Selfless Acts Of Love Will Get You A Seat Right Behind Your Ex and His Wife

"You can't control an independent heart, Can't tear the one you love apart" -- Sting on If You Love Someone, Set Them Free...“Free, free, set them free…” Just like Sting said.

On being the bigger person...

The Yukkell – not the guy who drove me to drinking, but to blogging actually - was my best friend/confidante/lover for five years. Our relationship was not traditional by any means but you could hardly say we were on-and-off. Barely a day went by when we didn't talk. But sure, you could say we were up-and-down. He picked me up, he put me down, but he was always THERE and I knew he would always be there. Or something like that.

One night in January of 2005, he called me to give me the kind of news you sit down for. I was sitting on my kitchen counter and not the crapper, which is where the shitty news should have gone. (But, remember, I am being the bigger person.) I don’t know what I was prepared for, perhaps I assumed he was going to say that he met someone. I never expected it was going to be what it was. The-One-Who-Got-Away (herinafter TOWGA) came a’knockin’ after – what? – ten years. The story unravels – details aside, and in my opinion they don’t put TOWGA in a good light and this isn’t TOWGA bashing so details omitted. But the relevant punchline is that she is now widowed with four tiny little girls, one barely a year old.

We spent the weekend together talking about all this. I knew a good deal about her already - more than she probably cared for me to know. But the situation needed hashing and slicing and dicing. I was doing what I did best by him - offering unwavering support. His perspective that weekend was just to help her from a professional standpoint (i.e., a legal standpoint).

As the days rolled on, TOWGA pushing the Hopeless card (and not to fault her on that), wants him to come see her. He doesn’t want to and tells her as much. His work can be done by afar. I nudge him to reconsider. I was buying that she needed him. It was He, himself, who told me much later on in this story: She needs me more than you do.

"Run South then, darlin'." But the day before he goes I panic and tell him what I am most afraid of happening at this point, which is that I don’t want to lose him.

He smiled that way and looked me straight in the eye and said, "You won’t ever lose me."

That wasn't going to prove to be true. Up until that moment he set foot on her swamp turf, he needed me. In fact, up until our last conversation when he was at the airport on some layover and reminded me that he doesn’t even want to be doing this. "Remember??" Being a cheerleader paid off, as I poured on some fake charm in the form of a you-can-do-it rah, built him up as I always did. I think he was most afraid of what was going to happen which was what did happen. They rekindled. And he knew that if he opened that door, he would never be able to close it again. Not on her situation being what it was.

I won't lie. I cried all night as being the bigger person was proving to be difficult.

We continued to talk but not every day now. He talked to her every night. We went on like this for a couple months up to our last weekend we were to spend together as a couple. He told me that she was pushing for him to marry her and had picked a July date. Yes, folks, we are still in 2005. He was pushing for me to say something...

"What do you say about that?" taunting me with his you-or-her torture. His own torture.

I couldn’t put myself down that path of "Pick Me." THIS wasn’t about me at all. And THIS wasn’t about her either. This was about HIM. I always put him before my own happiness and I wasn't going to start now, it seems. And why did I put him first? For things in his past that haunted him and made him the unhappy person he was. His demons is what he liked to call it. Sure, he loves her. Friends, he did say, “I loved her no more than I loved you.” And, “If this was you in this situation, I’d do the same thing for you.”

THIS was about him righting a wrong that happened – independent of her and independent of me. Something that has haunted him. His story that I will keep with me. But it was about him taking responsibility. Being a father. A part of me thinks I could have fought for him. I considered it. But I couldn't offer him the panacea he needed to deal with his past, his guilt. I always prayed for something to release him from his demons. I was not enough. Who knew it was to be the TOWGA and the ready-made family?

I had to be the bigger person.

They didn't get married that summer, but they did a year later. We ceased communication after that weekend - to the point where he would blatantly avoid me - the equivalent of crossing the street if he saw me coming.

