4squared.

In the recent months of my life, mostly as a result of my one romantic relationship face planting on a rocky path, I have come to realize that I may be what I like to call, “romantically retarded.” In most aspects in my life I very rarely fall below the average, and in fact, when I put my mind to something I am generally successful. It’s been a relatively easy road in respects to whether or not I will succeed; if I want to and try, I do, and if I don’t want to and don’t try, I don’t. Simple really. Yet there is one thing that eludes me. And as far as I know this lesson is one that requires a bit more “hands on” learning; I can read all I want on the subject, but it really won’t matter.

Romance and the romantic relationships that follow.

It’s a tough pill to swallow when you realize most thirteen year olds have had more practical experience in the romance department that you have (especially considering I’m twenty five). But don’t confuse what I’m saying; I’m not necessarily stating that their skills are above par, or even just par. What I am saying, however, is it more than just a bit disheartening to realize that most “just hit puberty” folks could dance circles around me when it comes to relationship experience.

Eesh.

I chock most of it up to the equally harsh fact that I have but one single romantic relationship below my belt. And I realize I spend a lot of time (more than even I like to admit) thinking and thinking and over thinking the entire debacle, but it really is something that I’m having that hard of a time dealing with. I can’t, for the life of me, come to understand exactly how romantic relationships actually work when I am included in the equation. In theory, I’ve got the steps down and memorized better than the directions for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (and I really enjoy horribly processed, from a box, Mac’n’Cheese) so it’s painfully frustrating that I can’t just put to use what I know works so blissfully.

I’m at a point now where I can look back at my relationship and all my romantic blunders and laugh. There is of course, a painful cramp towards the end, but that is just to remind me it isn’t completely funny. I was twenty five, crazy, out of this world in love, and I would torment myself with the decision of whether or not I should reach out and hold his hand. And when I say torment I mean a nasty, back and forth battle of, “CHICKEN!” and, “Are you retarded? Just do it.” with the always pleasant, “You’re not going to do it.” rattling off in the background. It was something worth cheering about if I touched him without provocation (even if it was just putting my finger in his nose). I really have no idea what it is that stops me.

I tend to think that because I’m so used to just being friends that the physical language of “just friends” has transcended from being just a part of life’s language to being the only part of the language I know. I would sit there beside him and desperately want to love him, yet I would sit there and stare, all the while suffering a silent panic attack. Who does that? “Show my boyfriend whom I’m nuts for physical love and affection? People do that? Surely you jest.”

I say it again. Eesh.

And as if that weren’t enough to cause me severe distress, the fact that I will never be able to jump that hurdle outside of a romantic relationship certainly will. As my history shows, I’m not a dater or a casual hooker-upper. I’ve never been the girl that just dated a guy to date a guy; I’ve never needed to call someone my boyfriend or have a hand to hold. And it’s pretty evident that I never will be, and I am more than just okay with that. But it does beg the desperate question of “When?!” this hurdle will ever be successfully passed.

I’m not asking for a miracle here. All I’m asking for is a little help; a little patience and understanding.

And I’ve never been one to ask for leniency or for the lessons to be dumbed down for my sake, but on this one, this time, I am asking for at least some sort of learning curve.