I hate the girl who got the man I was dating. I never met her. I saw her once in a musical with the guy I was with, blissfully unaware that they had started a romance. But for the past however many months, I have hated her. I classified her as beige. You know, a plain girl. Like Natasha from “Sex and the City”, a woman so unmemorable I had to IMDB it just to recall her name for this article. Someone with a simple mind (not stupid, just less complex and busy and cluttered with fog and incessant thoughts) and an agreeable, vanilla demeanor. And somehow, this girl who seemed to have a bland presence was able to catch the attention of the scoundrel I was dating. And sustain a relationship with him much better than I could. All because she would not argue with him and was the perfect pawn for his web of lies and probably would cheerfully do his dishes and act as his mommy. I resented the fact that I could not bring myself to be all these things to fit what he would deem the “girlfriend material” mold.
But today I had an epiphany. I was smacked across the face with the realization that the true agony of this situation stemmed from the fact that this is a woman I will not be able to intimately know and appreciate as another human being without a haunting past lurking behind us. I have an innocent curiosity about the people with whom I inhabit earth. People are endlessly fascinating to me. I have a million questions I would like to ask. A part of me deeply regrets that I am only pseudo-connected to her in the sense that she was the girl during and after me instead of someone I was connected to in the form of friendship. I regret we did not know each other under different circumstances. I dislike greatly that there has not been an opportunity for reconciliation and in a feeble attempt, perhaps I hope this letter will lead to that.
In an alternate universe (though from careful observation I have noted our personalities are vastly different), I feel I could have more than tolerated her. I could have, and I do have, an interest in learning who she is and what makes her who she is. But it is tainted by a man who has gotten in the way of that. Then again, without him, I never would have known she existed. I am just a bundle of unanswered questions. So I am left to wonder, cheating douche-nozzle out of the equation, if she was the girl sitting next to me on a plane, would I have been itching with inquisitiveness and dying to pepper her with questions? If we were in the same theater production, would she have just been another cast member I was mildly acquainted with or would she and I have a strong dynamic that would turn into a lasting friendship? Would she really be as vapid as I have for too long imagined she is? Or would we be able to converse about places we have dreamed of visiting and favorite jazz artists from the 40’s and have a beautiful exchange of knowledge by introducing one another to the things that ignite us?
Maybe what I resented more, is not that he rejected me, but that she rejected me. That she rejected the opportunity to learn who I was and what I had to say. That not only did he choose her, but she chose him and his falsities over the possibility that I was just a girl who earnestly needed her to recognize that I was a human with honest intentions. Perhaps what hurts more than betrayal, is when a person or persons collectively will deny you the opportunity to say something—anything real and sincere. So instead of lamenting a kinship that never was, I will make an unwavering effort to recognize and value the important things other people are trying to say when no one else will listen to them. And though I am one small person, perhaps I can be one opportunity for them to say and ask many things and embrace them the way I would want to be embraced.
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