Out of Denial

 

I poured the tea and cupped my shivering fingers to the shape of the hot hot mug. What a relief. As I got out from the kitchen, stumbling my way across the living room, I spilled some on my bare thighs. I was ready to flinch, anticipating pain. The tea, at boiling point two minutes ago, did not seem to have an effect on my nerves, for my legs were cold, like ice.

I hate being sick. I know. Who doesn’t right? When I was younger, I loved it. It was an excuse for me to act like a princess and skip school. Now I don’t need to be ill to be all that.

I laid my throbbing head against the throw cushion of the sofa and thought, if anyone had a fetish for the frazzled and unwell, I’d be real sexy to them. Heh.

Hahahaha.
Serves you right.
Itu la, gatal lagi!
Woman, I thought you learned your lesson?
You’re joking!

Some of the reaction I received. And yes, I went back for more after last week’s eventful incident. On Monday. We locked the door this time though. In case of unexpected visitors again.

A simple cough had turned into a full-blown fever and other annoying penalties. The germs probably mutated.

I don’t regret. It was worth it. Not only because he was a satisfying lover and a good kisser. Also, for the reason that now the drought was over, momentum has to be kept.

Okay, always the passionate optimist, I assumed I was strong enough. Of course, believing my immunity was tough like a brick wall doesn’t make it so.

Maybe I needed this. Some alone time. Constantly surrounded by people can wear you down at several points or rather. I am not complaining to having a wide circle of friends, I feel blessed. Except being under the weather forces me to stay still and mull over thoughts I abandoned in pursuit of excitement.

A proper (dare I say it?) boyfriend would come in best during times like these. It’d be nice to be looked after by a significant other. Mothers make chicken soup and are brilliant in pampering the inner child. But that special person would indulge the vulnerable whims and makes you feel beautiful even when you look like a dying cow.  It’s a different feeling altogether I’m sure.

Not that I would know. I’ve never been in a relationship. Not really. I’m talking about the serious, long term, stable kind. The kind that might lead somewhere. 

All my previous ones didn’t last more than six months. And while I call them my exes (is there another title?), they felt more like extended flings.

My god sister and a throng of friends label me commitment phobic.

Maybe it is because at the curve of each relationship, something happens. Someone cheats. Boredom. Religious differences. Family objections. Long distance. Things that are beyond my control, too close for comfort, I feel smothered. And so I run. This is what I do.
 
Deem me a coward or picky, demanding, hard to please, or anything else within that category of vocab.  But I don’t see the point of staying simply for the sake of watching the prophecy unravel. 

I am not scarred. Not angry, not bitter. Not apologetic either. They were just not meant to be. But with every failed one, I grew more exhausted not passing that peak from play to domestic. Drained from the heartbreaks, the trying, the unnecessary ache, I stopped bothering.

Hence I jump from mattress to mattress, momentarily satisfied in my quest for 24 hour loving (sometimes less), leaving strands of my hair (both forms) on their plush pillows. 

However, trust me when I say, I have not lost hope in finding love – that’s a whole post by itself.

At present, I guess I am commitment phobic. Sort of.
Now where the hell is my group hug so I can feel someone up?