Love, Unrequited Style
Starting with Donny Osmond back in grade two to the present day. And I can't "out" my latest unrequited one because it could lead to public humiliation for me. Maybe someday. I'll give you a hint though. I'm a sucker for accents, especially any and all derivatives from the Commonwealth Realms. I'm also a big time sucker for smart guys, oh, and cute, oh, and a nice bod doesn't hurt. (And if you're making an educated guess, for heaven's sake don't post it in the comments; this is a public blog. Email me and we'll talk.) I'm narrowing the field too much. We all have unrequited loves--be they human, spiritual or material (think Tilli Tomas or Alchemy Haiku). There certainly wouldn't be a music industry if we didn't obsess over relationships lost or never found. And literature would definitely be the poorer should we collectively awake and say, "No more loving people or things that won't love me back!" Melancholy may be an acquired taste, but once embraced can become addiction. The sweet despair, the divine discontent. The complete control. That's the heart of my unrequited love; I'm forced to admit. My imaginary lovers never color outside the lines or memorize the wrong speech. The pain is bittersweet--a tiny bit bitter but mostly sweet. Very like the glamorous illnesses in stories of old in which women in gauzy dresses dwelt in opulent sanitoriums langorously awaiting heroes' arrivals. It's not the gut-wrenching, limb-severing pain of real life when people walk away and won't give you a second (or third or hundredth) chance or where the person or feline or fiber you would die to have won't give you the time of day. I will try to live in the real world, honest. But don't fault me should I repair at regular intervals to mingle with my unrequited lovers. And don't ask me about it because I won't kiss and tell. Okay, maybe I will.