I’ve been an avid reader and subscriber to this blog for months. One of the reasons I like it is because the entries are honest and thought provoking, but another reason is because the content is so drastically different than what I normally write. For those who don’t know me, I usually talk about all kinds of food stuff over at In Good Taste.  As much as I love to bake and stir, saute and dice, I’m also a twenty-something with a lot on her mind. And today, I’m thinking about the boys.

For many of us, whether we’re married, engaged, cohabiting, single and proud or, well, single and not-so-proud, the opposite sex is bound to cross our mind multiple times a day. For me, some of them are good memories, like slow dancing to Celine Dion with Mike Close in seventh grade (yes, this is a good memory, though we can also file it under Really Embarrassing…come on, it was the nineties).

I‘ve dated plenty and like most girls, have wondered what my wedding will look like and who will eventually take the grand title of Hubs. But the reality is that since long before I could drive, I knew how it felt to be dumped. I knew how it felt to be rejected by the boy you liked when you had your best friend ask him out for you, while you watched, not-so-inconspicuously, from across the dodge-ball court during seventh grade gym class.

“In you life, you’ll break many hearts and you’ll have yours broken too,” my mother used to tell me. But that didn’t seem right. Sure, I’d have my heart broken. But break hearts? I didn’t think I was capable of that.

I didn’t think I was capable of hurting anyone’s feelings – especially someone of the opposite sex because I never thought I had that much control over another person’s emotions. It was hard enough for me to control my own let alone to have that intense power over someone else’s. I couldn’t imagine someone else drawing my name on the inside cover of their eighth grade science textbook the same way I drew Tim’s. I couldn’t imagine why someone would drag their neighbor-friend Karen rollerblading past Tim’s house after school almost daily in the hopes that we would catch him coming home on the 4:30 late bus. In those days, you weren’t considered a stalker – you just had a crush.

In my days of Dawson’s Creek re-runs and Saturday nights out at TGI Fridays giggling over Shirley Temples with seven of my best girlfriends while someone’s parents kept a watchful eye from a table across the restaurant, I saw the opposite sex as a sea of possibility. Sure, I didn’t have a boyfriend now, like some of the girls in my grade did. I didn’t have someone to hold hands with at the ice rink on Friday night open skate, but someday I would.

Throughout high school and college I told myself that my one true love was right around the corner. If it wasn’t my prom date, well then surely I’d meet him at freshman orientation when we stumbled into each other during opening convocation. If he wasn’t in my best friend’s fraternity, I’d probably meet him at a party.

When I did find myself in some semblance of a relationship, even if I knew in my heart of hearts that it wasn’t what I was truly looking for, I told myself it was fine for now. When I woke up next to Ben in his king sized bed at the house he shared with four friends overlooking the Susquehanna River, I knew even before he broke my heart that it wasn’t right. I knew deep somewhere in my logical mind, the part that didn’t get all weepy after watching Notting Hill, that he didn’t care for me the way I cared for him. I’m pretty good at telling that voice to shut up, when it’s convenient for me.

One night recently, I was walking home from the gym, head down to avoid the snow flurries sticking to my eyelashes, I heard my name; it was the last guy that I had dated and the first guy that I’d broken up with because I didn’t think it felt right.  

“Come over,” he said. “Let me make you dinner.” Now, the idea of sitting on the couch with a glass of wine while someone else cooked didn’t sound half-bad, but I knew what it could lead to and I knew that by accepting the invitation, I’d be leading him on and denying the inevitable. It wasn’t worth a night off from doing the dishes.

“I have some stuff to do.” I couldn’t think of an excuse quick enough, but he recovered quickly, told me I was weak, and I might have mumbled something about not going out on a “school night” as I’ve affectionately coded work nights. “Let’s plan on another time, definitely.”

As we said goodbye and I headed into my building and up the stairs I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Guilty for not accepting his invitation, and guilty for not caring for him the same way he cared for me. It might be better than the alternative – but it’s strange to feel as though after so many years of wondering what I was doing wrong in relationships, the shoe is on the other foot.  Sometimes it just doesn’t feel right, and sometimes, it hurts just as much to break hearts as it does when our own are broken.

This entry was posted on Friday, December 26th, 2008 at 6:00 am and is filed under boys will be boys, love, maris thinks, the Ex files, twentysomething. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.