Science says that the symptoms of love are identical to those of fear. Sweaty palms, hearts racing, Adrenaline junkies of the world rejoice!
I am not that. I am not the hot fearless girl that jumps out of planes. I don’t get tattoos, I don’t go places where I know no one. I am safe. I am perfectly content in the context in which I live. Blogger Babe Hermatige. I like to be alone.
…and then it happened.
I dreaded it. The moment that He Who Shall Not Be Named left me for some good, and some really crappy reasons I was in dread of this.
The heart racing, sweaty palms, stuttering and idiocy of the first post-big-break-up crush.
Jesus, does he have to be so nice!? Does he have to look at me like that!? Does he have to so intentionally be entirely good to me!? Does he not know that I am damaged goods? Doesn’t he know that I have fallen in love and been left? That it’s left me unable to eat less than a pint of ice cream at a time, sleep normal amounts or Heaven forbid see myself naked?
I have been ruined for men everywhere. Forever.
Until I left the bar, got home, took out my contacts, washed my face, threw my bra on the floor, sat down and considered putting it all back on again just to go back there because, I missed him. I missed his presence in my life. I missed his warmth and kindness. I missed knowing that he was intentionally listening for me to speak. At least, it felt that way.
So, now here I sit. About half naked, bare faced and really wanting to focus of the Grey’s Anatomy episode I convinced myself to watch but, instead I’m wondering if he misses me too. If he felt a shift when I walked out the door, if he wants to go home and tell his cat about me. If he has a cat. Does he have a cat? I don’t have a cat, so, I choose y’all instead.
I’m trying to convince myself that to allow that heart flutters is bad. To allow myself to text him is bad. To allow myself to be anywhere near him is bad but, for some reason, it’s the only place a feel the most centered, seen and comforted.
That can’t be bad, right?