Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

by Julie Robinson

   The afternoon was one of those perfect June Colorado days.  We met at his place, packed the car, picked up a snack at Mc Donald’s and headed out to the mountains.  The plan was perfect: His friend had an ancient cabin nestled in Mount Princeton just outside of Buena Vista.  We had been dating for about six weeks, this was our first vacation together, and I felt the buzz of excitement swirling around my brain.

In my vivid day dream memories we had rocking sex at night, strolled hand in hand through a charming festival by day, sipped wine by the roaring fire in the evening, and hiked in the hush of morning with the dogs.  In reality, the sex was decidedly vanilla, he smoked tons of pot, walked ahead of me clearly annoyed all day, avidly avoided all alcohol, and slept in so I explored the scenery with the dogs alone.  At the time I tried to ignore his inconsistent behavior—didn’t he lean over a small café table littered with our dessert to tell me he was smitten with me only a few days prior?—and hoped his asshole-ness would go away.  It never did and we broke-up over the phone the following week.

I wish I could say that that ended it.  Breaking up rarely ends a relationship, however, and I still pine for this man—the man he could have been—to this day.  Where did the charming bastard go?  The one who wooed all of my friends and left me giddy with delight?  Even he couldn’t explain it.  When he finally got up the nerve to officially break up with me his reason was “Je ne sais quoi.”  Loosely translated it means:  I have no fucking idea. 

Tyler is not the only man who in reality doesn’t live up to what I want but I want him anyway because he could be that man. 

There’s also Clint—the recovering cocaine/alcohol addict who was either piping hot or stone cold when it came to interacting with me.  I would say that my current internal dialogue about Clint is also pretty polarized.  Sometimes I pine away for him thinking about how perfect he would be for me.  This has gotten to the point where I’ve dug through old phone records trying to find him—only to be met with a disconnected number and tears streaming down my face.  Other times I’m relieved that he’s so far removed that I can’t even shoot him a baby, innocuous text.  He put me over the edge with grief for years, after all.  Why would I want that back in my life?

I think it comes down to his promise. If he only tweaked this or altered that—he would be the perfect man for me.  He’s beautiful to look at, delightful to interact with, a rock star in the sack, and really, really smart.  I truly adore the man.  I also get frustrated as hell with him when he doesn’t call for weeks on end, doesn’t show up when he says he will, and chooses other women over me.  He also has that little issue with controlled substances. . . . .

I think the worst thing about all of this is that I’ve known Clint to tweak his sorry ass for other women.  I’m not sure, but I think these chicks have a golden pussy.  I know he can do it.  I’ve seen it—he just doesn’t do it for me.  And no matter how much I may wish it—even if I could find him, drag him back to Denver, and make him promise—he never will. 

Tyler won’t either.  It looks as though I’ll be moving to Tyler’s neighborhood to open up a furniture boutique in about six weeks.  It’s a popular street with a lot of foot traffic.  One day he will stroll in, hand-in-hand, with a mediocre looking woman (they are never as hot as me—okay, that sounds bad—but it’s true!), lavish all sorts of attention on her, buy her a piece of my furniture, and show me how he has turned into the man he could have been. 

And even though it will chap my ass, it won’t surprise me too much. After all, I saw his potential.  I nurtured it and tried to turn it in my direction.  I gave him the best I could for our brief time together.  At least it didn’t get toxic like it did with Clint and me.  I left them both better than I found them, after all.    

C’est la vie!