For Kafka

Kafka

He was no bigger than her hand and just four weeks old, too young to be properly weaned. She chose him for his rambunctiousness – and for his pink nose that was entirely too big for his face and made her smile. She swaddled him in an old towel, flipped him unwillingly on his back and coaxed the bottle between his tiny, razor-sharp kitten teeth. “How could anyone be so heartless as to drown a litter of helpless kittens,” she thought as her new companion settled into slurping the milky formula. She had wanted a kitten for months, but her boyfriend had convinced her to wait until he moved in. Well, that wasn’t going to happen now, but at least she had the kitten – more dependable than any long-distance romance. They would save each other.

R.I.P
Kafka
March 4, 2001 – December 8, 2014

I SUCK!

You would think, after four decades on this planet, I would have mastered the art of the breakup.  I envision one where we act like adults, say what needs to be said and no one walks away hurt.  Sadly, I think this resolution is possible only in my dreams.  Instead, I took the spineless way out and ended it with a text.  I’m appalled at myself. With my 20/20 hindsight, I realize that I should have at least done it over the telephone; 2.5 months does not necessarily require a face-to-face, but it does warrant more than a 3 sentence text.

Everything I wrote to him and the feelings I have today are more than a little reminiscent of my Ex’s breakup with me.  Am I no better?  There really is no good way to accomplish the task.

This guy SHOULD have been a good catch for me.  He was attractive and fit, kind and considerate, virile and gainfully employed, but I just never fell head-long for him.  I should want to see him the last moment before I depart on a trip and the first thing when I return.  We were apart for 2.5 weeks and I almost canceled on him this Saturday (I had already cancelled twice earlier this week).  I should be begging for him to spend the night so I can wrap my body in his when, in fact, I felt relief when he said he had to go home.  I know the depth of affection I’m capable of feeling – and I just couldn’t evoke it for him.

I realized that it’s not fair to continue – not to him by faking feelings as he becomes more entangled nor to myself but cutting myself off from other possible alternatives, convincing myself that “this” is better than nothing.

Regardless of whether I think I did the right thing (which I do), I still feel awful for having to do it.

You seemed so happy!

“You seemed so happy!”

“Well, I WAS happy.”

“So why aren’t you dating him anymore?”

“Well…”

I’m having this conversation with my 10-year old niece.  She’s asking me about my Ex.  How do you explain to a child that just because one person is blissfully happy doesn’t mean the other is feeling the same – or even if both people are happy, it still doesn’t mean there’s a happy ending to the story?  How do you break it to them that life’s not a fairy tale?

I have a new guy in my world right now.  We’ve been dating about two months now.  I like him, but sadly, I don’t LIKE him.   Always respectful,  I would never lead him on or toy with him, but I’m also aware of this relationship’s limitations.

46 Percent

One of the first blogging rules I learned was…

  1. Decide on a topic and stick to that topic. If you want to cover other topics, start a different blog.

I haven’t followed that rule and, depending on when you became a follower, you may have experienced a very different blog.  Five or six months ago, I was sharing the ugly, psychotic truth about the breakup that brought me to my knees.  My followers were bloggers dealing with their own relationship crises.  Lately, and completely unintentionally, my blog has turned to the lighthearted – recipes and canning and gelato.  As the clouds of depression cleared, I found myself  playing in the kitchen once again and following my bliss – and my followers have also changed to those who enjoy the culinary arts.

The second blogging rule I learned was…

  1. Write for yourself (or “write  like no one is reading”)

I’ve wanted to write about the following for a while, but I’ve been concerned my “foodie” followers are going to think this post has come out of left field.

I’m a member of a dating site that, in addition to a photo and a profile, includes a romantic compatibility percentage that’s based on questions we’ve answered.  Although I don’t rely on this compatibility scale completely, I have definitely ruled out those that don’t hit at least 70% compatibility.   I believe a couple should have a good set of shared values and interests to make a strong, connected, relationship – kindred spirits, so to speak. If we’re on opposite sides of the fence to begin with, it’s only going to get worse.

Unexpectedly,  a few months after we broke up, I found my ex on the same dating site.  For most of the time, I’ve kept his profile hidden.  In the past month, it hasn’t bothered me so much and I finally un-hid him.  His profile came up in my search the other day.  Surprisingly, our compatibility is a dismal 46%. 46 percent?  This was the man I loved, the man that seemed perfect for me, the man I could picture growing old with.  46 percent?  We never fought; we always seemed to have the same views – we had (I thought) a great relationship.  Who was this man?  How much did he keep hidden from me?  What was he really thinking while shaking his head “yes” in agreement to my observations?

Seven months ago, I thought I would never get over him.  I thought I was ruined forever and I had my one shot at happiness. Each week, it gets a little easier (with big thanks to the Wellbutrin).  This most recent discovery just helps a bit more to dislodge him from my heart.  I deserve better – I deserve more than 46%.

Gelato Binky

It’s good to see my posts gradually turn towards gelato and jam, blotting out the dark ones of spleen and vinegar just a few months prior.  I still think about “him” every day, but now my musings tend towards anger rather than sadness.

4th of July was difficult.  My sisters came over and we barbequed and watched all the illegal fireworks explode in 360 degree surround sound. I was smiling outwardly, but I definitely felt the hollow of something “missing”. I’m so tired of people asking me if I’ve heard from “him”.  No, I haven’t – and I’m not going to, I am sure.

This is how I pacified myself – it can be dangerous when you have a gelato maker on hand:

Artisanal Netarine Gingersnap Gelato