Falling in love
So there I was: single, the world at my feet but totally unaware of the tumble I’d made into the rabbit’s hole Love is to me.
But for starters, I’m afraid I must somewhat refine my previous story. I romanticised it just a little bit by telling you it was love at first (re)sight, but things didn’t happen overnight. It took half a fortnight. So what helped the somber me fall in love within a week? It wasn’t only our playful teasing and testing, which to a large extent served to relieve the tension on my first day away from home.
As I told you, I very slowly revealed my phone number to him when he’d asked me for it, spelling it out digit by digit, leaving tens of minutes up to a full hour between each one of them. In response, he waited a full week and one day to send me the message I was looking forward to (understatement), leaving me in total despair. Apparently, one of his more sensitive colleagues had advised him not to come across as being too eager. However eager though he was, he awaited eight days to finally contact me.
Falling out of love
Meanwhile I could have easily asked the friends I was living with for his number, them being his best friends, but that’s not how this honourable lady plays the game, is it? Also, I needed time to process that break-up I told you about in “Pack up!”. On Tuesday, two days after I’d arrived at my friends’ place, my one-time partner and I would’ve celebrated our thirteenth anniversary. Instead of preparing cake or whatever I would do on such a joyful occasion, I spent hours in bed, crying my heart out.
Apparently I’d slightly overdone it: come Friday, the at first seemingly endless pool of tears that had been flooding me, my pillow and my phone had run dry. I was not entirely sure what was going on and quite afraid even that maybe this heartbroken girl had entered some dangerous denial phase that could go on for years, then to slap me in the face with a wet towel to remind me of the loss I still had to process…
So I went for long walks, talked to my friends, wrote it all down in “The big book of our divorce”, laid down on the couch to practise Mindfulness in a silly attempt to connect to my real feelings and, however cruel it may sound, brought up as many profound memories as possible: not just the annual trips to Sweden or buying our first car together, but even the moment we put our dog Darko to sleep, our teary goodbyes in a snowy white landscape when I was studying abroad, us being told about the malignant tumor by a not too diplomatic doctor and my then husband-to-be being rolled into the operating theatre to have the tumor removed.
Darko had been with me ever since I was, erm… Well, if have a look at my more recent pictures, you’ll just know he was blessed with a great many dog years!
Having to say goodbye to that lovely dog made us connect on another level, the both of us crying until our healthy salt reserves were totally depleted (or very low at the least).
Swedish winter wonderland memories wouldn’t even cut it: not a single tear from this girl’s eyes.
Driving across the beautiful Swedish countryside during summer visiting Malmö, Gothenburg, Stockholm and Urshult, dreaming about maybe one day moving there…
… trying out every city’s ice cream…
… running and swimming with Gérard…
… conquering our fears in the (to me) scariest roller coaster ever.
November, the three of us on our last trip together, with him trying to steer clear of a different future that was already unveiling itself to us.
So I kept thinking about the nice and the more disturbing things we’d experienced together, doing everything I could to get another tear to roll down my cheeks, but it just wouldn’t work.
So after a couple of dry days during which I was getting more and more frustrated over not hearing from my muscular, handy cook, I finally got a text from him telling me he’d pay us a visit the day after. I spent an entire sleepless night pondering over what could and might and maybe should and possibly would and certainly should not happen, still totally in denial of what was obviously going on.
After all, I was most definitely (sure) going to stay single (uh huh) for at least 6 months (right): only 5 months and 13 days to go.
Btw, if you want to know how miserable I felt in that coaster, just have a look at this video. You don’t even have to listen carefully to realise I’d stepped far out of my comfort zone.