Not quite Superman

He called to tell me that he has an office function--that he'll be off work past 9pm and not at 7pm as agreed.  At first I wanted to grumble and whine. "Had I known earlier, then I wouldn't have parked my ass in Starbucks and sat through 3 kill-time hours!" But I bit my tongue, even though he trailed off into boisterous laughter on the other end of the phone.

"It's ok," I mumbled, dreading the thought of having dinner alone and spending a few more hours with only my online tutorials to keep me company, trying to forget that I could have curled up with my nephew at home rather than loiter in a coffee shop with strangers.

And that's when it hit me: what right have I to complain when what he did to me tonight was what I'll be doing to him for two years? Cue the tears.

Finding my as-yet response-less tweet an inadequate catharsis, I sent an SMS message to two very close friends. They both reassured me that my boyfriend would eventually get used to the distance, cope, and grow in ways he wouldn't have had I not left. That he is, in fact, proud of what I'll be doing, and perfectly understands that our sacrifice is not for naught.

I suppose he will, and I suppose he does. But I asserted that for as long as we reside in the transition, I can feel only guilt: I still can't bear the thought of him eating canned food for dinner and waking up in the morning with no one to hug except his fat sexless roommate. If a single ditched night took this much understanding on my part, how deep a well of understanding does he need to start digging?

Cue more tears. And not just for those canned meals and sexless hugs. I think I was also crying about myself.

Perhaps, I told my friend, I'm having trouble admitting to myself that I'm still that sentimentality junkie from 70 more lbs ago. Maybe I feel pressured to sustain this "I'm post-modern about relationships" narrative because I could not concede to the prevailing discourse of romance and dependency that so-called lesser mortals are wont. Maybe, I thought, I'm too caught up in a highly calculated self-portrayal that realizing I have this kind of feelings for a person expresses itself like an allergy.

I suppose that much to my dismay, I was reduced to being vulnerable. And with less than 2 weeks from my plane ride to Boston, I could afford none of it.