Sixth Sense (T-Minus 446 Days)

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The idea of urinating canines didn’t seem very festive, so I decided to hold off on writing about them until I knew everyone would be in a post-holiday funk, sad to be back at work and looking for some sort of distraction. Even if it’s only by me. And even if it created this mental image.

I think we are all painfully aware of the innate sixth sense men have. I know you know the one. It’s the thing that gives a man the ability to at one moment be blissfully ignorant of reciprocating emotion, interpreting silence or simply recognizing interest … and at the next to be so keyed in to our psyche that he knows the very second we find happiness elsewhere. Or at least are prepared to find happiness.

He then feels the need to mark his territory. For all intents and purposes, to pee on our leg.

I wish I could take credit for this analogy, but it was relayed to me by a friend via one of her friends upon their discussion of my latest plight. How I was attempting to fully immerse myself in the dating world; how I had found a prospect (or two) … and how no sooner did I say it aloud that “neither defined nor satisfying” came around to make dinner plans.

I might as well be a fire hydrant. Or a bush in the neighbor’s yard.

Either way, I leave myself wide open as territory to be marked, and you know what … I don’t mind. I act annoyed and frustrated, but let’s face it, you can never truly be upset with an adorably cute dog. And I say this as someone who has come to be a pet lover late in life.

In fact, I would probably be more upset if he didn’t come sniffing around.

Whether women admit it or not, we love this phenomenon. We moan and complain about how we wish they would just leave us alone, but everyone loves to feel wanted and appreciated, even if it’s not necessarily the person we want making us feel that way. And even more so if it is the one person, but he just hasn’t realized it yet and this is the one indication it might at least be on his mind.

I experienced a second dose of this late last week when I got an email from the former Mr. Big, the first attempt at communication in close to probably four months and only the second since about three months before that (not that I’m keeping track). I can unequivocally say I do not want him in my life, but I still got a sick sense of self satisfaction he still thinks of me at the holidays.

You’re probably lying to yourself if you don’t admit to at least partly feeling the same way.

The problem comes in how you choose to handle it; how I have chosen to handle it. Just as dogs need to be trained, men cannot (or at least should not) be allowed to continually piss on whoever’s leg they please without some repercussions, unless you are truly OK with just shaking it off, washing your pants and moving on.

How’s that for an extended metaphor?