Except one time. I got to see him a year ago at a mutual friend’s birthday party. We had a nice private chat. And he started that whole song-and-dance with me again. Trying to coax something out of me that I couldn't give him. It's not romantic love that I feel for him. It’s more soulful. It's selfless. It's the love of a good friend. A best friend. THAT person I would take back any day of the week, no matter where I was.

So he’s married now. We don't talk. I don't know whether he is happy. Knowing him, I think it might be possible, but then I also think it might not be. Did he bring the demons with him? Or do the cherubic faces he now fathers slay them? I hope so.

This past weekend, I had the distinct displeasure of sitting directly behind Him and Her in a church as we watched our mutual friends get married. The spurned lover in me wanted to tear her apart in critique and showcase my smoking ass that he loved so much right in front of his face. The discarded friend in me wanted to tie a friendship bracelet around his neck and pull tight on the ends.

But, alas, I want to be the bigger person.

We shared no more than a "hi." When she is around, he won't talk to me. He avoids me. (I have had one other distinct displeasing occasion to be in the same room.) I don't know if it is out of respect for her, or because he simply does not care anymore, or because he is afraid of getting sucked back into the attraction. Most likely they are his issues or their issues and I have moved on so I don't worry my pretty little head over the details.

Nevertheless, in one awkward moment on the dancefloor, she came right up to within my circle, right next to me, to join in the dancing. And for one moment, I thought she might not be as lifeless and sad as she appears. Maybe she really is a good person. The moment was right there. I wanted to turn to her and offer my hand as an introduction. I wanted to tell her that I am glad that they found their way back to each other - her being "the one who got away." I thought that maybe we - as two people who love this man dearly - could share a moment. Maybe we have more in common than I think. Maybe we would share a laugh as we tore around the dancefloor. Maybe we would actually like each other. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Or I wouldn’t?

I couldn’t be that big of a person.

Flat Stanley

For a month now, I ignored the 3 AM text messages and his taunting of champagne. But - and it was probably the high of just seeing the Twilight Singers perform - I obliged him after the show. I mean I was just face to face with Carson in his salmon pants and Phil Collins and his sh-sh-sudio and they all left something to be desired. This little gal doesn't rue anymore. So I let him - Pompadour, that is - hunt me down that evening. It was I, after all, who turned him on to the firestorm that is a live performance by Greg Dulli.

I believed the fairy tale that he went there looking for me.

That drink in the bar turned into our usual all-night chat-fest and music-listening party and I almost succumbed to the Chimay-induced starry-eyed fairy tale again. I even romanticized that kiss on the shoulder for one moment because it felt like only someone who cared about me would kiss my shoulder.

But he won't talk about what happened or why he went hot-cold so fast. So I tossed the fairy tale aside and remembered that he doesn't love me. And then his laugh became too loud, his voice too dominating, and did he just call that guy, "bro?" Either he was trying too hard or I was over it.

Then he went in for the kiss and it was not a kiss to miss at all.

Besides his glorious pompadour was no more and I just couldn't like someone as flat as him again. Or was I just not prepared for male company?

In the end, I hid the champagne from him and will save it for another fairy tale. But I am curious to see what his next move is.

Cock(y) And Bull(shit)

Today.....could it be? Can it be? Shield thy eyes. We got sunshine! Pick up your jaws and wipe your lenses, because, yes, sunny-come-lately, we are witnessing our first sunshine in one whole week! Which, a week with cloudy/rainy weather is a sad, depressing state for yours truly. But I think I am slowly coming out of my funk that has a lot to do with nothing and a little to do with everything.

You see, I have not been excited about anything lately. Slightly depressed? Yeah, probably. The only thing that keeps me away from going to a doctor is my fear of The Drugs. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all Couch Jumping Crazy about it. But I do believe that what works for one may not work for another. My blood bleeds tie-dye. I have always chosen more natural remedies for my ailments. And when I do have to take an antibiotic, I'm pretty paranoid about what it is doing to my body. But, dude, pass the Crisco! My arteries are fine! You know what they say about a spoonful of sugar! And, as they say, Chug! So, really, it is just something for my handbook.

