It all started with some chickens. No really….my last break up really did start with a discussion about chickens. I consider myself to be somewhat of a good cook, and when I think about homemade, I tend to take things to the next level. I have been known to make my own butter, for heaven’s sake. So one night I was having a conversation with…let’s call him Max, where I said I wanted to maybe have a few chickens so I could use their eggs for cooking.
Apparently, I must’ve come off like Gordon Ramsay during one of his epic rants (i.e., “You’ve now just confirmed in my mind you’re not trustworthy. So fuck you.”, “You fucking donkey!”, and “My gran could do better; and she’s dead!”), because that conversation prompted nearly a week of silence, followed by a phone call which laid out how Max never had gotten push back before, so he wasn’t ready to continue to commit to a relationship because he would have to compromise. There was also a touch of “I still have unresolved feelings for someone I dated for four months last year, and even though she’s in a relationship and we have fundamental religious differences and I can’t be with her” and a dash of “it’s not you…it’s me.”
Now up until this point, Max and I had a great time together; long conversations at night about everything and nothing simultaneously, a shared love of music, and pancakes. As this was a long distance relationship, we even had the talk about who would relocate and when. Hell, he even met my daughter.
I wish I could say I saw this coming; I didn’t. It hit me in my chest; a feeling that I’ve come all too familiar with. And it’s funny, no matter how many times a heart is broken, it still feels like the first time. Disappointment and loss is a sobering end to the day. But maybe this time I will be able to heal better; I’ll let you know.