Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls is not mine, never will be.
Author's Note: Okay, this is a departure from what I normally do. But I think it's amusing. I invite all commenting—good or bad. Thank you.
I'm a leaver. I had a brief experience with being the person that was left, but it didn't suit my tastes, so I put an end to all that. I became the one who left, the one who broke hearts, not the other way around.
I even learned how to say, "It's not you, it's me" a hundred different ways…different languages…different words, phrases, intonations…I found that my exes almost appreciated me getting around those damning words. They were unoriginal and cliché. And I fancied myself an original.
So I perfected dumping to an art.
Ninety-five percent of the time it's not so bad, because really, I don't have much interest in the guy anyway. Being the fabulous original that I am, I date all types of men, but it takes someone special to hook my interest. It takes someone special to make me scared enough to break it off prematurely, even when my heart says, hey, give this guy a chance. He could be The One.
But I didn't care for The One. I already found him, and boy was that a relationship.
We dated for six months—a lifetime in my book. We were great together. I mean we were Igreat/I. I had never met anyone who made me want to spend every minute with them. I didn't care if it we just spent it in silence. Just looking at him was enough. Because really, he was beautiful.
Normally, I don't date guys that are prettier than me, because they spell danger. No one wants a guy that owns more beauty products than themselves. Been there, done that. But this guy was different. He didn't try or work at being beautiful, he just was. His pretty boy regiment includes soap and water.
He was six feet of sinewy strength. He would never be a muscle man…his frame was much too graceful for that. Yeah, he had the muscles and abs that make a girl drool in public, but these were muscles wrought from years of playing sports in the sun; they were definitely not created in a well- equipped gym.
I loved his hair. When I met him it was summer, so what would have been light brown hair had been naturally highlighted varying shades of blonde. And it was soft. God. He normally spiked it with water—don't ask how that worked—but even that was wonderful to the touch. The soft I'm talking about came at ten o'clock in the morning when I was waking up in his arms. I would just reach up and run my fingers through the short locks…That made my morning, and usually, my day.
He made me laugh all the time, and we had these discussions that would absorb us for hours. I've never had a guy ask me what I thought about leftist policies or if I'd read the latest by Salman Rushdie. This guy really meant it when he said he wanted a girl with a good personality. And luckily, for those six months, I fit the bill.
The trouble came in at month number five. I didn't see it at first, because I didn't want to see it. For once, I didn't want to be scared for giving my heart to someone—because truthfully, I'd already done it. He had my heart in his hand. The problem was I wasn't sure I had his.
I knew he cared, but I knew he was holding something back. It was as though he was keeping a part of himself locked away.
For himself. For someone else. I wasn't sure until She entered out relationship. She'd been away, apparently, on a trip. She was a writer by trade, so she often took trips to get inspired. This was a girl who rented a stone cottage in the English countryside for months, with nothing around her but sheep, trees, and rarely used dirt roads.
She was his best friend. A best friend that I'd never heard about in those five months she was away, in those five months we were together. How do you not mention your best friend to the girl you're dating?
Her name is Rory Gilmore. She's the kind of girl you don't notice right away, beautiful, but by all accounts not remarkable. Until you look at her over and over again.
She has these blue eyes…almost too vivid for real life. I truly thought she wore color contacts—they were that kind of a striking, electric blue—but he assured me that they were real. But these eyes of hers…they're haunting, and can bore a hole into your brain faster than any corrosive acid.
The eyes were just the beginning to the package. Next you noticed how nice her skin was. It was the kind of pale ivory that Victorian women would have envied, but not something that was common in this day and age where the perfect toasted almond tan was desired. After that you'd see the pretty carnation pink lips and the smile that induced you to follow suit.
And don't get me started on her personality. My god. We really only spent a handful of occasions in each other's company, but that was enough.
They had a special way of interacting. God, they would banter for hours, tossing in obscure references and allusions that would whiz over my head. I caught some, but definitely not enough to be an active participant in the conversation.
She was smart, she was funny, and she was kind. I hated her.
Because I realized why he was with me. I was a dulled, not so pretty, not so brilliant, but close enough copy of her.
I had the long brown hair, the blue eyes, the freckles, and the skin that wouldn't tan. I had the ability to talk to him at an intelligent level, but I was nowhere near Rory. I paled in comparison.
At first I was pissed. Because where did this guy get off? I wasn't a replacement, a clone for some guy to use when he couldn't have someone else. I was better than that.
But then I sunk to a place I've never sunk before. I moved beyond pissed to pathetic. I didn't want to say anything; I wanted to go on filling that pseudo-Rory role just as long as he was willing to pretend too. I loved him, and I didn't want to let go.
I had entertained the idea of winning him over, but that was fleeting. His heart belonged to her, and there was no force in the world that could change that. I don't like to back down without a fight, but this was the exception to that rule.
