08.30.08
Unfiltered
His name flashes on my caller ID. His voice is on my voicemail.
“I was just thinking of you,” he says breezily.
“I was thinking how nice it would be to see you, to talk to you again.”
And then, “I miss you.”
I didn’t want to hear it. Any of it. I had steeled my heart against his words before they were spoken, willing myself to avoid temptation. But it never came.
Instead, I dropped the phone on the couch cushion beside me, angrily shaking my head as tears welled up and my lower lip jutted forward like it did when I was five.
“No. No, no, no, no. NO,” I whispered, then whimpered aloud to the empty room.
He always does this. His timing is impeccable. And I still don’t trust myself. Even after everything. Even how I feel today, this minute, more than five months after it ended.
I know better than to think I can quit smoking and still have a few casual cigarettes while I drink.
08.28.08
A Happy Ever After
Although I seem to have been in quite the pitiful state when they got engaged on Easter last year, and despite the irony of my own relationship ending on Easter of this year, I’m happy to report that I was in a very different place at their wedding.
Yes, there were tears, but only happy ones when at last they stood side-by-side and exchanged their vows. Even now, typing this at my desk, it makes me tear up!
There’s just so few real love stories, I think. At least in my own life. Mostly, I find myself wondering why now, why that person, what’s making them get married at all, won’t it just get fouled up? And then I get sympathy anxiety for those about to marry. It’s completely bizarre.
But not so with BFE. She married her high school sweetheart of 11 YEARS. Their wedding weekend felt like I was with family….like I was home. I was so happy to see them all, in fact, I didn’t even care that I was sans concealer as I raced into the kitchen to greet her parents on Saturday morning.
08.27.08
Crash and Burn
I totally suck at this. I’ve only ever ended a handful of relationships and I never seem to be completely certain about it. More often than not, I’ve gone back. But my initial instinct has always proven the right one.
The thing is, when there’s nothing really wrong, it’s difficult to find a reason to not be with a person- at least for me- especially when you know they’re kind of a catch. So it goes with North Shore.
A mutual friend of ours told me as we were about to go on our first date that “he means well.” At the time, I was perplexed by what she said because she wouldn’t or couldn’t explain. But now I totally get it.
He does mean well; picking me up from the airport, bringing me flowers, always calling and keeping in touch when he travels (which is every week). But…he’s not very affectionate. He never hugs me, he rarely touches me, and oddly, he never kisses me outside of the bedroom unless it’s as a greeting or a good bye. In contrast, I am actually the affectionate one, which is a complete reversal from Kit and I- not that the imbalance there was any better or even preferable to me.
Maybe that’s immature of me to put such an emphasis on it, but I think it speaks to a larger issue here, which is that I don’t feel I’ll get what I need based on what I’m getting now. And it’s not something I’m going to demand or ask for- it just isn’t there. Despite all his good intentions.
08.25.08
Message in a Bottle
Today is your birthday. You were never mine, and I was never more to you than your dad’s on-again/ off-again girlfriend, but I will always remember this day as yours.
And I’ll always remember the day we took you to see where you were born, where you first lived as a baby, and the year you raced out of your bedroom dressed up for your fancy grown up birthday dinner. In my mind, I’m imagining how much taller you must be this birthday and which sport and subject is your new favorite.
It’s strange not knowing you and not having you in my life anymore. You’ve been such a light and have changed me in ways I’m still realizing. I worry that you’ll think the silence I keep means I never cared, that I didn’t want you to be a part of my life, or that I gave up on you and your dad. I worry that you will forget me, or that someday you will find reason to hate me.
I’ve had a difficult time saying good bye to you. I can’t. Loving you and letting you go is an entirely different heartache from letting your dad go. It’s a yet unresolved piece of the break up I feel keenly.
But if I could, I would tell you over this silence and distance that I love you, that you are still the cutest boy ever, and that I miss you terribly. Every day.
08.21.08
Cause For the Heebee Jeebies
Okay, so, can I just take a moment of your time to ask what is P. Demp’s deal? Why is he all Tour de France? And all the time no less? It’s like every other picture I see of him is either from the red carpet or him on a bike. Which would be fine except for how geeked out he gets. Case in point:
Here we see dear Patrick on a morning bike ride in his LA neighborhood. I don’t know about you, but the last time I went for a bike ride around my neighborhood, I wore flip flops, a tank top, and shorts.
Is he really Patrick “McDreamy” (formerly of the USA Professional Bicyclist Association) Dempsey? Is this bike ride brought to us by whatever the hell company that is splashed all over his manness? I just don’t get it. The man loves him some spandex….and it kinda weirds me out to be honest. I wish he’d stop. Also, get a hair cut.
Ah hell, who am I kidding? I’d still make out with him. Carry on.
