Back when I was dating during the aughts, I noticed a phenomenon where I had a tendency to fill in gaps in getting to know a person with best case/worst case scenarios. When things were going well, then any lack of knowledge or understanding was filled with hopes and dreams. Later, if things were going poorly, fears and apprehensions. It was a very binary way of experiencing relationships.
At the time, I had a mental check list of must-haves and can’t-stands. If some fellow had checked some of the good ones, he showed potential of being the One. Then after getting to know him better when reality and disappointment inevitably set it, and all of his positive traits were reassessed as tricks. He was using his humor to hide is lack of punctuality, or whatever. He wasn’t shy, he was just uninterested. Once he had messed up, I struck him from the potentials list and I was off to find the real One. It was probably a way to keep from getting my hopes dashed and my feelings from getting hurt. It didn’t really work though because breakups always hurt a little. You cannot simultaneously have the vulnerability needed to enter into a relationship while keeping yourself emotionally protected. All personal investments carry risks of either time, affection or both. Sigh.
Approaching thirty, I doubted if the One even existed. My mental list of potentials was exhausted, with one exception. There had been a guy I had briefly known, but never gone out with. He was like the unopened, holiday edition doll that collectors keep—perfect and unspoiled behind plastic. He sort of hung out the recesses of my memory as the backup, or the one that got away. I didn’t spend too much time thinking about him because the knife of perfection cuts two ways. Perhaps, we never got together because of my flaws. If I had been prettier, sweeter, bolder or less opinionated, then I might have earned the chance to be with him. The brain is an emotional minefield.
Meanwhile, Tim came into my life and never left. His slow and steady approach defeated my quick judgement style. He didn’t run away from conflict, but plodded through. After three and a half years of our shared meals and jokes and despite a well-catalogued list imperfections on both sides, we locked it down.
As for my imaginary Ken doll haunting the back shed of my memory, I am embarrassed to say he stuck around much longer than he should have. After an argument or frustration, I would secretly wonder if I could have done more to make that alternate-reality relationship happen. It’s not a healthy way of thinking, but it’s a real one. Finally, one time when I was feeling nostalgic, I googled his social media. Leave it to the internet to ruin any lingering romantic regrets. He was totally into a toxic media influencer that I cannot stand. Poor Ken went straight from top shelf down into the mental trash bin. Life is messy, but real, and fantasy is just fiction.
His career was beach.