I don’t date a lot.
But that’s OK. I enjoy “me” time. I enjoy getting to know myself.
In fact, I even dated me for a while.
Well, I mean, it’s not surprising. We grew up together. I even lived in my neighborhood. I ended up going to the same school as I did.
(sigh) We were inseparable.
I started dating me in high school, and it was, you know, a storybook romance. There I was: the captain of the football team, and right by side was me: the head cheerleader.
I went to same college as I did, but…we started to grow apart. I started hanging with a different crowd than I did. I felt like I didn’t even know me anymore, and what’s worse…I didn’t know me anymore either.
We got into fights. I got into drugs. I gave myself an intervention, but I wouldn’t listen. Why couldn’t I get it through my thick skull that it wasn’t just myself I was hurting. I was hurting me, too.
I had to end it. I had to do the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. I had to look deep into my own eyes and actually say those horrible words: “I don’t love me anymore.”
It was a lie. I still loved me. I loved me more than ever.
(sigh)
Years later, I ran into me at a party. It was…awkward.
Then just last week…I found out I got married.
I wasn’t even invited to the wedding…(sigh)…me.