Art imitating life imitating art

Ours was a love story that mirrored that of Carrie and Mr. Big. Though in a much more modest, poor-man's phone sex and the small city-sort of way. But a classic case of Mr. Hard to Get meeting Miss Hard to Get Rid Of nonetheless. An older, successful businessman with a crippling fear of commitment. A blonde, aspiring writer-woman with a crippling credit card debt.

Instead of a New York-based sex column I wrote a West Bank-based column about the plight of the Palestinians. While we (and all the other women) share the love of footwear, I only have one pair of Manolos. That came from an online auction. And are, with alarming likelihood, fake.  Unless Manolo actually writes his name in Chinese? (Remember when I said I had already bought shoes for the wedding that never was? Yup. Those very shoes Carrie wore at theirs: Manolo Blahnik's "Something blue")

Now as I try to make sense out of everything that's happened, I seek solace (and further distance myself from the grips of the grim reality) from the Sex and the City-DVD box set (that The Man got for me). (And endless re-runs of Say Yes To The Dress. Not sure which one is damaging my psyche more...) I wonder where we stand. Is he about to move countries and come back with a fiancée? Are we going to keep coming back together? Will my retarded devotion to him pay off in the end? Is he going to change his mind about marrying me after all? 

Like Mr. Big, The Man never wrote me a love letter. But perhaps this blog is one, continuous love letter to him; my immortal beloved?

Ever thine, ever mine, ever ours.