A-To-Z Happiness Mistakes
- Dating, For Fellas, For Ladies, Lifestyle
I am sitting so close to our old house the wifi connects at our favorite coffee shop. When I walk in, the barista double takes a face at me; he doesn’t say anything. I am steps away from the place I decided I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with him. The pale green bench we sat on while he said to me how sorry he was that he didn’t trust me with his most important life decisions.
I am not rethinking it, but rather, I am coming to some type of realization that history repeats itself if you allow it to. I wasn’t perfect; I was broken by nature. I called too much, I worried about things I couldn’t be protected from, I made breakfast when he was mad—when I knew he wouldn’t eat, and then I sat in a sad fury watching his food cool down.
Here’s what else I did I didn’t learn from; because life is an induced coma if you allow that too. I made myself his personal exception. I gave him inanimate feelings he did not have or express: “I know he feels extremely ______, because he hasn’t said a word the whole ride.” I gave myself more courage to keep trying, giving up would have been easier… I got a baseball hat in his favorite color; he didn’t notice. I don’t like baseball caps. I didn’t like his favorite color. I expected him to care about me when I had writer’s block; I expected him to help me by sitting back-to-back under a brown tree with green leaves, and I needed him to help me think blueberries were falling down on us. He had no imagination. He never told me stories. Real or make-believe.
He sat with me on a pale green bench and kept asking me not to cry, and what did I want him to do. Like I said, blueberries. He wasn't listening, he was trying to fix, minimize disaster. Disaster was inevitable. I needed imagination. Then, once he mastered that, I needed tangible.
I am not rethinking it, but rather, I had to talk the value into myself. I crossed at the 6-way light. I stared up at the blue-grey window, no longer ours. I prank called. When she answered, I laughed into a ball. I wasn’t very happy. But happiness is A to Z. Happiness comes in a form of how many mistakes you allow yourself to make without hurting too much. I sat at the coffee shop, week four now. This time, the unshaven barista says, you used to live here, didn’t you? A long time ago, huh? You’re a writer, aren’t you? Published anything? Didn’t you have a hus—?”
“No. A boyfriend. An ex-boyfriend. He’s gone. Yes, a writer, nothing recently. I am writing, however.”
Here’s what else I didn’t learn from, because wow did I make good friends I distanced myself from. Never tell yourself what you don’t deserve. Never tell yourself what you can’t do. Never give yourself that negative self-talk, even though you always do. Never answer numbers you don’t recognize when you feel low. Never call yourself names. Don’t keepsake any socks or pictures of the first love seat in the studio or the coffee press, or recall the memory beneath recessed lighting, oval doorways and 12 vacations a year, "no room to love you better than how spoiled you are little girl." No room left.
Done everything I could except exactly what I crawled myself back into.
Here's how to take your mistakes back:
1. Know what you want.
2. Imagine it better than it is.
I want someone who can tell the difference between swimming, drowning, or treading water. Who knows when to get in the water, throw me a floatie, or cheer me on. Someone who drinks matcha. Bleeds superman-purple. Takes off his watch and throws it in the water. Takes off his boxers and allows me to walk over without getting my feet wet. Breathes in my airway. Filters the air with sugar-stars—blows it back into me with an open-mouth kiss and doesn’t leave messages, he just tries me again.
Claps and allows me to be his princess. I promise to behave accordingly.
Sorry you can't take your mistakes back. But they will make wonderful stories.
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