Mediocrity Killed the Cat.

Mediocrity Killed the Cat.

Mediocrity Killed the Cat.

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As many of you know, and by many of you I mean the proud few that indulge in my occasional cyber rants; I’m “involved” in an ambiguous relationship with a man by the name of NsSA, Not-so-Starving-Artist. I’ve chronicled our dealings since our initial meeting last November during a SEC mash-up at his flat. From that initial meeting of the minds to an impromptu proposal of faux life partnership with a ghetto gold band we are a couple of humans – proudly. He said yes! While my feelings and thoughts of him have remained consistent, I fear we’re turning yet another corner.

Upon the urging of a close friend, I read an article earlier today entitled “Why Married Women Cheat,” the basis of it specifically outlining the reasons women stray. Within minutes of reading the first paragraph, I found myself nodding in agreement with the reasoning behind this age-old phenomena. Essentially, the same energy it takes to win the object of your affection, is the energy it takes to keep them. Sounds simple enough … So why is it, that over 8.9 million people stray from their mate in search of greener pastures annually? “The situation starts to reek of complacency and satisfaction in mediocrity” the article advised. ”Marriage doesn’t take “work” per se, but it does require concerted effort and investment in each other, and in you.”

As I read this, swear to Prada, a little bit of pee came out. Seriously. For the last few weeks, I’ve found myself discussing this with NsSA on more than one occasion. “I need you to make the effort … I don’t feel like you’re making the effort.” As we’re long distance presently, communication is paramount for us. He preferring to text and I, to talk. And I will say, we do make the effort, to adjust. I hate texting, but sometimes it makes sense for us due to our hectic schedules. In real life NsSA, is on the fast track to becoming kind of a big deal and that means less Pretty One, more billable hours. I get it.

I also get, that he’s not the President of a small country. I once dated a man who managed other peoples money for a living. And by other peoples money, I mean people that had “F*ck you money” — not, “That’s My Seat Money.” This man was possibly the best.boyfriend.ever. He’s about 15 years my senior, but he got it — and he went out of his way to let me know that he was available to me and for me. And I loved it and it made me want to give that energy in return to him.

I’ve never fancied myself as “That Girl.” You know … level 3 clinger, where-you-been-and-what-you-been-doing girl? I’m not built like that. However, it sucks to feel like in a world of 99 problems, that you’re 115 on the list of a person’s to do’s. I feel like I’m 189 on NsSA’s list of priorities more often than not lately. And he’s not terribly forthcoming about his work life and so I’m left to my own devices. The flip side of this being coming to grips with the fact that his good, may not be good enough for me. And it isn’t. And I hate that, because I realllly care about this person. I care about him with four – l’s. That means – I like him, I like him - a lot.

Still, what I don’t like is not feeling like I matter. There was a time, that I felt like he was breathing me in — constantly wanting more. Like, in my mind he’s writing my name on napkins followed by rocket ships and ligers with wings OR you know, whatever grown men doodle — tiggo bitties? Maybe it’s because I grew up in a time where Disney Princess’s didn’t save the Prince. The Prince saved her. She waited in her flat on the Upper East Side, and drank cosmo’s with Rasberry Stoli until he arrived – just in time to slay her hunger pangs with a trip to {INSERT LOCALLY OWNED TRENDY EATERY HERE}, where they knocked back cocktails and exchanged witty banter, followed-by a raunchtastic romp in the sack back at her place. He slept over because they were totally married — he was picking her up on his way in from the office the night before, and they enjoy brunch the following morning at home. She cooked and he did the dishes. And they lived fabulously ever after.

So from this example I think I illustrated two things (1) My imagination knows no bounds And (2) I want the fairytale. Damn it. What I don’t want is NsSA texting me here and there recently as a solid means of communications. As I type this, I even feel a bit guilty. He is honestly, a great man in most aspects and I do enjoy him. I don’t think he’s out grinding on 20-somethings to Ke$ha in silk blend disco pants. He’s not like that. I mean, helllloooo I kind of proposed to him a little bit on our un-official first date. And again, he said yes, so I mean that’s got to count for something right?? Or not. Whatever, don’t judge me.

When I think about this person, my heart smiles. I suppose I’m living off the fumes of months past at this point. This is the person who wrote me poetry … presented me with life partner socks — I said yes!, remembers every-little-thing I’ve ever told him, plays fair during arguments, gives great cuddle and indulges me, because in real life … I’m kind of all over the place with my PTTD (Post Traumatic Trust Disorder). And yet he hangs in there. It’s important to note, that I’ve called things off about three times now — at least.

Still, does this mean that I should be willing to settle or continue to settle for whatever crumbs he throws out. Realistically, the answer is no. While I admire his efforts, I acknowledge that they are sporadic as hell right now. And again, in his mind I think he thinks he’s in there. He’s totally winning — in his head.

So in an attempt to gauge where we are, I decided not to reach out to him for a few days. Full disclosure — I detest playing games. Hate it. But I need to see how long it takes before he notices I’m not around. So far — nothing. No phone calls … no texts … no email … no nothing. Things are looking pretty abysmal.

How is this normal? For all he knows, I could be in a dank underground hole rubbing lotion on my skin or else I’ll get the hose again. And the worst part of this … I’m not surprised. I’m all for standing by your guy when times get hard … hanging in there … riding the wave … Whatever the long termers call it. I fully understand that everyday is not rainbows and butterflies, I get it. BUT — how is it there are stories of the guys who do {INSERT AMAZING RELATIONSHIP FEAT HERE} for his person. Where are these guys?? And why have our paths not crossed?? Or are these guys made and not born. Meaning, NsSA could be that guy — just not with me.

I have a cousin who met his wife on his last day vacationing in the Dominican Republic. He met her the night before he was leaving to come back to the states. He ended up staying an extra three days to get to know her and when he finally left the island, he came to see her at least once a month — sometimes twice, until proposing and marrying her in Florida last fall. Great story — huh? And yet, a little depressing at the same time.

That is how you make the effort!! It’s bitter sweet I suppose (mostly just bitter), that even as I sit here typing this my phone hasn’t rung once. Actually, that’s not true — the besties have called because we’re watching “The Ten Commandments” together. But he has not called once today. AND, to confirm, I haven’t been waiting with bated breath for NsSA to call, but I have noticed that he hasn’t.

To me, it speaks to a greater concern I have about everyone I meet. Long term — will this person have my back? Can I look to him to show up when I need him to? I think I know the answer to this already. And I fear that we while we are life partners in ghetto gold rings and socks only, in the long run mediocrity is what killed the cat. Making the effort could have brought it back. It rhymes because it true.

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