All of my past relationships were ticking time bombs. There was the one who had to go back to California. The one who had to go back to England. Then I was the one who had to go back to America. There was the one who talked about his Peace Corps application on our first date.
The more available a man makes himself to me, the more I push away. I don’t pick up the phone. I don’t respond to text messages. I ignore emails all together. Of course, maybe a few weeks later, I will write a wonderful response, or set aside an hour to wrap the metaphorical phone-cord around my finger and giggle. I am totally unable to cut these threads.
I used to tell people I had men on the backburners. It was my favorite expression.
How is so-and-so?
Oh, so-and-so is terribly boring, but still irrational attractive. I keep him on the backburner.
And now, if my love life was an oven, I would have pots and pans strewn around the kitchen and bubbling over, ready to explode. It wouldn’t not look like my own kitchen. I’ll stick him in the broiler, and that one in the microwave, and this one can rest awkwardly on top of the fridge, while he can simmer on the backburner.
At the end of the day, I have no relationship, but the makings of a fantastic homemade bomb.
Tick tock. Tick tock. It’s broken and it can’t be fixed.