I hate drama. This has been my life’s motto ever since grade school when I discovered that I just don’t have a high tolerance for pain of the emotional sort, so I avoided drama like bats avoid sunlight. Lovey-dovey boy-girl relationships, few and far in between, actually probably not much to name save for High School. Even my friendship circle is kept to a manageable minimum, I’m a low-key type of gal.
Now smack-dab in my 20’s, my foolish heart is threatening to ruin my low-key, no-drama life in every way possible. I didn’t ask for the drama but Cupid’s chaos causing arrows have miss-fired all kinda ways and I’m just praying the good Lord help me keep my mind right.
The drama started last summer, (it’s always Summer when these crazy things happen too, I swear those two conspire together – Cupid and Summer) I started going to this church, come to find out it’s pastored by a young whipper-snapper who I vaguely knew through Facebook, mutual friends and acquaintances, before he became a Pastor. I loved the atmosphere in the church and began to fall for the young whipper-snapper Pastor, not hard, like a sudden thunderstorm on a nice sunny day but easy and slowly the way the sun rises in horizon or the way spring showers fall to the earth, or any other romantic imagery you’d like to use. Easy is my custom and so I was falling easily for the young preacher man.
He noticed, from a distance at first and then he drew closer until he made sure that I knew that he was watching me. He forced my gaze his way every time I was there until I couldn’t abate, so I broke my silence and we talked. Now, I wish they were in-depth conversations but mostly trivialities until my low-key life got “turnt-up” (as these kids say) and planned to head to the big city at the end of summer, I told him, we talked and this moment would probably mark the most pivotal point in the story. You’d think somewhere here an exchange of numbers would happen on either side. Call me stubborn, call me foolish, call me prideful, call me whatever you want to call me but I didn’t, the way I saw it shouldn’t he have given me his number first? Too many variables that I’m not detailing as to all the reasons why, on both sides of the story, but I was soon to find out what (or whom) was the reason.
When I got to the big city I reached out to him through e-mail (at least I had that) and was met with silence, both times, so I stopped. I’m in the big city, plenty fish in the sea, so my easy falling was turning into crystallized water of indifference by now, not yet frozen solid though. Circumstances changed and my afore planned permanent stay in the city turned temporary, I was back in the Mid-west by the Winter of the next year. With a deep hatred at the change in circumstance and scenery, my only solace was the place I once loved last Summer, so I went back to the church.
I did nothing to acknowledge his presence or let him know I was back, the way I see it, if you ignore my existence, I’ll respond in kind. After a few weeks, he finally asked me if I was back, we talked briefly on my way out, said he’d like to hear more about my experience. Here was yet another chance for an exchange in numbers, yet another not taken. I ignored the request for a bit until I broke down and E-mailed him, silence yet again.
“I’m done, I hate drama and I hate playing games.” I remembered saying this aloud to myself at some point but I kept going to the church, he kept doing all he could to catch my attention when I was there.
Next thing I find out he’s engaged. Now it all made sense.
So, at last its all over, you’d think my heart would move on, it did, for a while I thought that the puncture wounds on my heart from Cupid’s constant arrows would finally close with only scar tissue remaining to tell the tale. I thought wrong. I fell harder than even before, the way glass shatters against concrete and breaks into a million jagged pieces. And here I am still in love, or lust or a mixture of the two, with a nearly married man. The fact that we’ve never had an in-depth conversation haunts me, the fact that he’s yet to fully look me in the eyes lately, during the occasional “Hi” and “Bye” hurts more, much more.
Every heartbreak song I’ve ever heard suddenly takes on a personal meaning from cheesy 80’s ballads to Honky-Tonk Country songs. On an aside, after listening to countless “Love-gone-wrong” Country songs, I’ve actually concluded that no other genre in the popular music landscape accurately captures romantic heartbreak as much Country music. As a 90’s baby who came up on R&B, this is saying a lot.
By now the story should end, except for the fateful Wednesday when I vowed not to go to the church again, only to find myself at the wheel and on the road yet again, giving the little-winged creature another chance to start miss-firing arrows, this time into the heart of another young man.
I was the leaving the service early and so was he (not at the same time), I was blocked in by another car with its lights on and no driver inside. It took a bit of time to find the owner, we struck up conversation, common to our mutual liking we found art. He makes art with his hands, I, with words, exchanging numbers was easy. No drama, Do-si-do, “No, you go first, no, you go first,” dance. Albeit he did give me his first. I drove away not thinking much of it besides a pleasant conversation, only to find that he was thinking much of me.
He pursued (still is) relentlessly, actually he’s pursuing the way I’d always thought to myself that I should be pursued but never said or prayed aloud. The cons, are too long to list, starting with, he’s almost three years younger than me. Not sure how many years categorizes Cougar-ness but I’m not tryna be in that category. Spiritual compatibility, not so much. Emotional compatibility, not much of that either. His recent ex – drama, the fact that it’s a recent ex – double drama. The antithesis of my life’s motto in full effect. Trying to do what I do best in conflict, run, while he’s doing what I wanted the whipper-snapper young preacher man to do, pursue relentlessly.
Summer’s ending and he’s done just what I did last year, moved away, though not to the big city but back to from whence he came and he’s still pursing. How long the pursuit will last remains to be seen but here I am, still resisting, with open puncture wounds still bleeding over an almost married man. My low-key, relatively drama-free life is crumbling with or without my permission.