Lydia’s Blog

Well…it’s way too early to say, really.

It’s funny. Just when you think that innocent, insatiable part of yourself has either atrophied, turned black and wilted off from gangrene or was blown off in the Viet Cong jungles of your last relationship…it re-emerges with an intensity than alternates between breathtaking and horrifying.

I had been single for exactly two months to the day when I was invited to the impromptu birthday get-together of a colleague at the opera. It was there at this small party when I met him.

The idea of Him has puzzled my tiny, frought brain for a long time. The him I met at the party certainly bares scant resemblance to the archetypal Him in my mind. Still, that didn’t stop me from chasing down his number from the administrative offices the next day. I called. We met. I went to rehearsal. We met again that very evening. We spent the next day together. The day after I flew to Graz. Calls and texts. I went to Colgne to visit him. We drove back to Stuttgart. We spent days and nights rolling around and then dazedly leaving my apartment to forage for food and booze. Life continues so….

And it couldn’t be more fabulous.

You know the story: Hot guys on the street check you out (because you’re glowing like a Chernobyl trout), and you don’t even give it a second thought. Your jeans begin to hang off of you, because eating suddenly seems as foreign as communal cow-worship in the Ganges. Bedtime looks better than Hanukkah, your birthday, and spring break all rolled into one sweaty package.

There’s a charmed moment at the beginning of every affair when the him in question actually is, for all intents and purposes, Him. Any distinction disappears. He becomes Him and ceases to be him…

Still, for the battered, war-weary relationship junkies of Generation Y, the Santa Claus of new love is followed closely by the shadow of a vindictive and terrifying Knecht Ruprecht (look it up). When will the perfect, beautiful apparition of Him begin to separate from his new host…leaving you staring silently across the restaurant table at another pathetic, annoying, creature…whom you know too well but wish you didn’t. When will the point come when your only comfort, and an empty one at that, is knowing that the him that used to be Him doesn’t know you at all…

…and probably never did.

Still, maybe what makes flowers beautiful is the knowledge that one day they’ll wither and rot. They sure do smell nice there at the beginning though, don’t they…

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 24th, 2006 at 11:32 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.