This morning, on a long (and collision-free!) bike ride with my friend E, she asked how long I took to get over the guy I dated last semester.
As often happens with direct, straight-forward questions about my love life, I wasn’t sure how to answer.
“It’s kind of difficult to quantify,” I said, explaining that it was initially devastating because I’d met him within forty-eight hours of moving to New Mexico, but that I felt “over” it rather quickly since I had known basically all along that he wasn’t someone things were likely to work out with in a serious way.
Also, I told her, I’m not entirely sure I know what that statement means: it’s not as though you wake up one day and realize that you are “over” someone.
E–who, by the way, is in one of the happier and more functional relationships I know–went on to tell me a story in which that was, actually, the case. She described someone she dated in college who was similar to my last-semester guy in that she recognized he wasn’t good boyfriend material, but still felt uncontrollably attracted. After a few months of dating, things ended abruptly and for a long time later she felt angry and hurt.
Until, she explained, they slept together again.