Second String, Wife Material
Months ago, having a beer with my ex-fiancé, I ask a pointed question.
“Why am I always made to be the side chick, the back up, to these guys?”
His response smug, yet insightful, as always.
“You’re the wife material they found a year too late.”
Since our split, nearly every man I’ve developed (or thought I could develop) feelings for has ended up making me second string.
I’m the placeholder. The understudy.
Believe me when I say this isn’t a matter of me recognizing my self worth. I know damn well I’m worthy of being the main supporting actress in someone’s life. I was once, to the aforementioned ex-fiancé, but things change. We learn we deserve more than what we’ve given ourselves. People change. My ability to be the pack mule, though, hasn’t.
I’m able to pick up as much baggage as physically possible to carry us from one day to the next, and break my back in the process (literally, too, I think to myself as a feel my back cramping from too much luggage on my shoulders this morning in the hotel).
The INFP is affectionately nicknamed The Healer, due to our compassion and maternity. I didn’t think this would include being the battlefront nurse for the emotionally wounded that I pine after. There is so much of my life that I am thankful for. But at the moment, my taste for brooding, emotionally damaged, handsome men is not one of them. It, in turn is causing me to become brooding & emotionally damaged.
Now, excuse me while I go order another shot of Jameson from the bar. If you need me after that, I’ll be on the bench.