In eighth grade, I met a young man that would establish my relationship patterns for the next four decades of my life. Roger was everything I adored in the opposite sex; tall, blonde, blue eyes, intelligent, handsome, aloof and completely not aware of my existence. If memory serves me, when we first met, it may have been politeness, but he gave me some sort of signal that allowed my flights of fancy to flourish. I did everything I could think of, to try and gain his attention. In high school, during certain holidays, we could anonymously send sweets to those we admired, I sent sweets to Roger religiously, no response. Of course, I did send them anonymously, but I thought somehow, someway he would magically know that they were from me and thank me for adoring him.
I was a photographer for the school newspaper and yearbook, I used those opportunities to scan the crowds and take pictures of him, I had quite the collection. He was involved in sports, ample photo ops along with the opportunity to run the scoreboard at his basketball games. I would watch him prance about, his golden wavey hair entrancing me, the way he tugged at his cute white short shorts, I was thrilled just to be in his presence. At one of his games, he fell and a friend of mine wiped up his sweat, from the floor, on a tissue and gave it to me. Yes, everyone was aware of my infatuation with Roger and fed into it, in hopes of easing my sorrows when he did not acknowledge my love for him. We all believed that one day, maybe, he would see how much I loved him and magically, we would live happily ever after. It was wonderful to dream about and somehow, the pain of it all, was what I craved.
Senior year, I miraculously was allowed to attend a party held by some popular so-and-so. I don’t recall exactly whom the person was, but someone who was tired of seeing me emotionally bloody myself, time after time with my unreturned affections for Roger, sat me down and set me straight once and for all. She said, “Roger has never liked you and will never like you, you need to let this go.”, or something to that effect. I cried, I cried hard in some popular so-and-so’s basement and then, I ate popcorn dipped in chocolate pudding and moved on with my life. However, I now see, the damage was done, my tolerance of abusive relationships was set in stone and I would continue to chase men who could care less about me, for the rest of my life.
Why am I writing about Roger, after all these years? Because, he was in my dreams and oddly enough, he has managed to pop up from time to time in my adult life. An encounter in the city, took my breath away and since my world is the size of a sugar cube, my pediatrician friend was his kids’ doctor. It’s not like there have been countless encounters, but the few, okay, maybe two, were enough for my imagination to continue to dream about the what ifs of Roger. The morning after my dream, I looked him up on FB and yes, I found him. He’s married to some skinny blonde, probably an intelligent athlete, like himself and they appear to have an amazing life together, a life I could never have shared with him because I’m not the skinny trophy wife type. Instead, I’m the heavyset, will treat you like a king non-trophy type, you know, the type of woman most men don’t pay any attention to, nor would like to be seen with, let alone attached to.
Folks can tell me all they want, that it’s my stinkin’ thinkin’ at play, but I do see, it over and over again, especially when I was in my twenties, men are looking for the trophy wife, not the I will adore you the rest of my life, but I don’t look so hot wife. Tell me I’m wrong. My son watches this “Better Bachelor” guy on YouTube and when I first watched it with him, I was not happy with what he was saying, but then I came to realize, he spoke the truth. In a nutshell, a man’s value is in what he can provide and a woman’s value is in what she looks like. I know, I know, how Neanderthal, but once again, prove me wrong.
No matter, I’ve come to a place in my life, where I am more than accepting of my body type. I know that I am a quality person that any man would be fortunate to be with. I have so much to bring to the table and if I’m not what you have a taste for, I’m okay with that, really, I am. So why am I dreaming about Roger? Probably, just like decades ago, it gives me comfort. I get off on the pain of knowing that I am not “The One” for anyone, except maybe, myself.
Of late, I find myself holding my hands to my face more frequently. There’s a comfort, as I bathe myself in the darkness of my hands covering my closed eyes. For a moment, I drift away and for a split second, I am calm, safe, and invisible to all judgement. Before writing this piece, I looked up images of folks with their hands over their faces because I couldn’t think of how to take a picture of myself doing so. Sure, I could ask my kid to help me take one, but then I would have to deal with the questions and that pesky old judgement thingy. Looking at the pics, I saw people who appeared to be hiding, or dealing with anguish and others who seemed to be flirting by peeking through two spread fingers. I don’t peak when I cover my face with my hands, so I guess that leaves the hiding and anguish scenarios.
I am dealing with a lot of anxiety these days. Actually, some days are pretty bad, but tell me that I’m unjustified, I dare you, I double dog dare you. Yesterday, with all that was going on at work, my assistant said that she was surprised at how calm I was. I told her; she didn’t want to know just how many ashwagandha gummies I had taken. Yes, self-medication and covering my face with my hands have been my way of saving face. I don’t want to appear like I’m coming apart at the seams, the rest of the world doesn’t need to know that and actually, they don’t want to know that. I’m the leader and I’m supposed to have this all under control, right?
Covering my face, slipping into the darkness, even if it’s just for a moment, brings me the velvety dark calmness my father spoke of when he would tell me his story about being in a coma during World War II when he almost died from malnourishment. He used to tell me, because of that experience, he didn’t fear death, he welcomed it, because he believed that was what he experienced. The velvety dark calmness is my way of saving face, I hide my anguish, my anxiety for just a split second and it allows me to slip into my mask of self-preservation. Sort of like the mask I would wear as I passed Roger in the hallways at school. I would look at him and freeze and for a moment, dream that he would acknowledge me, but he never did. However, the thrill of the “what if he did” moment, was enough to keep me going. The velvety dark calmness is also, enough to keep me going, saving face, keeping up appearances, of the girl no one wants to be seen with, but has a heart of gold. If they only knew…if they only knew.
#thelieswechoosetolivewith
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