Charming, but single

The past few years of dating have been interesting -- I spent most of them either genuinely not wanting to be attached or lying and saying I didn't want to be attached. There were also a few moments (or days or weeks or months) when I actually did admit to myself and others that I did want to be in a relationship, but those times were few and far between. Oh yes, I was in love. I fell hard into that kind of consuming love that takes over your body and makes you act like a fourth-grader on smack. At first I thought it was lust (and at first it probably was), but what started as lust and curiosity became true affection. I couldn't control it, but it ruled my life. I spent months attempting to ignore it and never actually called it love until much later, but I am certain that is what it was. How great to be young and in love, right? The lightness in your heart, the bounce in your step, the churning in your stomach; it's simply too much. The problem with my love was typical and tragic. I was (and probably am in some small way) in love with someone who didn't (and doesn't) love me. At all. I used to kid myself and say that he loved me in his own way, but I've moved past denial and onto truth. Call him B. He was a close friend of a girlfriend of mine. One night she and my then-roommate ditched us at a bar for a few hours. B and I got along swimmingly. We talked for hours. He actually listened to me when I talked. I flirted and he flirted back. We shared a few pitchers of beer. Meeting B was crazy. I physically felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of me. At the time, I was one of those college girls who frequent the same seedy bar three times a week, partying and hooking up with different boys all of the time. So, when I told a friend about B, she immediately assumed I wanted a hook up, and was a bit taken aback when I said I wanted to get to know him better. A few weeks went by and we saw each other in group situations. I almost always orchestrated him getting an invite out with my group of friends. I did this so that I was prepared to see him. I wanted to look, smell and feel my best whenever he was around. No amount of preparation helped. As soon as he walked into a room where I was, I would start to sweat and my stomach would flip and churn and I would stumble on my heels and words. I was smitten. Long story short, we made out a few times. I decided that I was going to go after him, and then I was told that he had a (largely fictionalized) girlfriend. (I call her "largely fictionalized" because he overstated their relationship many times. Sometimes, I think he genuinely thought the were dating. Other times, I think he just didn't want to deal with me.) Didn't want to deal with me? That's right. We became good friends -- we could stay up for hours talking. We flirted all of the time. All. Of. The. Time. People constantly thought we were dating. I'm not the hottest girl in the world, but I'm not leper either. To this day, I don't know why B didn't just give me a chance. I'm not sure he does either. B has these pretty stupid rules about who he won't date. He won't date anyone from his work, which is a common and reasonable rule. He also won't date one of his friends, which is also common. Here's where the rules get stupid -- all he does is work and go out with the same people, either coworkers or good friends. He isn't out trolling for new women. My friend who introduced us used to always joke that someone would have to throw herself on the hood of his truck to get him to notice her. I follow that joke up with, "Doesn't work. I tried that at least three times." Rimshot! Thus, my love became tragic and drama-filled. We'd go out, get drunk and flirt. Then I'd get all attached and mushy and he'd realize what was going on and blow me off. Then I'd get mad, and then upset. Sometimes I'd argue with him. Sometimes I'd ignore him. Almost all of the time I cried -- a few times in front of him, though most of the time I made it home, or at least waited until he was gone before I turned on the waterworks. It's embarrassing to think about how crazy I was back then. It's amazing B and I are still friends. I actually don't know why we hang out together -- we have very little in common. Since I've known him, I've felt a connection with B that I can't explain. I won't even try to explain it. It is what it is. I know he had felt it too. I used to think that he'd come to his senses and get his shit together and decide that he was a fool and that he did actually love me. Not. Gonna. Happen. (An old therapist of mine, after listening to me spew about B, said that she wished the movie "When Harry Met Sally" was never made. "It's not going to happen, S," she said. "He's not going to suddenly realize after all of these years that he loves you." She is entirely right about B. However, I still love "When Harry Met Sally.") That brings us to now. I could vent about B for pages, but I've covered the highs and lows. I am at a place in my life where I can accept that he doesn't love me and that we're not going to be together. This is HUGE. It's taken at least two years to get here. I still relapse sometimes, but I do it quietly and in private. I don't think you ever stop loving some people. I think your love for them changes and fades a bit, but at your core, there are some people you will just always love. That's how I feel about B. As much as my love for him was one-sided, it was love and it was great at times. We did and still do have fun together. The fact that I was in love with him has been put away, but it lingers just under the surface. We're both aware of it. I joke about it sometimes, because self-deprecation is at times an excellent tension-cutter. (Other times it is just awkward.) He maintains an even-temperedness about me at all times. Me, I fake it really well. (He scorned me, you know. I'm not crazy. I harbor both love and hate of him in my heart.) But I get the impression that B's never faking it, which drives me insane. So, you can imagine my surprise when B got a little huffy about T, a guy I've hooked up with and would like to date, if he'd ever call my ass. Before I left a New Year's party with T, B and I talked about him. B noted that, "I have more hair than he does" and "I hope I age better than he has." B isn't normally catty in that way, so I interpreted his comments as jealousy (regardless of his actual motivation) and made a huge spectacle of hanging (and making) out with T at the bar, before the two of us left together. This was not very mature of me, but it sure was fun.