Closed Doors
Had a great conversation with Angelo last night at Country Waffles – Glorietta. Meeting up with him is always a delight because there’s always something to talk about, and last night’s exchange dwelt on what’s going to happen at tomorrow’s afternoon event at the YWCA.
Somewhere in our gab fest, he asked about my love life, and I resisted all urges to roll my eyeballs and launch my brows to Jupiter. I told him that while it would be nice to have someone, I’m not predatorial by nature (in that I won’t blatantly pursue) and I’m just too busy as it is to be able to immerse myself in a new one.
The latter aspect I had placed upon myself, partly because of my crusade to be the best I can be in my chosen profession and craft, and partly to quell the pain inflicted by my recent history. The anguish may have ceased to be life-threatening, but it is inherently indelible, in that it offers lessons instead of episodes. I cannot deny that I long on occasion, and I’ve been rationalizing that feeling as merely missing what rarely comes. Romance-fed giddiness is my life’s black pearl.
So, yes, I’ve been working nearly to the bone at the expense of a social life, while certain creatures have been distracting me in the periphery with nary an effort at taking advanced steps. And I go, “too bad” and “that’s good” in one breath. Again, I don’t think I’m ready for a follow-up. Translation: I’m not ready to get hurt again.
I remember the conversation the ex and I had that night in April last year. I was asked, “Will the door still be open when I get back?”
I answered. “It’ll always be open. But someone might come in first.”
Eighteen months later, the door is closed and I’m inside, hunched over my work desk and baking my eyes under monitor radiation. My Personal Life, strapped on the iron maiden, moans from the swelling contusions it suffered from my mallet blows. Maybe I’ll find it in me to open the door again to let the air in. Or maybe I’ll relent and free Personal Life from its shackles.
Aw, crap. Whatever. I'm a major hypocrite. The doorbell still works, and I’m thinking of installing eight more.
Had a great conversation with Angelo last night at Country Waffles – Glorietta. Meeting up with him is always a delight because there’s always something to talk about, and last night’s exchange dwelt on what’s going to happen at tomorrow’s afternoon event at the YWCA.
Somewhere in our gab fest, he asked about my love life, and I resisted all urges to roll my eyeballs and launch my brows to Jupiter. I told him that while it would be nice to have someone, I’m not predatorial by nature (in that I won’t blatantly pursue) and I’m just too busy as it is to be able to immerse myself in a new one.
The latter aspect I had placed upon myself, partly because of my crusade to be the best I can be in my chosen profession and craft, and partly to quell the pain inflicted by my recent history. The anguish may have ceased to be life-threatening, but it is inherently indelible, in that it offers lessons instead of episodes. I cannot deny that I long on occasion, and I’ve been rationalizing that feeling as merely missing what rarely comes. Romance-fed giddiness is my life’s black pearl.
So, yes, I’ve been working nearly to the bone at the expense of a social life, while certain creatures have been distracting me in the periphery with nary an effort at taking advanced steps. And I go, “too bad” and “that’s good” in one breath. Again, I don’t think I’m ready for a follow-up. Translation: I’m not ready to get hurt again.
I remember the conversation the ex and I had that night in April last year. I was asked, “Will the door still be open when I get back?”
I answered. “It’ll always be open. But someone might come in first.”
Eighteen months later, the door is closed and I’m inside, hunched over my work desk and baking my eyes under monitor radiation. My Personal Life, strapped on the iron maiden, moans from the swelling contusions it suffered from my mallet blows. Maybe I’ll find it in me to open the door again to let the air in. Or maybe I’ll relent and free Personal Life from its shackles.
Aw, crap. Whatever. I'm a major hypocrite. The doorbell still works, and I’m thinking of installing eight more.
Comments