Rolling the dice.
This is not my first rodeo in navigating a long distance relationship with Mr. Big…it’s my third.
In 2006 he moved to Phoenix, then moved home. Then relocated to a remote town in Virginia an hour away from our mutual stomping grounds, then moved home. And finally…Atlanta.
When he lived out west, adjusting to the 2-3 hour time difference depending on the time of year, not to mention lack of physical presence and scarce visits besides a trip home over Christmas and my 1 and only trip there in the spring, was incredibly difficult. One thing in particular I could never get used to: excursions to Vegas.
He took advantage of the short flight to Sin City many, many times…and even though I had never personally visited there myself, the image of XL breast implants, butt cheek sightings, go-go dancers, heterosexual women who evidently turn into lesbians for a 1-night-only show, and prostitutes galore didn’t sit well with me.
But because I was an impossibly understanding, non-confrontational, appeasing girlfriend — picking fights was not in my relationship repertoire.
Eventually I did touch, taste and see what the elusive city is all about thanks to a business trip, and my speculation was confirmed — on steroids.
Then we had The Big Messy Break-Up last winter, my trust was beaten to a pulp, and we’ve spent the last 12 months working on building it back up. My closest friends have commended me on how far I’ve come in the meantime.
“You’re so much farther along than I would be in your position. You don’t dangle the past over his head. You aren’t suffocating him with a jail sentence. I couldn’t do it…”
No, gaining trust certainly didn’t happen overnight, but once nightmares stopped occuring, when I could sleep through an entire night — not waking up in a worried panic wondering what he is doing, and cutting down on checking his email accounts on a regular basis…I knew that my confidence for his actions and behavior was normalizing.
So several months ago I shared the profound insight with him.
“I trust you.”
It was an incredibly liberating and freeing feeling. Because, frankly, I don’t think I ever totally trusted him in the past (even pre Big Messy Break-Up), even though I had no quantifiable proof he had done anything wrong.
Then recently the most scandalous town in Nevada reared its ugly head again. He was presented with an opportunity to fly across the country for a former colleague’s 30th birthday. My response was less than enthusiastic.
“I don’t feel comfortable with you going, especially for a random dude who I don’t know. If it was your BFF’s bachelor party, then I could swing it.”
Fast forward several weeks and we managed to discuss the topic a total of five times, which was four times too many. And in between those phone conversations, I ironically came across several disgusting articles (The Truth About Bachelor Parties), which only further validated my angst.
These passionate, revealing, and eventually mindnumbing deliberations exposed a very raw and real question: Do I REALLY trust him?
I sat with that question for a while, peeled it back, analyzed it, massaged it, and mulled it over, and over. And here is where I landed, with no strings or excuses attached: I trust him 100% in normal circumstances (everyday life). I trust him 95% in compromising circumstances (e.g. Vegas).
Realizing this may seem ridiculous as he could rendezvous with infidelity any given day, particularly seeing as though we don’t live in the same zip code. But the truth is I just worry if super duper intoxicated, with women throwing themselves on his lap, in a sex-crazed silo…he’d be more likely to make the wrong decision. In other words, why throw someone who is indefinitely proving they’re capable of monogomy, into a precarious position that prides itself on lies: What happens in Vegas…
Ultimately, the ongoing dialogue was constructive and helped us open the lines of communication even further. My frame of mind took a turn.
“I’m not going to demand you not go; it is your choice. And, if you do decide to go, I won’t hold it over your head.”
That last sentence proved to be nothing short of monumental for me, both emotionally and psychologically. Trust can’t be earned unless the opportunity is given to begin with.
I released myself from neurosis and toxic banter in my head, not to mention probably several verbal undercuts to his proverbial chin. And it felt incredible. I just let it go, literally.
Not only was I not going to throw daily pity parties over the (what I considered an unnecessary) trip, I was even going to get on board. Ok, maybe not both feet in the wet bar pool, but genuinely wish him well and fun. Ok, but maybe not too much fun.
As I write, he is in the air, Vegasville-bound to be surrounded by horny girls and gambling for a few days. And I’m at home rolling the dice, choosing to trust him.
