My life has followed a steady, predictable pattern since my divorce.
I meet someone, we talk, they seem great, they seem to really like me… A couple have even said they loved me. We’re sailing along at 30,000 feet, gliding on top of the clouds in clear blue skies, smiling and enjoying the ride.
And then – something happens.
Either they suddenly decide to leap from the cabin, yanking the ripcord on their parachute as soon as they clear the emergency exit, like D.B. Cooper, vanishing into myth, or
They suddenly have to change flights for “business”, and can never be bothered to make their way back to me, because I’m just not in “first class”, never minding that I spent my last dime on our tickets, or
the engines stall, the plane falls from the sky, and lands in ice-cold waters, all hands lost at sea, with me washing ashore on some deserted island, no one else in sight.
And once I’ve built my raft, and made my slow and weary way back to civilization… I find out they got picked up by some luxury cruiser 5 minutes after the crash, have been drinking margaritas & have forgotten I ever existed.
Something inside of me is feeling as though maybe I’m not meant to find love again.
That maybe I’m meant to spend the rest of my life flying solo.
Maybe my pattern is the “missing man” formation… Only the one missing… is me – and everyone else flies on without me.