I thought I was done with bad boys.
I had a serious affliction in my teens and twenties. I was drawn to those sexy, rule-defying, heart- breaking types like a moth to flame.
And I got burned.
When I was twenty-eight, I landed in massage school with my shattered heart in my hands. My bartender boyfriend of six years had just dumped me (for the second time) for a new girl. I took advantage of the school's free counselor who honed in on a deeply embedded unloveable/not-good- enough belief that was playing out in my love relationships.
Seven months and many sessions later, when the bartender called and wanted to see me, I was able to tell him, with much love and compassion, to fuck off.
I high-fived my therapist, graduated from counseling and I decided I was free of bad boys for good.
Or so I thought.
Because right now I am living with fifty pounds of charismatic bad boy all wrapped up in a caramel-colored coat.
You see, I've fallen for a pit bull.
Talk about a bad boy breed.
And I'm stuck in the same old cycle of thinking that if I love him enough, he will change. That if I rub his belly just right, he'll give up his bad boy ways and won't rip the lid of the trash can and spread a week's work of garbage all over the living room. Or if we spend thirty-five dollars on a deluxe dog bed, he'll quit napping on the couch while my man and I are at work.
Like the bad boys of my youth, he knows he's being bad. He just can't help himself.
And like my twenty-year old self, I know he is going to do it again. But I keep taking him back. I can't seem to resist his contrite, repentent look when he wants to crawl back in my lap after doing some hard time outside in his doghouse.
Since the old unloveable dynamic isn't there anymore, I've been trying to figure out why I keep letting him track his muddy paws all over my home and my heart.
And what I've come up with is this:
My inner stripper, my sixteen-year-old rebellious Catholic Girl and my erotica writer all adore him.
Talk about a bad boy need.
I had a serious affliction in my teens and twenties. I was drawn to those sexy, rule-defying, heart- breaking types like a moth to flame.
And I got burned.
When I was twenty-eight, I landed in massage school with my shattered heart in my hands. My bartender boyfriend of six years had just dumped me (for the second time) for a new girl. I took advantage of the school's free counselor who honed in on a deeply embedded unloveable/not-good- enough belief that was playing out in my love relationships.
Seven months and many sessions later, when the bartender called and wanted to see me, I was able to tell him, with much love and compassion, to fuck off.
I high-fived my therapist, graduated from counseling and I decided I was free of bad boys for good.
Or so I thought.
Because right now I am living with fifty pounds of charismatic bad boy all wrapped up in a caramel-colored coat.
You see, I've fallen for a pit bull.
Talk about a bad boy breed.
And I'm stuck in the same old cycle of thinking that if I love him enough, he will change. That if I rub his belly just right, he'll give up his bad boy ways and won't rip the lid of the trash can and spread a week's work of garbage all over the living room. Or if we spend thirty-five dollars on a deluxe dog bed, he'll quit napping on the couch while my man and I are at work.
Like the bad boys of my youth, he knows he's being bad. He just can't help himself.
And like my twenty-year old self, I know he is going to do it again. But I keep taking him back. I can't seem to resist his contrite, repentent look when he wants to crawl back in my lap after doing some hard time outside in his doghouse.
Since the old unloveable dynamic isn't there anymore, I've been trying to figure out why I keep letting him track his muddy paws all over my home and my heart.
And what I've come up with is this:
My inner stripper, my sixteen-year-old rebellious Catholic Girl and my erotica writer all adore him.
Talk about a bad boy need.
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