You know that feeling of being in love? Like really, really being in love? That all-consuming, mind-boggling, don’t-bother-trying-to-explain-it love?
Where you have to touch when you pass each other, even if it’s just to skim your index finger over the small of his back.
Where a kiss leaves you floating and a little dizzy.
Where you smile until your face hurts, your eyeball dry out, and your chest fills with awestruck pride that this impossibly wonderful person is yours-all-yous.
Where you catch his glance from the corner of your eye, knowing that he’s looking at you in the same way.
On the flip side, when it’s done, you’re taking a leave from work to sit catatonically on your best friend’s couch, choking down a Slimfast because it’s the only thing that stays down, and neglecting basic hygiene.
Despite that being said, sign me up.
It’s not always been this way, of course. About six months after Benito and I split, I was lounging with an out-of-town friend. Whenever he’s in town, we make the most of it. Dinner and drinks are shared on the company’s dime, and then we head back to my place or his hotel to whisper our secrets until it’s time for our early-morning work meeting.
It’s an amazingly connected friendship with no sexual elements. Heck, I looked at engagement rings when he announced that she — someone who is not me — was the one for him.
So there we were, arms touching, lying in my bed, chatting away, and he proclaims that he’s ready to be in love again. I felt my nervous system do this swoop dive that was so dramatic, he noticed my skin’s temperature drop.
As I said, I haven’t always been up for love.
For the past three years I’ve been half-assing it. I can think of a few men who have turned my head for a moment, but they were weeded out for perfectly legitimate reasons — including me just not wanting to go where I know these sorts of loves go when they end. I’ve twice been through horrendous breakups, and the good times have to be goddamn good if I’m going to willingly put myself up for possibly enduring the bad.
That being said, I’m willing and ready to cry so hard that I puke, hold Hambone too highly while I weep pitifully, and call each girlfriend once a day to help ease my misery.
I’m ready for love.