My Best Fix

 

A woman in the constellation group told me my path to success would be found in the “Northwest.” She said it was a straight shot to all my dreams coming true. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I filed it in my grey matter for later use.

 

A month later, when I met “B” online, whose profile name was “dreamscometrue” and who also lived in the “Northwest” suburbs, I instantly got chills! This was surely what the woman in the constellation group was referencing; it all made sense now. How could he not be “the one,” with fate and serendipity tag-teaming me into submission?

 

Still, despite the cosmic coincidence, something in my gut was hesitant to respond to him. He reminded me of an ex-boyfriend who left me for an alcoholic nut-job. (Yeah, I said it. Who trades in a Porsche for a used Corolla?)

 

Something just felt “off” with B; in the wise words of R-Kelly, “My mind was telling me no, but my body was telling me yes.” I was responding to my libido, while my higher conscience went hopelessly unheard.

 

Inevitably, I lowered my guard and responded to his message. Our first phone chat lasted over two hours. The conversation flowed naturally and an instant connection was formed. This had to be a karmic meeting of kindred souls.

 

By this point, I was a bit smitten with B, thanks to both the spontaneous occurrence of this situation and the uncanny commonalities he and I shared. All systems go!

 

When we did meet in person, the connection deepened. B was tall, attractive, slender and toned, with “bedroom blue” eyes. I undressed him in one glance. But I wasn’t around the bend just yet. Some sliver of restraint held me back.

 

Not for long. Successive phone conversations led to a few more “harmless” dates, and by encounter #3, we were making out like two teens in a John Hughes’s movie. I felt alive, euphoric, feverishly craving more.

 

I was intoxicated…just like the effects of a drug.

 

That’s exactly what B was– a drug, one to which I was fast becoming addicted. I had simply replaced the chemical elixirs and pharmaceutical cocktails with a 54-year old hopeless romantic. And this was when I realized I might be a love addict, because something that feels that good, with extreme highs and lows, cannot be healthy. The red flags were camouflaged by the chemistry; I was totally blindsided.

 

So when it ended as fast as it started, I was left feeling a bit like a child whose toy had been taken away, disregarding the fact that this toy was the equivalent of a Rubik’s Cube that would explode if not solved quickly enough. The proceeding weeks left me in a state of withdrawal, similar to that of an addict mourning the loss of heroin. Ugh, dopamine deprivation.

 

Three months later, I found a love addiction support group, and had the gumption to ask the other women there why I seemed to be dating the same men in different bodies.

 

The unanimous response to my question: “Because you’re a love addict. We’re glad you’re here. Keep coming back.”

 

Come to think of it, maybe I was in the Northwest part of the room when they told me this. Or maybe that woman in the constellation group was daft. In any case, a year later, I realized that my dreams had come true. I had fallen in love with myself, not in an egotistical way, but in a way that made me feel whole, secure, and complete sans any romantic liaison. I had dated and married myself.

 

So I guess B was the portal to all my dreams coming true.

 

Thank you. You were my best “fix.”