face pops up in a tie that I’ll be fantasizing about all day and the books he’s reading are showing up on my Kindle.

Plural. BookS. Be still my ever-loving geeky heart.

Also… let me just take a second to express my sheer gratitude¬† for a well spoken man, because he sent me a couple messages as I walked into work today, and I was stunned silent for 5 hours. I finally read them to my coworker.

H- You’re as lovely as ever, Ms. *******

H- Aging is never kind, but it’s gentler on some.

He’s a very brave man for giving me three months to think. He’s smart enough that I know it’s intentional and I adore being underestimated. He can hear the edge in my voice and teases me mercilessly.

H- I’m not inflicting this sentence on you. Stop running and make a call. You need some sleep.

J- Oh ye of little faith. It’s natural to be afraid… I’m in training mode. You better start running again.

Also my FWB is MIA, so I do have a little added assistance in this outrageously tantalizing situation. Burning daylight and moonlight with headphones and my elliptical machine.

Trying on all my favorite garter belts and “evening wear” really makes me shake my head at myself. I packed this whole part of myself away five years ago, and opening some of these boxes is like seeing an old friend. I love being a girl. I love all the sexy details we have available at our disposal. Silk stockings, lacy garter belts, corsets, whispy bits of satin and lace and a set of real handcuffs. I’ve always loved sex more than I was supposed to. I just don’t apologize for it anymore.

He’s confident in the way I can’t resist and respectfully sweet to the point I worry about my long-term independence. I’d love to unwrap him, but I’m going to lock him down first because I’m smart and I know what a unicorn he is.

If you really like him? Don’t fuck him. Play hard to get. Be slow to respond to his texts. Be busy. Activate that hunter-gatherer instinct if you want more than one night.¬†Be a trophy, not a sport fish.

Pump those breaks and run that ass off with me. The best things in life are worth waiting for, right?