Like all great moments in life, the best are often fleeting. I happily burned through my time with smells-good-blue-sweater-guy about five weeks into the ‘relationship.’ There was a great dinner, an awful comdedy show, and some really awesome conversations. Oh, and a good bit of sex. He was definitely a little bright spot in an otherwise gloomy landscape.
After a ten year relationship, the idea of someone else seeing you naked with all the imperfections you’ve catergorized and catologued in your head can be intimidating. The body they get to explore at thirty is not the one my X got to fall in love back when I was twenty-or-so. It now has a few more scars, soft spots, and produced a baby. I couldn’t shake the fear the next guy would simply run away clutching his eyes in horror. In fact, I thought that would happen at the first mention of “single-mom” and “divorce.” Really, the whole naked thing felt like I’d be pushing my luck.
Yet, the fist night I invited him over, he definitely did not run away. In fact he stayed just long enough to affirm the fact I was not super hideous. He reminded me that perhaps sex can be enjoyable and not obligatory. Three times, in fact.
Yet, by jumping into that situation, by definition I sabotagued any chance to have the relationship be more than what it had become. Little things started to stack up– which I belive is the natural order of such affairs. Daily phone calls became every fews days. Texts weren’t returned. And I while this is understandable, it felt like I was getting lower on the priority list. Which felt like the decline of my marriage. Which meant I didn’t want to do it anymore. So I explained what I needed and he didn’t need the same. And so we amicably parted after about four or five weeks of enjoyable company.
It was a goooooood run.