I'm not a patient person. Waiting is torture. It doesn't matter if I'm in line at a grocery store, trapped in a car during rush hour or here in the waiting room at Seattle's Urgent Care—life comes to a standstill when I'm forced to waste time. To help speed up these wasted minutes, I often entertain myself by making up silly games in my head. For example, if I was in a car I'd play the license plate game. Points are collected by observing the license plates on passing vehicles and attempting to think of funny or gross phrases that corresponds to the letters. In this case—

—I'd score points with slogans like Butthole's Nuclear Farts or Boobs Not Fake or Boners Need F***.

Making fish lips at the aquarium, it suddenly occurs to me I should probably ease my boredom with one of my thought games instead of face contortionism. My physical appearance already makes me look like a mental patient to onlookers, I don't need my actions to add to their assumptions that I might be insane.

I scan the surrounding area for something to read. Pretending to be engrossed in a magazine is far more socially acceptable than making kissy faces at the fishies. Besides, another silly mental game I like to play is flipping to page 69 in books and other types of publications to see if I can put a naughty spin on whatever information happens to land on it. Transforming innocent ad slogans into something dirty is my favorite! I'm crossing my fingers there'll be an advertisement on page 69!

The magazine selection in the waiting room is quite limited. My only choices are Athletics Illustrated, Humans and Poor Housekeeping. Since the upkeep of my current physical state has slipped to the lower end of the grooming spectrum, I opt for Poor Housekeeping Magazine. It just seems like the most appropriate periodical for me at this particular moment.

I flip to page 69 with childish anticipation. When I arrive at my paper destination, I don't find the advertisement I was hoping for. Instead, I discover an article highlighting the misconceptions people have regarding the topic of soul mates.

"Soul mates are teachers, not life partners," I whisper, reading the article's title. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" The simple text grabs my attention—the timing is impeccable. Just this morning I was reflecting on my experiences of confusion and disappointment in the mystical dimension of soul mate connections. Is this fate? The coincidental nature of it all has me diving head first into the article. 

Yes, I answer inside my head. Been there, done that. Well—technically the jerk made me sleep in the guestroom. But yeah, I know exactly what it's like when a soul mate becomes a stranger.

Did this author seriously understand what I was going through? Feelings of being understood wash through my body as I eagerly devour the next paragraph.

I grunt.

CounselPuff used to say that all the time, I recall in silence. But did Ex-Bot ever listen? NO! Ex-Bot just took and took and took until there was nothing left—nothing except a huge emotional debt to the divorce mafia.

I tried so hard to make my marriage work. If I were honest, I'd be forced to admit we both tried. That was the frustrating part. Although Ex-Bot and I desperately wanted to repair our broken relationship, we couldn't. We lost before we started. We failed before attempting. It was like battling a powerful dark force—never meant to achieve. 

"It's like you're reading my mind, Nutters," I mumble. "You're reading my mind."

My trust issues didn't end at romance. I lost faith in almost every area of my life. I obviously couldn't trust myself to take care of my health. Couldn't trust myself to find the confidence to finish creative projects—like that Fancy Lady novel. Couldn't trust myself to bravely live the life I've always wanted to live. The moment I stopped believing in love is the moment my world went dark with fear. I wanted out of the darkness—I wanted to be able to trust again—but I didn't know how.

I do as I'm told.

With eyes closed, I inhale deeply through my nose.

I exhale slowly out my mouth.

Opening my eyes again, I continue reading in anticipation of finding answers.

I don't know, I ponder inwardly. I can agree soul mates reel us in. The pull I initially felt towards Ex-Bot seemed beyond my control—a destiny created by the heavens. But he didn't teach me anything, that's for sure. If anything, I became a lesser human being after the divorce. At least before I got married I believed love could conquer all evils and I had hope for the future.

My faith in this article to enlighten me in some way was slowly dwindling. It appears to be another filler magazine piece. But I have time to kill, so I keep reading.

"Say what?" I curl my lip and raise an eyebrow while giving page 69 a skeptical glare. "How in the hell can the assholes in my life be soul mates?" I instantly think of backstabbing friends and lazy co-workers who've made my life miserable. "No way they're soulmates." The absurdity of these claims almost propels me to toss the magazine back on the table, but boredom pushes me to read further.

