On Rebounds, and Spelunking

I’ve never been fond of the term “rebound.” It conjures the visual of a helpless me, trying my damnedest to scrabble out of the fire-belching Cave of Wonders before it swallows me whole. As if I’m mustering my very last bit of strength to find the nearest springy surface from which I might propel myself back into the wide, balmy-temperatured world of singledom. As if that is my only recourse.

I’m not into the damsel in distress associations tied up in this convention. I can climb out of that deep, dark cave using nothing but the guiding light of the written word, my hardship-honed determination, and a friend to talk to when hope seems hard to come by. It’s not the easy way out. It comes with dirt under the fingernails and bruises on the knees. But a hard-won victory is so much the sweeter for having done it without a magic carpet, a trampoline, or a savior — owing nothing to anyone, and reassured of my own capabilities. So, I’m skipping the rebound. I’m going rock-climbing.