letting it go

I was out with a gaggle of girl friends this evening when an old friend walked into the restaurant and I peeled away to say hello. He told me that my former partner is getting married. I'm genuinely over the moon for him. But as I rejoined and sat down amongst the crowd that I was with I sat in my own reverie for a few minutes. Happy for him, yes. Forlorn for myself simultaneously. Not because of the news about him, really, because I could have been that woman if I hadn't walked away from the relationship. I chose to leave, and I did so for reasons that only made themselves apparent in hindsight. I was too young, not just for him but in general. I was too lost to myself, and it wasn't his fault, it was my own. But funny, still, to sit amongst my crowd of amazing friends and grieve for a moment about yet another sliding door in my life. I'm nearly 40, never been anywhere close to being married, not sure I care but still... maybe I am bothered. I would like to be asked, anyway. My love life hasn't been a roaring success. In fact I've spent most of my adult life fucking my love life up. Me doing the fucking up, mostly, with the occasional exception. Today, like most days, I can't envision ever having a lovely co-habiting and caring relationship with another person who will accept me despite all my fuckups. And I realised long ago that things you can't visualise rarely happen. And I feel another part of me let go, another cut in the tether to my hopes for a certain kind of life.