“You shame the angels”

PHOTO: Aimee Vogelsang, Unsplash

There’s a special kind of pain in watching a man wax eloquently about the woman he loves. A recent episode of Showtime’s “Billions” about the women behind the men drove home the point that I richly lack in that dept.

Perhaps, it’s my own undoing. I probably gravitate toward people who are incapable of showing how much they love me, who keep such declarations to themselves, or worse, never feel them enough to voice. Something about me seems to crave such self-punishment, such an impossible challenge, from early on in my childhood. Something to explore…

Deep down, I know they don’t love me enough, they don’t love me that way. If they did, I might die of embarrassment, or run away from the pressure to live up to such high expectations. Such love is foreign to me; always was.

My own husband once broke up with me a month into our courtship, because I wasn’t his dream girl and he wasn’t physically attracted to me like he should be.

We only really got back together, because of mutual trust, friendship, comfort. Not mad love. Not that that’s bad. I quite prefer it.

In his own way, he does love me the way a husband of many decades loves a wife he’s come to depend on for companionship. Besides, I’m not that kind of girl, right?

Every so often, I look up from my busy work and my pointless distractions, and realize I do miss the romance of someone regarding me with complete adoration, helpless around me, because he is madly, deeply, completely in love with me, with every fiber of my being.

Every so often, I wish with all my heart that someone somewhere out there would’ve acted the way Bobby and Chuck do without their women around, blurt out with stars in their eyes, “You shame the angels, you really do,” spout spontaneous poetry inspired by their women’s unforgettable beauty and charm, champion them to all comers, blah blah fucking blah.

It almost physically hurts to watch everybody live the kind of love story I’d always dreamed of. Meanwhile, I live in some sort of quiet desperation, a thin grasp on that childhood fantasy of living by the sea in a one-room shack with my books, quilts, and cat, far far away where nobody can bother me.

Is it a beach house or a mental asylum?

On good days, I talk myself into believing all of that bullshit’s a fairy tale anyway, Hollywoodized pair-bond campaigns for her pleasure. On bad days…

*Enjoy this post now, Dear Diary readers. I’m most likely to chicken out & delete this soon.


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