Since I’ve never been in a relationship before, I haven’t necessarily grasped the concept of ending things romantically since I’ve never really had to. Whenever things end, it’s usually the other party doing the dumping, ditching or ignoring…and me looking stupid. It’s whatever, though. The last few times that I’ve opted to end things with the guys that I’ve dealt with, it’s been…messy. I’ve always communicated a lot better in writing than verbally. So when I ended things with Peter, my summer fling, I thought that I was doing the correct thing by sending him a lengthy iMessage politely explaining why I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. It hurt, but I needed a clean break before delving into my final semester of school. It was a rough, but I was finally getting over Peter. Then – like clockwork – he texted me on an otherwise-ordinary Friday afternoon after I finished up at my internship.
“Hello, Khalea. How are you?”
I had a few options at that very moment as I stood, shocked and confused, in line for my steakhouse salad at Chop’t. I could have responded and cursed him out like he deserved. I could’ve screenshot the text, passed it on to my council of homegirls and waited for their feedback. Or I could’ve ignored it and sent it to the Land of Unanswered Texts and Broken Dreams. But I knew what I wanted to do…and I hated myself for it. Peter SCREAMED emotionally and physically unavailable with nearly all of his actions– but for some strange reason, that didn’t stop me from liking him. Or missing him. Or texting him back. Yikes.
I’m sure y’all can guess what happened next – he apologized, I accepted and we finally went out that night. Though the date was less than stellar – he showed up in ratty jeans and skateboard sneakers as I watched him eat a Chipotle burrito bowl with guac – I still appreciated his conversation and his energy. I didn’t trust him and told him that I wouldn’t be able to for a while. Still, I was comfortable with the fact that he was easing his way back into my life. Sucks that he pulled yet another disappearing act shortly after that and I haven’t heard from him in a few weeks.
Sad thing is that I’m not even mad at him…I’m really mad at myself. Why would I willingly participate in this douchebag’s mélange of mind games, boredom and ego boosting? Because of the margin of error.
One of my favorite movies is “Hitch.” I can literally recite every single line from beginning to end. There’s this line that didn’t mean much to me before, but came to mind when Peter texted. “I’m a guy. Since when do we get anything right the first time?”
We’re only human, so we will mess up at some point in our lives. But there’s always an opportunity for a second chance…if you’re lucky. And for me, I know I dole chances out like Halloween candy. I easily accept apologies and – in the case of guys – excuses. In every romantic situation that I’ve been in, I’ve been tolerant of the various BS that’s been dealt my way. We go for days without texting? No worries babe, I know you’re busy. No time to hang? All good, I’ll take whatever time I can. I’ve become so tremendously tolerant of lackluster behavior and outstanding errors over time in hopes that if my crushes don’t get it right the first time, they’ll make it work the second go ‘round.
On my good and caffeinated days, I’m kind of like SATC‘s Charlotte when it comes to love – an eternal optimist at heart. I want to believe that one day, it’ll happen. So giving these undeserving guys chances that they clearly don’t deserve is like my way of being optimistic, if that makes sense. I’m kind of at a point where I’m over the games and excuses. One thing that I appreciate about Peter is him showing me that my margin needs to be adjusted – ASAP.
When she’s not watching for Blue Ivy sightings or doing some serious Facebook creeping, Khalea moonlights as a print journalism major at the REAL HU, Howard University. Follow her on Twitter at @letsbeKHAlear, or feel free to Twatch. Whatever works for you.