In the immortal words of Avril Lavigne, “So much for my happy ending.” At 25, I feel rather pathetic to be quoting the Canadian queen of teenage angst—shouldn’t I be beyond that?—but when you’ve spent the past ten minutes curled up in bed and crying for no apparent reason, teenage angst is all you’ve got.
I’m not sure where we went wrong, or even if we did, I just know that my insides feel like they’ve been wrung out and not in a particularly good way. (Then again, is there ever a “good way” to have one’s insides wrung out? Probably not. Love sucks no matter which way you slice it.)
Everything was fine on Friday night once Date #7 and I hit our stride. I spent Saturday morning in a sort of sleep-deprived euphoria, counting down the hours till I’d get to see him again, and according to his text messages, I wasn’t the only one feeling this way.
Unfortunately, things took a turn for the worse Saturday afternoon. I invited him to join the Richter clan for Father’s Day Brunch, not in a “Let me introduce you to the family” sort of way but rather in a “I know it’s a bit weird to be coming to brunch seeing as we just met but you drove all this way and I don’t want you to feel excluded just because I need to spend time with my family today.”
He said he’d let me know. He never did. And to add insult to injury, I was on hold for ten minutes when I finally called the restaurant to change the reservation from five people to four.
It turns out that he’d arranged to spend the bulk of his time in Philadelphia visiting his brother, lest we find ourselves completely incompatible or cracking under the pressure of this entirely hair brained romance, but he never really told me this. Or if he did, it never really registered. As a result, I cleared my entire calendar for him only to spend the majority of the weekend sitting around and waiting for him to call.
(And tweeting about my decision to save the maiden voyage of my new Victoria’s Secret undies for someone a bit more deserving…)
By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, I was mess. A complete mess. So much so that even my little brother told me I’d better pull myself together or run the risk of ruining our remaining time together but it’s hard to undue 36 hours of waiting for a man to call.
Especially when you’ve spent the past several months pining for him and he turns out to be the most amazing kisser you’ve ever had the good fortune to kiss and you’re gut is telling you this could be really good or really, really bad…
And I’m going to leave it there for today because I’m still trying to make sense of the other parts of this story— the parts I’m not quite ready to tell—and I am in dire need of some coffee. Then again maybe I should go for some sort of calming herbal tea crap because if I reach the point of actually singing Avril Lavinge, we’re going to have some real problems.
(Or is it Kelly Clarkson who did that song? I’m mixing up my teen pop idols… I really am off my game today 😦 )