I'm taking a break from packing up my apartment (sob, sob, sob,) to share this with you, because I think it's remarkably important.
This is one of the most amazing things I have seen recently.
I foresee great things happening with this project. Around the time you reach a certain age or certain number of relationships, everyone has a heartbreak story. Some people find it cathartic to share it. Some never would dream of it. Some keep it short and sweet. I'm a big fan of the six-word stories, so I'll keep my short, not so sweet, and condensed. I wrote the following for another great Facebook group started by the lovely Alli called "I Dated A Douchebag."
The Three Douchebags:
Story #1: Six months of catering. He cheated.
Alternate ending: He's married, kids now; secretly gay.
Story #2: Always, "Maybe later, baby." Never happened.
Story #3: Love. He left; disappeared. Thoroughly abandoned.
This last one is my personal heartbreak story. When I was a freshman in college, I shacked up with a senior. And then I fell in love for the first time. I can't tell you why-- he wasn't an exceptional guy in any way; in fact, I recognized this about him on a daily basis. Maybe it was just time for me. Anyway, I fell in love, and he graduated, left, moved back home, and completely washed his hands of me. There were no calls. No emails. No communication whatsoever. Witness Protection would have been proud. It was as if a friend you saw every day was suddenly not there, and you had know idea why. It was like missing my left arm. Even after he got arrested and I left a message asking if he could please let me know he was ok, I heard nothing. Nothing. This has resulted in some abandonment issues. I am terrified of being left this way again. I am terrified that any given day, the calls will stop; the communication lines, always tenuous with me in the first place, will break down; someone will have upped and moved away on me, either physically or metaphorically; that the places I once saw someone in will be empty.
After an entire summer and fall, an ocean of tears, hundreds of pages of writing, and countless hundreds of dollars spent smoking myself into an unfeeling oblivion, I woke up one morning completely free of him. Just as quickly as I fell into love, I fell out of love with him. It felt like the moon had suddenly stopped orbiting around the sun, and snapped off into deep space. In the end, I don't regret any of it: I don't regret taking that insane leap and falling in love for the first time; I don't regret what I learned about myself through the pain and the smoke and the writing; I don't regret equally ignoring him for the past year now that he's tried getting back in touch with me. From an utterly unremarkable relationship, I gained some truly remarkable knowledge. I feel; I love; I am.
And so, the (heart)beat goes on.
XOXO
Showing posts with label the Douche. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the Douche. Show all posts
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
And Not-So-Sweet Goobyes.
Please allow me to make up for all the time I didn’t post with the most epic of Epic-Posts.
Back-story:
Tuesday, Perfect strayed back into the territory of “We Might As Well Be Dating” when he sent me a picture message of the 1 pound hamburger he devoured for lunch. He was so excited about this feat of digestive strength, the excitement continued through the rest of our afternoon discussion. Every text was promptly responded to. He was sweet. We were funny. It was great. I felt, again, like I had my boy back.
Wednesday afternoon, while I was on a ropes course with the rest of my Peer Advising staff, being piggybacked and carried around by men for hours, getting my ass groped by my friend, and watching people hang suspended by rope on a high-wire far above my head, I got a text from Perfect. Actually, my cell phone, which was located in my bra cup because the white spandex leggings and old blue soccer shorts I was wearing didn’t have pockets (oh, such a winning outfit!), received a text from Perfect, making my right boob vibrate like it has never vibrated before. There was some spastic movement to get it out, but it was worth the whole shocking endeavor when I read that he was coming to Burlington on Thursday, but didn’t know what time yet. He was driving home, and by the time I could respond to him, was out of service. Boo. So later that night on Facebook around 11, I caught him on Facebook chat right before he signed off and went to bed to tell him that I was in training until 3:30 and please, pleeeease could he come in the later afternoon/evening? “Ok, I will try hard,” he told me.
“Ah, yes—thank you,” I said. “Now g’night with you.”
“Nighty night,” he said. I wished him sweet dreams and in response he gave me the sort of Perfect answer that one must imagine him saying with a suggestive tone, possibly with an undercurrent of, “yes, sweet dreams about you and me having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex.”
“Oh, I will.”
