Project Interlude: Remembering To Love Myself

(Warning, this is a long one.)

I’m a little ashamed of myself.

Anyone who’s been following my budding blog probably realizes that I’ve taken on a somewhat dry acceptance of being single. I inject a tiny bit of self-deprecating “30 cat” humor in most of my posts.

Hey, what would I be without it?

The reality is, most of the time I’m ok with being single. If I had to rate myself on the scale I created a few posts back, I’d say that as dark as my humor has become, I’m still firmly seated in the second ring of singledom – Still comfortable being single, but If I got a little romance I wouldn’t kick it out of bed.

But the other night, I crossed the line. The other night, as I sat drinking at one of my regularly frequented bars, amongst the company of roommates, friends, and even a few fellow bloggers, I allowed myself to do something that, until then, I only jokingly dabbled in.

I felt sorry for myself.

I almost never do that. Nobody should.

You see, I was sitting at the bar of a guy – a cute guy – who once upon a time had been really interested in me. Then, suddenly, one day, he wasn’t. There really wasn’t an explanation for it – I wasn’t offered an explanation, anyway. One day we’re talking about which jazz bar in the city we wanted to have our first date, and the next minute I’m sitting at his bar, drinking alone, and accepting his friendship because he was no longer offering anything else.

I see you pulling out that ‘world’s smallest violin,’ I know I know…

I honestly wasn’t that bummed out about it. Dates come and go; some happen, some don’t. And it doesn’t just happen to me – I know all of this. I knew all of this and I still frequented his bar, even fraternized and flirted with other people there. And there I was, on a Saturday night, drinking at his bar and waiting for my friends to meet up with me. The guy and I are having a friendly conversation, as we always do, only this time we began to talk about each other’s love lives…or the lack thereof. Before I know it, he’s pouring me another drink and telling me, “Brandon, I don’t know why you’re single. You’re so lovable and sexy it doesn’t make sense!”

Yeah, loveable and sexy huh?

And, for once, I found myself unable to escape the irony of the situation. There he was, this smart, funny guy with a smile that could make you forget whole sentences, legitimately trying to make me feel better about myself, all the while not realizing that he was part of the problem. Not realizing that he was one of those people who was inexplicably no longer attracted to me, though he definitely had been at one point.

Before I could stop it, I was hit with a wave of melancholy and self-derogation. I tried to stop it, I couldn’t stop it, and in that moment of alcohol-induced weakness I gave into it. In that moment, sitting there at this gorgeous guy’s bar and listening to him try to cheer me up while ignoring the fact that he was part of the problem, I reveled in every quality I have that could be considered less-than-perfect and I allowed myself to sulk. For once, I allowed myself to believe that all those self-deprecating jokes I make were truths – I really would die alone in a sea of cats. I really was unloveable. I really was too tall and lanky; my hair actually was too crazy and my personality too loud and polarizing; my teeth weren’t the straightest, and I really was too shy and too dumb for any guy to truly like me. Heck, my clothes fit too awkwardly for any guy to truly like me.

I know right? Clothes? I really was a mess that night.

By this point my friends and roommate had joined me and I tried my hardest to distract myself from my thoughts by getting lost in their company. I drank a little more, danced my ass off, and tried to be pleasant in conversation. It wasn’t working, though, and I knew it wasn’t (and so did a particular observant muffin), but there was nothing I could do. I had delved so deep into those thoughts that everyone has and nobody should pay attention to, that even though I was surrounded by friends and people who loved me I couldn’t help but feel doomed. Doomed to being alone. I excused myself and left the bar early.

**sccccuuuurtttt!!!**

“Wait – you left the bar early?”

Why yes, yes I did.

“DAMN, you really were in a fucked up mood…”

…thanks.

