It Ain't Over...

Last I could harness the energy or summon the creativity to post, I was grappling with some rather serious shit...that being my relationship with M3 entering a state of indefinite hiatus and me subsequently descending to an emotional depth that even a week in Cabo couldn't remedy.

Now, don't get me wrong: the hiatus, philosophically, was a good thing...the "right" thing, even.

But it sucked.
Hard.
For both of us.

After a couple of genuinely horrendous weeks apart, during which time Smrtygrl may or may not have stopped eating altogether, M3 and I admitted to our mutual and vehement hatred of being apart. Through a series of overly verbose, emotionally gratuitous messages (um, I'm a girl in crisis...is there any other kind?), a few phone calls, and me being on the receiving end of one very spontaneous 10pm weeknight visit from M3, we decided to take another run at it. That was about a week ago.

Slowly, and hopefully ultimately surely, M3 and I will be figuring "us" out. With no other parties involved. (Unless, of course, its his sister because she remains, and forever will be, the bomb.)

Its a lot like before, really, if not ever so slightly more fragile. Through this journey we've completely exposed ourselves to one another...have expressed raw and pretty scary feelings (both the good and the not-so-good)...and have admitted to certain fears that only time and fate can - and perhaps eventually will - overcome.

Some things are different now. Like how I no longer feel as if M3 and I are invincible. As if what we have could be impermeable by others, somehow immune to even the most obvious of challenges like the distance between us, or the very recent demise of his last relationship and the emotional ramifications thereof.

But, then again, a lot of things haven't changed at all.

I still get excited to see him. Every time.
He still smiles and plants one on me within mere seconds of opening his eyes in the morning.
I still find his often-flat-out-retarded-and-juvenile sense of humor terribly amusing so much of the time it genuinely defies explanation.
His shoulders are still impossibly broad, his rump inexplicably robust.
I still get sad on Sunday nights.
And he still kisses me and tells me not to be. And then somehow I'm not anymore.
I still try mightily to enjoy reading the Op-Ed page, or even the Economist's e-newsletter that I willingly subscribed to a few weeks ago...and generally fail miserably.
He still can give me goosebumps simply by taking my hand in his...or brushing the hair out of my eyes...or kissing me on the cheek.

And I still absolutely adore him.

As much as I'd like it to be the case, I can't promise smooth sailing. Or a happy ending, for that matter. But at least for now, there's not a fat lady in sight.

And if she shows up and even thinks about attempting to open her mouth again, I'm gonna smack that bitch.