I needed the support of a few important women in my life who knew I’d been dating Derek, so after sending my reply to Derek, I e-mailed them with the news. I also e-mailed my best friend, Antonio.
The needed support came quickly. A psychic friend who had picked up on how much Derek liked me believed Derek didn’t know how to deal with the energy coming in that was pushing all of his buttons about relationships and commitment. Others suggested that he was running scared. An apprentice said, among other things, that she admired that I had been clear with myself about not being with a man unless I was having a beautiful affair. As far as she was concerned, I could thank Derek for reintroducing me to the world of amour and then, game on. It was suggested, jokingly, that we could kick his butt. Whatever the truth actually was mattered less to me than having the support of my close women friends and Antonio. And just to stay as open and honest as I’d been all along, I e-mailed Derek’s breakup message and my response to it to a few of these people.
After too little sleep, a medicinal amount of Jameson’s, and a lot of tears, I just wanted to lick my wounds, but I knew myself well enough to understand that what I really needed to do, like it or not, was get back on the horse that had just thrown me. My heart wasn’t into it, but I got back on the dating site, added a photo of myself with a friend in the weight room doing bicep curls, and scrolled through the men showing up when I did a search.
I was feeling pretty centered and calm . . . right up to the moment I saw that Derek was online on the site. I muttered a WTF. This man had said in his message to me that he was simply not ready to date, that maybe at the two-year anniversary of his wife’s death, around the time of Halloween, he would be. Now, less than twenty-four hours after sending that message to me, he was back on the dating site.
I was angry . . . for about five minutes. Then I began to laugh at myself. I was okay with the man being unable to get past his grieving process enough to date, but it annoyed me for him to have moved on from his wife’s death enough to date if it meant he didn’t want to date me? It appeared that as long as I could see Derek as fragile, I could move on, but if it was clear that he had plenty of internal strength, just not directed towards me, I couldn’t handle it. I winced at how small this made me.
Then I gave myself a bit of a break because I realized that a couple of my buttons (and I don’t have many of them) had been pushed: the buttons about being lied to and about being betrayed. Had Derek lied to me in the message? If so, he was not the man I thought him to be, and I should be happy to have him out of my life. Had he been authentic in the moment, but once I was out of his energy field, he realized that he was actually ready to date, just not me? Whatever had happened, I needed to deal with the buttons that had been pushed because the spike of annoyance was more about my reaction to those buttons being pushed than it was about Derek himself.
I had been deflecting men on the dating site while I dated Derek, but now that I was again looking at profiles and had put up a new photo, views and messages began coming in. There was no one I found all that enticing, but I knew that no one was likely to give me that little internal ping so long as my model of the man I wanted was Derek and no one other than Derek.
In an ironic twist of fate, my hair appointment with my stylist, Donna Cristobal, was that evening. My last appointment with her had been the evening before my first face-to-face meeting with Derek. Now, five weeks later, the affair had run its course and I was getting back in Donna’s chair, getting my hair cut again. When I got to her studio, I immediately told Donna what had happened. As she cut my hair, she asked me to articulate what kind of man I wanted. She speculated that I would have an easier time manifesting him if I verbalized what I wanted.
This was metaphysics 101 for me, basic stuff. It was valid, but I also knew that other factors come into play that impact manifestation, including timing and agreements made before entering this life. But it did seem like a good time to rearticulate and refine the qualities and behavior I was looking for, so I verbalized them. She cut, encouraged me, and fed my bruised heart with love and praise about who I am and what I deserve. Donna and I had joked about her being my daughter from another life because there were times when I lapsed into the mother role with her and she lapsed into the daughter role with me. But that evening, the roles were reversed and she mothered me as if I were a teenager who had just had her heart broken by her first real boyfriend.
Among the things I spoke of (and I had a very long list) was my fantasy about cooking with a man. As fantasies went, it was a pretty tame one, but there is such a connection between food preparation and primal sensuality for me that as a fantasy, it evoked a lot of juice. I was stunned when I got home from my haircut to find the potential for that fantasy being fulfilled up a few rungs on the manifestation scale.
It was the first “like” to the weight room photo I’d added to my profile. The message was succinct: “Like a babe with guns!”
I laughed and went to his profile. Among the things he said was that he found cooking a meal and sharing a bottle of wine to be romantic. “Don’t worry, I’ll do the cooking,” he said.
I sent him a message saying that I had liked his babe with guns comment and referred to the profile statement that he would do the cooking for that romantic dinner in. I told him that I was into cooking myself and asked if he would consider cooking with a woman.
“Of course. Cooking with someone would be awesome!” was his quick reply.
It appeared that getting back up on the horse quickly had been a good idea, and it also appeared that my manifestation juices were kicking in.
Note: The name Derek is fictitious and has been used out of respect for the man involved.
Copyright 2016 by Melanie Mulhall