I am a pessimistic beast. I’m the cat who always lands on his feet, but wonders “what if this time I don’t” on his way down. And, believe me, I know how fucked up that is, but I can’t stop doing it. I think it’s a defense mechanism against disappointment. If I get too excited about something, the chances of expectations not being met are higher than when I actively -or subconsciously- decide to completely give up hope.
April 28th, 2017. Today’s been marked in my calendar for a couple of months now. My flight to New York departs at 4 PM. So yes, I am headed to the airport in a few minutes. Although I decided not to embark to NYC at all. I’m going to pick up my girl, Anna, arriving from Israel. With a sign and all.
People reacted like I was a motherfucking idiot for giving up my fist trip to America “because of a girl.” The truth is that, even though she’s a big driver of this decision, she wasn’t the only reason. I knew the trip was gonna fuck me up. I was gonna have the mother of all depressions, aimlessly walking alone in the Big Apple. So I said “Fuck that” and decided instead to go with best thing that has happened to me in a while. New York can wait.
What comes next is scary as hell, too. Things turned very serious, very fast, and I don’t know what to think about it. Is this good or bad? Are we ready for this? Are we meant to last? What’s in store for us? Question after question that I cannot answer. Not yet, and maybe not ever.
Being single under the circumstances I’ve been was complex. But whatever fuck-up I was up to, whatever mistake I made, it mostly affected only me. Victimless crimes. Not anymore. That puts a lot of pressure on me, and the only way in which I can know if I can take it, is by taking the chance. The risk of fucking up being the only guarantee. Not very encouraging, right?
Here I go, then. Bound to the Copenhagen airport, with a lump in my throat and a welcome sign on a paper in my pocket. Shit just got real. Oh Lord, have mercy on me.