In the end I did let go. I dumped him. He was in that five percent that I regretted dumping. But it was something I had to do for self-preservation. Charles Darwin wasn't a man I could ignore. I had to break up with him to survive. It was either leave him then, or destroy my heart beyond repair. And while I'm a fan of a little roughness, I'm no masochist.
It was a pretty clean break. He didn't put up much resistance. It wasn't that he didn't care. Tristan DuGrey was no idiot. He took one look into my eyes, listened beyond the pretext, and knew that I knew.
He saw my remorse, but he also saw my sympathy. Tristan was in the same place I was, but worse. He'd loved Rory for longer than he could remember, but there was no way he'd ever have her. They had too much history. And he was too scared to lose her to make the move.
There was a kiss, even a hug. I didn't say that I wanted to keep in touch. There was no way we could just be friends. I wanted him too much for my physical and mental health. It was either walk away completely or moon over him like a schoolgirl. That's not my style.
I said goodbye.
He said take care.
I didn't date for a good two months after that mess. My friends thought I'd lost my mind because I'd never been that shaken up after a relationship. I'm the girl that gets right back on the horse after falling on my ass.
But it wasn't easy getting over Tristan. Not by any means. It had to take time. But eventually, I got over him.
I saw them the other day, but I didn't say hi.
They were sitting in a bookstore, sharing a couch, a novel, and two cups of coffee. I don't remember the title, but I do remember the envy.
They were pressed closely together, his right arm around her waist, holding one side of the book open. The crown of her head was pressed against his jaw as she half leaned against him, holding the left side down so they could both read and sip at the same time. They were reading silently for a while; I stood there in the mystery section, watching with rapt attention.
Then he said something that made her laugh. She looked up at him, her blue eyes shining up at with a look that I knew well.
And they kissed. It wasn't one of those disgusting let-me-taste-your- breakfast kisses that normally made me cringe when displayed in the public eye. No, they had to be sweet, tender, and adorable.
He'd gotten the girl after all.
I was almost proud of him for taking the chance. Or maybe it was her. I didn't know for certain, but I wasn't about to ask.
I walked away after they broke apart, feeling decidedly guilty for watching.
I was happy for them, really I was. And if I were a bigger person, I'd shake Rory's hand and congratulate her. Because she made him happy.
But I'm not a big person. I'm the girl who's jealous because I couldn't be the girl that Tristan wanted. Not the right girl. Just a shadow of the real thing.
Guess I'm not over him after all. Maybe it'll take just a little more time.
Author's Note: Okay, this is a departure from what I normally do. But I think it's amusing. I invite all commenting—good or bad. Thank you.
I'm a leaver. I had a brief experience with being the person that was left, but it didn't suit my tastes, so I put an end to all that. I became the one who left, the one who broke hearts, not the other way around.
I even learned how to say, "It's not you, it's me" a hundred different ways…different languages…different words, phrases, intonations…I found that my exes almost appreciated me getting around those damning words. They were unoriginal and cliché. And I fancied myself an original.
So I perfected dumping to an art.
Ninety-five percent of the time it's not so bad, because really, I don't have much interest in the guy anyway. Being the fabulous original that I am, I date all types of men, but it takes someone special to hook my interest. It takes someone special to make me scared enough to break it off prematurely, even when my heart says, hey, give this guy a chance. He could be The One.
But I didn't care for The One. I already found him, and boy was that a relationship.
We dated for six months—a lifetime in my book. We were great together. I mean we were Igreat/I. I had never met anyone who made me want to spend every minute with them. I didn't care if it we just spent it in silence. Just looking at him was enough. Because really, he was beautiful.
Normally, I don't date guys that are prettier than me, because they spell danger. No one wants a guy that owns more beauty products than themselves. Been there, done that. But this guy was different. He didn't try or work at being beautiful, he just was. His pretty boy regiment includes soap and water.
He was six feet of sinewy strength. He would never be a muscle man…his frame was much too graceful for that. Yeah, he had the muscles and abs that make a girl drool in public, but these were muscles wrought from years of playing sports in the sun; they were definitely not created in a well- equipped gym.
I loved his hair. When I met him it was summer, so what would have been light brown hair had been naturally highlighted varying shades of blonde. And it was soft. God. He normally spiked it with water—don't ask how that worked—but even that was wonderful to the touch. The soft I'm talking about came at ten o'clock in the morning when I was waking up in his arms. I would just reach up and run my fingers through the short locks…That made my morning, and usually, my day.
He made me laugh all the time, and we had these discussions that would absorb us for hours. I've never had a guy ask me what I thought about leftist policies or if I'd read the latest by Salman Rushdie. This guy really meant it when he said he wanted a girl with a good personality. And luckily, for those six months, I fit the bill.
The trouble came in at month number five. I didn't see it at first, because I didn't want to see it. For once, I didn't want to be scared for giving my heart to someone—because truthfully, I'd already done it. He had my heart in his hand. The problem was I wasn't sure I had his.
