The Cake

I wish there were one word in the English language that could describe how I’m feeling right now, but there isn’t. So why not do what many so-called writers do and explain it to you on metaphorical terms.

Imagine something that you and someone else have painstakingly made. Okay, let’s say that you and your mom worked together to make a pound cake (the only thing I can make, as I’ve mentioned many times before). You both wanted it to be good. But your mom was especially cautious; making sure you put exactly the right amount of sugar and vanilla in it. She personally creamed the eggs and butter together before you added the other stuff in. Your mom wanted this to be the best cake you’ve ever made. She wanted this cake to be the one. You, on the other hand, though you wanted the cake to come out great too, were more caught up in the experience of making the cake itself. You liked the whirring sound the mixer made when you blended everything together. You liked getting your hands all powdery when you greased and floured the pan. You wanted to lick the bowl and spoon and mixer things clean of the sweet pound cake batter.

So, you bake the cake and it comes out really nice. Your mom even dusts it with powdered sugar to give it a special touch. Your dear mother then instructs you to take the cake to the new neighbor across the street. To be honest, you’re sort of hesitant about going across the street; you’ve never actually met this new neighbor, and aren’t sure if you really want to. But you’re still in la-la land over the whole experience of making the cake in the first place, that you kind of push your hesitancy aside and you’re not so careful as you start your journey across the street. In fact, you’re so careless that you accidentally tip the plate over too far and the cake slides off and plops squarely in the dust of your front yard. You’re left there, transfixed, staring at the wasted cake. All of the hard work and emotional energy you and your mom both put into making that cake was all for naught, it seems. And it was your fault. You should have been more careful. You should have remembered that the purpose of making the cake was to take it across the street to the neighbor, not just for you to feel all warm and gooey inside while you licked the cake batter out of the bowl. You know that you can’t scoop it up off the ground and put it back on the plate and continue your journey across the street. So, you slowly go back inside and let your mom know what happened.

In real life, but still using my metaphor, I just got finished “letting mom know what happened” not too long ago.

The little girl = me.
The mom = McDougal.
The cake = our relationship.
The neighbor = the point in the relationship where I didn’t really want to go.
Letting mom know = breaking up.

This metaphor may seem lighthearted, but it is only a feeble attempt to get out of such a wretched mood. Of course, this metaphor is not exact by any means. McDougal never formally asked me to take the cake across the street. We talked about taking the cake sometimes, but he, in fact, always let me know that if I decided that I didn’t want to take the cake, to let him know and that he wouldn’t hold it against me.

But the part about my being preoccupied with making the cake itself is true—hearing the whir of the mixer, licking the cake batter, smelling the sweet goodness that makes a pound cake what it is. But those aren’t valid reasons to decide to make a cake with someone. Neither is the fact that you’ve never actually made a cake before but always wanted to.

I suppose I could try to explain myself more, but it is no matter. I am sorry for my carelessness. I am sorry for my immaturity. I am sorry for my selfishness. It hurts. And I feel ugly inside to know that I’ve caused someone else to hurt too.