It’s been over two years now since my last relationship of the “romantic”* variety ended. Lately I’ve been feeling like I must be slow-witted, because I was sure that two years of being single would be plenty of time to figure out… um…whatever it was I originally planned to figure out. See? I can’t even remember what that was. The meaning of life? The True Significance of Love? How to stop screwing everything up?

It was something like that. Something important.

Another thing I don’t remember very clearly is where I got the idea of a two-year break from “romantic” relationships. It wasn’t from television, because I don’t have a TV. A briefly skimmed self-help book? The Internet? I think there was a formula involved, something having to do with the amount of time I’d been in consecutive “romantic” relationships without a break. I seem to recall struggling with a calculator, frantic long division on the backs of bank statements and credit card receipts, and finally, giving up in frustration and saying “Two years! That ought to be long enough to answer my questions!”

I don’t know why I’m telling you this.

But here’s what it reminds me of. After my brother died just over three years ago, I consumed all kinds of literature on grieving. This occupied my mind while I freaked out like I’d never freaked out before (and I am no slouch in the freaking out department). One line stuck with me from a pamphlet about how to cope with a loved one’s suicide: Keep asking why until you don’t have to ask anymore.

This advice was perfect for someone like me, for two reasons. First, there was an action being prescribed: keep asking why. When the black despair threatened, I could fill page after page in the spiral-bound notebook with variations of why? Second, the promise of resolution: if I keep doing this, I won’t have to ask why anymore. I will understand. Won’t that be grand!

You can probably see where this is going. Or maybe you can’t. I don’t know what you can see from where you are. If you’re using Internet Explorer, you probably can’t see anything.

Where it’s going: for the past few years I have been consciously pursuing an agenda (or two) whose origin and nature have become increasingly unclear. Meanwhile, my unconscious mind has created its own goals and found its own sense of achievement and resolution, without bothering to inform me. I remain largely ignorant of what, in fact, is going on around here. Which is not at all what I expected when I sat down, minus a “romantic” partner, to ask why.

That last paragraph was boring, and possibly inscrutable. I’m sorry. I’m mere hours away from my vacation over here. Look, I’m giving you a “romantic” (tee-hee!) picture from Found:

This picture is actually deeply disturbing and creepy. Is the owner of the white-clad arm even alive?

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*Today the word “romantic” is so funny that I have to giggle and add quote marks every time I type it.