metaphor, schmetaphor (or, a poorly-employed literary device)

I rearrange furniture like it’s my job. I’ve been doing so since childhood, when—in spite of my parents’ wish that I just LEAVE THINGS WHERE THEY ARE FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY—I spent at least two days each month moving my furniture around my too-tiny-to-do-so room to satisfy my need for variety, leaving dented walls in my wake as proof of my compulsion. Two weeks was about all I could take of a particular bedroom set-up before boredom would set in and the need for a new layout would take over.

These days, the rearrangement of my home furnishings happens less frequently, as my maturing sensibilities stave off boredom for far longer than those of my youth. Or something.

But now I’m thinking there’s a metaphor in here somewhere. Like maybe men are like furniture for me. More than a few days of consistent behavior (see: liking me, being nice) and I get bored.

Stay with me. I’m serious.

My junior year of college, I dated a very sweet guy who (for some inexplicable reason) couldn’t get enough of me. How long did that last? Five dates, people. Five. And I actually patted myself on the back after that one, so effing proud I’d made it to five before bailing.

Apparently, being liked is synonymous with boring.

My longest relationships (or, non-relationships, as the case may be) have been with men who couldn’t make up their damn minds about whether or not they even liked me. I’ve wondered why that is, and how never knowing if I’m even wanted could possibly be appealing.

The truth is, I can’t make up my damn mind either. And I like a little variety (like me today, hate me tomorrow, see if don’t want you more for it). Dating men who don’t know seems to somehow excuse my own clueless condition.

Or maybe it’s my fear of intimacy.

There’s a metaphor in here somewhere, I swear.