Almost A Prince

by Amy Zidell

"I love you, but I'm not IN love with you," is the romantic relationship version of what campaigning President Barack Obama will express in his political relationship with his voters. In this same filter, his much built up and tapped down Thursday September 8, 2011 Jobs speech was like him saying he's going to call later, but he never does. President Obama is the political equivalent of the guy you're in a troubled relationship with for too long because you are in love with the man he potentially could be. Even though, maybe not so deep down, you know this guy is no good for you. Your mom never liked him. Your friends think he's bad news, plus they are tired of your sobbing calls when there's been a fight. All the people in your life who truly care about you are perplexed that you stay with him.

What your mom and your friends don't know is he could be the greatest guy ever. He can be so charming. They don't understand; he's under a lot of stress at work.

You are so invested in the relationship and this man, that you know YOU can make it work through shear force alone. You've got to make it work. You have put all your faith, and trust, and hope in him. You gave him a key to your apartment. You end up paying the bill when he takes you out to dinner. You have shared your body and soul with him. If it seemed so right for you, how could you be wrong doing so?

Rather than your pride spurring you to stop accepting bad behavior, the manipulations he plays with your mind neuters and twists this basic survival psyche. This twisted pride makes it impossible for you to admit making a mistake -- a huge mistake.

Friends try a margarita-fueled intervention, taking you out one evening where there's a great mix of eligible people. Despite a constant parade of very nice candidates, no one strikes your fancy.

It's as if you've been hypnotized or brain washed. You don't act this way. This isn't you. You've lost yourself, your self respect. You might even loose your job because he's constantly bothering you at work calling or showing up. Your work friends don't like him any more than your mother does.

Still, there's that thing he does. A glimpse you've seen in a split second unguarded moment. Why can't he be like that all the time? Desperately, you hang on longer and endure more. You tolerate the overt flirting with other women when you are together. You tell yourself you can live with, "Look but don't touch." He ogles women and asks you what you think of their physique.

When you are depleted in every facet of your being, a mere shell of your true self, mercilessly, the spell breaks. One day, you've come down with something. You're sick enough that they send you home from work with orders to see the doctor first thing in the morning. Anticipating sleep, you put your key in the apartment lock and notice it odd the deadbolt is unbolted. You ignore this oddity passing it off as early distracting effects of your illness. You open your door and something doesn't seem right. You attribute this to your fuzzy head. Did you hear something? Or, is that the fever? No, you heard something. Right there in your bed is your Prince of a man doing more than ogling another woman's physique. Your limit is now surpassed. "Get out! Get out! Get out," you scream amazingly loud despite the severe pain in your throat. Arrogantly, he tries to explain away the situation. While your fever spikes, you are miraculously immune from all his words, platitudes, rhetoric, and attempts of turning on the charm. You are on a roll, "I never want to see you again. I never want to hear from you again. Don't call me. Don't text. Don't email. Don't contact me ever again. I hate you." He seems genuinely hurt at the last remark, gazing you straight in the eye with that look that used to melt your knees. Now seeing clearly, looking in his eyes, you see nothing but dark ominous pits.

As your Prince and his wench scurry about redressing and gathering their belongings, you hear her say to him, "You said this was your sister's place." She slaps him across the face and storms out. Your bloodshot eyes shoot daggers at him. You point to the door, "Out, before I call the police." You point to your nightstand, "My key." You are going to burn the sheets and change the locks anyway, but you still want your key. He puts the key down on the nightstand. He reaches for a hug. You shrug back, your look telling him, "No more. No more chances." You look at your watch and tell him, "Tick tock." Deflated, defeated he slumps out of the bedroom toward the front door. You follow behind not too closely. He stops in the doorway, turns around, and says, "At the end of the day, you were the best thing to happen to me." He leaves. You lock your door. Freedom! You make up your couch with clean sheets and crash on it.

Despite your fever, your mind is clear in a way it hasn't been since before you met your Prince. He is not the man you thought he was. He could never become the man you thought he could aspire to be. One of the hardest things to accept is that you are not the only one. You're not that special. You're one of many. He fooled a lot of people. The man you thought he was does not exist. He never did. He is a myth, an illusion.

You sooth your head and throat sipping some hot tea with lemon and honey. You'll need time to heal, time to recover from this destructive relationship, and time to repair the damage done. You'll start with the basics. Primarily, he does not get another chance. On this, you are resolute. Not four more seconds, certainly not four more years.

Obama, presidential campaign, jobs, debt, myth, primaries, candidates, taxes, relationships, hypnotized, brain washed, ogle]

[Next time perhaps I'll analyze how political debates are like speeddating. comparison of speed dating and political debates.]
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