Or maybe it was me that had the dreams about him and I having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex. Guilty as charged.
What Should Have Happened:
Perfect, by all accounts, should have gotten into Burlington around 3:30 on Thursday afternoon. Because Cait and I had already discussed the fact that she wanted to go shopping with him, and I wanted to give them their alone time so he and I could have our alone time later, she was supposed to go home quickly after training, drop her stuff, and meet him on Church Street to take him away-to-college shopping. (This is one of their things they’ve been doing together for years, shopping.) Around 5:30 or 6, when they were done bleeding debit card money to Burlington’s retail establishments, he was supposed to come over to my apartment so that we could have some chill time alone together and catch up. Just really laid-back, fun stuff. We can’t shut up once we get on a roll, and plus, I wanted to take him on a walk to the underpasses to show him the amazing graffiti there, because I know that’s something he’s interested in. At some point, when I felt comfortable, I was just going to say, “Look, last time we talked seriously, you pretty much told me what you thought was logical and what you wanted, and I agreed to give it a try. Well, I tried, but it’s not working for me. I still feel the same way I did about you in May and June, and I honestly think we should just give this a try. It doesn’t have to be serious—in fact, I would be great with it being casual. But if we try and it works, then it works. If it doesn’t—no harm, no foul. But I think we’re missing out on a lot of fun stuff we could be doing, and I’d like to give us a try again.”
If he said yes, let’s give this another solid effort, theoretically, we would then fall madly into the closest possible bed, (hopefully, mine,) and have earth-shattering sex. Then I would whip out my trusty planner, we’d schedule our first visitation weekend, and then celebrate by having some wet and wild shower sex. (This is that “fun stuff” I alluded to earlier: sex. We basically have a relationship without the sex and this point, so wouldn’t that be fun to add?) I would visit him, he would come up to see me, it would be great, the sex would be amazing, and life would be generally beautiful.
If he said “no, I don’t feel that way,” then I would counter with a very polite, “well, then I’m confused, because that’s not what I’ve been hearing from our friends,” and delve a little deeper into the Is-He-Scared-Or-Is-He-Just-Over-Me? debate. In the end, if this were my answer, I would know to shake hands and call us good friends, get back up in the saddle, and start looking again. But he would know. And that’s all that would really matter.
What Really Happened:
Perfect and I kept in touch all day Thursday with check-ins and planning. I wasn’t sure if Cait knew he was coming, and she wasn’t sure if I knew he was coming, so by the time we both spoke up and but our heads together in joint effort with Perfect around 1 PM, I thought we had a pretty good plan worked out. Cait would meet him at 3:30 when we got out of training downtown. They’d shop and get their time together to catch up and say their goodbyes. Then Perfect would come to my apartment so we would get out alone time to catch up and try and work things out and say goodbye. (And, again—possibly fuck our brains out.)
Instead, when I texted him at quarter after 5 to check in and see if he was being close to done with Cait, I got an interesting response. “Cait’s on her way now.”
Ummm, excuse me?
Apparently, Cait had decided that today, yes, TODAY, THIS AFTERNOON, while Perfect more or less patiently waited for her by wandering around Church Street and bought two shirts at American Eagle, it would be a good time to get another piercing.
“I don’t know if I will be able to get over there!” Perfect texted. “I got a late start!”
“What time do you have to leave?” I asked.
“I was hoping to be home at 7, but that won’t work, lol,” he answered. It was, by then, almost 6:30.
“Uhhh, no, I don’t think so—hahaha—but I’d like to see you regardless of where you are, so please don’t leave!” I, um, I guess I almost begged.
“Well, if you want to come to Church Street real quick, I can say hi and bye.”
“Livid” does not begin to describe my emotions. In fact, “livid” now needs a new definition, because I far surpassed its limits.
“Oh my god, this is bullshit,” I texted back before I could control it. “Where are you; I’ll meet up with you.”
“Me and Cait are just walking out of Urban Outfitters. I need to leave soon. This was a real quick trip for me, sorry.”
I looked at Emily, who had happened to come home with me and witnessed this entire debacle, and I swear to god I felt smoke trickle from my nose and ears.
