I know I can speak for a lot of women out there who have been caught up in a guy.  You know, the guy who still makes your heart flutter when you think about him.  The one that left you hanging.  The one that took you weeks months to get over.

Ya – that one.

Somewhere in our lives, we’ve all experienced that guy.  And, hopefully, by now you got over him.  You’ve finally learned your lesson, because after the first couple of times he disappoints you, you finally see the light.  And, like me, no matter how rattled you get, no matter how fucked up the situation is – or how many questions you had left swirling around in your pretty, little head – there eventually comes a time when you finally know when to quit.

You make a conscious decision to cowboy up, dust your shoulders off and keep your chin up.  You continue to look forward, and when you have moments of weakness, you channel that Nastyass Honey Badger deep inside of you with all of your might!  Your inner Honey Badger helps you beat off any temptation to call, email, text or use up any more of your precious time thinking about the guy who took you for granted.  Or, who just wasn’t that into you…

Take your pick of whatever you want to call it, but regardless of what it really is, or is not…

Honey Badger don’t give a shit…

You manage to stay strong.  You’ve moved forward.  And, you continue on with your life, because life goes on, and so do we.  You do this until he’s not even a blip on your radar.  Nothing.  Just silence.  You have forgotten him.

(You got that my little Honey Badgers who are reading this?!)

Glory hallelujah!

You praise Jesus, Allah, God, your girlfriends, yourself, your Mamma – or whomever/whatever helped you get through that tough period of time when you just wanted to call him.  You are finally free.  You are finally over him.  Congratulations!

And that’s exactly where I was.

Happy.

Content.

Still single and not giving a shit.

Happy.

…and happily sitting at my favorite Irish Bar one cold December night.

December 20th to be exact.

The Belfast Bartender had just poured me my third Pumpkinhead beer (with no rim), and I was sitting next to an uber-cute guy, who I had just met: An ex-Marine who had tats, muscles, dreamy blue eyes and a mouth that I couldn’t stop staring at.

He had a great smile.

And lips.

And you know what? It didn’t even matter that he was only 5’6″.

Ya – it was like that.

My buzz was being fueled by the great conversation I was having with my hot 25-year old ex-Marine.  Way out of my age range, but hey!

*INNER COUGAR LETS OUT A GROWL*

Eventually, I had to use the ladies room and, while I’m in there, I check my cell phone.

What the??

Really?

REALLY?

DC Dude?!

There goes my fucking buzz.

DC DUDE:  Two years ago today the DC dude snowstorm…ha.

Did he forgot how we left off last time, seven months ago? Was this supposed to be a joyous moment for me?  Oh, and let’s not forget how he made me cry and the fact that he never even acknowledged it.

Nobody makes me cry.

Nobody.

It actually took me about 48 hours to reply to DC Dude’s text, only because my knee-jerk response was, “Go fuck yourself,” or “The only thing you should be saying to me is, ‘I’m sorry. Please, can we talk?'”

Clearly, our last texting conversation had escaped his mind.

I decided that I needed to phone a friend.

I picked P.P.D., because she knows how to put my train back on the tracks whenever it derails.

My train was definitely off the tracks again.

She gave me two options.

I picked option #1, which was just to be cool.  Don’t flip out, like I wanted to, and “just be cool.”

And breathe.

*BREATHES IN THROUGH THE NOSE, OUT THROUGH THE MOUTH*

CARRIE:  Thanks.

CARRIE:  It’s nice that you remembered.

DC DUDE:  How could I forget?  I sent a thank you note to Pressfield and got a nice reply.

Pressfield?

As in, Stephen Pressfield – the author of “The War of Art”?   The very book he suggested that I read, which made me like him even more?  The book that moved me so much that I slept with it in my bed and carried it with me for months?!

That Pressfield?!

That mother fucker…

He’s kicking tires and throwing out the ol’ fishing lure…nice, big, shiny fishing lure out in my pond…

MY POND!

I almost fell for it.  I wanted to know what his thank you letter said.  Maybe he would even let me read it, but that was me projecting and getting my hopes up, so I stopped myself.

Instead, I thought  about the last time we had contact, you know, when he left me crying.

*CHANNELS THE HONEY BADGER*

The fact that there was no mention of an apology or acknowledgement about my feelings, I was able to channel my bad-ass Honey Badger with no problem.  I didn’t care about satisfying my own curiosity about his letter or Pressfield’s response.  I didn’t give him credit for thinking of me on a very important day.  Nope.  Instead, I remained calm – just like the Honey Badger did when it got bit by the King Cobra and passed out.

Honey Badger gets bit – it blacks out.

But then, it gets backup.

Just like me.

So, I replied…

CARRIE:  Super cool.

And that was the end of that…

I’m getting better at this!

~Carrie