WHAT I’M WEARING: OASIS VISCOSE STRIPE RUFFLE DRESS
It’s funny how two people change after admitting they love one another. Saying I love you is admitting you’d be sad if they went away, that part of your world is theirs, its a verbal investment, I suppose. I almost prefer the weeks or months before those 3 words are exchanged, they are lighter, care free and full of thrilling ideas of what could be. Things tend to get heavier and more serious after admitting love – or at least that is a pattern that has zigzagged across my love life. I’d love to be able to tell someone, at least one man that I love them without shrinking away as soon as I’ve said it. I’d love for love to be what I always thought it should be, but it always feels more terrifying than liberating. I’d love for my love to feel like enough but it never does. And then between the love and the fear, there is my overweight, too heavy for even a boat to carry, emotional baggage. And it seems the men I choose have more of it than I do. Especially in this too-small city where ex girlfriends aren’t someone they use to know, but people they call and see every week. That’s a recurrence in every one of my Barcelona relationships. This city is worse than college! And before I fall in love, I don’t care, I’m filled with the confidence that comes with going on many dates and having many men chasing me, so whatever someone I quite like does doesn’t much bother me. Love complicates everything, it intensifies everything and it leaves me silently questioning everything. At 27, I long ago learnt to hide away the messier sides of myself when it comes to who I am with men and so to express these insecurities is somewhat impossible. Men like happy women and I’m happy but certainly not all of the time. Why can’t every date be as breezy and as fun as the very first few? And why do our past failures of the heart have to resurface into our current attempts at love? It seems a shame that this almost always happens. I’m a overly passionate sort of girl and it streams across my entire life, but when it comes to love, I am especially intense. Perhaps that is why I’m always filled with angst when I realize I do love someone. And then there is a doubt, almost as faithful as the love itself which is me questioning if I even know what it is to love at all. I’ve half convinced myself my attempts are entirely misdirected. I ignore all the red flags as I run into a relationship only to notice them much later when I’m half way up the hill, sweating, breathless and thinking; woah do I want to run in this direction? Love doesn’t free me, it confuses me. It leaves me breathless, and not in a romantic comedy way, and I’m tired of these thoughts, tired of not enough sleep, tired from working too much and not eating enough. I’m tired and in love and tired of being in love.
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