Oh, that's straight up bullshit. I shake my head in disagreement. Just because I'm thinking and talking about these idiots constantly doesn't mean I'm addicted to them—I'm just venting. Everyone vents about idiots. It's healthy to vent.

Despite my certainty, the article forces me to reflect on how much time I do spend "venting" about negativity. I vent often—presumably lightening up my life in a healthy way. But the article has a point. Could focusing on the actions of negative people—whether in my head or gossiping with the girls—be unhealthy? Do I spend too much time thinking about these negative people? How much time is too much? Why have I never considered this before?

I hurry on to the next paragraph searching for answers to my questions.

Well, I silently agree, this would explain the 'honeymoon stage' relationships seem to go through. The blissful feelings of new love—blissful feelings that never last.

My mind immediately jumps to memories of caffeine addiction. I once compared my initial experiences with 5 Hour Energy drinks to having the same sensations as feelings of new love. It was incredible—like drinking liquid passion. I was hooked instantly. Despite my disappointing reality back then, 5 Hour Energy drinks made me feel as though I was happy and loved. I didn't have to actively change a single thing about my life, because the energy drink seemed to erase all the negativity.

But once I became addicted to the high—the Soul High—I needed more and more caffeine to achieve the sensations of new love feelings. Instead of pushing my life forward, caffeine eventually pushed it backwards. I had to consume two bottles of the stuff just to get myself back to my 'original normal.' The Soul High was long gone—not achievable no matter how many 5 Hour Energy drinks I consumed. The positive relationship I had with caffeine gradually withered away—almost exactly in the same way it did with the Ex-Bot.

Could soul mate addiction be for real? But why would some soul mate relationships last for years while others only last for days?

Common sense is not so common! I chuckle to myself. That makes sense. Slow and resistant learners will get caught in lengthy cycles of life lessons. Sucks to get addicted, sucka's. With apprehension, I pinch a bit of belly flesh. Damn it!

I've been an addict all my life. Caffeine, sugar, cheese, chocolate, breads, pastas, love, praise, validation—I've consumed them all in an attempt to acquire a sense of wholeness and love. Divorce may have destroyed my trust in love, but clearly I've found other outlets to express my addiction to it. Hot fudge sundaes, for example, may not love my body very much—but the cool, creamy deliciousness numbs my spirit just long enough to give me a mirage-like memory of what genuine love feels like.

Returning back to the article I think, Common sense or not, there are couples who have loved each other forever. Soul mates have to be lifelong partners. What else is there?

Who or what? That's an interesting choice of words. I flip the page faster than a reader anxious to discover the name of the killer in a suspense novel. Although instead of the killer, I was anxious to discover the identity of the type of person I'd love forever.

I nod. Random noises flow out of my mouth:

"Ohhhh."

"Well, yeaaaaah."

"Makes sense."

"Mmmm hmmmm."

"Wowwww."

Just as I'm finishing the last few sentences of Imma Nutter's article, a young assistant bursts through a set of swinging doors. He looks as though he could be an intern straight off the set of Grey's Anatomy. 20-something. Cheerful. Adorable enough to make the toes curl, but not sex-drenched enough to be a Chippendale. The perfect blend of boy next door and sweep me off my feet—if I was 20 years younger, of course.

Grabbing a clipboard behind Receptosaurs's desk, the McCutie Assistant stares at the attached papers for a while before slowly making his way into the lobby. By the way his dark brown eyebrows are scrunching, I can tell he's likely trying to figure out how pronounce a name. After a few moments—probably trying to decide which pronunciation he should go with—McCutie calls out my name. Incorrectly.

"That's me!" I call, raising my hand like a giddy young school girl. "I'm here."

Setting the Poor Housekeeping Magazine on the table, I give my butt a lightening-quick scratch and join the young man holding a clipboard.    

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

Soul mates vs life partners? Who are we actually looking for?

MUSIC: John Mayer. Waiting in the waiting room. Waiting for love. Waiting for the world to change. It is quite possible my life has too much waiting in it.

Your vote is truly McAppreciated. Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com

(This chapter is a second edit)