So what am I doing about my sad state of affairs? (Which I am really being melodramatic as I am prone to be and, well, for purposes of this post. Translation: There are no razor blades in my medicine chest.)

1. Drinking champagne this weekend! You may be thinking, chickie, lay off the alcohol, and, well, I say, read above!! Bubbles fall under natural remedy - sad head and achey heart needs effervescence to perk it back up! Dr. Me says so. And I know just the person who will oblige me the champagne this weekend. And his name is NOT Pompadour.

2. Ballet! I have signed up for a ballet class with Dear Prudence and we had our first class last night. I am sure I can plie and entendre my way to happiness. And get kick ass legs to boot. Rockettes here I come.

3. Back to knitting!

4. And, well, Saturdays in the fall, you can find me in some bar with 55 TVs blaring every gosh darn college football game in the universe. You really should check out the Mars Orangemen. They glow in the dark! Ha! That, with no drugs. Yes, I'm coming out of the funk just fine here, folks. Laughter follows, or, halts.

So, alright, I know you have just sunk back into your seat with relief that slitting my wrists isn't on the list. Are you crazy?!?

But, to bring it right back around to what has haunted me in the past few years: What am I doing? Where have I really been? Where am I heading? So I have been assessing the "mistakes" I keep making since the Yukkell....not to say he wasn't a bit of a mistake himself. And, by golly, I found the common denominator among the past 3 guys that I would say "wrecked" me (again, with the drama, to which I say: It is my stage!) in the last year.

Last Friday night as the rain poured down hard in our nation's capitol, I whined to Mav about being lonely (she - and my mom - have had to put up with my whiney ass all week, so a medal of friendship to her! will you settle for a ML, Mav? Oblige me the champagne??) And good friend her carried her ass over to my house in the pouring rain so we could polish off some beers and rant. I would like to point out for the record, that friendship is a two-way street and while she was doing something for me, I'd like to think I was also helping her out of a precarious situation. So we helped each other that night. In different ways. But then I pushed her right back into it later that night. Oh boy. But not the point! Or not my story to tell!

So, the topic turns to Pompadour and as we are hashing what went wrong, she confesses, "I got to be honest, Boa. I didn't really like him. He was a bit cocky and could never be serious. What was he hiding? Always the center of attention and just full of himself. Who orders egg white omelets in a diner and cottage cheese in a market in a redneck Delaware town and gives both people a hard time about not being able to serve these items? And actually being rude about it. But I didn't want to say anything to you because you liked him."

And then she tells me that Hollywood didn't like him for the same reasons - the only two people in my life who had a chance to meet him. And, well, that tells me something.

Eureka! That one word - cocky - was the common thread between, what I am now calling, My Cock-A-Threes (in ascending order): Pompadour, Johnny Jerkface, and the Wedding Date Canceler, hereinout, simply, Carson. (And I will refrain from his last name because he would be That Guy who googles himself on a daily basis because he is pretty big shot in his career and pretty much all over the Internet.) So they were all a bunch of cocky, conceited, self-proclaimed bigshots. And that is not the sooth-saying ginger and Bitter talking. But you can pour me another drink. It is really just the facts.

Because when I sat on Freud's couch, he was like, "It is not you, pretty sweet fun little brat, oops, I mean, girl. Did I say that out loud?" And then I was like, "My parents fault...they spoiled me rotten. Truth. I blame my parents for giving me everything I ever wanted. And if my dad had Donald Trump's money, the world would hate me, and Paris and I would be best frenemies, because I would be Queen Bitch. And only chihuahas with diamonds would like me. Because I'd have to, literally, buy my friends." And then Freud is like, "Try to stay on topic, lunatic." So then I remembered the seed that planted my attraction to cocky guys. Freud wanted to know more.

The second grade. The first guy I ever fell for. His name was Scott Basso and I just thought he was the bee's knees because he walked around the schoolyard rapping, "My name is Scott Basso. That rhymes with asshole."

