After Careful Consideration, I Believe I’m Done With Love
Let me begin by saying that there isn’t a morsel of regret or sorrow related to my decision. Bitterness, though admittedly in the vehicle, was not behind the wheel. Not a single iota of self-pity was involved in the making of this decision. OK, maybe one tiny half-iota, because nobody’s perfect.
Look. I’m in my late 50s and most of my life is behind me. And that life included numerous relationships, situationships, and a couple of great loves that were life-altering. During my impetuous youth, my heart was very adept at ignoring warnings from my head so I jumped into life and love feet first. The prospect of new adventures excited me, and I packed a lot of living into my first forty years.
(I do miss the dopamine)
When I was young and grabbing life by the balls (so many jokes) I made the conscious decision to have as much fun and get into as much trouble as I could. It was important to me that I’d have some epic memories to look back on as my rocking chair beckoned. A noble goal, right?
Well, I did a bang-up (so many jokes) job of it and I’m very grateful to Past Me for ensuring Present and Future Me will occasionally grin evilly as I randomly recall a bit of past fuckery.
But that part of my life is over now, and I’m OK with that. I remind myself that both of my grandmothers were widowed when they were younger than I am. I try not to remind myself that they both had strong support systems to rely on that I don’t.
It’s not to say that I don’t believe love is real. Oh, I know it’s really real all too well, having experienced it so fiercely but, in the end, futilely. I just know my capacity to build a new relationship from ground zero is non-existent.
I don’t want to have to do the whole backstory bullshit ever again. The very idea is abhorrent. All of the things that used to excite me about unwrapping a new love in its early bloom I just find tiresome now. That shit’s work.