So. Here’s the up to date skinny:
I am still not OVER over Danny 3.0. Though I’m not actively mourning the possibility of a real relationship with a potential kindred spirit, I’m also not NOT. Got that double negative which as we all know is actually a positive but in this case, not so much? That is to say, he’s not consciously living in my every waking moment anymore but he’s certainly still commuting in on a regular basis #hopeisafourletterworddude
While I know logically and logistically speaking that four dates in eight days is not enough time make someone/ anyone worthy of so much inner activity, emotionally speaking I can’t be that Spock. Hello. And while I keep encouraging myself to dwell only on week two Danny, who behaved like a dick, it’s awesome week one Danny that’s lodged in my replay it again Sam self. Oc. What I’m saying is it’s been two fucking months and while he’s fading, he’s far from gone and I am not whole hearted. Still. That is my truth right now.
On the maudlin date anthem front, “Wildest Dreams” by the ever epic Taylor Swift is my new “Someone Like You” and I sing it allofthefuckingtime. Cheeze Louise.
Say you’ll remember me standing in a nice dress staring at the sunset, babe.
Red lips and rosy cheeks, say you’ll see me again even if it’s just in your
Wildest dreams…oh UH ooohhh…wildest dreams…oh uh oh….
Yup. I am still more than a bit of a quiet mess.
HOWEVER, see how I qualified that? Not a hot mess. Not even a fucking mess. And certainly not a constantly oversharing, self-pity party, out loud bad girlfriend mess. And the very best of all? I am not a texting/ emailing “THAT ex” mess. And for that enduring gift I have to thank my original POF ground zero guy, BMX. #whowouldhavefuckingthought
So. If you’ve read the post in which I talked about my hit and run experience with him, this is the line that still kills me a little bit:
“Then he stopped replying and yet I still kept texting. And writing…”
That’s because when I read it, I’m transported back to that then and that me; it’s like reliving my own visceral Wiley Coyote style car crash. Every word written and sent was me aiming at a wall like it’s a fucking tunnel of love. Every time I received fuck and all in return was the car crushing in on itself in slow mo. Sloooowww fucking mooooo, dude. On. Repeat. And I could NOT STOP because I truly thought it was only a matter of a tiny bit of time and some carefully arranged words before I could reach the very heart of him and connect it to the very soul of me and we would be together again as we were meant to be. #obvs
Finally, Allison told me: “Oh sweetie, write as many letters as you want. JUST DON’T SEND THEM.” Yeah huh. That’s what we call rocket science, girlies.
Like Danny 3.0, BMX was a week of “yay!” followed by two months of “FUCK!” and I was a sopping, sobbing, couldn’t stop talking about it if my life and yours depended on it mess. Like on and on and fucking ON. My poor girlfriends. That they’re still all accounted for and, unlike many men, return my messages has saved my life on a regular ongoing basis. That no one slapped me out of my BMX self induced hysteria tells you just how much they loved me because it was really that intense, inside and out. I was a teenager in dating years, wracked by hormones and drama; I had no off button. #goodfuckingtimes
But. That was then and this is now. In between, the men came and the men went and each time, I became a little less “it’s all about FILL IN THE BLANK SPACE!” and a little bit more Chandleresque as in “hey, could it BE my life is about me?” Then I hit Gladwell’s tipping point re: rejection and these words became my mantra, engraved upon my psyche and within my heart:
“Whoever you date, there you are. Strive to be whole.”
What does that mean in practical terms and in particular to do with Danny 3.0? Well, since my completely sincere and amazingly restrained good bye text, I have not sent another. Nor have I written any letters, sent or saved. And finally, except for the first week ish when I allowed myself to mourn out loud, I no longer talk about Danny to anyone. I’m not into dissecting the pain because it doesn’t help. It is what it is. Shite.
Oc, no one asks either. I’m sure they all assume because I no longer mention his name that he’s just the latest in the POF line. And why wouldn’t they? After all, it was just four dates in eight days then he was done like dinner and as soon as that becomes MY internal reality, I’ll put the napkin down and be right the fuck out of there as well. Until then though, I’ll continue to not text and not write Danny and not talk about him to anyone except myself, in the dark.
It’s not so much a point of pride as just the knowledge that, though I have to feel the feelings until they finally let me go, all the words in the world won’t bring back someone who doesn’t want me. And in no world do I want to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with me.
The final text I sent to Danny 3.0 still holds true though:
“Shit happens. Take care, Danny.”
And all the unsent messages asking “what happened??” and “how could you do this?” and “WHY?” are right where they should be – NOT in Danny’s phone. I’m killing it in the “just say no” postdate zombie apocalypse that is my internal emotional landscape right now, dude. Just saying.
So hey, thanks again, BMX! #giftthatkeepsgiving
How are you about not "keeping in touch" with someone who does the Houdini on you? Are you all stoic like and completely incommunicado or are you a fucking messaging mess? Lord, girlies - no judgement here AT ALL because BMX. Hello.