Breaking Bread

“I was thinking about what you said yesterday,” Mr. Beer Man said as we were walking through the Lincoln Park Zoo. “I realized something about myself when it comes to relationships. I’m selfish.”

When I didn’t say anything for a while, he asked why I was silent. I told him it was because I had no rebuttal. I agreed.

He wasn’t surprised. And neither was I, when he said that he didn’t care.

“It’s who I am,” he said.

His comments helped me realize something very important about who I am. I’m someone who doesn’t want a selfish man. Up until yesterday, I’m not sure I really knew that.

Sure, we don’t ever consciously say we want a selfish man, but so often, that’s just what we get. We get it because we believe it's what we deserve.

In the past I was willing to accept empty relationships because I was empty. I didn’t know any different. I thought I needed very little because I got very little. Now I know better.

After being with Mr. Electrician, I realize that it’s possible for a man to be nurturing, kind, giving and warm. Selfish was never in his genetic makeup. And now, being with Mr. Beer Man, I can see the dramatic differences between these two types of men. And the differences in what I’m willing and no longer willing to accept.

The thing is, I can’t be angry about who Mr. Beer Man is. After all, he’s not. My only job is to either accept him for who he is, or go away because I want someone different.

We went to the Green Market and afterwards, found a spot beneath a shade tree that faced a pond where families floated by on boats in the shape of swans.

“You want more?” he said, holding out a loaf of French bread in my direction.

“No thanks,” I smiled, pushing the bread – and him — away.