Last I looked out my window, my Honda was not a MiniCooper.
You know when you want something to be what you want it to be so badly that you convince yourself it really is? Like, sometimes I wish my Honda was a MiniCooper so badly that I insist on squeezing into parking spaces that are way too small for it and, in the process, scrape up every inch of my bumper.
My ex is my Honda. Well, not literally, but you know. In the beginning, he was perfect. Okay, maybe not in the beginning, but like in the middle. In the beginning, he said he didn’t want a girlfriend. In the end, he said he didn’t want a girlfriend.
But in the middle, for a brief moment in time, he told me that he didn’t believe in marriage, but he was pretty sure he wanted me to go on adventures with him and be his partner in life. He would drop his suitcases after a business trip and envelope me in the hugest hug imaginable. He sat me on a bench one day and told me that my dad could fuck off, that the whole world could fuck off. That he would be my family and that was all I needed. We named our future child laying in the sand on a windy afternoon and I was pretty sure we were different. He was the perfect boyfriend. The perfect friend.
I chased that “middle” time from that moment on and I chased it right up until this weekend. I chased it through being called a slut by him and being told his friends hated me, I chased it through our friendship period, when he said he had moved on emotionally and I should too. I chased it in and out of the bedroom and even when he was away for weeks at a time on business.
It was as if I thought that if I wished hard enough for him to be a freaking MiniCooper, I could make it so. I even thought if the wishing didn’t work, I could scream or threaten or even fuck him into submission.
But last time I checked, my car sitting outside was still my banged up Honda and I’ve come to realize, now that it’s covered in scrapes from end to end, that if it doesn’t fit in a parking space, I probably shouldn’t try to force it to. And no matter how much I scream at it or beg for it to transform into what I want, it won’t and I’ll just be the crazy lady standing in the middle of the street screaming at a hunk of metal.
PS: In case you missed the memo, I have a life outside of my ex-boyfriend… Check it.