“This. Is. BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT!!!” I screamed while applying more mascara, grabbing my keys, and forwarding those texts all at once. “That’s IT! This is IT!”
I slammed out of the apartment, into my car, and rocketed downtown while blasting some…I can’t remember what it was—I think Matchbox Twenty. Yes, that’s right—“Push.” Because I was damn tired of being pushed and pulled around like this.
“Where are you?” I texted Perfect after parking at the top of the parking garage.
“The mall on Church Street—Pac Sun.”
By the time I got to the mall, I still hadn’t calmed down. People were visibly avoiding having to be near me. I could feel the anger crackling around me. It’s a wonder I wasn’t shutting lights off, something I normally do when my body’s energy gets out-of-control mad. (Yes, I’m a power gremlin. I can’t wear watch batteries, use motion sensor-activated sinks, toilets, soap or paper towel dispensers, and I occasionally turn off store- and streetlights.) I took a quick trip to the ladies room for one last look. And that look was manic. I called Emily to try and have her calm me down as I walked to Pac Sun, listening to her soothing voice and thinking Zen thoughts. I walked into the store, and did a lap. No tall, hulking manbeasts. No mutual friends.
“That’s it,” I told Emily. “This is going to be his balls on the floor of Pac Sun.” And then I turned around just in time to watch Perfect and Cait walk in the door behind me. Perfect looked wary and possibly, a little scared. Cait looked oblivious. Also, significantly more dressed-up than she had looked a few hours previously. So, she spent her time while she was supposed to be with Perfect going home, showering, changing into a cute dress, doing her hair and make-up, getting stuck with needles, and then commandeered my time. Great. What friends are for, right?
“I’ve got to go,” I told Emily. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Don’t kill him,” were her last words to me. “I don’t want to have to visit you in prison.”
As I looked at Perfect, looking at me, I was struck more by what hadn’t changed than what had. He still had the same look in his eyes the day he did when we saw each other after sleeping together—that looks of, “hey, I really like you,” along with a look of, “we’re here; what’s going to happen now?” But it was pushed back further and hidden with wariness, and dropped eye contact. We both circled around each other, almost sizing the other up as we did our, “hey, what’s up?”s. He became infinitely interested in a clothing rack. I lifted up a hoodie’s sleeve. We existed in the same place as each other, just standing there, soaking it in, our little psychological feelers testing out the waters, the vibes, the attitude. No one spontaneously exploded. He tried a hoodie on. I tried on a coat.
“That fits you really well,” he said. We looked each other dead in the eyes, the first lingering eye contact since we’d been together. I saw them, then, really, and it was as I suspected— nothing had changed. He may have gotten a little sharper and a little more guarded with me, but then again, so had I with him. But when it boiled down to it all, it was him and me. It has always been him and me. Cait drifted around, either clueless or pretending to be. I calmed down a bit.
And promptly got worked up again when after buying said hoodie, Perfect turned around and announced, “I’ve got to get going. I was supposed to be at John’s house at 7.”
“Ok,” I gamely said as we walked out of the mall. “How is Mullett?”
“He’s good,” Perfect said as we all stood on Church Street. “Man, I’m hungry.”
“So am I,” Cait said, rubbing her stomach. “Well, I’m staying downtown.”
Perfect looked at her. “Hey, I need cash for parking,” he told her, and she goggled at him for a minute before cracking her wallet open. I was impressed at his balls, but then again—only fair. If she made him wait for longer than the 2 hour free parking, then yeah, she should pay for it.
Money now in hand, Perfect and I both vacillated. “I’ve got to go back to the parking garage,” he said as he and Cait traded bags so they had all their individual items separated and in hand to leave.
“Oh, which one? I’m parked at the top of that one,” I said, pointing.
“So am I.”
“Great—walk back together?” I asked, and Perfect and I both looked at each other. A loaded look. Yes. Our five minutes alone.
“Yeah, great,” he said. We started to turn in unison.
Cait saw. “Hey, Perf, would you please drive me to Flatbread? I’m meeting Heather there for dinner.”
