I am wondering why the car - a rusted 1980's Cutlass Supreme - parked in the secured garage of my apartment building - which a friend likes to refer to as the Ritz Carlton (I even have a concierge at my beck and call) - amidst all the Range Rovers, BMWs, Infinitis and Mercedes (and even the Volvo) - in the middle of Yuppyville (crime is so DC) - locks up the steering wheel every night with The Club. The Club. I am sure they rest much easier knowing their car is not going to get stolen. That's nice.
I remember one time going on a date with a Clubber. I shamefully admit to being a little turned off. Am probably a snob like that. Sniff. A gazillion failed dates later, I wonder: Was HE the one?
The fucking one? Whatever the fuck that means. (I should point out that I swear when I am angry, so you have been warned. Just nod your head and agree with me. Oh, and don't get in my way.)
See, it was probably about seven-eight years ago when I was leaving the long hours and stressful days of a law firm and heading to an accounting firm to become the law librarian there. Oh, and they were going to double my salary and make me work much less. So I am capable of some smart decisions. (A positive! I might stop swearing now.) So when I was leaving the old job, one of the new first year associates asked me out. I am not sure I was surprised he asked. He was always coming 'round to the library and checking out the books. All of a sudden the books weren't going to be there anymore so then he felt perfectly justified in asking me out then because he never would have if I still worked there - you know, fraternizing with the help or something like that.
On our first date, I learned that he may be a straight-laced attorney by day, but by night he was a rock star. Literally, he was in a local band - played bass guitar and sang. I admittedly never heard of them so he gave me a CD of their music and I was quite impressed. So we hit it off. Because what is not to like about that package? An artist, but not a starving one which - in my best-of-both-worlds mind - was a turn-on. Until.....
Date number two and he picked me up and we drove out to Annapolis - for some reason. Details are fuzzy however, the only thing I do remember is him pulliing into a garage in downtown Annapolis - finding a nice spot to fit his little Escort and, um, pulling out The Club. You know, to lock up the Escort, of course.
Why did this bother me so? Because our next date he invited me over to his house and he cooked for me and he bought this Charlie Parker CD for me and he did some other sweet thoughful things for me. I still don't think I ever kissed the guy. I just could not get into him. What was wrong with me? He was in hot pursuit, we had lots in common, he certainly wasn't bad looking. Similar ingredients to my Peter Pan connection. But Rock Star I couldn't get into. After that date, I called it off and said we were better friends. Of course, I never heard from him again.
So I just googled him - because I wonder if HIS was the boat I missed out on because, like I said, MY JUDGEMENT CAN'T BE TRUSTED. And I am digging deep into the karmic love destiny these days. Apparently, he left DC, hung up the suit and tie, and moved to San Francisco to become a full-time rock star. I thought about linking to him right here, and maybe he'd find his way back here, but, no, that isn't what I really want. I am just reassessing my mistakes and wrong turns in the wake of Relationship-What-The-Hell-Just-Happened. I thought I was finally falling for the "nice guy" - you know, growing up - when really he was just every other - cliched - non-committal type that I am attracted to - subconsciously, albeit. Peter Pan indeed. I should have heeded the warnings when his mom gave him that nickname.
I don't know if anyone noticed but I had a post up about last Thursday night and running into him and his ignoring me and then our little Dance Showdown. But I took it down because - yuk - I just didn't like it. It bugged me, seeing it on the screen, and even reading it. And, um, who directed Star Wars? I should totally fact check before I post. I need an editor. I plan on making my bloggiversary post - in March? - about that very thing. Because writer, I am not. See? I write as if I am talking to my friend, not something that somebody - who is not in my head - has to read. And then the tangents are just the different "me's" having a party. They drink heavily. While I will only have one glass of red wine tonight. Nope. Fucking Bush is on - make that two glasses.
Anyway, let's bring it back to "the club." As metaphor! It could be the Club of jilted and wronged women - the "woe is me" bandwagon - woman who love too much - shrieking harpies - a "what's wrong with me" club. Blah-di-blah-blah-blah it's him, everyone says. Yes. I know that. And that's the point. I am usually a pretty good judge of character. I have very good Dick-Jackass-Fucking Bowler Radar. I just feel duped by him - like he mis-represented himself in some way. Reeled me in. Hook. Link. And sink, she did. I have to admit it - I really, really liked this guy. (In case, NOBODY has been paying attention.) Not only did I tell all my friends, "Shriek! He's "the one!" But I also told my dentist, my gynecologist, and my vet. I even took a walk down Girly Avenue and started visualizing a wedding - and how I was going to start saving for it. People - I NEVER do that. I am usually pretty private. And I am also usually very cautious - in every aspect of my life. My friends don't even let me drive because I am so cautious. I inspect my food - each bite - before eating it. (That's how come I didn't eat that roach that was in the cafeteria jello that one time in high school.) I don't dive into the deep end - I dip my toes first.
YET, I just let myself be in this relationship - I submitted willfully and whole-heartedly. So now, I am locking up - with The Club of course! Ain't nobody "taking" me again.