The Korean

Today feels like:

 

 I think I’ve mentioned that I bounce a lot of ideas off my brother. Since we both generally lead full lives, this is normally done through text message. Today is no different.

I started off the conversation asking him if he thinks it’s odd that I think about a man I was dating when I first met Mr. P. The man is a lovely, very young Army reservist of Korean descent. He is quite handsome, very all-American. That being said, he wasn’t terribly interesting and there wasn’t much to pursue. Never the less, it took some time for me to let him go once I’d decided to pursue Mr. P solely. Let it be said in no uncertain terms that this decision was not made because I can’t handle more than two men. But more than one can’t handle me. You see, when I love, I love quite fully. And I leave any other love prospect feeling left out. That’s exactly what happened with the Korean.

The Korean crosses my mind almost daily. He didn’t used to, and I’m old enough to know what changed. Mr. P and I are going through serious growing pains. Some of the charm is beginning to wear off and the issues are taking up more space in our heads. I didn’t miss him nearly as much as I used to this last trip he took to France. I’m disappointed in our current state, which feels a lot like spinning tires in the mud. I’m disappointed. He still brings enormous joy to my life and massive orgasms, and there’s a lot to be said for both. But the question still remains if I’d like to hang my hat onto that combination. This morning we had yet another conversation about what he should eat for breakfast. We’re getting old, the lactose tolerance isn’t what it used to be, the bananas give him gas, and why do I think he needs to have protein at breakfast? You know…real sexy stuff. And I sort of snapped at him.

It’s almost as if I can feel my satisfaction with life evaporating. I know work is the main source of my dissatisfaction, it’s also the thing over which I have the least amount of control. I know Mr. P needs time and I believe he will wake up one day and want to live with me. I know the fact that I’m pressuring him and I’m pressuring myself is a sign we’re not really ready.

I. KNOW.

The Korean is a perfect guy. He’s built like a brick shit house, he gave great head. He had perfectly perfect expectations of me which I triumphantly failed to meet because I was falling in love with a guy who is just as messed up as I am. He’s got the perfect my-parents-are-immigrants story. So I know that this impulse to call him, to see him, is really just a manifestation of my discontent.

And yet this knowledge does nothing to persuade me against it. It does not comfort me.

Comfort comes from people. It can’t come from chocolate, unless it’s the chocolate cake Mr. P brought home for me (prompted…but whatever) to soothe my PMS on Monday. It can’t come from alcohol, which in fact has caused more problems in my relationship than it ever even hoped to solve. It can’t come from sex, unless it’s the mind blowing kind that Mr. P and I have consistently had for the last 9 months and counting. It’s really not that the grass is greener on the other side. It’s that I’ve forgotten that my toes are buried in damned good grass to begin with.

And I reached this conclusion by texting my brother. Then I texted him this.

Because I am bouncin’ and behavin’.