I’m a pusher; I push people away.
When someone gets too close for my own comfort, slipping through nearly half of what I’d like to believe is rightfully mine, I shut the person out the door. Tight and out of sight. Having to deal with emotions and trying to predict what could be the right move or answer in a given situation are only two of the many things I mindfully steer clear of.
Four months ago I hit the brakes to a full stop while seeing someone steadily, immediately after that person started to reveal what he felt, what he wanted out of something I was still trying to make sense of. In my head, it was just la la la la la. Once you burst that bubble, everything instantly turns into a gigantic slob of orange goo.
It’s not the first time something like that happened.
Precisely the reason why I’ve been told one too many times of how “good” I am at being alone. Such is a compliment that I take in stride, acknowledging the fact that anything apart from my job and my jump rope are beyond my capacity to manage with wisdom and with heart.
That is why it is in no way that I humor others when I use “Summer” (of “500 Days of Summer,” in reference with the movie’s protagonist/ antagonist —- you be the judge) as my Starbucks screen name when reminding myself of how I have sabotaged what-could-have-been relationships in the past. That, and because they spell my name wrong 9 out of 10 times anyway.
And most importantly, because I am uncomfortable with labels.
Just so we’re clear.