Born Complicated

My co-apprentice at work, Schlumpf (Smurf, in German), got dumped Sunday. The douche had cheated on her Saturday night and then called to tell her, and then breakup with her, because "he couldn't look her in the eyes after what he had done." Schlumpf spent the morning vomiting in the bathroom and just looking miserable. I was on my way to the front of the store that she whispered to me, "he cheated," which then lead to a ten hour shift of us discussing the pain that is love. Not exactly a conversation I really felt like having on a Monday, but it was a slow day and we didn't have a whole lot to do.

Although I consider myself to be good at getting over breakups, my way of dealing with them is a lot different from most women. I have a tendency to turn breakups into more of a fresh start then the end to life. I get mad, I become bitter, I become more independent, I loosen my grip on my baggage and then at some point I fall for someone new. It's a circle of torment, but one that I have never been able to resist. I don't listen to sad music, I don't pine, I don't try and get back together. Instead, I take down the pictures, put gifts in a box with the others, erase phone numbers and any other sign of the love lost, get my hair cut, buy new clothes, tie a new color string around my wrist, go on a trip, and then whatever loneliness remains I smoke away. Like I said, my way, isn't the same as most, but I'm still alive, and sooner or later I end up falling for another compliment. If you are looking for a tissue and someone to watch The Notebook, I am not the one to come to. I will turn on the Gloria Gaynor and dance for you, I will share a bowl with you, and I will even hug you, but I will never sing you a torch song.

Luckily Schlumpf knows me pretty well, and she is a tough little cookie, so there were no tears, just vomit (which kind of made me wish for tears). It was a little too early to give her my breakup-pep talk (you need a good week before you can handle it without hating me, it's got a heavy dose of tough love to it), so I did what I thought I should, and just let her vent. Right after lunch I had made a comment about how the majority of my relationships don't last longer then six weeks, a "coincidence" that hangs over me like a curse. Schlumpf replied to this with, "Yeah, but that's because you're complicated." Thank you, although definitely not the first time I have had that be pointed out as the reason behind the "six week curse," it wasn't something I really felt I had signed myself up to hear while trying to make someone feel better (another example of why trying to make Swiss people feel better always ends up with being insulted).

Here's the thing with being "complicated," complicated is not like being insecure, or overly sensitive, or high-maintenance, because those things you can work on. Being complicated is a package deal, not easily unwound into simplicity. Take Webster's two definitions of "complicated:"

1 : consisting of parts intricately combined
2 : difficult to analyze, understand, or explain

See, that's me in a nutshell, I'm not going to deny it, but what the hell am I suppose to do about it? I always thought complicated = interesting, depth, and intrigue. I mean, that's what I look for in a guy at least. Uncomplicated translates to boring for me, and I like flavor, vivid colors, and deep velvet character. If being complicated is what has prevented me from having a long-term relationship, then I guess I am glad they only lasted six weeks. When Schlumpf called me complicated, I took it as an insult, but after a beer and quick reference check with my good pal, Webster, I can't help but take it as a compliment.

The main thing I came away with from a day spent talking about love and failed relationships: a renewed sense of freedom that comes with being single and twenty-five.