Last night, I went out for drinks and tapas with an old I Don’t Know What To Call Him. He’s actually the brother of an old flame, but I dated him, too. Yes, I know how slutty (among other things) it looks. Strangely, I’m still friends with both guys. Years ago I bought my couch (and lots of other furniture) from brother #1, and then proceeded to date him for over a year (I have since learned that such furniture relationships are not uncommon). Later, when things didn’t work out, he set me up with his brother (#2). (This history is not something I want to tatooe on my forehead, but I will blog about it because not even my own reputation is sacred when it comes to material…too bad I don’t have a hobby like raw food cooking to keep me from ransacking my personal life.) It’s probably to the credit of both of them that I liked them enough to a) date them and b) remain friends with both of them.
I, on the other hand, have always been way too much of a control freak to allow relationships to go through changes and iterations, and so am not one to stay in contact with old boyfriends. But due to their good nature and other mysterious reasons, I have a familial relationship with these guys that betrays my pattern of casting out old boyfriends like a pair of stretched out jeans. Like my couch (which, 6 years later, still looks brand new), bookcase, and bed (purchased from brother #1), and a few other home furnishing items (purchased from brother #2 who also sells furniture), they seem to occupy a permanent place in my life. It sort of validates my theory that certain people are meant to be in our lives, and try as we may, we could no sooner could get rid of them than we can remove our own limbs (please pardon this Stephen King-ish analogy).
As a recovering control freak, it’s really different (for lack of a better world), to just kind of let relationships be what they are and not judge them.
Just for today, I can hang out with an old friend.