We both turned back and gave her the sort of incredulous look that people usually only make in movies. My mouth may or may not have actually been hanging open. This was the most aggressive semi-cock-block I’d experienced of my life. “Are you shitting me?” I wanted to say, shaking her. “Flatbread is one block down the street. You’re going to make him drive you there so that he and I get no time together? Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
Instead, Perfect gave a shrug and a look and said, “Yeah, sure.” Ok, so I can sort of understand this—you never deny your best friends something. If Nora or Alli or Melissa or Caiti were to say, “hey, give me a ride from your mailbox to your house?” I’d shrug and say whatever and get my car keys out, too. But really—am I alone in thinking this is completely unacceptable, childish, selfish behavior THROUGHOUT on her part?
So our (un)merry gang of three trooped up the stairs to the parking garage, chatting about tattoos and college and how I was going to throw Cait off of the parking garage roof the first chance I got. (Not. But I would have loved to somehow work that into conversation topic.) Perfect led us to a Jeep Wrangler, and I stood behind it, looking at it a bit unlovingly. A.) The Douche drove only Wranglers, making his way through 4, and B.) it wasn’t the loved/hated 4runner.
“New car?” I asked as Perfect put his bags away.
“Naw, it’s my dad’s,” he said, turning back around and coming to stand closer to me where I stood on the driver’s side of the car. Cait, who I had thought would at least have the decency to get in the car and give us some quasi-privacy, stood at the other side of the bumper. Perfect started playing with the rubber that lined the frame of the car door. Cait got the hint and put her bags away.
“So,” I started. “I really would have liked to get a chance to hang with you, but oh well. When do you leave, again?”
“Saturday. School starts Monday.”
“Oh, well,” I said, shifting from side to side, uncomfortable as he watched me. “I’ve got Orientation to work at, and then classes, but I’ll call you when things settle down. Pass on my wisdom and stuff like that, ok?”
“Ok,” he said. “I’d like that.”
And then he came up to me, hunkered down, and gave me the best hug of my life. For two people separated by a solid foot of height and a proverbial elephant in the room, we mesh together so perfectly, it was hard for me to let go as he held me and rubbed my back. As always, one of his massive hands spanned my entire back, warm and comfortably heavy, just so there. I clung on to his shoulders, and closed my eyes, breathing him in, the scent of boy—clean laundry, forest air, soap, deodorant, and musk. The same smell that still lingers on my sheets and in my pillows. The same smell I’d know anywhere. We stood like that for a good thirty seconds, and then like little cracks fracturing us apart, let go, little by little. It felt like a sculpture being chiseled apart. Or maybe that was just my heart.
We said goodbye, and I walked across the roof of the parking garage to my car. The Wrangler revved to life, and I stood by my car, pretending to look for my keys and waved back as Perfect and Cait drove by, waving—Cait, enthusiastically; Perfect, a single deliberate rotation of one hand from right to left. Goodbye. And then, they were gone.
I sat in my car, gulping down dry sobs because the tears wouldn’t come, blasting “Kiss The Rain,” and wondering if this was it. I turned my engine over, drove up to the Admissions building of my college that sits conveniently overlooking Main Street, and ran across the parking lot to sit on the porch and watch cars drive by. I knew Cait—she would dawdle saying goodbye to Perfect when he went to drop her off at Flatbread, and traffic was bad. Sure enough, 10 minutes later, I watched the Wrangler chug to the top of the hill and looked across at Perfect, sitting so solid in the driver’s seat, a bit like a salmon in a sardine can. And although that bitch may have gotten his last minutes, I was the last person to watch him leave Burlington.
I went home and ran two miles in the trails by the river about, mad at him, mad at Cait, mad at the situation, and mad at myself. Alli and Dan found me an hour later and took me out for ice cream, or rather, a stirring rendition of “This Is Exactly Where I Was Three Hours Ago,” complete with “we’re parking one spot over from where Perfect parked,” “we’re walking down the stairway we walked up,” “we’re standing on the street where we stood,” and “oh god, I feel like shit.” When a lady accidentally stepped on the back of my foot in Ben & Jerry’s, the only thing that kept me from turning around and taking her out with a flawless right hook was the fact she looked like my mother. When two college guys hooted after me and my short shorts, I almost turned around to harass them back.
“Do we need to take you to Mr. Mike’s tonight so you can get in a fight?” Alli asked me.
