It's Not You, It's Me...Me Not Liking You

Oops, I did it again. I played with your heart, and yes, got lost in the game. Oh baby, baby, Oops, you think I'm in love, like, that I'm sent from above or something. Well, I gotta tell ya, I'm just not that into you.

Bastardizing Britney Spears is the last thing I ever wanted to do in life, let me just tell you. But somehow the lyrics to that song ring more true to me now, more honest than ever before. You see, it's only been three weeks since the last time I had to break it off. I wish I could remember his name, or even screenname as the case may be. I should recall the speech I gave, the time and location, the reasons why it wasn't working, for me, for him, for us. For Christ's sake.

But I don't.

My life, suddenly, has become one long, unscripted episode of Sex In The City, minus the sex, and just outside of the city. I'm Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte all rolled up into a scruffy, short, underdeveloped package. (And for the record, I'm referring to my miniscule muscle mass; the PACKAGE itself, of course, is fully developed, and I have eye-witnesses to prove it -- again, if I could remember their names, or screennames as the case may be).

As Carrie, it is a constant battle between being "single and fabulous" and in love with an outdated flame. I have a Big, though my relationship to him is purely one-sided, sadly ill proportioned to the amount of time I actually see him, or rather, picture him in my mind's eye. He's more of a Medium, if you will. Not quite larger than life in mine, but certainly not absent yet in my heart. I compare everyone to him, his calming energy, his goof-ball smile. He's the excuse I use why I can no longer commit into week four. And like a whore, I find myself more and more waking up warmly next to someone so right, so good, and thinking rather, it could only be greater with my Medium. But I lost that battle, and the war, at least for me, was over before it began. I may or may not be single, depending on the time of day, but without Medium at my side, being fabulous just doesn't seem all that, well, fabulous.

Samantha is a different story altogether. For the sake of keeping this clean, I will only say I have opened my eyes wide, and well, other parts too -- my mind for instance -- and allowed myself the pleasure of sexual exploration. One night stands, serial dating, or mating, but waiting still...waiting for completion. And not just in bed. I may never kiss the Pakistani bus boy, no matter how attentive he is with the bread. But the art of seduction, so long as your heart remains guarded, and your body remains safe, may be perhaps the best part of still being young and single in the city. Chew 'em up and then spit 'em out, so long as you don't swallow any, no matter how tempting just a droplet may seem.

As Miranda, I'm a horse of a different color. She's a high-powered lawyer; I work for them. She's turned off by dating the unemployed actor/dancer/model; my last 12 dates read like a SAG pity-party guest-list. She figured she could do it all on her own, motherhood, love, career...and I wish I could do the same. But then she met her Steve, and I met mine. And I find myself becoming that bitchy, cold, quasi-evil redhead, shoving out those who just want to be with me, no pressure, simply because they don't meet the impossibly high standards I set for myself so many years earlier, when I was just a child, when I was still naive and romantic, when I just wanted to be alone and with someone. Independent and relied on. Loved but able to love back, despite the income, in spite of the standards...just love. Pure, respectful, reciprocated love.

And finally Charlotte...sweet, innocent Charlotte, the one who I always labeled most like me. With her romanticized ideals, wistful hopes for the perfect this, and the perfect that, Prince Charming didn't stand a chance. And neither have I. Because ironically I grew to hate Charlotte. I found her annoying, fake, obsessed with perfection. She was scared and scarred and lonely, settling far below par in hopes of salvaging a story-book romance. She was who I was trained to be. She was where my life was headed. She was how I failed at love, and why I continued to try. She was a hope and a curse, and the least likely to settle down, despite wanting THAT above all else.

And so, as I brunch by myself this morning, looking around at the Bradshaws and their boy-toys, I try to come up with the right words to use for my next dismissal.

It's not you it's me isn't quite accurate enough. 'Coz it's not just me. It's Carrie and Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte. It's Ross and it's Rachel, it's Dawson and it's Joey. It's every Harry and each of his many Sallys. It's my parents and my sister. It's my friends and my ex-friends, my boyfriends and my ex-boyfriends.

It's even Britney Spears. Fat, ugly, stupid Britney Spears.

Reminders that love is fleeting but fabulous, forbidden but free. That there's a difference between settling down and settling in love. That you can have your cake and eat it to, though you may have to bake and frost the damn thing yourself. That sometimes you never know who it will be, or with whom, or why. But when you know you just know, and sometimes you just know it isn't working. Sometimes you fool yourself. Sometimes you fool them. Sometimes you play with their hearts and get lost in the game.

You see, my problem is this: I'm dreaming away, wishing that heroes, holding out for heroes, Supermen, Batmen, Bad Men, Good Men, Greater Men...They truly exist. I cry, and try not to, but cry nonetheless watching the days. But my god, can't you see I'm just a fool, a fool in so many ways?

Oh baby, baby, I'm not that innocent.

I just broke up with you over a blog.

And all I can think of saying is Oops...I did it again.