Only my dad cussed around me! (Special to Freud: See, parents fault again!!) So I thought Scott was uber-cool for school. Like, I'm sure his bike would have fire decals on it and he didn't have a bell, but like, a frog horn attached. And he ate bugs and he tattooed his cereal decal from the Count Chocula cereal box on his forearm everyday. And dude he went to jail, i.e., the principal's office, a lot. He was That Guy. And I had a crush on him. Actually.

But, to him, I was always the Girl Who Ate Butter Sandwiches. And I was terribly shy back then.

So I am done with that type of guy. Seriously! Check back in a future date. And as I wonder what happened to The Cock-A-Threes, Mav put the Missing Pompadour Case to a close today as we were having this conversation about Baby Suri. Which, really? I'm still not convinced she exists.

Me: The question of the day: Is that a toupee on Baby Suri? [Ed. note: Seriously, I am not even straining to be funny here. That seriously looks like a toupe if ever I have seen one.]
Mav: It sure is. That, or a pompadour.
Me: That's funny!
Mav: Yeah, at least you know what happened to him!

Aside to Freud, did I just date Baby Suri? Or did that guy get the biggest role of his life?? Did he have Tom Cruise syndrome? Because he was kind of intensely "all over my shit."

We will leave Freud to contemplate that doozy! But I think we are on to something!

Marry Me Warts And All

One guy marries someone else because he is "...too far into it now."

Another guy marries someone else because "she" fits the dream on the surface. The Made in China kind.

Then there is the guy who wants to marry you because of that freckle under your eye.

When Bitter Is Sweet

...When an old love tell you that it is still hard to say goodbye to you and he still thinks about you. He thinks that you do the same.

You don't. For someone who once knew you so intimately, time passages have made you strangers now.

You give him your blessing.

...Knowing that you will always love that old coot. Evenso...

Ex-Why-Zee Period

Can this town get any smaller? It's official. I have dated anybody I am ever going to date here. Until the new boys move in town. Case in point. The two guys I am tossing around these days (translation: seeing) both just moved to DC in the last 4 months. And, yet, only one of them is southern. Although the other one has been in Austin for the past several years. I am giving him a pass. I like southern boys. Maybe that is what I am doing wrong. Maybe I need a good midwest boy. [Let's reel her back in because this post is getting very regionalist and she's not like that really --say the voices in my head]

And so when you have gone out with all the guys you are going to for now, you run into the old ones. I have no problem running into them per se. Unless I am in my yoga pants and no makeup and ratty ponytail in line at the CVS buying a pound of chocolate and In Touch magazine and batteries. Or, worse: UNLESS THEY ARE WITH A GIRL. Um, it's all about me, don't you know? They are supposed to be pining away for me. Certainly they shouldn't have lost 15 pounds. And they shouldn't be, like, president of their firm now. And not buying $1 million houses. And they shouldn't be mauling a tacky bottled-blonde. And they shouldn't come up in my online matches. And they MOST CERTAINLY shouldn't be getting married.

I have secretly wished them all to gain 50 pounds, lose their jobs, move in with mom and dad, and date their hand - or forever stay in the closet. Gay as some may be.

But apparently this isn't the case as I learned from recent brushes with death - er, the past.

Run-in #1: Let's start with this guy. Who was also this guy. And then ended up as this guy.

Brief history: Met in June '04. Dated casually for three months. He is extremely successful. Very metro-sexual. Climbs mountains. Very knowledgeable with indie music and 80's college radio. We could talk for hours trying to stump each other with "bet you never heard of [this band]." We stopped seeing each other because I-don't-know but it had something to do with me still being hung up on The Yukkell (see below). I couldn't let him go so I let the guy go. Fast forward to a year ago, April '05 when things were FINALLY over for good (as in 100% out-of-my-life) with The Yukkell, I called him back up. We met up and just never geled this time. I made the mistake of telling him about The Yukkell. Perhaps he didn't like being second best. So we fizzled a month later when he canceled on going to a wedding with me a week before it was to happen on account of a date with a tailor in NY. Or, more apt, a case of just-not-that-into-me.

