So my romance with the older gentleman is basically finished. He was and is a very charming man but we don’t have any business being together really it seems. There are occasionally some personality traits and differences in upbringing that can’t be overcome. I guess. And anyway, I’m a young looking 33 and I think he felt… too old.
There is someone else. He’s a gorgeous man. Very intelligent. Eloquent. And I could fall flat on my face, madly, passionately in love in less than a microscopic moment. BUT he might be a bit of a Tom Buchanan type.
Tom Buchanan… You know the kind of man I mean. Husband of Daisy… The well educated, well connected, well-bred monster who rode beautifully and had sexy broad shoulders? That one.
I’m not sure. He could also be a charming throwback to a better time when I was in love with a truly attractive and daring soul who was genuinely amazing… A long time ago.
He could be a combination of both men. Matter-of-fact, that’d make sense.
I just don’t particularly want to bother with a “Tom” sort. They’re soo boring. Soo predicatable. Once you’ve met one you’ve met them all. Even if they’re sometimes lovely fathers and can humor you wonderfully when you most need and want it, it’s not worth it. I’d rather be “lonely” or at least searching.
He’s so handsome though. And we have excellent chemistry (or so it seems). And, it’s not like I haven’t “broken in” a Tom before. Men like that break easily in regard to me for some reason. The problem is, of course, that I want to be the “broken” one this time.
No crying… No horrible suffering. Just… warmly, and sweetly broken. I want and simply have to have the sort of thing that happens when you find someone who reads your heart and honestly loves you regardless.
I’m really just tired of being bored. Yes. BORED. I’ve realized that a lot of my romantic pain stems from a sort of strained, ugly boredom.
You see, I’m a writer, maybe and that’s a definite personality type (in my opinion). We tend to see people for who they actually are. And in that mess there’s not a lot that surprises us. We hope for a real shock. A good one. But often, it’s just the pits. A letdown. And it’s tragic, and draining and… infinitely tedious.
You come back from the sadness and malaise. But you’re less tolerant. Less patient… Or at least I am. So far.
You give less of yourself the next time because there’s less hope. You feel less pain but you also miss what you once had long ago or you dream about something better that you know very easily might never be. At least in this life.
It gets redundant. Horribly redundant…
You just keep wondering why the “boys” (of all ages) don’t get it. They’re not that special with they’re tired lines and crass sentiments. Why should you swoon for them? You could fake it, but why bother? That’s actually quite mean anyway.
If he’s sincere about a word he’s saying you hope he also has enough maturity, wisdom and thought to actually lift a trembling pinky to pursue you like a man. You hope he realizes that he needs to have courage because otherwise… what’s the damn point?!
I’m not a “contemporary woman” I guess. I don’t want to be bullied and refuse it. Vehemently. Yet, I like a man who remembers what it’s like to have both emotions and manliness. Remember? The sort of feeling men had before they were told that not crying meant that they were repressed and outdated. I’ve known a lot of men who didn’t cry easily and often they were deeper and more emotionally available than today’s weeping willows or the business minded “tough guy” who masquerades as the old sort.
No. I don’t hate men. I just feel disillusioned. A least for now… At least here in the US.