Every time I come here to work, about at day 10, plus or minus a few days, something happens which I call the “10 day fall-out.”
Call it homesickness, heartache, or a break down.
What I imagine is….your heart is a vessel for all these positive emotions.
Everything from your cat wanting to be held when you get home,
to the hand you hold with your forbidden lover, to your mother saying, “lets get lunch this week.”
All of your most recent memories have a 10 day holding time.
When the last drop of love drips out of your heart, like the last grain of sand
in an hourglass…something in you also runs out. Your body knows it, feels it, senses the loss, and doesn’t like it.
You’ve been physically cut off from all of the comforts of your other world back home, and when this moment of loss hits, all you can do is cry.
This time is strange as its the first time I have been back here not having an official boyfriend.
I HAD a boyfriend.
I HAD a ring. Well…he had it. Waiting to give it to me.
I didn’t want it.
I fell for somebody else – somebody forbidden.
Not intentionally either – I’m talking about the kind of love where you tripped, you fell hard, and there isn’t shit you can do about it. The kind where you say to yourself, “Really, heart? Are you sure?! I think you might have lost your mind.”
Knowing my heart no longer wanted to be with Mr. Sensible…I ended things with him some weeks ago, in favor of the untested waters of Mr. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”
My boyfriend and I had a very different routine than this time’s 10 day Fall-Out.
Day 10 was when we would fight, and I’d want to break up.
This time all I could do was cry.
Because I miss everything that’s right,
but mostly I miss Mr. Wrong.
I wish I knew the science of “Day 10.” Alpha female, biological chemical warfare, explained. Maybe my ovaries sense the loss. Maybe after 10 days of a night shift, my dopamine levels are low, and the crying is due to a lack of natural sunlight. Its certain that exercise alone doesn’t fix it. No amount of treadmill running and pole dancing is a suitable cure.
Having this much free time working the night shift allows your brain the opportunity to get a little too imaginative. Your head spins around all the magical “what-ifs”.
What IF Mr. Wrong was suddenly available. What IF Mr. Wrong knew how I felt.
I don’t know that he knows. There’s plenty to dig up. We have facebook, after all…where I’ve left plenty of pieces making it easy for any love detective to put together.
Talking with my genius writer friend online, he said that I should tell Mr. Wrong how I feel. I type out a practice letter, as if writing to Mr. Wrong. My friend revised it. It became brilliance and simplicity, all in one.
I took that letter and re-fashioned it to my liking in an email.
Then I got reasonable, and asked myself questions.
What is the result of a whore saying “I want to be with you”?
You can’t really be with a girl while she lives in a brothel.
I’m here to take care of my life. Relationships seem imaginary.
Mr. Wrong is just as broke as I am so saying “lets run off and be together!”
is the biggest joke imaginable.
Unlike other women, I don’t seek to possess or own any man.
No man can truly call me “his” right now, and knowing somebody is the keeper of my heart would not change the reality of my situation.
That email? I saved it, and it will never be sent.
I have too much pride to be anything other than realistic.
Instead in my moment of longing, all I could do was text Mr. Wrong and say,
“How’s the weather back home? I’m missing it.”
As if to say, “I’m missing you.”
His response?
“It’s hot here too.”
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