Curiosity Killed The...
The last thing this man said to me was, “Aren’t you just a little curious?”
I told him I was. And then I closed that door.
I mean that emotionally. Emotionally, I closed the door. And then I opened the front door (literally the front door) and went on a long walk. Okay, actually the door of emotions was still wide open for my long evening stroll. Who am I kidding? It’s me. Jade. I’m an emotional person with plenty of opening and closing doors. My problem is that none of my doors have any locks.
Of course I was curious, I told myself. I kicked at the dirt, and Gemmy sniffed the stones that I turned over. The mountains in Utah were like permanent fireworks decorating the sky with reds, purples, blues, and oranges. Of course I was curious.
This mystery man. (Sorry, folks, I’m not giving this guy a name. I’ve learned my lesson. Bonus: Get this, he doesn’t even know I blog. Ha!) I thought of the moment he wished me the best of luck and told me he would respect my decision after I told him “this” wasn’t going to work—that I wasn’t ready. (If he would have whined like an asshole that would have made things a lot easier. But of course he had to be the nice guy.)
As much as I am Mosbiasly (yes I just made up that word) searching for my other half (dammit, where are you?), I’ve realized I’m not ready… This took me four days to accept. It took me four days to convince myself of the hurtful truth: I wanted a relationship more than I wanted to find the right person.
Maybe I found a great person—maybe even the right person—but the point is…I couldn’t tell. I’m too damn blinded by these dreamy desires, these romantic ideals…At this moment, I’m too lonely to deserve someone great. I just wanted that feeling. The “I’m yours” feeling. I wanted to press my head into his chest, feel his arms wrap around me, hear him smell my hair, smell his aftershave while he rested his chin on the top my chocolate and carmel hair. I wanted to be kissed so passionately that our lips would start to taste of the same delicious affection. I wanted to feel safe. <- That desire never gets old for me, and so neither does that sentence. I wanted someone I could look up to and say, “It doesn’t matter what city I live in. You’re my home.”
And so badly did I want it, that I couldn’t even tell if the man who was offering me his arms was the right man.
It’s been six days, and he’s still respected my decision. It’s been six days, and I’m still banging my head against the wall hoping that I’m doing the right thing. At least in a few days I won’t have phone service. The option to call him won’t be so tempting. The “It’s not you, it’s me” line has never rung truer. The timing isn’t right because I’m not right. It’s not that I can’t love him (I know I can) - it’s just that I have to make sure I love myself alone, first.
That’s how it works, right?
...It’s been six days. I’m still just a little curious.