When I was 12 years old, Mami moved us from NYC to MA for a better, safer life. I’ve been back to the city since 22. That’s 11 years if you do the math. But I’ve never felt NY would be the city where I’d find love and committment.
I’ve had relationships. Some that failed by their doing and others that failed by mine.
Like George, who would only open up when in the throws up passion or when I treated him like a piece of caca. Freaky masochist.
Or Johnny who I pushed away after a drunk dialing scare.
And let’s not forget my ex, Luke, who withdrew so much emotionally and sexually you’d swear we were a divorced couple.
Still, I’ve learned many lessons. Lessons that I will carry with me in the next relationship as to not repeat mistakes. Doing so would be redundant and futile. And, oh, how I despise futility.
Still, as I go through the motions of dating and mingling, I feel it is pointless.
Because my future husband isn’t in NYC.
Call it a gut feeling or a adverse reaction to meeting men who are too young, too eager, too unsure, too arrogant, too sneaky.
Just. Not. Right.
All I have is this tugging in my tummy. This longing in my heart that whispers, “Go!”
Because where I will go is where he will be.