When we are confused about a relationship we solicit advice from our most trustworthy friends. If it is a problem with a woman, we seek the council of the ladies in our life. Logic tells us that they will invoke their feminine insight and dispel our confusion (there is no such thing as feminine insight). When we want to hear that our male ego was correct in ending things or reacting harshly, we look to our male friends. Because, sometimes we just want to hear, “Yeah, fuck all that bullshit.” Men, typically, are quick to provide that brand of reassurance. Sometimes they will also provide the beer (what else can be done?). We take it all in, all at once, looking for answers. The problem comes when all the varying advice leads to one place: right back where the confusion began.
Ultimately, we must make a choice on our own. So why do we seek advice at all? I would imagine it’s because we are looking for some means of gauging the appropriateness of our decisions. The logic is this: if we don’t know what is best for us, someone else must. Right? It’s scary to believe that no one has a roadmap for the outcomes of our choices. Still, we ask to no avail. Then something else takes over (Ego, maybe), we make a decision, and we have to live with it.
Then the fun begins:
Suddenly, all we remember are nice things. The nice looks, the good days – all the pretty little things that made us question the decision in the first place. All the bullshit that started us on a quest for answers is suddenly absent. We scream, and pine, and drink, and think, “I need to fuck SOMEONE, don’t I?” We feel that for a bit, and then we recognize something else:
Suddenly all the gorgeous people on Earth are fair game. That waitress with the dark hair, who may or may not have been looking at you, suddenly seems like the type of girl you could get to know. Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter, because why not?
You maybe chat with a stranger and in a conversational lull (great tits or not) re-think your decision: you could have stuck it out. You could have been the good guy, or the right guy, or the guy that’s so understanding that it would be impossible for someone to treat you like an asshole. Then you remember it’s not about that. The biggest tragedy of love is bad timing. Sometimes people meet and it becomes “if only I met you a few months down the road…” Even if that’s not the case, it’s a great excuse. No one in their right mind can willfully question such reasoning when the alternative is to think you weren’t good enough. So, “bad timing” it is. It works. It helps us sleep at night when we can reason: “Well, this was out of my hands, I did my best – I wonder what so-and-so is up to…”
But, can so-and-so live up to the girl with whom you had such bad timing? Maybe. Maybe not. But, at least it’s something. At least there is a person here who can chalk up your baggage to “everyone has a past,” who has a warm body and nice tits and likes to drink and laugh at your jokes. Someone who can think, “Eh, I can deal with this. I can be the one to stick it out. I won’t be another jerk who doesn’t understand him – or who isn’t willing to give him a chance to be amazing. I will be the person to see how great he is, and fuck the people that couldn’t see what I see!” And when she’s willing to see the fallacy of the whole thing she can just chalk it up to bad timing, too, right? Maybe. Maybe not.