Close encounter of the I'm-A-Loser-He's-The-Gloater Kind: Wednesday night show at 9:30. A venue we last saw Gang of Four play back in May. But Wednesday night, it was Stellastarr - a band I know he isn't a big fan of. "They're rip-offs," so says the critics. Whatever. And the Editors (great band! but don't they sound a lot like Interpol so I would argue all music is converging as it usually does - so-called-indie music is saturation overload and 80's derivative anyway, but I digress as usual) - so the Editors - a band I knew he would be into these days.

So, of course, there was a possibility he would be there. I went up to the spot that he taught me as being the best spot to stand - upstairs center stage. If he was there, I was prepared for him to be with a buddy or alone. I wasn't prepared that he would be with another girl. I mean, we all thought he was gay. And not just because he would be late to pick me up because he couldn't break from "What Not To Wear." And not because he flew to London to have his clothes made. And not because he loved to watch golf on tv only to see the "ensembles." And not because it took him 7 dates to kiss me. But here he was with a girl and they were very close. Touching. Intimate. They threw off the we've-been-in-bed-all-day-threw-on-clothes-because-oh-my-god-look-at-the-time-we-have-tickets-let's-not-make-the-bed vibe. It was the baseball caps and t-shirts that gave it away. What I saw: Him: happy. Me: alone. My posse wasn't yet there. Our eyes locked. I brushed past him alone. He held my stare and then I did my whole freaking out looking away and running away thing. Nothing to do anyway. I don't owe him a thing. Then I put my glasses on and stood over in the corner cowering behind some guy so he wouldn't see me. Alone. And who cares anyway? But I hope I looked hot.

Afterthought: I kind of missed him. Something about him. I was really sad over the night and all day until something (to come below) snapped me out of it. But he looked really good. He clearly lost 15 pounds and he was dressed so casual. No tailor made that windbreaker for him. And sneakers! He looked relaxed. Something I never got to see. And he was with a girl wearing a baseball cap and t-shirt. It was so not the guy I knew. With me, he was always over-the-top with his pocket squares, drinking his Makers. Did he put on airs with me then? He's the one living in a million dollar house.

Postscript: Several months ago - about the time I started seeing Peter Pan - I was having drinks in "his bar." I asked the bartender about him with just this, "Has Carson been in here lately?" And the bartender immediately recognized me and said, "Oh, you're the girl - the wedding - wait - I can't say any more. He just gave me a bunch of Hugo Boss suits." So he stopped talking. I always wonder what that was about.

Run-in #2: The infamous Yukkell (the guy who drove me to blogging)

Brief history: God, where do you start with this one? All I can say is we were best friends, moreso than boyfriend/girlfriend, for 5+ years. We were in each other's life practically every day over that period. We shared a lot. Our intimacy was mostly on an emotional level. We both went through a lot together. When my dad died, he was there. When his mom died a year later, he turned to me. When he lost his job, he took it out on me. He was emasculated and so that is when the emotional abuse started, or was it alwasy there? (water under a bridge now) He confided a lot of pain in his life and only I know some of the depths he has sunk to, things he has endured. I understood him better than people could understand why I stayed with him. Sure, I probably gave more than he gave.

OK? So how did it end? Well, his ex-girlfriend (college girlfriend) called him after 10 years for "legal advice." See, her husband just died and left her with four little girls and she needed "help." She pulled out all the stops (without getting into specifics because it really is none of my business and obviously very personal business). He never treated her very nice in their relationship so his guilt got the better of him. I think he wanted to be needed afterall. His friends, family - everyone - told him he was making a huge mistake in helping her. YET, I was the one person who supported him and told him to explore their relationship again. I "let" him go.

So, this is why I don't understand this coming from him...

Run-in of the Not-Exactly-A-Run-In Kind: Because, um, he runs from me. Literally. A month or so ago I was at a bar (go figure) one Saturday afternoon. A couple hours later he and his whole posse of friends entered bar. The majority of the guys came over to sit at my table to chat. He went to their "regular" table with others in his crowd and then when he saw me on the other end of the bar he hightailed it out of there. Seriously. And the past few weekends he has avoided our mutual friends gatherings to watch the LSU games. His beloved home state. He has told his friends he doesn't want to see me.

