Out of Pocket, Out of Mind: Single &34
Sometimes, it’s your own people: they ask you obvious questions out of curiosity, but they’re some of the most out of pocket ones. Whether it’s bad timing, a touchy subject, or just flat out unnecessary, the after-moments leave some of us asking “why?”. Out of respect, I personally try not to snipe at people and ask why they’ve asked a particular question. I could be defensive, but that’s just not my personal way. The smart-ass in me sometimes wants to snipe, but the very old and tired 69-year-old in my head tells me to walk away and mutter about it later on. Mutter I shall — over coffee, loading the dishwasher, cleansing my face, and getting the mail. Yare, Yare, Daze.
It’s your own people, and while they mean well…there’s just some subjects some of us would rather not talk about, let alone think about. These are the questions that resonate with us. For a thinker/worrier such as myself, they stick for a while until something else distracts me. I’ll pick them apart, compare logic against opinion to see why they chose the question, and pretty much send myself into a cycle of thinker’s anguish. Let’s just say that there’s a time to pump me up and make me feel good, and a time to pick another topic and not ask what should be known as a painful question.
Case in point: getting asked if an ex I haven’t talked to since October has done anything for me on Valentine’s Day.
Now, for a curious soul who isn’t privy to the history of said ex, how we ended, and what happened that lead up to the ending, it’s an innocent question. However, if you’re in my trusted inner circle of friends, family, and confidants, I’ve already borne my soul to you about this subject. You can see it in my darting eyes and fast speech that it’s a touchy subject. The sass to mask my pain lets you know that things didn’t end well, let alone the right way. If I haven’t updated you with any signs of contact from said person, then…shouldn’t it be sort of obvious that they’re not sending me anything via Russel Stover, Vermont Teddy Bear, or FTD?
Please, work with me, people.
It’s the most loving day of the year, everyone else is posting plans, gifts, candy, memes, and all sorts of outfits and feelings, and I roll up in the kitchen looking like death in a gray pullover hoodie. I’m eating my afternoon snack, trying not to cry or look too obviously sullen — does that look like somebody who got something for V-Day? Does that description fit a happy person, or somebody trying to cope with the month…period?
I’m split down the middle between not caring and looking for the candy sales and feeling that hint of sadness because I’m alone again. I can accept that not everyone gets something this day, and my coping mechanism of baking cookies for others may fall flat meaning-wise, but I can’t help feeling bad with such an off/on history with this holiday. I usually get pity presents. My teen years were filled with silence, save for that one V-Day when my puppy love internet guy-thing sent me a care package of goodies. After that, I either had the misfortune of dating men who “didn’t believe” in the day or had to push to make the magic on my own. I felt kind of stupid doing that, trying to make the best out of a day ruined by women prior to my existence.
This year, however, I just didn’t want to think about it that much. I didn’t want to think about my ex, I didn’t want to be reminded of his coldness, his ability to take “direct” too far, or the fact that I lost my best friend in the process of our breakup. I didn’t need to be reminded that I wasn’t getting anything. I wasn’t expecting it in the first place, but to have it rubbed in my face indirectly by somebody married, recently gifted, and sitting pretty while she ate dinner and asked….just felt powerfully shady and messed up. Why…why would you ask me that question?
Perhaps I should have snapped back. It would have clarified my feelings better than the pained humor I used to respond. “He doesn’t care about me”, I said back to her. The words spun in my head, and I fought back tears. I cried those tears silently that night, waiting for a cup of tea to steep properly. I held my own self, a little mad that I’d reached that same two-year mark where another relationship failed, and this one was serious. The extra layer of hurt, the fight to be strong and independent, and the realization that I’m stepping into middle age…alone…hurt. I might not need a man to live a full life, but having a companion who understands you is a rarity. With all the things that lead to my being with that person, and all we shared before it started to become unhappiness on both ends, being alone hurts. The reminder opened a few closed wounds and made some new ones in the process.
In my head, I know the person meant well, attempting to make me feel like my ex cares and thinks about me, but in reality — the dead silence and my lack of expecting to hear from them are two different stories being told. My exes don’t send me flowers and messages. They don’t check up on me on social media. I am not the one who got away, but rather the stepping stone and the reminder that sometimes being alone is a good thing. I just wish that the obvious answer had presented itself long before the question was asked.
There’s nobody in my life (romantically) but me, my writing, and this insatiable need to be up all night until 6 AM. Such is life.
[About the author: Veronica is a Chicago native currently nestled in a small town in TN. She writes poems, takes blurry amateur photos, and is married to her Keurig. In her spare time, she makes origami stars. Her writing portfolio can be found on Vocal, and she has three self-published works on Amazon.]
