... Florida? He lives in Florida?This, of course, being my reaction to a Facebook-stalking session of an ex, myself pretentiously gasping out loud while dressed in sweatpants and cupping a Manhattan on a Tuesday night. The guy I'm referencing, you see, was always the snobbish type -- nothing could be taken at face value, and everything was cliche. Florida? Pft, that's reserved for two-dimensional 65-year-olds in Boca Raton, I can imagine him telling me. Snottily. Jokingly, too -- with a smile that would make it sound endearing, even. But still snotty. Like, "mucus everywhere" levels of snotty. Hence, why we're not holding hands and slurping a spaghetti noodle from opposite ends of the table under the moonlight.
And now, there he is. One big ol' pompous queen gracing the clear-water beaches of America's beacon locale of retirement. And the funny thing? I love Florida.
If I'd brought up the fantastical prospect of living there four years ago, he would have ... well, to be quite honest, I just wouldn't have brought it up. I'd have scoffed at the notion, too. Not because I felt the same way, but because I was a placating, self-conscious twat who knew zilch about what it meant to be in a relationship, date, etc. (Not to discredit everything I've blogged about during that time -- we'll pretend all of that was right on point, y'all.)
My point being that time changes people. The truth is that I wouldn't lie about that now. And apparently, he wouldn't deny it either: Florida is kind of awesome. Disney World? Hello, nostalgia! South Beach? Salutations, beach bodies of the world! Universal Studios? Fucking rad, yo. Stripped of all of his hauteur, I can't think of a single thing that would have kept me away from him. (OK, so there was a slight body odor -- but that's workable.) I could have -- gulp -- actually been with this man.
Though my whiskey burns particularly strong at the thought, I'm inclined to believe that some things really are that simple.
I know, I know: I'm not saying anything new here. Timing is everything. That's a staple of the post-break-up, friend-consoling roundtable. But it also happens to be pretty goddamn accurate. Of the handful of men I've dated, I can point to each one and, without hesitation, say that the timing of each either made them more attractive to me than they would be now or, as is possible with Florida Guy, completely doomed the relationship from the moment my foot kicked dirt up from the starting line.
Is there a moral to be found here? Yes, and no. The long and short of it, is that the odds of finding someone on a parallel timeline as you are pretty doggone slim. I'd have an easier time trying to find real jewelry on QVC. But if you can -- in your inevitable trajectory of Tuesday-night drinking and Facebook-creeping -- point to someone you've since lost touch with (and interest in), and muse to yourself if it just might have worked today, then rejoice. Pal, there's hope for you yet. But also don't kid yourself during your next date when you chalk up a bad personality to bad timing: Be whoever the hell you want to be in a relationship, and dictate your love life by the merits of character first and foremost. Timing changes circumstance, not compatibility.
Meanwhile, I'm stuck with the harsh reality that as I'm here soaking up the bitterness of my Manhattan, he's off sunbathing in the saccharine sanctitude of his Miami. In which case, Father Time's got one helluva sense of humor.