Afterthought: Why is he avoiding me? The last time I saw him was a little over a year ago and I look fondly on that weekend. It was very intimate (not sexually in the least or at all). He was trying to get me to beg him to choose me. Conversation was interesting. Between us. I miss him solely as a friend. And that is it. For my own reasons, I will always have this huge part in my heart for him. Yet, he avoids me. I see only a couple reasons why: 1) he thinks I am going to cry cry sob and beg for him back (as he is moving to houston in a few weeks and marrying the girl and being daddy) - in which case he would be so wrong - I've got enough men in my life these days - and I will ALWAYS wish him the best; 2) he doesn't want to see me as the girl who has moved on because as long as he has known me I have been faithful supporter to him putting him on a pedestal and maybe he wants his last memory of me to be a sweet one - like our last weekend; or 3) he can't control himself around me (he never could) he was just as fixated on me as I was with him. But really, I know him, he makes a decision and never looks back.

I really mourned him like a death. I will never see him again...

Run-in #3: Peter Pan who is now the Johnny Jerkface.

Brief history: Is that necessary really? Because aren't you sick of it? I am, but the progression went something like this. And this. And this. And this. And this. And this. And then sputtered here. To here. Crashing here.

Run-in of the Trolling Kind: He is online now! I am waiting for him to show up in my matches like he did before. So I guess things didn't work out with the bimbo I saw him hanging on when we were on a "break." But I stumbled across his little profile on a fluke. I have been periodially typing his username in not really expecting to see it because I thought that perhaps his disappearing act was attributable to another girl. But when I typed it in the other day his ugly mug popped up on my screen and my reaction was a yelp, I slammed my laptop shut and jumped out of my seat. Knee-jerk reaction, I know. Over-reaction, I know. I mean, he can't really see me, right? Wrong. I probably just showed up in his "who's viewed you" log. Lovely.

And yet,

Afterthought: Smug retribution because he is back to square one too and apparently still in the closet.

God Works In Mysterious Ways (And She Moves In Mysterious Ways)

Last Thursday night, I was just minding my own business, squeezing onto an over-packed metro train, when I ran into a friend. She ended up dragging my ass out to a bar to see a band - a band from the "beach house years." So I thought that this might be just the thing I need - a little nostalgic shakedown of happier times because - if you have been reading along - January kind of sucks for me right now. I thought this night had happy potential.

"Oh God, take me to that happy place!"

So God looked down on my wishes and said, "Well I do have something in store, you won't be happy about it, but in the long run you will be in a happy place. Know that this is for you. Put on some tight jeans, put some silk mist in your hair and some black eyeliner, and go to that bar. Trust me." Then the basket of money was pushed under my nose and I knew I had to ante up my $5 charitable contribution - for the Lord speaketh (or cometh).

So what did before my eyes I see? But a tool in the likeness of Peter Pan, of Break-Back in 2 weeks!-Mountain fame. And so the bizarre story of Boy Who Was In Hot Pursuit Of Me nosedives - out of control - into Boy Who Is Purposely Fucking With My Heart. Because this boy was being quite friendly with some ugly girl with a big nose and 3 inches on him and a bad dye job - if I must be frank. I mean we look nothing alike - style or appearance-wise. But the worst part of all this? He KNEW I was there, we exchanged a very brief "hi" earlier and then he put on the show for me.

Cheeseball gropes The Nose. Tickets are NOT going fast. Pretty people sell pictures and they couldn't sell out the theater even if Francis Ford C. was directing. On second thought, they might be good extras in the next Star Wars. Yoda, anyone?

But I ask: For the love of God - WHY????

And this is when God graced me with consideration again. He listens to prayers because I was on the brink of either: (a) taking a turn to Crazy Town and confronting him (and her) and subsequently Lorena Bobbitting him right on the spot ("Yeah, go try hanging out in your white sweat pants now!"), or (b) cry, cry, cry, crying.