I hugged myself as I walked down the street. I even lost myself in my haze of self-pity and shed a few tears on the bus. As I walked the final few blocks home, I felt like I was in one of those early 2000’s teen dramas – you know where the beautiful heroine has just been forced to eat a bit of humble pie and she’s walking down the street, dejected and alone, maybe there’s a little Michelle Branch playing in the background. I thought there was nothing I wanted to do more than lie in bed, cry my eyes out, and go to work the next day secure in the belief that I was meant to be alone and pitiable.

And then I got a text message.

It was from my roommate, who I had regretfully ditched at the bar. I’ll never forget what it said (of course I won’t forget, I saved it).

“you worry too much…just be happy on your own…the rest will come…even if it doesn’t, you’re good on your own…”

I stopped mid-spiral. It was like my roommate pumped a break in my head. Anybody who knows this guy knows that he rarely ever, ever tries to placate someone with mushy words (read: sometimes, he can somewhat of a jerk). Of course, the upside is that whenever he does use said mushy words, you know he really means them, and they really do have a way of making you feel better.

What can I say? He’s the Dorothy Zbornak to my Rose Nylund.

And suddenly reason, sense, and all my forgotten fierceness came back to me, and I truly felt ashamed of myself. Ashamed for letting myself wallow in self-pity. Ashamed for thinking any of those negative thoughts about myself were true and, if they were true, for thinking they were enough to render me completely unlovable.

(ashamed that I’d left the bar early)

“There we go! That’s more like the Brandon I know.”

…thanks.

As I lay in the darkness of my bedroom, staring at the blessed text message, I thought about one of my favorite shows on TV right now, RuPaul’s Drag Race, and the bit of sage wisdom that RuPaul closes the show with every episode:

If you can’t love yourself, how the hell are you gonna love anybody else?

And I hugged myself.

No – not one of those poor, “woe is me” hugs I had been giving myself earlier, but a real hug. A legitimate hug. To myself.

Because I really did love myself. And no, not like that…that night, anyway.

And I needed to remember that. Let me remix RuPaul’s wisdom with a bit of my own: if you can’t love yourself, how the hell are you gonna love anybody else, but besides that, how is anybody else gonna love you?

And really, does it matter who else loves you if you don’t love yourself? If you can’t love yourself? The love of anyone else, no matter who they are, is secondary. Everyone in the world can love you, but if you don’t love yourself, does it really matter? YOU are the catalyst of your own happiness.  YOU are the essential ingredient. If you don’t meet your own approval, does the approval of anyone else have any impact on your own well-being? No.

And the great thing about that last bit? Even if you do meet your own approval, does the approval of anyone else have any impact on your own well-being? Ha! No.

And I hugged myself harder, because I realized that if I didn’t love myself, I wouldn’t be any good in a relationship. I wouldn’t have the love to give to another person until I had the love to give to myself. My dorky Prince Charming could have walked into the bar that very night and pledged his undying love and promised me a pampered eternity in his floating castle (and the money to pay off my student loans), and I wouldn’t have been ready for him.

And I realized that my roommate was wiser than I sometimes give him credit for. He had reminded me of the one thing that I thought I already knew, but needed the strength to remember even in my worse moments: If I’m going to be good in a relationship, I need to learn how to be good alone, first.

I need to remember, above everything else and at all times, that I love myself. I love my tall, lanky ass! I love my wacky hair, and I love my goofy personality. I love my not-so-perfect smile and my occasional forays into Rose Nylund-style dumbness. I love my sense of style.

I love me.

And I have to remember that, even in the worst of times. Even when I’m confronted with the mistakes of my past and the uncertainty of my future. Even when I feel the need to compare myself to others and what their happiness is like. I have to remember to love myself when I’m alone, and when the date doesn’t work out, or the guy doesn’t call back, or when he inexplicably loses interest. I have to love myself, and be happy even when I’m alone.

Because one day that guy is going to come. That guy who will look at me and see right through me, and see straight into my heart and be captivated by all the love I have there. And when he does come, I want to be ready for him.

And if he never comes…well, I’ll be too in love with myself to care.

Tagged as: 21 Day Brainstorm Blogging Project, advice, Love, Philosophy