Every time I go to Orlando, it’s like going into the wayback machine.
Like, deja vu hits. Crazy shit happens that’s a sign of something else. I see people who look familiar and stir up old memories. And I feel so freakin’ melancholy midway through the trip that I cannot wait to leave.
I had three such instances this past weekend.
I may talk about the others another day. The one that haunted me the whole drive home was when I was sitting at the pool and a good-looking guy caught my eye.
He looked familiar. From the hair to the jawline to the body to the smile … I had to do a triple-take.
He was playing in the fountains with a little boy, about 4 years old. I didn’t see a wedding ring. But there was a set of grandparents and maybe a sister with him.
When I say he caught my eye, I mean it exactly that way — HE caught MY eye. I was watching him and he was watching me watch HIM.
If I had the balls to go up and talk to him, we could be telling a love story at some point. I feel that strongly about it.
The thing is, he reminded me of someone I got over a long time ago.
And so I sat in the shallow end, watching him and thinking of someone a thousand-plus miles away. Wondering if he would have been a good husband … whether we’d had kids … and how good of a dad he probably would have been to our kids. That we’d probably have a timeshare like the one I was in. That he would have probably been the one certain thing in my upheaval-filled life.
The thing is, things wouldn’t have worked out that way. I was always too much of a live wire. A restless soul. A flirt. A “leaver.”
I mean, maybe I wouldn’t have been. Maybe I would have been blissful and happy to build that life with him.
But we all know me. And if it didn’t fall apart on its own, I would have likely found a way to burn it to the ground.
But seeing “him” being sweet and cute and amazing at an overpriced villa at the happiest place on earth, well, wow. The thought of “cheers-ing” with frozen mango coladas and being happy and tanned and relaxed — maybe during an extraordinary week in an otherwise-ordinary life — haunts me still.
“Your story’s completed. Mine it’s a long way from done.” — Sister Hazel, “Champagne High”