But God answered the prayers and decided to spare me Embarrassment. For that, I am grateful so I put an extra $5 in the money basket. Because at that very moment he sent in a savior in the form of - get this - a Cute Boy! I told Cute Boy the deal, expecting Cute Boy to run for the hills but he hung out with me and I did my own dirty dancing with the boy.

So I put on my own little show. Boa Gets Her Ass Grabbed. Private and limited engagement.

And I am all of 12 now.

At the end of the Dance Showdown I let the Boy With No Name walk me home and - in a possessed state - I invited him up for water. Isn't that an enticing offer? "Would you like to come up for a nice glass of water. I've got a Brita pitcher!" And he wanted water. Perhaps he thought he was getting more. It was 2 o'clock in the morning at that point. I did what any girl would do in that situation - I made out with him. I still was possessed - the visions of the night were haunting me. And first I kissed him and I thought, "Ooo, this is nice." And then no, not such much. He kept doing this downward jab with his tongue. So then I was bored and I was sad and the weight of all that happened that night just hit me. I sent him off and I laid in bed for the next four hours in and out of sleep with the weirdest dreams. Peter Pan making out with The Nose. Peter Pan moving on. Peter Pan being mean. Peter Pan as a totally different person. A wolf in sheep's clothing?

Sad. Sad. Sad.

But I gave the Boy With No Name my phone number. I totally see what is going to happen. This guy is going to be all over me because he knows that I am not interested in HIM - and since he is 25 I will NEVER date him anyway. But he just might be my distraction for the time being to get over Peter Pan.

I wonder if he is going to keep to our Feb. 5th date now...because by the looks of Thursday night he didn't appear to be giving our relationship any thought. I was caught off guard running into him in the first place and I snubbed his advance to hug me and kiss me. I was confused. But that is because we never discussed the paramaters of the "break" especially if we were to run into each other. And I have never been able to think on my toes.

Therefore if he is going to blow me - blow the whole thing off - then God, I have one more wish. Can you put Idiot Boyfriend in those white sweat pants again for my viewing pleasure? It helps as a model for the ugly picture that is being painted.

Spring Forward

Time is a funny thing. Springtime breathes new life again. The birds are chirping. The trees are bloating. The leaves are brightening. People are opening their windows. People are alive. Losing that extra hour arouses life anew and propels us forward.

Some people live their whole life looking back. Memories can be sweet and memories can be painful. Sometimes the painful ones eventually turn sweet. But only because of time.

Some memories are neither painful nor sweet - they are stepping stones along the way to Me (or You). It is those memories to learn from and to spring from. They do not linger in any real sense - but only abstractly. Hopefully, they make you a better person.

Some people become bogged down by their memories. And use them as excuses - to not move forward. It stews. I have been guilty of this. I spent six years "with" someone who I knew would never committ emotionally. I rather liked it this way. I thought, "I can't get hurt this way." Because I had been devastated by an old relationship that didn't work out and I didn't want to get too close again. So after that hurt, I found someone with the same fear of getting too close. Together, we stayed - for the friendship, for the attention, and for the understood wall that neither of us was ever going to penetrate. I was hiding behind it. He'd break it down and I'd bust through ocassionally, but we always went back to our respective corners. We understood our place.

Throughout the six years, I did try going out with others. But I always looked for flaws immediately and never gave anybody a chance to get to know me. I always ran back to the arms of Him, knowing that there would never be any pressure. Never any chance to mess up a good thing because it wasn't a "good thing". Most certainly, never any chance of loving each other the way two people should love each other - tenderly, undoubtedly, and unconditionally. And passionately, because there really wasn't any passion come to think of it. In any case, I call it my Chasing Claude complex. (Modeled after a character in a book by Nancy Lehman, Lives of the Saints.) Chasing Claude is a collision course for disaster. It proved to be. I eventually crashed and burned.

See, that was no wall. That was a fucking barbed-wire fence - somewhat penatrable and very prickly.

