I don’t get to see all my girls too often, but it’s always nice when I do. It’s also always a roundtable discussion of absolute fuckery as well. The other night we all caught up with life over fake mustaches, mini-sombreros, and cantaloupe ice-cream. In between career talk, sexcapades, and ex-best friends, we of course talked about our love lives.
While I love hearing about the quirky habits of friends significant others, or the mushy text messages they receive from them, this part of the conversation kinda sucks. Because I never have anything to say. There’s not even anyone worth talking about. I’m not gonna sit here pretending that I don’t care either. I mean, what woman doesn’t?
I miss having something to say. I miss mass texting my girls cute pics of me and my man only to get a, “You guys are gay” (in the most endearing way) text soon after. I miss hearing a distinctive ringtone go off, and having to leave the room for a few minutes in an attempt to hide my “I miss you” voice. I miss being excited about someone. It’s been so long, sometimes I romanticize my own feelings just for kicks. I miss it. I miss having a story to tell; a first date to recap.
But then. I remember all the other stories I used to tell too. The not-so-nice ones. I remember the anxiety of a thousand butterflies with broken wings. I remember looking for things, then wishing they weren’t real once I found them. I remember broken promises, see-through lies, and fake forgiveness. I remember feeling fucking insane. And then I remember that I’ll take having nothing to say, over telling the same, old dysfunctional story any day.
I don’t miss someone making me feel crazy. But I won’t lie, I do miss being crazy about someone.