There is this wonderful thing that happens when I write things down. All the anxiety I build up over analyzing a situation, any situation, gets spent looking for the perfect way to describe it. All my fear and worry and insecurity gets chewed up and spit out as fodder.
In the 10 days since my disastrous 29 birthday, I have spent far too many hours replaying the details of that evening - and the evenings that followed - wondering just when exactly my life got so strange. The truth is it has never been what could be described as normal. But whose is?
I needed my necklace. But more so I needed some sort of closure to the confusion. Emotional rectification had come swiftly but that confusion of just not fully understanding a string of events left a weight in the air.
By the time we finally met up, I had gnawed on that confusion until any taste of bitterness or anger or sadness was gone. I thought it would be harder to see him. I thought I would feel some need to act in a melodramatic fashion with the goal of making him feel bad, but I didn't.
I just wanted any unpleasantness to be over. It just felt silly and when he said he hoped we could get to a point where we were 'cool' with one another, the step seemed completely unnecessary.
It felt fine to be around him, easy even. Just because the dating thing had spiraled into disaster at record-breaking speeds, didn't mean we needed to go through the motions of pretending to get over something. At least I didn't. I had 10 days. I was good.
Who knows how friendship will work out. Perhaps I will never learn to understand his Greek and he will never get my Martian. But hell it seems worth a try. After all what's the worst that can happen.