For those of you who follow this blog with any degree of regularity and/or consistency, you know that I have the worst luck in love. I pick emotionally fractured men. Perhaps, it’s all the result of water seeking its own level. I mean, I can’t deny that I”m not the most mentally healthy bottle in the wine rack…
Then again, I’m not sure anyone out there pounding the pavement of life is without mental or emotional sin in some form or fashion.
But with me? I collect these men. Like a menagerie. They gather round me like I’m this Pied Piper of the Mentally Frayed. In fact, a few months ago, I broke up with a man who’s emotional flaws were so massive, he’s destined to one day be the face of Thorazine.
I had a conversation with another man recently who’s having massive priority issues….namely in that I’m not one of them. Now, the old Laurie would’ve pouted and stomped her feet and demanded his time and attention, but she would also have been willing to settle for whatever crumbs she could receive. My self-esteem was such that I would’ve been content to be the seventh most important item on his life’s “To Do” list. And I was. I was irrelevant . From what I understand, I barely bested an upcoming rectal exam.
Be that as it may, I’m relatively proud of the fact that I’ve emerged from the ashes of all my failed relationships like this mighty Phoenix…but with a damaged wing. Admittedly, I’ve not completely nursed myself back to complete emotional health, but the mere fact that I’m no longer willing to put up with that which I once was willing to put up with, means forward progression.
But progress has come with a price. I’ve done some idiotic things to get and keep a man in my life.
I’ve begged and pleaded.
I’ve cried and moaned and turned myself into women I wasn’t and never wanted to be. The willing forfeiture of your identity is a tragically heinous thing and I did it repeatedly.
Back in 1979, I fell head over heals in love with a fifth string University of Texas Longhorn fullback. He was also a heavily starched Polo shirt wearing UT Frat Rat who worshipped God, Texas and William F. Buckley, but only when Reagan was busy. I became this sad, pathetic sorority girl wana be, but I couldn’t pull it off. I tried to walk the walk and talk the talk and wear the Anne Klien Espadrilles, but I looked like an obvious knock-off “Prado” bag in a sea of real purses. I still shake my head over that ridiculousness.
Then, I (an inveterate carnivore) became a Vegan for an old Hippie in the early 90’s.
I learned Spanish for another.
I lost 40 pounds for one man because he liked his women thin. “Women” being the operative word.
And I tried like hell to care for all of them.
And I failed at every relationship. I never cared that much about any of them. Not enough, anyway.
But the bigger issue here is that I just didn’t care enough about myself.
So, my self-imposed “no man moratorium” continues and I won’t allow any dalliances or brief flirtations to the contrary. Now isn’t the time. It is however time to employ steely resolve. I still have wounds to heal, lessons to learn and strategies to plan.
And by lessons, I mean learning from previous mistakes.
I’ve learned the hard way that there are certain things you simply cannot tell a man. For example, referencing the current geo-political climate in an argument for your cause isn’t a good idea.
Never attempt to tell a man (crazy or sane) that if he DOESN’T fall in love with you, the terrorists will win.