On Friday morning I woke up feeling better. I'm sure part of it had something do with admitting how I felt, typing it, putting it out there. My high school English teacher loved the word, catharsis. I do, too.

Now, I still get struck with twinges of sadness, but I'm definitely not wallowing in it anymore. I know this is not how everyone operates, but me, I need to wallow. I have learned to just be sad until I am done being sad, because fighting it, or even hiding it, can lead to some very dark times.

I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the kind, healing words you've left here. I appreciate them, but to tell you the truth, I am not at all surprised by them. Because I know that there are good, caring people out there - people who experience life in the same kaleidescope of emotions, who love and hurt and trust and mourn as I do. It's why I continue to blog; I love sharing what makes us human. What I am surprised at are the number of responses from people who are uncomfortable with it. People who needed a time line in order to understand or accept how I felt. People who thought my best friend should have shaken me and told me to "get the hell over it." People who, with their speculations and cynicism tried very hard to make a good man into a cad, and my prior happiness into a farce.

To the first group of people, let me say this: I guess I never thought it should matter if I knew him six days, six weeks, or six years. I was sad; there doesn't have to be a reason or a number to justify that. I never meant to confuse anyone, but if it wasn't clear, you should know I don't write about the current romantic climate of my life to protect my own interests. Omission saves a new relationship from too much scrutiny, spares the man himself from being too aware of my own tendency to over-think, and it protects me from over-exposing a sometimes too-tender heart.

To the second group, I will say that you have made me feel even more grateful for the friends I have. The non-judging, supportive, wonderful people who choose to share their time with me. The ones who don't always understand what I feel, but whose first thoughts are of comforting - not shaking me.

Three years ago, I was embroiled in a horribly dysfunctional relationship with a person whose behavior could, at best, be described as amoral, and at worst, just a hair shy of deliberately cruel. And because at the time, I was too busy hating myself for not having enough of a backbone, I didn't deal with things. Not really. One day, almost two years later, I woke up and realized I was mad. Really, bone-deep angry. And it was like poison. In the time that it took me to understand and process that nasty toxic hate (and it was months), not a single one of my friends uttered anything even remotely so calloused as, "get the hell over it." I am thankful every single day that they chose me, as I chose them.

And to the third group I say, shame on you. If I have to question his motives, then I am forced to question everything I came to know about him, everything that in my gut felt good and right and true - including and especially my own value. Is it so hard to believe that someone wonderful would think I'm wonderful, too? No. It damn well should not be. He is an honorable man who treated me better and more gently than any before him and you cannot make that into something ugly.

To the rest of you, thank you. For your stories, acceptance and encouragement. I wish I could hand out gold stars.

I imagine that even though it's truly not my intention, some readers will be offended by this. Some will fume and swear never to read this blog ever again, and vow never to comment. Well, let's address that right now: we both know you won't be able to stop yourself. Let's not kid a kidder. Besides, if I wanted to offend, I'd do it blatantly, by making fun or your wee hands.

It was like going to a party all dressed up, looking like a million bucks and knowing it. Standing in the center of the room, head thrown back, laughing, all lit up from the inside. Charming, witty and wonderful. That's how he made me feel all the time. Like I was this sparkly, amazing gift that the Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol left on his doorstep and he just couldn't believe his luck.

And I was happy. I was relaxed and one hundred percent myself all the time. And not just accepted, but adored for it. I didn't care about the age difference, because it didn't seem to matter. Except in the singular instance when it did.

"I'm afraid that after I say this, I'm never going to see you again."

I knew what he was going to say. It had been hanging in the air between us for a while, but I hadn't been any more anxious to hear it than he was to say it. I wanted to be a mother one day. He's already had his shot at parenting and didn't want to do it again. He was crazy about me, but afraid I'd be missing out on the chance to have what I really deserved.

When I woke up this morning and rolled over in bed, it took a minute for the conversation to push its way into my head. I hid in bed for a long while, feeling sick and conflicted. I got up, paced the hallway. Then sank to my knees on the carpet and cried.

I surprised myself by being so upset. So mad at the universe for being unfair, for forcing me into deciding between certain happiness now, and a fuzzy hope for it sometime down the road. And sad.

Because I was happy, and now I'm not.

Last week, I got an email from a potential suitor, declaring he had a crush on my profile. Well, that's kinda cute, I thought, and hit reply. We exchanged a couple of messages (literally, TWO), and then I got bored with him. He wasn't all that funny or particularly clever, and his insistence that we chat on instant messenger (I uninstalled mine many moons ago) was a bit too Degrassi Junior High for me. So, I didn't write back.

But he did. Three more times the same day. And then again late that night ("Are you awake?"). When I got home from Austin yesterday, there were five unread messages from the guy in my inbox. All varying degrees of boring, except the last one, which amuses me to no end:

Theres too much drama in your life.

Thanks for the interest but I dont think we are a match. Hope your situation improves soon.

Regards

V

At first, I just stared at the message thinking he must have gotten me confused with someone else. What drama? Wait, do I have drama I don't even know about? I mean, to me, that's like finding money in my pants pockets. But then I realized, that it was just boy-speak for sour grapes. You can't reject me, because I reject YOU. Because of... your drama!

