In the world of this blog, names are changed to protect the innocent. Myself most of all.
It is one thing to hopelessly entangle yourself with the playboy of the Western world. It is quite another to be discovered in so doing by a mutual friend. Suddenly, you are forced to remember what a bad idea you knew this to be four months ago.
I don't mean to be a player hater here. I knew who he was from our first conversation about Anna Karenina, our first Sunday afternoon close embrace class. I knew he was a player. But I had convinced myself he only played one woman at a time. And that, I think, was naive.
Naive verging on stupid.
I don't have any incontrovertible proof of him carrying around a jailer's key chain of women, just the inference of a third-party observer. But shouldn't that be enough to convince me to walk away?
Here I am, TGIF-ing and hideously rundown (though this from the sweet fatigue of tango muscles and not altogether unpleasant), the circles under my eyes as pale and deep as tile grout. And now I must confront the silly sound of my own hope, tinny and ridiculous, fold it up with my winter sweaters, and remember that I am in no way special. But hey, don't hate the player, hate the game.
It is one thing to hopelessly entangle yourself with the playboy of the Western world. It is quite another to be discovered in so doing by a mutual friend. Suddenly, you are forced to remember what a bad idea you knew this to be four months ago.
I don't mean to be a player hater here. I knew who he was from our first conversation about Anna Karenina, our first Sunday afternoon close embrace class. I knew he was a player. But I had convinced myself he only played one woman at a time. And that, I think, was naive.
Naive verging on stupid.
I don't have any incontrovertible proof of him carrying around a jailer's key chain of women, just the inference of a third-party observer. But shouldn't that be enough to convince me to walk away?
Here I am, TGIF-ing and hideously rundown (though this from the sweet fatigue of tango muscles and not altogether unpleasant), the circles under my eyes as pale and deep as tile grout. And now I must confront the silly sound of my own hope, tinny and ridiculous, fold it up with my winter sweaters, and remember that I am in no way special. But hey, don't hate the player, hate the game.
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5 comments:
You are SO very special. And anyone who doesn't see it that way doesn't deserve you.
LOL, F' it, girl! Fun while it lasted right? And hey, if the mutual friend is someone with whom you wouldn't have terribly minded sharing anyway, then it's okay... the way I see it, anyone interested enough to figure out is okay. Except exes. And except in my case, well, anyone.
S-O
Sometimes you know things before you know them. Still hurts but he never will be Mr. Meatloaf.
You are special, that is without a doubt. The fact that you choose men that are incapable of having a real emotion or thought and only find themselves special, reflects only on your taste in men, not on your what an exceptional human being you are.
If you want in the game, you need to play 'em and leave 'em. Or you could drop out of the game and find real life men, but that requires a different kind of energy. Either way it is your world and you can make it as special as you want.
Anonymous#2 -- well said. Very thoughtful and on target, from Anonymous #1
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