My mother never told me the complications of becoming a woman in this world. Maybe she thought I was strong enough to figure them out on my own. Or quite possibly, she couldn't tell me, because she never really knew how to face the complications herself.
She never told me how to dress a certain way in order to keep up with the latest fashions. She never told me how to wear my hair in a way that the other girls wouldn't make fun of me for. She never even told me how to apply makeup to my adolescent face. I don't think she ever knew how to put it on herself. My mother was always a simple woman. A brush of mascara, a touch of the gloss, and she was done.
My mother never told me that being in love does not mean sitting by the boy of your dreams at a high school football game every Friday night. And that the boy of your dreams never really remains the boy of your dreams unless, of course, you don't know any better. How was I supposed to know?
She also never said that I would fall "in love" over and over again until I met the right "one." And when I met "the one," chances are he wouldn't be it, and I would have to go through the whole process again. Mother never told me the process would take weeks, months, or even years. She never told me this would be painful. Because if I knew that falling in love would eventually hurt so much, I would have probably tried at all costs to avoid the pain. It never brought me strength, but has formed a callus around my heart.
You know this story just as well as I do. I am sure it has happened to you. The characters might have different names, and the setting most likely took place somewhere else, but in the end, it's all driven by the same goals to love, to be loved.
I met him in the most ideal way possible, not at a bar, not at a party, not on a blind date, but in class. Imagine that. I have to admit, he didn't catch my attention right away, as the class was rather large and the room overwhelmingly small.
She called out numbers. We got in groups. He was in my group. I studied him and liked what I saw, but even then I didn't feel the attraction. Strange.
There was a party that Saturday. I needed to go to the library to get a head on homework before I went out. I turned the corner as he turned the corner. I stumbled backwards, he caught my elbow, and before I knew it, I was falling for him, I guess. He said he'd be at the party and hoped to see me there. I just smiled my shy smile, said something silly, I'm sure, and continued on my way. Did he notice the blemish on my forehead? I don't know. I never asked.
I dressed up for the party, a little more than usual. Of course, I had to borrow Angie's clothes, and Sarah did my hair and makeup, but it wasn't a big deal. I was still me behind all of the makeup, glitter, and perfume.
I don't drink. Well, I have a few times before. I'm what they call a lightweight. The last time I drank I was not aware of my limits. I was staggering within twenty minutes of my first shot and puking after forty. Strawberry schnapps. I can no longer eat strawberries.
So the night I fell in love with "the one," I was not under the influence of anything except love itself. We talked briefly at the party, met up at the bar, and danced three perfect dances. He was terrible, but that was beside the point. He smiled at me, danced only with me, and only wanted to walk me home. As we stopped outside my door, I remember thinking, please come in, please come in. He just smiled at me, asked for a hug, asked if he could call me, hugged me again, and walked away. No kiss, no push to come in, no fast moves, no sweet-talking. He just wanted a hug? He asked if it was okay to call me? How perfect is that when all I was used to was overly aggressive men trying to seduce their way into my bed? I took three steps from the door, slumped into my overstuffed chair, and sighed, thanking God for finally bringing me "the one."
He called the next evening. We talked for over an hour. It was nice. That's all I can say. With a slight smile escaping my lips, all I can say is, it was nice.
We went out the next night to a movie we didn't watch. We talked all the way through, all the way home, and all the way until four in the morning. I found myself telling him everything or close to everything. I found myself trusting him. I found myself trusting myself with him.
Trust? What is trust? I had never truly understood trust until this one. It's hard to explain unless you know where I'm coming from, but believe me on this one. I trusted him with everything I had and everything he was.
The story moves on as every love sequel does. We spent as much time together as possible. Maybe a little too much time together because I was becoming so emotionally attached that I knew I never wanted us to be apart. After knowing someone for a few days, can you really know in your heart that he is the one? I did. How was I supposed to know? I loved him, and that's all I needed to know.
Eight months later, I was sitting at a baseball game when an acquaintance approached me, just a simple acquaintance. He asked me how things were going. I smiled my shy smile and told him everything was great, as everything was great. In fact, everything was better than great. It was perfect. One topic led to another until he looked me in the eyes and took hold of my hands. He said there was something he thought I should know. He's cheating on you.
I looked at him unblinking. I grabbed my blanket, stood up, and walked away. Sometimes that's what you have to do when you feel like hitting someone. So, I did just that. I walked away, unbelieving.
I didn't believe it. There is no way in hell that he would cheat on me. I knew it in my heart. I knew it in my head. I just plain knew it. I trusted him with all my heart. Isn't that something? Doesn't that mean anything?
He was cheating on me.
When I look back, I realize my mother did teach me several things on relationships and life. When a note from a boy fell from the pocket of my jeans as she was doing laundry, she said sex should wait until marriage. She told me that we can't always get what we want when I stared longingly at a new car in the lot. And once, after my brother spilled spaghetti on my dress the night of prom, she said it is easier to forgive than forget.
So, I forgave him. Not right away, of course. But when he showed up at my place with my favorite flowers in his hand and that silly grin on his face, I had to listen to what he said.
He said he was sorry. He was so sorry. He loved me so much, and he would do anything to make things better. When I didn't say anything, he kept right on talking. I sobbed uncontrollably as he told me he never meant to hurt me. He would never think about doing anything like that again, so he said. And when he ran out of apologies and excuses, he lifted my chin, kissed the tears streaming down my face, and held me close.
I told him I forgave him. I needed to. I needed him. I needed him because I knew that up until that point, he had made me feel good about myself. He made me feel like no one had ever made me feel before. When I looked into his eyes, I could tell he was hurt. He knew I was hurting. So, if we were both hurting over the same thing, it must mean that we truly loved each other. And if we truly loved each other, we must need each other. I needed him, and it's quite possible he knew that.
I needed him only for a while, though. He taught me something about love that my mother could never teach me. He taught me that loving someone and needing someone as a source of security are two completely separate things. To a vulnerable person, though, the two are so closely knit together that it's hard to distinguish between true love and the need to be loved. I needed to be loved. I needed to feel loved, so I stuck with him until I realized what I was doing. I had never truly loved him. He was only satisfying my need for security and hope. Once he failed to do this, our relationship could not survive.
After the relationship ended, it took me a while to learn to trust again. I found it much easier to trust no one than to fail by trusting the wrong person. Over time, I realized I wasn't being fair to myself. I would have to learn to trust in order to let people back into my life. How else was I to find "the one?"
My mother never told me the complications of becoming a woman in this world. She never told me that it's not necessarily important to find "the one" true love in your life. She didn't tell me about the longing, the grieving, or the pain. She didn't have to, I guess.start