It hit me last night when I caught myself looking at pictures of ex-girlfriends. As if remembering the tragedy of failed relationships will somehow bring my current outlook on life into sharper focus, I turn to the photos of smiling women who I once thought of spending my future with. Maybe it’s the memory of a time when I thought I had it sorted out that brings me solace.
I haven’t been feeling quite like myself lately.
My sister mentioned that I didn’t sound like me when we were speaking on the phone yesterday.
It’s easy enough to say that I haven’t been feeling well, that working with snotty, sneezy, tissue-sleeved children keeps my nose running while I try to catch up with the good life. I think the truth is that I’ve been suffering from the ills of a tinge of conceit, of a self-centred ill-disposition.
This is more than simply caring very little about the lives of others. I think this is the result of a lack of meaningful relationships in my life. It’s not that they aren’t available to me, but that I haven’t been taking advantage of them.
I went out with my group of friends for the first time in over six months this past Saturday. Any burgeoning relationships that I’ve had with women have ended because of the unbeknownst emergence of a recent ex-boyfriend or the embarrassment of responding after an unreasonable amount of time. I’ve become increasingly dependent on myself for the balance of a healthy social life.
It could be that I’m now nicotine free, that I’ve been keeping somewhat busy with work, or that I haven’t really been napping in the evenings. Whatever it is, the smiles of ex-girlfriends aren’t helping me reach any solutions, or making me feel any better about myself.