Love Gas – Part One

gas maskLet me apologize beforehand to my readers who do not favor venting or ranting. But I am a big time communicator of all feelings and thoughts because right or wrong doesn’t matter at that instance! It is the raw honesty that matters and matters critically! No one can or would know how to manage a sensitive situation if they are not working with REAL truths, the bare-naked facts! In a way then, I am not truly apologizing right now; I reserve the right to do it later. But I have to get this off my chest.

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I am not posting this based on any theory.  It is not based on any scientific research of which I am presently aware.  I’m not even sure if this subject has been written about for ages by thousands.  But this post is most definitely from personal experiences and I am getting increasingly fed-up with it!

When I feel my pulse rise like this I try my best to find appropriate ways to vent.  One of those successful ways is to go run.  Run until I can barely expand my lungs and rib-cage.  Another that works for me extremely well is going to a batting-cage and hitting the shit out of baseballs… or softballs if I want to dish out a thoroughly good whacking!  True story:  once I did bust open the covering on a baseball I swung so hard.  I realize the ball was likely old and on its last home run, but still… it felt good!

I am ready to run hard.  I am so ready to hit the covers off some baseballs screaming a new expletive with every 1,000 foot homer I hit!  Well, I’m not Miguel Cabrera:  between 100 – 120 foot homer… some of them frickin’ grounders!

Here is what has happened….. again.

That Delirium Idiot-Inducing Love Gas

The other day I posted a polite encouraging compliment on a dear friend’s profile in response to her photo and comments of how happy she is newly married.  I quote:  “Isn’t it great to be a great parent [her name]!?  And also a phenomenal wife!”

The critical context…

From the 2010 movie

From the 2010 movie “Last Night”. Husband & wife married under wrenching fear, silence & half-truths.

My dear female friend and I have a long close friendship that goes back 30-years to college.  We have always been close platonic friends that entire time.  This is her second marriage to apparently, according to her, the best man in the world she could’ve ever dreamt for.  I am extremely happy for them both!  She and I had hundreds of long-distance phone calls running hours long about her first slow dying marriage then exploding divorce which involved her four children.  It was nasty and the ex-husband put her through hell and back using the kids, financially putting her through the ringers, and shaming her publicly (via their church) for her extra-marital affair.  You’d had thought a public stoning was next.

Over this past Mother’s Day weekend she texted me three long messages overly thanking me for always making her feel she was not the slum-of-the-Earth for cheating on her ex-husband and always fighting his brutal shaming of her and him never taking ownership for his part of a rotting marriage he was clearly a half-part of.  The death of a marriage is never ever one-sided; I learned that the hard way twice despite being cheated on both times.

From 400-miles away during her nasty divorce, I had always gladly been available for her.  We always had no-holes-barred conversations about anything under the Sun or Moon; I mean ANYTHING!  Naturally, this comfort level included much verbal flirting.  At the time it helped her self-esteem enormously.  Disclaimer:  To put any of my reader’s suspicions to bed (seriously no pun intended there!), in our 30-year friendship we had never done anything the least bit sexual; only the verbal flirts over the phone, always 400-miles away.

My Ears Must Be Enormous

When it comes to “unavailable” women, I’ve learned too many times the painful way, my exceptional communication skills, levels of rawness, and articulation are my glory/attraction and my curse/repellant.  The doubling of the curse/repellant is also amplified by the seemingly insecure BFH (boyfriend, fiancé, or husband).  Here is the kicker:  for whatever reasons, the BFH does not know me, or maybe anything about me.  He damn sure doesn’t know me like a best friend over five, ten, twenty years or anything about my integrity like she does.

I’ve asked so many times, how/why is this so frequently the case?

Or replace

Or replace “opinions” with “feelings”.

Yesterday, I received three long text messages from my dear happily married friend.  She preempted her message I know you’re going to hate what I’m about to say and ask you…  She is probably spot-on because we do indeed know each other (platonically) very well.  That is simply the way the Universe has put us in each other’s life.  She goes on with “…like you and your ex-wives, I am remarried to a very jealous husband who also was hurt deeply and cheated on.  I do not want to and cannot mess this one up!  Finally my semi-orders: Please rein back your [public] comments and their frequency; he is going to get too suspicious!

After I took about 45-minutes to an hour to simmer down, I responded, “Helen of Troy [the name I’m giving her here], I am 400-miles away and now we hardly ever talk.  Seriously?”  We no longer talk for hours or as many times because when they began dating it was too risky and she still had some guilt over her previous infidelity.  She wanted to prove to him beyond a shadow of doubt that she was no longer a….let’s use a different term than her ex-husband and church used:  expressive courtesan.  I completely abided to her fears and request then.  Reluctantly I will again, and angry again.  I want to scream.

Here is my screaming question which annoyingly arises too often with female friends…

Why can you not openly comfortably talk to your BFH the way you have talked for 30-years to me!?

And this question leads to perhaps too many other revealing questions doesn’t it?

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Part Two will be over two previous situations with good close female friends; one of them I promise will be unexpected and even more revealing!  You’ll want to stay-tuned.  Trust me.

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