I have loved once and lost. And a few times after that, deluded myself into thinking I have loved again and, if you ask me, I am glad I took those chances. The men that I dined and coffee-d with while I was looking out for that perfect love and perfect relationship made my existence meaningful, if not adventuresome, even though I couldn’t really give a label beyond the very passé ‘friendship’. But for sure, they will turn up once or twice in the anecdotes to tell and moments to re-live through my grandchildren. (Or grandchild. Philippine Government might suddenly adopt the one-child policy considering the Pinoys’ propensity to mass produce.)
I also know I have not been fair to someone. Maybe two or three of them even. Another time, another place, I’d have loved to care for them, the way caring is meant to be. When everything is so perfect, you tend to seek imperfection and pain. I have become quite adept that it has become sort of my thing.
In retrospect, I am thankful to the guy who turned out to be a lecherous pig and claimed that he is very selfish and an asshole and gave me a list of reasons not to trust him. I am thankful to him for proving his own words. I wouldn’t have known so much of truth, happiness, love, gratitude, and freedom that I now bask in, if it weren’t for him.
I’ve always wanted a Rhett Butler, the only kind of a guy who would be able to contain the Scarlett O’Hara in me. And just when I was nearly convinced that his kind only exists in a novel, I found him. And now he lives in me, just as I live in him – happily and gloriously content.
Funnily enough, when I look back at the black comedy series that was my past relationships, I don’t really think I have been unjustifiably mean. I hardly even remember that I have ever been hurt.