08.18.08
All Too Soon
So I’ve been dating and I’m at the point where it’s begun to feel…….limiting. And it’s making me restless. Like one of those infuriating girls in a novel who has the good luck to meet and charm the “good on paper” guy, only to lope off with a drummer or a grad student or an ex-boyfriend. That’s me.
The guy I’ve been seeing casually, North Shore we’ll call him, is one of those guys- a “good on paper” type. Successful at his job, a Chicago condo owner, close to his family (if to a fault), and with the recommendations of our mutual friends; North Shore is a decent person who treats me well and has, it turns out, had a crush on me since we met three years ago. And although I hadn’t really planned on dating so soon, I found myself less afraid of the prospect when dating again presented itself with him.
That said, I’ve reached an impasse. I’m at the point where you step aside and say to yourself, “if we keep this up, what’s ahead?” There’s the immediate future, the next four to six months: the weddings, double dates with the already marrieds, the holidays. And the likelihood of the next year: moving in, getting a dog, decorating. And then there’s that day with the three-months salary diamond (because everything he does is quite proper), followed by a move to the North Shore (can you hear my groan from there?).
I’m supposed to want all of that. I’m supposed to appreciate it’s stability, especially in light of so much previous instability. And maybe I’ve finally learned my lesson there. The thing is though, while it’s not exactly wrong, it’s not exactly right either.
My uncertainty about North Shore stems from my recent realization that we really don’t have all that much in common. Whereas I love the arts, reading, travel, riding my bike, checking out events around Chicago, and good wine and fancy restaurant food; he likes to stay home, watch the Cubs and the Bears, drink beer and eat take out bar food, and generally avoids crowds and anything associated with them. He doesn’t cook. Ever. He doesn’t even know where his grocery store is. He doesn’t dance and he doesn’t like the outdoors. And he doesn’t want kids until he’s 35 (yikes).
In contrast, I’ve only been able to gather that we both like the beach, napping, Scrabble, and dogs. Is that enough? Should it matter?
I’ve never dated someone with whom I have so little in common. And because it’s been casual thus far, it hasn’t been a problem. But now that an invite to a destination wedding in the near future has been extended, I can’t help but begin to freak out. I’m concerned about allowing him to purchase my ticket and the commitment it locks me into for the next two months.
Maybe it’s that I’m a girl who needs a bit more excitement. Or maybe I need a better balance between a stable future and the freedom to shape it at the same time. Whatever it is, I can’t shake the feeling of being held down, boxed up, tucked away. I can’t shake the part of me that needs more. Someone I can travel with, cook dinner with, dance with. Something or someone who doesn’t leave me wondering “is this all there is?”
Also, he’s a Republican.
08.15.08
Bad Bridesmaid: Part Gazillion
Now that I’ve had the (perhaps requisite) time to reflect upon the black taffeta bubble-skirted wedding hoopla, I’m at last ready to regale you (if anyone actually still frequents this sadly kept blog) with the details. Think: pork, country music, grown men in shorts and tennis shoes, a bride mandated dance routine, and koozies. Oh yeah- it was fancy.
What is most important is that my friend was happy with the way it all turned out. That said, it was the most exhausting weekend, setting up tables and centerpieces and the bar and the chairs and the shepherd’s hooks and rehearsing and running around with a photographer and the actual ceremony and reception. And that’s even after blowing off the brunch (i.e. “hey everybody, come clean up the reception site”).
She really did make a beautiful bride though. She was the bride we all picture ourselves as when we’re five years old, swishing our bedspreads around the kitchen floor. And her father’s toast was touching….the words every girl hopes her father has for her on her wedding day.
But….
There was seating for 150, 205 replied “yes,” and around 30 “just showed up.” There was only keg beer in red plastic cups and whisky, vodka, and rum drinks (oh, and a random bottle of sour apple Pucker). The ceremony was outside by a cornfield and the highway, and we lucked out by it only being 90 degrees that afternoon. And when it was time for the vows, the officiant got the groom’s name wrong.
At the reception, there was the dollar dance (tackiest thing ever- or so I thought) and a bride auction with an actual auctioneer (tackier). The groom removed the garter with his teeth (ew). And I ended up being paged to the dance floor after refusing to join in the tossing of the bouquet. Later, the dancing turned into something one would expect to see (and hear- P*ssy Patrol at a wedding? with children?) in a college bar around 2 am before the lights are about to come on. The groomsmen also decided to remove not only their jackets but their shirts too and started a jack line on the dance floor in their ties and vests with plastic beer cups in hand.
And then, the groomsmen I was paired up with (an engaged father of a one-year-old) decided he was ready to jump ship mid-way through the reception and told me he “wished I was his.” Although it was a sort of sweet thing to say I suppose (better than “I want to bang you”), it was pretty inappropriate. But then, I guess, marriage (and weddings for that matter) are a little different where my friend comes from.
