When You Liked Me

You liked me when I was your running partner.

You liked me when I had a job.

You liked me when I was elected to the school governance board.

You liked me when I was your son’s soccer coach.

You liked me when I lived on your street.

You liked me when I was in your supper club.

You liked me when I lived in a nice house.

You liked me when we went wine tasting.

You liked me when I organized our book club.

You liked me when we hiked together.

You liked me when I had your kids sleep over my house.

You liked me when you invited me to your parties.

You liked me when our families went camping.

You liked me when we went out to happy hour.

You liked me when we went on vacation.

You liked me when I didn’t have any problems.

You liked me when you asked “How are you?” and I simply replied, “GREAT!”

Then when I didn’t have that job or house or position on the school board and I didn’t come to your clubs and parties or go camping and my kids didn’t live with me, and I had my troubles, you didn’t like me anymore. You had no use for me in your life. You disappeared. It was easier for you to be with people who say, “I’m doing GREAT!”

Same beautiful inside

But I’m still the same person. Still likeable and still great, without the house and job and parties and kids and neighborhood and status and sleepovers and coaching and clubs. I’m still Dating Suburban.

You’re just missing it.