When Mr. B arrived, all that was on my mind were the lazy Sunday mornings we would inevitably spend in a quaint European village, in our modest but cozy home with the door I would insist on painting red.
The memories we had not yet made, were the ones that kept me hooked.
In reality, Mr. B raised his eyebrow every time I put ketchup on my eggs (I have a very refined palate, I know) and furrowed his brow at the numbers of times I brush my teeth during the day (how is impeccable oral hygiene annoying?!). These are just two examples out of the countless red flags I painstakingly extracted from my recollection of Mr. B’s commentaries on my everyday habits.
These may seem like inconsequential observations on his part, but they weren’t. His comments were not relayed in a “you’re so goofy and endearing so let’s ride off into the sunset” kind of way. Mr. B made me feel insecure.
I was feeding off the dream. Moving to Europe. Travelling the world. White dresses. Bright-eyed, gap-toothed kids. Matching tombstones. The whole deal. My seemingly monotonous job and existence no longer mattered, because I was hanging on every word.
I let this man swoop into my life, and found myself redefining my existence and future plans. I wholly believed that once we were together, I could finally be happy.
It took me 27 years to figure out that you can’t put your happiness into someone else’s hands. Especially if you have horrible taste in men.
Current Status: cautiously optimistic / jamming to T-Swizzle / finished all Friends seasons (what do I watch now?! Suggestions welcome!)