Single in the Suburbs, a repost

Read this article and laughed because it was very close to home. It's a very accurate portrayal of what goes through the mind of the perennially single girl. Funny, deprecating, humbling - all too real.

-------------------------

Single in the Suburbs, Part 65

By Sara Susannah KatzFirst our writer got the sick excuse all week, along with some awkward communication, and now she’s finally received a response back from Chris, the cute (but confusing!) guy she’s been seeing. What did his email say? Read on…

Thursday, 9 p.m.
I stop breathing, keep reading: “You’re a beautiful, smart, sweet woman,” Chris writes. “But this isn’t working for me. You are pushing too hard and it makes me uncomfortable and, frankly, the chemistry really isn’t there for me… so I’d rather not waste your time or mine. Best of luck in finding the right person. I enjoyed getting to know you. Chris.” I hear myself gasp. Oh. God. I’ve been dumped. I cannot believe it. This is a first. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but in truth, I have never been a dumpee. Until now. I am humbled.

And angry! I immediate start hammering a response from my keyboard:

Dear Chris, What a coincidence! I was just about to write you to say that I’ve decided you’re entirely too dull for me. So imagine my relief when I read your email.

Delete.

Chris. Thanks for saving me all the time, effort and gas money I would have put into this ill-fated relationship. When you told me you liked goth girls I knew I couldn’t possibly be right for you. No. That’s not right. I knew you couldn’t be right for me. Because I’d never be with a guy who’d rather date Morticia Addams than me. Also, you’re not even that good-looking.

Delete.

Hi Chris, I’m confused. You don’t want to see me because I’m “pushing too hard?” Is it because I offered to bring you soup? What, you figure one minute I’m force-feeding you chicken soup, the next I’ll be yanking you down the aisle? Wow. That’s pretty messed up, Chris. I’m sorry if you had such a lousy childhood that you somehow interpret a benign gesture of caring as oppressive and overbearing. Loser.

Delete.

Chris, I feel like crying right now. I knew you weren’t really interested in me, but I was so attracted to you that even when I knew in my brain it was a mistake to pursue you, my heart and hormones compelled me to keep trying, waiting for you to discover how truly gorgeous and alluring I am. I wasted my time and yours, and for this I can only say, Mea culpa! And, alas, farewell.

Delete.

Hi, Chris, I just got the weirdest email from someone claiming to be you. He said I was pushing too hard. He said the chemistry just wasn’t there. Surely this was some kind of joke. Please write back immediately.

Delete.

I close my laptop and sit there. Deep breaths, Sara, I tell myself. This isn’t the end of the world. Sometimes you’re the windshield and sometimes you’re the bug. Today you’re the bug. Everybody gets to be the bug at least once in a lifetime. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Now… let go.

I open the laptop and begin again.

Dear Chris, I hate you. And you smell bad, by the way.

Delete.

I think I’ll try this again later.

All day today, regardless of the task at hand, I can think of nothing but Chris’s email. I keep having these awful flashbacks:

1. Standing in his kitchen and throwing myself at his lips.
2. Telling him he looked nice in his blue button-down shirt and waiting in vain for a reciprocal compliment.
3. Hearing him say he likes goth girls and looking down forlornly at my floral skirt from Chico’s and sandals, looking every inch the Midwestern mother that I am.
4. Offering to make him chicken soup—a sincere expression of concern based on the assumption he might actually like me.
5. Hearing myself the way he must have heard me, as grasping, needy and pushy.

What am I feeling? Embarrassed. Rejected. Awkward. Silly. Stupid. Unattractive. Old. Unlovable.

What am I thinking? That even if Chris hadn’t sent that email, and even if he thought I was the most irresistible woman he’d ever met, I probably wouldn’t be with him a year from now because he would have bored me. Setting aside my bruised ego for a moment, I can honestly say that his cute smile and lovely body would have held my interest for only so long—and then I’d be yearning for the brilliant mind and wry wit that kept me with Craig long after the pheromones had fizzled out.

I am in the bathroom, washing my face with cool water and regarding myself in the mirror. I look okay. I feel okay. This isn’t so bad.

Friday, 8:30 p.m.
I am on my porch now, watching flocks of vivid goldfinches dart in and out among the fading purple coneflower. My air is cool. I can hear someone practicing piano in the house on the corner. I open my laptop.

Hi, Chris,
Thanks for the honest email. I enjoyed meeting you too. Take good care, Sara.