Not for me. For Shooting Buddy.
Several years after losing his beloved wife to cancer, he has decided to step back into the shark tank of dating. The dumb bastard. He’s several dates in, and things seem to be going very well.
I’m truly happy for him. Yes, I’m still very much grieving my recent, ugly loss in the relationship department. But he is now where I was six months ago. When things were shiny and new. And based on my own compatibility analysis, he has way better odds than I did.
I fondly remember the exhilarating giddiness of a new romantic relationship. In fact, I think that hearing about his adventures is helping me to avoid being consumed by rage over my loss. Every story brings back memories that make me smile.
“Yeah, that’s nice.”
“Been there, did that, and it was awesome.”
And for that short time, it doesn’t hurt. For a fraction of a second, I stop fantasizing about blowing the back of his head off as he leans in to kiss her, splattering his blood and brain matter all over her in the process. No. In that moment, I’m simply content, sharing my best friend’s happiness.
And the more episodes he shares, the more of these good moments I have. So, in addition to wanting it to work out because I want him to be happy, I also have my own very selfish reasons for wishing them success.
“I’m happy for you.”
I’ve told this lie many times in my life. Most of the time, I thought I meant it. As it turns out, I didn’t. At least not completely. Only now do I really understand what it feels like to say and mean these words, and not have even a trace of envy or some other negative emotion in my heart as the words come out of my mouth.
Best of luck, sir. You deserve it.