I met a crazy person. We've been dating a week, of which two days I've spent in terror. Not because I'm miserable. I'm used to misery. Rather, because it's simply too good to be true. Meaning: Good isn't real.
After all, every girl knows that love hurts, that in order to find it, you have to go through seven levels of hell. But fun? Hugs? Romantic sunsets? No, that must be the work of the devil.
I'm not supposed to miss him on Saturday, hug for five hours on Sunday, leave Almodovar in the middle in order to have great sex on Tuesday, to talk until morning on Wednesday, to wake up in his arms as he says he's in love on Thursday.
I'm trying to take things nice and slow, and it can't work that way if someone is sitting across from you and telling you that he loves you after two days, and, in the same breath, tells you that you're also in love, even if you won't admit it.
Who says that?
There are feelings, fine, we all know they're there. Can't concentrate, can't eat, walk around with a goofy grin. But, hello, who says that?! Are you insane?! And in the middle of Tel Aviv, man! Someone could have heard you.
You're supposed to screw me and then leave me. After two days, you play power games over who will call first, miss your mythological ex, get depressed, and break up – that's how it works! Sorry that I'm yelling, but it's unbelievable! Is it any wonder that I'm going nuts?
So after being gentle and feminine for a few days, I became possessed.
I found myself walking around the house, giving an hour and a half lecture on how it's not logical, and he must be dreaming, and even if I do have strong feelings I can't believe them because I've been wrong in the past, and that I've been told 'I love you' a million times in my life by guys who all left, that relationships cause atrophy, that the concept is no longer relevant, that in Europe women get pregnant with legal documents, that we're all latent Mormons, and what is love anyway, and why does he think he knows me well enough to decide for me whether I'm in love.
He listened carefully. When I was done ranting, he asked if there was a bottom line. I thought about it a bit. There wasn't. He smiled at me, amused and unaffected, and asked: "So when is your lease up?" I fainted on him. What else could I do? My whole life, I've been whining about how all guys are chickens, who don't know how to love or court or pay attention to a girl, that they have a fragile ego and no balls.
Getting what you ask for
I guess you could say I got what I asked for. I just forgot, when I ordered, to ask for the courage to deal with getting it. I never believed any man who said things like these to me so early (or even later) on and never believed that when it's 'it', that you know.
But I believe it now for some bizarre reason, even though it undermines all of the evidence I accumulated in my life. Even an idiot like me can't help but see that, if I let him go, I'm truly and incurably stupid.
And maybe I was wrong. Let's see how we can fix my stupid theory. From the beginning. So what did we say? That for love you have to go through seven levels of hell and a lot of pain? Okay, let's check: was there hell? Yes. Was there pain? Yes.
No one said you have to go through the whole process with only one person. And now, that I've straightened out my head a bit, excuse me. I'm going to go watch the damn sunset and give myself a chance.