Monday, April 30, 2012

While I'm being honest

The Athlete got married this weekend.

It might be the source of all of my crazy. (see: earlier post, every tweet I sent today, all of the feelings I am feeling)

Okay, maybe not all of it. But 32%. At least. For sure.

I knew that he was getting married – overseas, to a girl he had dated before he ever met me – but I didn’t know that I would squeeze my eyes shut and scroll maniacally when pictures of his wedding popped up in my Facebook newsfeed. (The Athlete and I are not F’book friends anymore, but we have mutual friends. One of whom made the trip to Europe to see him get hitched.)

I don’t want to see the pictures. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to care.

I didn’t care so much about him getting married so much that I dreamed about it last night.

I know that he's gone from my life. I'm fine with him being gone from my life. I learned things about him that make me glad that he's gone from my life.
And there my brain goes, dreaming about him.
At least my subconscious made The Athlete of last night's dream look positively hideous.
Maybe that's how I'll remember him. Instead of remembering him all decked out in a tuxedo on his wedding day. In pictures that I could not stand to see.


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