Hey, Mr. Postman

So I did this stupid thing on Saturday.

I really need to learn how to leave a thing alone instead of indulging my darker side. Popping that dumb zit, poking that fucking tiger. I’m gonna end up with some scars from it one day.

I did my hair. Got gussied up in my flannel shirt and cowboy boots (because they make me feel like I’ve got swagger when I walk. Which I needed. Plus…he would’ve liked the boots). And I went to the post office to mail a Christmas package. In February.

The sorta short version of things goes like this:
I’ve known this guy since I was 21. He was 18 and used to come to the place I worked. He asked me out and asked me out and asked me out. I finally gave in just because I couldn’t handle the asking anymore. I don’t even remember where we went or what we did. I just remember making out in his car outside my house.

And then the relentless phone calls that went on forever. Even after I stopped answering them.

Then a five or six year lull. Maybe seven. I ran into him at the mall once.

And then he friended me on Facebook.  And I said no. Three times. Before I finally gave in and accepted that fourth one. Something about his persistence, man. It’s amazing.

Now I’m 32 and he’s 29. Over the last year and almost a half, I’ve seen him about once a month. And surprisingly, that is nowhere near enough for me. But he’s so damn busy he can’t give me more. Hmm.

This is where the friend in my head goes, “apparently you’re not the person he thought you were that whole 10 years.  You’re a fake, he doesn’t like you, and he’s totally fucking with you. You heard him when he said he fights dirty, right? This is him doing that. He’s just messing with you.”

My head friend is very encouraging, no? This is why I have to be the positive one in our relationship.

And now to the present:
So I see him about three hours every month. Somewhere in this series of three hour stints, he learns to take off his baseball cap when I come over because he knows I don’t like it (or…he knows I’ll throw it across the room and he’ll have a hard time finding it later). Dealing with a person who has the world’s worst memory – the first time I saw him take off his hat and hang it on a peg when I showed up, I almost threw him a party. I mean…he remembered something I wanted, and then did something about it. Huh. Is this what men do for the women they like? Because I don’t have a lot of experience in that. It was sweet.

But outside those three hours. Well. In a month, there’s a lot of time outside those three hours. And my head friend loves to point that out. “If he was really that into you, he’d find more time for you somewhere. This is just the bare minimum you need to keep being strung along. He’s totally fucking with you.” And all I want to do is hold on to that “it was sweet” and tell my head friend she’s a silly nay sayer.  But I don’t know if I should hold onto that sweet thing. And it tumbles around in my head between yes and no and yes and no like a never-ending game of fucking pong.

And then on New Year’s he bailed. At 8:30pm. For a half-assed reason. And that was my last straw. I haven’t talked to him since. I think he would talk to me, but he’s scared of what I might say. Me, too, yo. Me, too.

I have a real naggy nagging nagger tendency in me sometimes, but in general, I don’t love repeating myself. And I feel like if I say, “I need more of your time,” one more time my head might explode. So the new year was just a clean place to cut things. To not have to say anything else.

If only I hadn’t gotten him stupid Christmas presents. Seeing them sit there wrapped in their fun Christmas festiveness in FEBRUARY just makes me sad. I got them for him because I wanted him to have them. I still want him to have them. So I gave in to my darker side that can’t let things go and wrapped them in seven layers of packing tape and sent them off. He lives three miles away. A 5k away.

I should’ve just shoved the package in his mailbox in the middle of the night so I wouldn’t have to wait and watch the USPS website like a fiend, halfway hoping that it gets lost in transit. Technology is torture sometimes.

USPS tracking


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