Oh, man, that's classic. I'm just glad he let me down gently... and without apostrophes. Otherwise, it might sting.

We were midway through the pasta course when he popped the question.

Grant and I had only been dating six weeks or so and yet, there we were, nibbling at the fresh pea ravioli, and having the big talk. Already my mind was racing with wardrobe details. New dress! New shoes! While his lingered on more practical things. Like logistics.

“I figure we could go out early and make a long weekend out of it.”

“Okay. Sure. Great. Wait, whose wedding is it, exactly?

“My best buddy from high school.”

Like it mattered. I'd just been extended The Out of Town Wedding Invitation. On the Relationship Progression Chart, I think it fits somewhere after meeting his family and right before giving him his own drawer in your bureau. It’s no small thing.

The next day, I shared the news with my mother.

“Oooh!" she said. "I just saw an article about the big deal of inviting someone to a wedding!”

“It is sort of a big deal. I know I should be excited. But, I’m just… not. I think I’m still waiting on the zzzzuh! thing.”

It’s something we’d talked about before. Despite Grant being practically perfect in every way, I just wasn’t feeling it. And this bothered me. A lot. And the Out of Town Wedding Invitation only was only making me feel more uneasy.

How was I supposed to get all excited over being Grant’s ‘plus one,’ when I just couldn’t picture him ever being The One?

***

For the next few days, I fretted over the decision to call it off. And not because I was overly worried about hurting his feelings (he was a big boy, after all), but also because I was pretty sure that if I ended it, I’d be giving up what would possibly be my last chance at a healthy relationship with a non-crazy. Who was I to be breaking things off with tall, dark, handsome, funny and smart? A girl who’s had the zzzzuh! before and knew what she was missing, that’s who.

Also the girl who clearly wanted to die alone with her cat.

Desperate to hear I wasn't making a big mistake, I called an ex boyfriend.

“How long have you known him?” he asked, after I’d explained the mysterious lack of zzzzuh! and my fear that I was over-thinking myself right into spinsterhood.

“About three months, I guess.”

“And how long have you known you?”

“Good point.”

“You have to make yourself happy, ’cause you’re always going to have to live with you. You’re a passionate person. You should be with someone who makes you feel like that.”

And it was settled. Feeling safe and secure can be a nice thing – a really nice thing. But a seatbelt makes you feel safe and secure, for crying out loud. I needed the zzzzuh!

And probably a new 8-pack of AA batteries.

***

Grant and I had made tentative plans and said we would speak the next afternoon. But when the next afternoon came, I was stuck shuttling fifth graders around the New York Post. So when I finally got home from field trip hell, exhausted and once again pretty sure I would never procreate, I sat down and dialed Grant’s number.

And the phone tag began.

Once I’d hung up on his voicemail, I panicked. Was I going to do this over the phone? Was that worse than making him drive into the city to do it? Either way, what was I going to say? I mean, you can’t just tell someone the truth in that kind of situation. Or can you?

So I wrote notes on the back of a ConEd bill. Oh yes, I did. I had to! I’m horrible at extemporaneous speaking. I’m even exponentially worse at confrontational extemporaneous speaking. I didn’t want to leave anything out. Like how I really enjoyed spending time with him. And how I didn’t want to waste his time. Girls are notorious for being fickle time-wasters. And I did not want to be that girl. This time, anyway.

The phone rang and I reached for my notes.

“Hi,” I said, probably sounding as sick and nervous as I felt.

“So why am I on your Pay Me No Mind list?”

“Um, what?” Wait, my what list? Wow. I was not expecting the attitude.

“You said you would call.”

“I know, but I couldn’t because…” I stumbled over the words, field trip and stopped. He’d come ready for a fight and I was shocked out of words. Even my notes weren’t going to be of any help. Mr. Practically Perfect was quickly becoming anything but.

I dove in head first. In the kindest and least patronizing way possible, I explained how I’d appreciated our time together but that I didn’t think it was going to go anywhere and didn’t want to waste his time. Neat and tidy.

And then when I was all done (and feeling slightly relieved) I heard a funny electronic stutter. His phone had cut out.

“What?” He sounded annoyed.

“You mean you didn’t hear any of that?” If I had to say it again, I would be absolutely sure that the Almighty was still finding ways to punish me for stealing gum from Texaco station in the third grade.

“No. What did you say?”

Ugh. I shot a middle finger toward the ceiling (Take that, god!) and took a deep breath. Here we go again. Strangely, it wasn’t any easier the second time around. But this time, at least, there was no electronic hiccup. Only a strange silence.

“Well, you know WHAT?” he said finally, raising his voice. “I was feeling the same way, too.”

“Uh, okay. Well, good. I guess.”

“But not calling me back is pretty fucked up.”

“Wait. I did! I just…”

“Anyway. Enjoy.”

Click!

And that was that. I suddenly felt very silly for having put in so much time worrying about his feelings. And the notes on the back of the ConEd bill? Totally unnecessary. I may as well have told him that his chest hair clogs my drain and that he repeats the same phrases over and over and that guess what? I really do hate Neil Young’s whiny voice; I was only trying to be agreeable!

At least then I’d have felt like I earned the hang-up. Sheesh.

Despite everything I’d always believed, breaking up is actually really easy to do. It’s the preparation that causes all the agony.