My dress was hanging loosely around my hips while I tried to my make my way through the crowded line. It had felt like I was in solitude for the past four months - without food, water, light, or people. As I made my way towards the bar, I realized that there certainly were plenty of fish. I was back on the meet market and looking for a quick score.
Five minutes in, a second year law student hounded me down; I was single, he was cute, and that was all I needed. For the past year or so, I was going through my life with blinders, shielding me from the world that I once believed to have as my oyster. I found myself in love with a fantasy, desperately trying to make it a reality. After weeks of being bedridden with tears and copious amounts of Marlboro lights, I was ready to face the post-Bond world. It all started when we decided to take the next step in our relationship. Moving in with Bond seemed like the right thing to do. I was in love, my apartment lease was coming up, and having the beach in my front yard was too tempting.
It all started with me looking for one of my one too many shoes, when an odd-looking box grabbed my attention. It was buried deep in the closet, neatly placed next to his Hugo Boss loafers. My search was interrupted by the ping of my Blackberry; it was him texting to say he would not be home for dinner. Things were going great with him, or so I thought. I had slowly been molded into a Bond girl, sans the ability of firing a gun or disarming a bomb.
As I looked up from the closet floor, I caught my reflection in the closet mirror and to my horror, I didn’t know who was looking back at me. There in front of me was a life that I had no idea about… a life that the man I was in love with had, a life that was his reality. I opened Pandora’s Box and picked up one of the letters and read it. “*****, I am forwarding you a copy of the reception details. I can’t wait to finally be your wife and have you in London. 4 more months!” The letter was post marked last week. Bond was engaged. I turned back to the box and knew what I had to do.
As I pulled into my parent’s driveway with my entire life packed in the trunk, I had no idea where I was going, what I was doing, or what I was going to say. I crawled into the guest room bed and fell asleep. I woke up to the summer sun beating down on my face. I felt like I had just gone through a battle and the heat was not helping my aching body. I walked into the kitchen to find my mom drinking her morning coffee. I asked, “Do you want to take a trip?”
Four nights of too much wine, rich food, flamboyant men, excessive shopping, and a haircut by Ms. Divine later, I returned back to L.A. and hit the meet market. With a not so clean track record of dating the odars, I decided to give the Armenian thing a chance… which brought me to this Los Angeles hot spot filled with possibilities.
As this crazy law student tried to woo me with his boyish charms, I came to learn that he was third generation born and raised in the states, 23, and had what seemed like ADD. Two weeks in the little short-lived affair, I was desperately avoiding calls, texts, bbms, video chat requests, facebook messages, and all other means of contact. My rebound had turned into the boy who has no sense of what it means to give space. 30 missed calls and 10 “I’m just not that into you” texts later, he got the message.
Having stepped back into the dating world, I had forgotten all the types of men that are out there. With crazy law student thrown back in the sea, I found myself loving being single… being just me. That’s when I had the thought, why not date myself? Instead of cooking for a man, I cooked for myself, instead of getting dolled up for a night out with the beau, I was getting dolled up for a night with me. Instead of what he wanted/liked/needed, I satisfied my own desires. As the weeks passed by, I came to realize that I was becoming more content, at ease, and for once my life was starting to fall into place.
It had been two months since the day I had walked out of the Bond’s life when he came emailing into mine. “I’m sorry. I want to get together and talk.” Talk? I did what I knew was best for me. What I knew I had to do for myself. I stopped any further contact with a final message:
“With the New Year among us I want to have a fresh start. I have nothing left to say to you and nothing left to hear. I don’t need your apologies or your closure. You fucked up.” I clicked send and turned off my laptop. And just like that, I officially released myself. After what had seemed like a lifetime, I am back in the game. I don’t know who my players are going to be, but I sure hope they can keep up.
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