So I'm afraid to see Liz, yet. The opportunity presented itself in the form of her offering to stop by to pick up her things and while I initially agreed to it, I ended up sending her a message explaining how I was not prepared to see her in real life and still be working toward a semblance of normalcy concerning all matters ex. It was a positively cordial and peaceable exchange, and she was kind enough to tell me I'm not a rapist. Which is, you know, nice to hear. Even if I already knew it. So I mailed her things, in the box were they have been since the day after the breakup when I boxed them up. I didn't reexamine them or add anything or put in any notes or mix cd's. I was sort of planning on it, but then I ended up going to the shipping store with Joey and it was easier to just do it all at once. Probably better that way than to draw it out.
Richard had some troubles with his relationship recently. And I know he would absolutely 100% flip on me if I was to air his personal shit here, and I have no intent to. Suffice it to say he and his lady were having problems and it looked like their relationship was kaput. And if not for the timely intervention of a concerned, meddling party (me) saying, "Listen, you fucks love each other. Now fix it, assholes," their love may well have also gone the way of the dodo. And between that and shipping her stuff bringing a sort of awful, morbid finality to the whole Liz thing, I've been wondering if I made a mistake letting my relationship fall, smoldering, into the sea. Now, I admit that initially, I was relieved. I was relieved to be free of the nagging and the recriminations and the frustration of her sometimes stony heart. Probably because that was the only thing i could feel about it right away and not lose my mind. The only way to process the devastation was to rationalize it and distill it down to an inevitability. But it never was inevitable. I'm sure she, too, found a sense of relief at shrugging of the burden of my frustratingly permanent childishness and my choking attachment.
Every relationship, even the worst ones, has a degree of magic to it. If you're uncomfortable with the harry potter-ism (or insane clown posse-ism) of that phrasing, call it whatever you want. True love, romantic love, contentment, pure happiness. It's the sort of transcendental, unspoiled moment that makes you happy to be with someone, and specifically YOUR someone at that exact moment. sometimes it's a look. or a scenario. or a turn of phrase. or even a fond caress (ooh). The magic parts of the relationship. and for the first 3 months or so, it's mostly the imaginary cartoon perfection of a new love. Probably 40% magic and 50% sex, with 10% of practicality splashed in. But as that passion begins to take the shape of a long term relationship, things get steadier and heads, generally, take leave of the clouds in which they have been residing. The butterflies in your stomach migrate on to warmer climes. But there's still something of that magic. Maybe 15- 20% in a solid, healthy relationship. And it is tempered by the real world. Meeting family, recognizing and enduring personality flaws, dealing with crises like the car breaking down or the worry of a snowed-in flight. And the ability of the relationship to withstand these assaults upon the fairy tale, happy ending, miracle core is determined by it's hosts. How much is that sliver of magic worth? Is it worth dealing with their bitchy ex? Is it worth overcoming a questionable past or forgiving a transgression? Is it worth trying again?
Over the last week, not a day has gone by without me giving thought to the idea of trying to reignite my relationship with Liz. Before I am barraged by concerned friends and family over what a bad idea this is; stop. I know. I know it's not the right thing to do and I don't plan on taking action. But I still can't shake concocting involved, 80s romance movie plots to try to win her back with. Or fantasies about what she might someday say to me to win me back herself when she realizes what's missing (ha HA. boy. who was I dating? not Liz Stacey if that's a plausible scenario. Even in fantasy.) Sometimes I just pilot my brain train over to what-if elseworlds where we're still together. or we did try again. or we never spoke because I never thought myself capable of handling it. Last night i had a dream where we were together. Nothing particularly amorous or world breaking. It being a dream, of course I can't remember the details. But in the shower this morning I found myself whistling "Mr. Sandman." Thanks a bunch, subconscious. Now maybe I'm reading too much into things, but that's a pretty clear indicator that my heart and my sub-id are conspiring in there against logic and reason.
So I'm Schrodinger's feelings. I don't know if and when I see Liz again what my reaction will be. Will I be resentful and scornful and not be able to be in the same room with her? Will I be finally at ease by way of no longer needing to impress her? Or will I lose everything between then and now and fall flat on my face in love with her again? That's the one I couldn't stand. Because I'm in love with her now, yes, still. And the more distance and healing I get, the more capable I will be of not being a blubbering twit about the whole business. But I could lose all that in an instant just seeing her face. And I like to pretend that it works both ways. That maybe she feels this sort of pull of guilt and possibility the same as I do. That she would be susceptible to my John Hughes charms, should I choose to employ them. But I know this is not the case. She would see me as an unstable and pitiable stalker who could not detach himself. She would only see the worst of what was in the light of that. It would taint whatever magic might remain. I would honestly keep going. I see 2% magic as sufficient fuel to cling steadfastly to the love that created it. But even that 2% needs two committed and believing hosts. And so I am resigned to treasure the magic in memories until such time as a new spark is struck, elsewhere.
Jesus, shakespeare for dummies, could you be any gloopier? What a queer.
