Life as an Extreme Sport

Sometimes In Tears


In my last letter, I spoke of pain. Of misery, and missing. And yet, yet… at the same time, I’m not. Not as much, not as strong, not as potently. Why? It’s simple, really. He makes me smile.

It’s nothing really more than that, and it feels odd to have it be that. It’s weird and strange to even think of other men as… men. When we were married, I didn’t shut down and ignore all the men I met, but I saw them differently. They were often handsome, virile. witty; some were the epitomy of everything good and gorgeous about men. And though their bodies or minds might have brought arousal, it was muted and almost indifferent. They could not provide what I had with you.

I’m sure at this point you’re wondering about Sachin. I’ve said it many times to you already, and once more won’t surprise you – he confused me. He was the first man I’ve known (personally or professionally) for a while who actually made me feel attractive and interesting. You were so busy being mad, so busy ignoring me, and now (so obviously in hindsight) steeling yourself for leaving me. But did I more than quietly lust after his body, or beg silently for more witty reparte? No; I didn’t consider him someone I would want to sit and sip tea by the fire with, or explore music or museums with, or a host of other things. Eye candy, soul candy, he was nothing more. I wish I could have seen through that confusion in October, but I don’t think it would have helped. Perhaps it delayed things, but… I think not. I think you just needed the excuse. But, I digress.

It is weird to be interested in men again, as living and breathing creatures d’amour. Or, at least, a man. There is a part of me that objects! “You’re married! You still *love* him! What are you doing?” But, daily, the other part of me is growing louder, stronger, more dominant. It argues convincingly that “of course I love him, and of course I always will love him, but that I have to move on because he doesn’t love me.”

And that’s it. And I am. I’ve said it before, and will again – I’m not getting over you, I don’t expect to ever be over you, no matter what you think or believe. I am learning how to live without you, how to love without you.

I find myself smiling a lot, especially the last few days. I can’t think of the last time I had a Monday that wasn’t a Monday – it was like the best month of Fridays rolled into one day. I actually think I started smiling Sunday night, and didn’t stop until Tuesday. But at times when I realize that I’m doing this – smiling over the thoughts, or comments of someone else, I crumble into something near tears; it hurts to realize that I *am* moving on, which was unexpected, to say the least. I thought I would be happy when I reached this point, this ability to go for days without thoughts of you, and being happy during those days. But instead a part of me is sad, because it means that it is really and truly over.

Still (sometimes through tears), I find myself smiling.