Comfort food

I am tired of being the human equivalent of comfort food for the men in my life.

I’m the girl they turn to when they’re alone, when they want someone to make them feel warm and fuzzy and loved -- with no strings attached. They know I won’t demand anything of them because, well, because I’m stupid. I’m so happy to have their attention, have their focus, even if it’s just for a few hours, that I toss everything aside just to be there for them.

The late night visits which, in someone else’s life, should turn into a booty call turns into watching “Thomas Crown Affair” and searching Craigslist for someone for ME to hook up with since apparently nothing’s gonna happen with Dude Boy.

The last call of the day from Dark Boy, who wants/needs/desires to have someone be just that, with long, wine-filled conversations and poetry, who thinks I’m amazing as long as I’m doing things to help him out. But when push comes to shove, I’m not the “spice” he’s looking for. But I’m comfy enough to spend time with… as long as someone else isn’t there.

I’m the one they turn to when they just need a warm fix. They don’t want sex. They want soup. I’m chicken soup. I’m warm cookies. I’m reliable and dependable and maybe I smell good.

But comfort food is temporary. Once you’ve been comforted, the empty soup bowl goes into the sink and then back into the cupboard, to wait for the next rainy day, the next cold, lonely night, to be brought out when there’s nothing else to eat.

But I’m done with that.

I will no longer comfort you, unless you’ve lost a limb.

I will no longer answer your last-call-of-the-night calls.

I will no longer be your comfort food. If you need comfort, find someone else. I’m done with warm and fuzzy and good-smelling. Well, maybe not done with good-smelling.

I am moving on to being dessert.

I am that gorgeous, delicious, indulgent cake you see sitting in the dessert case, beautifully lit, just waiting for you. But you can’t reach into that case unless someone lets you in. I am the dessert to be coveted, to be oogled, to be desired and wanted, only to be denied unless I decide to let you open the cupboard.

You have to earn me. You don’t just get to have me. You’ve got to plan and sacrifice and leave room for me.

You are going to miss me, I guarantee that. But I’m out of comfort for you. It’s time for some comfort for me.