So I’ve got one ex definitely out of my brain – woot. It’s about as confirmed as it can be: Mr T no longer floats my boat in that way. As I said, woot. Now if only that meant I’d also worked the other “tall, ginger(ish), good collar bones, climber” out of my system…

Hand on my heart, if the CC asked me back today I would say ‘No’. Not that he’s going to ask me back, but you get where I’m going here. I’m logically over him and probably about 85% emotionally over him as well. But that leaves a treacherous 15% of gooey, icky, soppy heart that’s whimpering in the corner, remembering the good times. Damn it. I blame Valentine’s Day.

It used to be I didn’t get many daily reminders. There’s something to be said for your ex winding up on another continent as you can be pretty certain you’re not going to run into them down the supermarket whilst you’re looking particularly fetching in your tracksuit. I finally got rid of the football he’d left kicking round the flat at Christmas (figured Moose’s nephews might get more use out of it than me). Somehow his favourite glass has managed to survive fifteen months in the Meadow Towers kitchen which is a miracle considering my clutzy nature, but when (note the when, not the if) it does break I won’t be devastated. I can even wear the earrings now without immediately feeling conscious they were a gift.

But… I’m not as there as I figured I was. I was trawling through my hard drive looking for a particular picture last night and I stumbled across a batch of photos I’d forgotten about. The little lurch in the pit of stomach was a good indicator all was not hunky-dory in Cas’ head.

Why, when I’d convinced everyone including myself that I was like, so TOTALLY over him, do I now realise I was perhaps protesting a bit too much?

Because Facebook friends collided, as they are wont to do, and suddenly there’s the CC’s profile, in all it’s cute, Canadian glory, connected to my profile. I deleted his blog from my rss reader a while back because I’m really not up for that whole masochistic “does he still think of me, will he write about me, I hope his life is miserable” gig. I didn’t delete it straight away because I didn’t want to seem petty but then one particular post got written and I decided I wasn’t over him enough to want to read about his new partner. There are more enjoyable ways I want to spend my free time – college work, cleaning the bathroom, having my left leg amputated. And I never signed into IM programs so I never saw him online either.

Of course, I’m now signing into IM programs a lot more so, not only is he there in my Facebook list, he’s also there on my buddy list. Silent. Not plinking me. Why?! Yes, I’m not plinking him either, but… He ended it with me. Does online etiquette mean he has to plink me first, or I have to plink him, or is the accepted thing for both of us to sit there on our respective sides of the Atlantic, studiously ignoring each other?

Why should I care? Why do I feel it’s like the elephant in the room when I talk to mutual friends now? Why, when I am actually at a point where I am moving on, does my heart just want to look back?

And more importantly, what can I do about it? They say time heals all wounds and recent experience running into Mr T. has proven this to be true, but I’m not sure I want to wait three years! Plus, if time to get over is related to seriousness of the given relationship, then I’m doomed to be single and hung-up till *does some rapid calculations on the handy Dashboard calculator widget* 2010 at least. Let’s say 2015 to be on the safe side.

That’s really not a viable solution. I should just bite the bullet and plink him, right? Be all cool, calm and confident? Oh, that won’t work, because the blithe confidence thing was part of what attracted him in the first place. I guess I could just hope he still reads Bright Meadow and realises that, appearances to the contrary I’m really still a ditzy bundle of neurotic insecurities. But then, that was partly what kept him hanging round so long…

I’m doomed. I wish I wasn’t, but I am. And you’d hope I’d learnt my lesson, but I really haven’t. What *is* it that I find so bloody fascinating about rangy ginger guys? Seriously, it’s like a disease or something 😕