How did I become this person? I believe myself to be an even keeled woman. A go getter, emotionally stable. I am not the kind that needs validation from a man, or her friends for that matter. But here I am, fumbling in the darkness of confusion, mad at you but if I am honest, more mad at myself. I am angry at what I have allowed myself to happen to me again, after promising myself for the umpteenth time I am not going down this road, again. This road where I loose myself in a relationship and begin this false expectation to a future…. I, only see.
When I met you those two years ago, you were a welcome breeze. A fun, happy go lucky man. I was sick and tired of the older men I seem to attract in my corporate world. I wanted a change. Someone, who I could enjoy a cold beer with, watch sports and discuss politics with. Someone who didn’t find my opinions childishly optimistic. In a world plagued by continuous mass killings, where the news is constantly agog with reports of the death of innocents…everyone I met seemed jaded by their experiences. But you, my fine boy, with the dimple on the right cheek…. you were supposed to be better….or at least I hoped you would be better.
When you took the job you had been hoping for, the job we had been praying for; I was very excited. In fact, I shopped online for a change of wardrobe…. remember, we browsed the web for great deals, together. It was our great break for I had stopped using me, I…somewhere in our relationship, I had gone from using me, I to denote singularity and I was fixated on we…us…’ I seemed to stop being me, and it was all about you. So, when I had to struggle to be heard over the clutter of your friends, the responsibilities your job, yes…your job brought into our relationship, I knew I couldn’t do this any more. And because I know you, I knew what would put you off. I couldn’t find it in myself to leave you, so I committed relationship suicide by being everything you didn’t want in a woman: I started to whine and complain.
I knew when my calls were no longer picked at the first ring, I was succeeding. And so when you gave the speech about my wanting more from our relationship,I stifled a sob because you are so right. I want more of you ode not a ring…well, not yet. And so, on the anniversary of our break up, I am right back where I started:in an expensive restaurant, on a date with a single older man, whose eyes are politely bored at my discourse on the middle eastern crises but glued, to my cleavage.
*ode is Yoruba for fool