On Being Accused of Murder


The last man to kiss me told me that sometimes, when our lips met, he wondered what I’d look like thinner. He said he had high hopes for it, said, in fact that it was part of why he stayed with me. To see if his expectations were met by reality.

Somewhere between this conversation and the fact that he listened to Westlife albums un-ironically, I forgot to return his phone calls ever again. I suppose I should check to make sure that I didn’t totally shatter his ego, but, part of me hopes that I may have. In case the next girl to write her way into his fancies lived in double digit jean sizes.

He told me that I was funny and that I wrote well, which is why I couldn’t be pretty. As if quick wit and the ability to pen coherent sentences were part of my genetics. He said he was attracted to my witticism, and that my observations of the world around me in blog form made him see me differently. I suppose I should be flattered, right?

When I got the Facebook notification that he had gotten engaged to a woman with a smile too big for her petite figure, I wondered if I should send her books, suggest movies or burn her mixed CDs so that we would somehow share a love, that she would dance to a song and he would think of me and it would sting. That he would maybe miss me. This was dumb.

Around Christmas time, a funny thing happens for single people. For The Ringless Ones and it is this. Engagements. Suddenly your social media feeds are engagement ring catalogs where all of the models faces look familiar. I have stopped clicking “Like” on these notifications. It’s not because I don’t like them, or because I have a jealousy in my heart about them but because, that’s not what my mother did when my father proposed. My mother made phone calls. My mother had coffees, conversations and face-to-face human interactions.

Now, I know what you’re thinking…”Laura, you are a blogger. You rely on the internet to tell stories.” You’re entirely right, I do. My writing has taken me to this specific platform, for which I am entirely thankful, but, I still think that some moments should be kept hushed. Even some of the big ones.

I went to bible college. So, I know a lot of engaged and married couples. Like, a ton of them. It’s insane. Last year alone I went to 10 weddings! That’s a THIRD of my Saturdays spent in Spanx and dress shoes. That’s so many! You know what happens when you go to that many weddings? You run out of cheap gift ideas and start giving them used books and IOUs for a coffee mug set. (I wish that had been a joke. At least, the bride thought I was joking. I still need to give them that set…I digress)

At one of these particular weddings, a friend called me a murderer. She said that I killed all romantic notion with cynicism. The fact is, I don’t. I love romance. I have a pretty poetic tendency toward unrequited longing. I am the walking wounded. I love without being loved back. I know that that sounds beautiful for a writer, but it’s ugly for the girl who puts down the pen and opens her web browser. It’s not that I think I will never be loved back, I just wish it wasn’t thrown in my face all of the time that I’m not right now.

I know that whoever God has for me will be a lot of things, but, he will not be a subject of selfies and blog posts. I promise you, my fellow longers. I promise.

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