Memoirs of a Single-Man - Live Journal
People have asked, on more occasions than I’d care to remember, if I’ve ever tried to win her back. As if in some primeval competition, she was the trophy to be won and displayed on the living room shelf.
But then again, I’ve never considered myself a competitive man, and have lately found myself with too little space to spare for trophies. But people ask anyway, and prod me on the romantic epic that is my supposed attempt at trying to ‘win her back’.
So ‘no’, I tell them, ‘I’ve never tried’. And with a bat of an eyelash and abrupt change of topic, I silently signal to move on, and steer the conversation elsewhere.
I used to think about it, that much I’m willing to admit. Or at least entertain the idea of trying something, anything, to give things a second run. And during the first month since her leaving, I tried to convince myself that it was all some wicked misunderstanding, some petty form of bickering that was taken the wrong way. And so I waited for her to come around, to call me in the middle of the night, and tell me – well, that everything was all right. In the end, I found myself staring at my ceiling, waiting for a phone call that never came.
By the time the first month slowly turned into the second, into the third and into the fourth, I had finally gotten wind that she had begun to see someone new. And it was then that I realized that whatever opportunity was left to bring her around was now quickly dashed away. She was with someone else now, I thought, and I thanked what was left of my own sanity for not letting me ruin that.
Looking back at things, however, I wonder if anything could’ve been different. If, only sooner, I would’ve swallowed my pride and told her the truth – that I missed her – and that all I really wanted to do was to call her and tell her that everything was all right. And that maybe all it would’ve taken was a gallon of ice cream with just enough chocolate, and me, standing in front of her door all dressed up to say three fateful words: that I still do.
But then, I remember, that she had left me.
People ask if I’ve ever tried winning her back, as if she was ever mine to win. Women aren’t trophies, and it’s only one of the greatest of ironies that it’s mostly women who forget that. We parted under terms that I now imagine could have – should have – been better, but I guess when you fall out as hard as that, the cuts on your knees are bound to be deep. For me to have tried something, anything, would’ve been like trying to breathe life into a dead corpse. And looking back at what was left, even a corpse had more life than what we had.
The grand misconception, it seems, is that love is the art of winning someone over. It is viewed as a competition, a contest, a challenge, an almost medieval proving of worth. But then, if I’ve ever learned anything, it is that love is acceptance. And just as you accept her for everything that she is, so should she also accept you for everything that you are. As for me, I accepted early on that our time was over, it had passed, and despite everything, it was great. A lot of my friends have seen my failure to ‘win her back’ as a cowardly surrendering, when in my mind, it was simply a painful way of accepting. I never believed in getting back together, in cool-offs, and time-outs.
I never believed in space and time and those other things you supposedly lose when you fall in love. I never believed in second chances, second takes, and second cuts. Life isn’t a movie you can edit in premiere. At least, not mine.
At the end of the day, acceptance becomes a form of carrying on. And when she told me she didn’t love me, I knew, I didn’t need to hear that a second time.