I knew he cared, but I knew he was holding something back. It was as though he was keeping a part of himself locked away.
For himself. For someone else. I wasn't sure until She entered out relationship. She'd been away, apparently, on a trip. She was a writer by trade, so she often took trips to get inspired. This was a girl who rented a stone cottage in the English countryside for months, with nothing around her but sheep, trees, and rarely used dirt roads.
She was his best friend. A best friend that I'd never heard about in those five months she was away, in those five months we were together. How do you not mention your best friend to the girl you're dating?
Her name is Rory Gilmore. She's the kind of girl you don't notice right away, beautiful, but by all accounts not remarkable. Until you look at her over and over again.
She has these blue eyes…almost too vivid for real life. I truly thought she wore color contacts—they were that kind of a striking, electric blue—but he assured me that they were real. But these eyes of hers…they're haunting, and can bore a hole into your brain faster than any corrosive acid.
The eyes were just the beginning to the package. Next you noticed how nice her skin was. It was the kind of pale ivory that Victorian women would have envied, but not something that was common in this day and age where the perfect toasted almond tan was desired. After that you'd see the pretty carnation pink lips and the smile that induced you to follow suit.
And don't get me started on her personality. My god. We really only spent a handful of occasions in each other's company, but that was enough.
They had a special way of interacting. God, they would banter for hours, tossing in obscure references and allusions that would whiz over my head. I caught some, but definitely not enough to be an active participant in the conversation.
She was smart, she was funny, and she was kind. I hated her.
Because I realized why he was with me. I was a dulled, not so pretty, not so brilliant, but close enough copy of her.
I had the long brown hair, the blue eyes, the freckles, and the skin that wouldn't tan. I had the ability to talk to him at an intelligent level, but I was nowhere near Rory. I paled in comparison.
At first I was pissed. Because where did this guy get off? I wasn't a replacement, a clone for some guy to use when he couldn't have someone else. I was better than that.
But then I sunk to a place I've never sunk before. I moved beyond pissed to pathetic. I didn't want to say anything; I wanted to go on filling that pseudo-Rory role just as long as he was willing to pretend too. I loved him, and I didn't want to let go.
I had entertained the idea of winning him over, but that was fleeting. His heart belonged to her, and there was no force in the world that could change that. I don't like to back down without a fight, but this was the exception to that rule.
In the end I did let go. I dumped him. He was in that five percent that I regretted dumping. But it was something I had to do for self-preservation. Charles Darwin wasn't a man I could ignore. I had to break up with him to survive. It was either leave him then, or destroy my heart beyond repair. And while I'm a fan of a little roughness, I'm no masochist.
It was a pretty clean break. He didn't put up much resistance. It wasn't that he didn't care. Tristan DuGrey was no idiot. He took one look into my eyes, listened beyond the pretext, and knew that I knew.
He saw my remorse, but he also saw my sympathy. Tristan was in the same place I was, but worse. He'd loved Rory for longer than he could remember, but there was no way he'd ever have her. They had too much history. And he was too scared to lose her to make the move.
There was a kiss, even a hug. I didn't say that I wanted to keep in touch. There was no way we could just be friends. I wanted him too much for my physical and mental health. It was either walk away completely or moon over him like a schoolgirl. That's not my style.
I said goodbye.
He said take care.
I didn't date for a good two months after that mess. My friends thought I'd lost my mind because I'd never been that shaken up after a relationship. I'm the girl that gets right back on the horse after falling on my ass.
But it wasn't easy getting over Tristan. Not by any means. It had to take time. But eventually, I got over him.
I saw them the other day, but I didn't say hi.
They were sitting in a bookstore, sharing a couch, a novel, and two cups of coffee. I don't remember the title, but I do remember the envy.
They were pressed closely together, his right arm around her waist, holding one side of the book open. The crown of her head was pressed against his jaw as she half leaned against him, holding the left side down so they could both read and sip at the same time. They were reading silently for a while; I stood there in the mystery section, watching with rapt attention.
Then he said something that made her laugh. She looked up at him, her blue eyes shining up at with a look that I knew well.
And they kissed. It wasn't one of those disgusting let-me-taste-your- breakfast kisses that normally made me cringe when displayed in the public eye. No, they had to be sweet, tender, and adorable.
He'd gotten the girl after all.
I was almost proud of him for taking the chance. Or maybe it was her. I didn't know for certain, but I wasn't about to ask.
I walked away after they broke apart, feeling decidedly guilty for watching.
I was happy for them, really I was. And if I were a bigger person, I'd shake Rory's hand and congratulate her. Because she made him happy.
But I'm not a big person. I'm the girl who's jealous because I couldn't be the girl that Tristan wanted. Not the right girl. Just a shadow of the real thing.
Guess I'm not over him after all. Maybe it'll take just a little more time.