Mr. Right and I were getting to know each other by going out for coffees and drinks, talking away evenings on the telephone.  Then one evening we went on our first real date: dinner, a show, and drinks afterward.  The night ended, we kissed passionately at my doorstep, and said goodnight.

Prior to meeting him, I had booked a flight to somewhere to sing at something.  It was my first solo vacation, and I was really looking forward to going alone.  I hadn’t expected to meet Mr. Right.  He was new in my life so I wasn’t going to invite him on my trip.  Nor did I have any real inclination to ensure that I saw him before I left or upon my return.  I did ensure that he knew about the trip.  We had gone on one date.  That was it.  Knowing I was going away, in my mind, was all that was required of me, all that seemed appropriate, and all that I was comfortable with.

In order to prepare for my departure, I put in a lot of extra hours at the office.  I wanted to ensure that everything would be in order during my absence.  The evening before my departure, I got home from the office around 10 p.m.  I went straight to sleep.  I planned to be back at work early the next morning so I could finish off a few things before my flight.  I awakened the next morning to notice a voicemail.  I had missed several calls from Mr. Right.

Where are you, honey?  I was thinking that since you’re flying out tomorrow, we could spend this evening together, but it looks like I didn’t catch you.  Okay, so tomorrow morning, we’ll go to your favourite breakfast place.  It’ll have to be really early, I know. So, if I don’t hear from you, I’ll meet you there at 6am.

I didn’t go to the breakfast, nor did I bother calling him to let him know.  I went straight to the office that morning, finished up the few things that I had planned to do, and then left for my trip.  I had a great time and never gave Mr. Right a second thought.

Mr. Right and I never spoke again.  I didn’t call him upon my return.  I know I eventually responded in an email, but I can’t remember when, why, or how.  I venture to guess that it was at my leisure with the intention of ensuring he not contact me anymore.

I learned a lot from Mr. Right.  As intrusive, pushy, and controlling as that one voicemail seemed to be, I had to take responsibility for the fact that I misled him, even though it was not intentional.  I expressed interest, but I never discussed with him what I was looking for, and what I needed.  My only defense – albeit a fair one – is that getting to know someone new is complicated.

We try to look for signs and meaning: signs that our feelings are reciprocated, and meaningfulness in every tiny action directed to us.  What does a stare mean?  A long gaze in each other’s direction?  How about chats online?  Telephone calls? or the lack thereof?  Occasional gifts, surprises? Saying hello/good-bye?  Having tea together?  Not making time?  Not responding to messages?  What does anything mean?  The answer is simple: you can’t know how meaningful an action is or isn’t until you know the person.  Where Mr. Right went wrong was in ascribing greater meaning to my actions than was actually there.  I now try to just instigate explicit dialogue when I am confused (even if it is like pulling teeth).

There are no universal indicators of interest, and even when someone is interested, it doesn’t mean that anything should or will happen.  To help facilitate things, it genuinely is a pleasure when someone you’re interested in is open enough to help you understand them.  Otherwise, getting to know a person feels like a crap-shoot: blind throws with hope for the best, exciting small wins throughout the quick-to-accumulate net losses, and a growing feeling of helplessness.  If you’re not a gambler who gets a thrill from always only almost-winning, I’m not sure how you remain motivated in these sorts of situations.

Interest makes inaction tragic, but acting on interest is a big investment.  Be sure you can handle the level of risk before getting into the game.

Anyway, that being said, I didn’t always feel this way.  I used to feel as though I had done something wrong, or as if there was something I could have done to make him happy and to make things work.  Once Upon A Time captured the short-lived existence of this youthful, romantic, self-deprecating girl.  She’s dead and gone, and the memory of her makes me sick.

Destined to err… fine.  Doomed to bear the burden of my folly?  No longer.

And contrary to what you would probably expect, I won’t recount how it was that we fell in and out of “love”.  I’m here only to remark on the sweet innocence that it is to be in love at the age of thirteen.  I still remember how my heart raced when in his presence, melted when I heard him speak my name, and stopped whenever our eyes met.  I remember the first time we held hands when we walked home together, our first embrace on Valentine’s Day, our first slow dance (to SWV’s Weak) at my best friend’s birthday party, and our first kiss on a Spring afternoon in the park nearby our school.  Every word, every glance, and every touch was so meaningful.  Relationships haven’t been quite as simple ever since.

I imagine one day I’ll experience such rapture again, and until then I’ll fantasize about it like a 13-year year old schoolgirl would.

NB:  I’m not still interested in him.