Square Peg, Round Hole

Ever see a pair of shoes you just had to have? The kind that you instantly fall in love with, and start imagining the possibilities, the outfits, the heads turning? I found one such pair, but the story ends in much despair.

Having size 7½ wide feet may not sound like such a terrible thing, but no matter what anyone says, finding shoes that fit is no easy task. Never did I realize this more than two weeks ago when I went scouring for the perfect pair to go with my perfect dress for a party that evening. The shoes were either too tight, too big, too expensive, too high, too dark, or too something. After 30 blocks, 5 stores, and 3 hours later, I finally came across a pair that I liked. One small problem though – the shoes were just a tad bit too big. Surprise surprise. But as time and my patience were running out, I snagged a pair of in-soles to go with the shoes and called it a day.

As I’ve been trying to sift through the debris left from my broken heart, I suddenly realized why this one hurts so much. I kept insisting to buy a pair of shoes he wasn’t even selling. But we tried each other on anyway, and we just didn’t fit. I figured I’d be able to squeeze my way into his heart the way I did into my pair or Bandalino’s.

Maybe there’s something to be learned from the story of Cinderella – a guy who wore his heart on his sleeves, fell in love with a girl with a missing shoe off her feet. There will come a day when someone will sweep you off your feet. Shoes optional.

Death of a Salesman

We're born with two ears and one mouth so we can listen more and talk less. Apparently I didn't get that memo because I rarely listen. I should've listened to my instinct when it told me not to stray down heartbreak boulevard. I should've listened when my friends told me to snap out of it. I should've listened before his "I don't know" turned into "I like you." Because my ears didn't do their job, now my eyes have to pay the price. Our bodies are wired in such a way that when you get hurt in one place, it actually aches in another.

Our bodies aren't built to keep secrets; whatever is going on inside is bound to slip out one way or another. You bruise black and blue when you bang your knee. You bleed when you cut yourself. You puke when you punish your liver. You cum when you're satisfied. And when your heart breaks, your tears play that coveted role of messenger. Message received.

After a full year of heartbreak sobriety, I guess the streak is broken once again. In the midst of her sage advice, my Mom actually said something interesting: "your life truly begins when you think it's over." I guess I can buy into that. I fought for so long that I finally just wanted to give up completely... quit being hurt and quit living. Once you accept your loss, you suddenly begin to lose a lot more... your sleep, your appetite, your sanity, your desire to do... anything.

I cried myself to sleep, only to wake up to more of the same. Last night was long and cold, but not lonely. I was stuck in bed with my own thoughts that kept replaying what was said and done over the past month. Each vivid thought is like picking up a piece of my shattered beliefs and dreams, with its jagged edges cutting me into two pieces: what if and what is. As much as I want to be removed from these thoughts, I can't help but drown in them, because therein lies my anger, my sorrow, and my regrets.

I check the time every so often, hoping it would magically fly by and I would be far far away from this moment and this agony. But time -- much like my tears -- no matter how much I try to hold them back, is something you can't control. And I wonder, even when time does pass, will things be that much better? When I broke up with my ex two years ago, I told myself things will get better in time. Well, they did... my wounds healed, my memories of him vanished, I resurfaced and was free to fall in love again. And boy, fall I did. But now I'm back at it -- fighting with time because it has dragged me back to that dungeon again.

Times like these, my mom always reminds me of two types of people: those who have it worse than you, and those who wish to make it worse for you. Like my Aunt, that my Mom just spent the past three months with, is facing far greater hardship than I can ever fathom. Her resolve and beliefs are being tested every minute of every day as she tries to care for her ailing husband. "That's true sadness and that's worth crying for," my Mom reemphasized. "What you're going through is unfortunate but inevitable, because you're destined to be with someone else." I guess some day I will find someone who'll make me realize why it never worked with anyone else. But I'm not holding my breath, because sooner or later, my nose will give out and I'll burst my mouth open for a breath of fresh air.