And so you learn. I am not Chasing Claude anymore. I'm not dwelling on what could have been. It is what it is. And I am better for it. The memory of him isn't painful. It isn't sweet. It just is. It is shaping a new Me.

The new Me called up one of those guys I never gave a fair chance and, surprisingly, he agreed to meet me for drinks. I also have agreed to go out on a date with a friend of a friend. The Match thing is starting to pick up again too. Who knows? But I do know, I will be open-minded and not bogged down by past mistakes that never amounted to anything more than a fleeting memory now.

I happily turned that clock forward last weekend. Who needs an extra hour of sleep anway? There are shrubs to be hedged!

A Girl And A Car

Last night I saw a Karmann Ghia. Rare in DC, but where I grew up, not so rare. I have always had a crush on this car. I think about the person who drives it - and what kind of person would drive it. I'd like to meet that person. Might it be somebody like Art?

High school.

Art crushed me.

Was it his beautiful, perfect face? The surfer hairstyle he sported - side-parted, swept over his eye? His flawlessly-chiseled and bronzed face? His beautiful teeth and gorgeous smile? The single smile that always knocked me down.

Or was it his charming ways? Like the time he signed my yearbook, bluntly and youthfully writing that I was "...super hot, pretty, fine, etc." I wasn't "sweet", I could be desirous. And the time he gave me his phone number to "call" him over the summer. A phone number memorized but never called.

Or was it because he always paid attention to me, even though I was Am's little sister? Like the time he came over to my house when my parents were out of town and word got out around school that my sister was throwing a party. Only she wasn't even home. But I was and I was in my bedroom drawing. He came back into my room and sat down on my bed for a bit and liked what I was drawing and talked with me before his friends begged him to leave. He was in my bedroom.

Or was it because he always made me feel special? Like the time time I was broken - physically and mentally - after a car accident. When my braces ripped right through my bottom lip and I had 200+ stitches holding my bottom lip together. I was 15. I felt ugly. I couldn't move my mouth to smile. Art stroked my head. The compassionate smile and the tender look in his eye said I was pretty.

Or was it because he had great taste in music? We liked the same bands, went to the same shows. Did it help that he had a band in college that came back to play at my high school reunion party? Rock star points will get you everywhere.

Or was it the day he drove to school in his new car? A beautiful emerald green Karmann Ghia.

I don't know. I never got to ride in the Karmann Ghia.

Old Worn Shoe

I have had this Old Worn Shoe for the past six years. God, I love that Old Worn Shoe.

You know what I'm talking about? To you it's the perfect fit and so comfortable. You like to wear it on sunny days and rainy days. You don't care because you would feel naked without Old Worn Shoe. Sure, it has some holes in it - sometimes your skin is exposed to the elements and sometimes that hurts. It's that worn - but you accepted that a long time ago. It's part of the charm.

And you have tried other shoes, but you always go back to the Old Worn One. Others never understood your love for the Old Worn Shoe. They never thought it was the right fit for you. But I would just say, "Walk a mile in my shoe, baby - you'll see."

Old Worn Shoe was broken in before I got it and never forgot that fit. I guess my foot never felt the same. Now the foot that broke it in wants Old Worn Shoe back. Her foot is broken and I encouraged Old Worn Shoe to help her heal. See it's orthopedic like that. I guess I thought the fit would not be the same as remembered after all these years. After all these years of hugging my foot.

This week I opened my closet to put on Old Worn Shoe, but it was gone. I guess it really liked how the old foot felt - missed it more than it would ever miss my foot. Maybe that foot smells better. Maybe it is skinnier. Maybe it doesn't have that quirky toe that curls under. Maybe it is just a better fit. I guess Old Worn Shoe was only on loan to me. And just maybe, our fit wasn't as good as I believed it to be.

Goodbye Old Worn Shoe. I'll miss our footsteps.

So now I am walking barefoot. But I plan on upgrading very soon - to nothing less than a brand new Manolo. With a high heel - that hikes me up.