Like every New York City dwelling 20/30-something year old woman, many of my love life ‘moments’ can be found in a scene of one our favorite movies – Sex and the City. Women of all backgrounds relate to Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte because they are us. The triumphs, the failures, the fears, the surprises and all the moments in between.
Many of us have a Mr. Big, the guy who whisked you off your feet and dropped you even harder, he was never really “available” no matter how much you wanted him to be. My ‘Mr. Big’ was all that and more. Successful, powerful, older, rich, and a complete emotional fucktard (see definition below).
Fucktard: [fuhk- tahrd] noun; a person, especially of the male sex, who can drive the sanest of women to complete and utter insanity just by their existence. Characteristics include, but not limited to: Difficulty expressing emotion/feelings and questionable decision making skills.
Mr. Big has been a constant through the ups and downs of my NYC dating experience, for three years (in varying degrees) he was my constant. We didn’t start off romantically, but I guess thats how some of the best stories are made. Some would argue, it was like a fairytale, being doted on, expensive vacations at five star resorts, private helicopter rides, a private driver, picnics on private beaches, VIP tickets to VIP events…we had fun, lots of it.
We became best friends in the most unconventional relationship and somehow a casual fling turned into the most complicated, passionate, frustrating, yet deeply loving ‘relationship’. There aren’t enough days left in the span of time to tell the full story of our romance but that all came to a screeching halt when I pushed send on a ‘Dear John’ e-mail that ended with a desperate plea for “real space.”
That was almost three months ago and I haven’t seen nor spoken to him since. We tried to be friends when I “broke up” with him last winter but we all know how that story goes. When you speak to someone everyday for over three years, and then you stop cold turkey. It’s what I imagine it’d be like to go from a heroin addict who would sell their soul for a hit to five years clean and sober. Needless to say, withdrawal’s a bitch.
I guess I should go check my dating website inbox and see if my prince charming has found me yet, or at least someone with all their teeth. Standards, gotta hold on to those, I’m a classy lady.