Thanks, that was fun

(Title of a Barenaked Ladies song.)

So, spent my usual weekend with The Veteran.  Everything was fine.  In fact, we were both incredibly relaxed on Friday evening and just really enjoyed dinner (he had started to make something, but then was tired from work and decided to order pizza) and cuddling on the couch while watching some tv.

We talked about his time in the Air Force as a pilot and even looked at some of his flight suits that he still has and can fit into.  The cat still acts upset, but since he’s closed off the back room to her, she can’t hide under the couch.  We ended up not locking my stuff away, but just leaving it in the bedroom.

However, that feeling that I had the other day of the beginning of the end was proven to be true.  And it’s not over the cat…it’s over the fact that he lied to me about his age.  He’s older than I thought he was, and truly, that doesn’t matter to me – he still does more in a day than most people half of his age because he has always been in fantastic physical shape – he climbed mountains, he ran 3-4 miles per day, he eats healthy stuff.

I hate being lied to.  I hate that people feel the need to do that.  I know that he did it because he was afraid that no one would even look his way when they found out his true age.  I get that.  BUT, the point is, he lied and that bothers me so much.  Had I never been lied to before with such harsh consequences (i.e. every relationships I’ve been involved in for the last 3 years), I probably wouldn’t think twice about it.  But now I’m gun-shy.  Now I know, if you’ll lie about that, what else will you or have you lied to me about (Coach, anyone???).

I tried to tell him this morning that I knew (I had a suspicion from something he said Saturday and when he was out of the house this morning, I took a look at his driver’s license.)  But I couldn’t do it. I tried to tell him over the phone when I got home from his place around 11 this morning.  But he had just ordered a whole bunch of stuff for me, from new linens for the bed there to more stuff from Omaha Steak.  I couldn’t do it.

So, I sent him an email.  He replied that when you get to a certain age, you start to feel useless and that’s how he felt.  Add to this that he loves his scotch whisky (which is a depressant, of course) and you know that he doesn’t feel really good about himself most days.  And of course, I start to feel sorry for him.  Ugh!!!

I have told him that we’ll continue to talk.  I am not broken-hearted, as this was never going to be a romantic love, just a companionship.  But I am sad for him, as I know how lonely he was (or at least, how he’s portrayed himself to be) before I came into his life, and I hate to have him be lonely like that again.

It would be easier if I could just be an asshole and not care about his feelings or his life.  The unfortunate part of being me is that every life I touch, I feel some level of responsibility for.  I don’t know why; it’s just part of who I am.  Any words of advice?