Sunday, March 11, 2012

Feeling Sorry for Myself

I have come, in my strange latter days, to realize that dating is an act of self-hatred. I haven’t yet figured out the reason, but, just as in job seeking when I found myself either over-qualified or under-qualified for an open position, I find that dating, too, has similar labels. The sad thing about it is that in order to figure out which category I fall under according to the man I am dating, I must get my heart involved; after which time he will choose whether or not I am qualified for the “position”. Generally, I am not. “Love at first sight” is a malady that afflicts only me in these instances. My most recent tragedie du jour has not yet told me whether or not I am qualified; only that there are certain aspects of my hearth and home that make him uncomfortable, despite the fact that I am “amazing” (aka, my teenage sons). So, here I am, stupidly hanging on to hope that he will call—which I doubt.

I realize that I should learn to be happy by myself, which I am, for the most part. However, rejection in any form makes me yearn all the more for a close companion. I’m pretty sure this is a dysfunction; but I’m trying not to admit it. I still believe that somewhere, out there, is a soul mate; although I have also considered the idea that mine didn’t incarnate this time around. Lucky me. So, in the spirit of this darling, little pity party I’m having, I am going to administer my own form of liquid oblivion, and try to forget that I dared to step out into the dating scene again.

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