“Don’t Despair: He Was Just a Knife-Fighter Who Couldn’t Cut it in Love”
“Don’t cry…That bitch was a knife fighter.”
Ah, the classic tale of dating someone purely for the, ahem, “physical education,” only to realize you’ve enrolled in a course with a never-ending syllabus of annoying questions.
“Is water wet?” “If I scream in a forest and no one is around, will it still annoy the crap out of you?” And let’s not forget the quintessential, “Do you like me, or do you like-like me?” As if deciphering my grocery list wasn’t hard enough.
So, this chatterbox claims he’s submissive, but he can’t even handle the basics of trash talk. Look, if you’re going to wear the ‘sub’ label, you’ve got to be able to take some heat. It’s part of the package.
That was the final ‘mess of a caress’ I endured, courtesy of sister Kali. Still an upgrade from the ex-husband, though. You should had seen what I had married. Geez.
So you finally hit the eject button, citing “creative differences,” or perhaps, “it’s not you, it’s your incessant questions that make me question my life choices.” Cue the breakup. Farewell, partner-in-annoyance; hello, freedom!
Ah, but freedom comes at a cost.
Suddenly, you find yourself knee-deep in a two-week-long festival of cheese, steak, and vintage television therapy. I’m from somewhere cheese is a gift from God. So yeah. Get over it. Fucking cheese me out biotch.
Who needs emotional baggage from Mr. Non-Stop Talk when you’ve got a perfectly cooked steak, a hunk of gourmet cheese, and the wisdom of Blanche Devereaux served with a side of sass? Forget a six-pack; I’m diving into a cheese mountain and wrapping myself in those shockingly electric faux fur blankets from Costco. Makes you ponder if Norm from Cheers had life figured out, finding peace at the edge of a bar stool rather than at the end of a love affair.
You find yourself musing about Jonathan, the world’s most uninspired human and a guy who seemed to think that hotel toiletries were a form of currency. At least the man had personal hygiene down. Unlike Peter, who smelled like yesterday’s lunch special but could always be counted on for, ah, “peak performance.” It’s like his body knew it had one job and one job only — forget about deodorant, but never disappoint in the bedroom. Oddly enough, that was enough for you to meet your, let’s say, “exercise quota.”
Now you find yourself in the echo chamber of your own solitude, yearning for the sweet chaos of family life. Oh, for someone to nag you about why Timmy’s algebra homework isn’t done yet! Instead, you’re greeted by the sound of silence and the unwritten promise of another tomorrow. But hey, let’s not forget the F-word: Freedom.
Your great-aunt, the centenarian minus one, always said her longevity secret was lovers, not husbands. Oh, and no kids. She practically turned avoiding matrimony and motherhood into an Olympic sport and lived to tell the tale — or rather, lived to nearly hit a hundred. Maybe the path to eternal youth isn’t paved with diaper bags and wedding bands, but rather with a series of thrilling, no-strings-attached love affairs and the sweet sound of freedom — or at least, the sound of your own thoughts, bouncing back at you in your empty, peaceful living room.
If he’d just quit with the endless questions and had less trouble raising the flag, I might’ve stuck around. Most days, I felt like emotional duct tape, trying to patch up a life already frayed at the edges. That’s the thing about dating older guys — they come with a lifetime subscription to Issues Monthly.
From past marriages to towering debt to kids who don’t know your name but already hate you. It’s like a parade of red flags, but you’re still there asking, ‘Well, does at least one part of you still function?
And fingers crossed it’s the part that matters, because let’s be honest — you’re running low on other assets to bring to the table.
Dr. Kali DuBois
