Who's Calling? Love? Oh, No, No Ms. Macon Here...

If you have ever, even in a casual capacity, read a singular word I’ve uttered, you know I am essentially immune to love and all of its’ nasty infectious traits. I avoid it like the literal plague, for fear some of it may slip the Purell and infect me. There is no treatment for that bullshit covered under my insurance plan, and I don’t like needles so I skipped the inoculations.

I am not looking for anyone. I don’t feel as though there is any portion of my life that needs a father figure, male presence or testosterone-fueled episode of fuckery to make it any better than it currently is. I am, however, compelled to mention this encounter of late, as I’m determined to write it down so I can reread it if I feel stupid enough to attempt life-threatening stunts, like relationships, ever again.

Mr. Portland came my way by chance, and by way of being someone who puts in as many hours as I do, so there’s that, but psssh...so what. I mean, lots of people work like they’re trying to build an empire. It doesn’t make him special.

Mr. Portland happens to be a trifecta. Attractive, intelligent, hilarious. Yeah, I know where I’ve heard that before, because I coined it. Imagine my absolute loathful attitude when I found I could use it to describe someone other than myself, and a dude, no less. I, being the woman who has taken it further than Teddy Pendergrass when he was a 2 time loser, was not impressed.

I was suspicious. Oh, really, huh? Own a business or two, in town on a launch, have some other noteworthy shit happening. Well, spectacular. You enjoy your stay here in sunny Florida, ok, hoss? I have something in this *waves well-manicured hand in the exact opposite direction* area over here that I need to ….

I didn’t even finish the thought. Why would I? It’s certainly of no consequence, because men have the attention span of squirrels with ADHD, and I saw light reflecting off of something nearby. Yet, there he was. Listening. I’m not certain what he expected to hear, but I digress.

What I tried to convey is the fact that I am, in no uncertain terms, a walking magnet for those with ill intentions. Bad men with more issues than Good Housekeeping has tear outs from which my Aunt Diane has collected recipes seem to have permanently set their GPS coordinates for every area in my life that I don’t need the bullshit in.

I don’t need the standard-sized envelope of trauma that comes along with every person I make the mistake of becoming comfortable acknowledging is a living, breathing human. Generally, that’s about how far I get before they give me the first of many reasons I should have just sat them on the shelf next to the other doucheholes that took something meaningful from me.

Over the years, I can trace a path of my life through every heartbreak and self-destructive relationship I fought to save. However, much like the hopeful woman I was despite the novels on the wall, they are a ghost of something just out of my grasp, even with me standing in my tallest stilettos. I just don’t have any more of myself to sacrifice. There simply isn’t any more of me I can spare.

Now, post-apocalyptic love life me stood her dumb ass up, and I almost punched her in her throat. How dare this bitch even think after all of the shit *waves a well-manicured hand over the piles and piles of Really Dumb Shit* that the option even remained? It doesn’t. There isn’t an equation in my life that adds someone substantial without taking away more than I can afford to lose to the idea of love. I don’t have the funds to place the bet. I need to leave the table.

There were times in the past when I was so ready to be in love. I was dressed, and waiting by the door, as the agreed upon time came and went. I was the woman at the table having bread and water watching the door. I was sipping a cold coffee with my eyes on the clock. I was home in my PJ’s, trying not to cry.

Now, though, I don’t accept the invitation. I have taken that long, lonely walk out of the single seat at a table for two more times than I care to admit. When it comes to love, I refuse to be stood up again. I stopped taking loves calls. I no longer text back when love sends me 3 am “Are you up?” texts. Love is going to have to find a new no strings thing. When it comes to me and love, I’ve erased the texts. I’ve deleted loves number.

I’ve just moved on.