“YES,” I answered vehemently. Something in the way I said it or looked when I said it must have made her reconsider.
“Maybe not,” she amended nervously.
With help, I drafted a text and sent it to Perfect at 9, not expecting a response back until the next morning. “So I’m not gonna lie,” it said. “I was a little disappointed about today. I really would have liked a chance to spend a little more time with you. Would you be free to meet tomorrow in MontP middayish?”
As I was driving Emily home around midnight, I got one of the great shocks of my young life. At 12:11 AM, Perfect texted me back. “I got to get college stuff going! What do you need to talk to me about?”
“It wouldn’t take long, I promise,” I texted back, while driving. (Very dangerous—don’t follow in my example.) “I’d just like a chance to actually see you before you leave.”
“I don’t know! Can we talk on the phone?”
“I’m driving my friend home right now and I’m hella tired after last night…I’ve got the morning free so it would just be easier if we could make that work. And I hate phones, if you can’t tell by the texting, hahaha,” I replied, trying to keep the tone light.
“I am busy, though.” Stubborn. Obstinate. A little bit mad and peevish. This is both Perfect and I I’m talking about by this point. It was like 12 rounds of passive-aggressive text-boxing—I’d punch him with a “visit tomorrow,” and he’d counter back with a “call me now” punch of his own. Neither one of us were giving in, so I dug in.
“When are you not super-busy tomorrow, or if you have to go into town for anything anyway?”
“Atta-girl,” Emily coaxed from the passenger seat beside me. “Don’t let him win! Don’t give in! Don’t give up!”
“I am at home packing and have plans with friends and need to take care of the dogs! So we can’t talk on the phone? What’s so important? You’re creeping me out! Lol.”
Now, for any men reading this, telling a woman she’s “creeping you out” is pretty much the recipe for an instant fight. Emily watched me puff up and tried to deflect. “I’m sure that’s not what he meant,” she said. “You know, like ‘freaking me out’ or ‘making me nervous,’ not creeping like "creepy"!”
I’d give her that, and looked over at her, flushed and hot with nerves and anger, but voice still droll and sarcastic humor still intact. “Well, he just saw me. It’s not like I’m trying to tell him I’m three months pregnant with his child. Or going to profess my undying love to him. So I guess no, I’m not creepy.”
Instead, I texted this back: “”Well, you’ve been freaking me out, so join the club! I just want to clean slate before you leave and I’d rather be able to do it in person because it’s easier for me than calling.”
And then Perfect made the mistake that broke the argument’s back: “Clean what slate, I am really confused and drunk right now with friends.”
Ok, so, not only are you admittedly DRUNK, but you’ve been furiously texting me for the past hour now in front of your friends, so, excuse me, but wouldn’t that appear a little awkward? “No, we’re not together, but I’m going to text her and ignore you and get into a very couple-esque argument about seeing each other over here in the corner while we’re supposed to be out chilling together.”
I hope his friends are as confused about us and I am, because that way, I’m not alone in this.
“Then this definitely isn’t the time to debate this. I’m tired and driving,” I told him with finality.
And then, Perfect did something I would have never expected from him. “Ok, drive safe, bye,” he said, and then he turned his phone off. End of conversation. Firstly, he NEVER tells me to drive safe—that’s my line to him. Last-ditch effort to say, “I’m mad at you but I still care.” Secondly, Perfect NEVER gets mad. And thank god, because I bet he can Hulk up really quick. But no—Perfect does not get angry. Perfect gets mildly annoyed. It is mind-numbingly hard to get a rise out of Perfect, and him turning his phone off is the equivalent of another man yelling and throwing things. Or storming away for “a drive” as some prefer to do. I have to admit, I was a bit perversely pleased that I was able to get a rise and response out of him like that. If I could crawl under his thick skin enough to instigate that response, it’s got to mean something, right?
And in other news, that was out first real fight. Spats, we’ve had before. They blow over, but the next morning when I texted him to say “Hey, good morning, I’m up—let me know when you have coverage so we can continue our 12 rounds,” and watched the little green Verizon check-mark appear ten minutes later when he got coverage and the message was received but not responded to, it was obvious that this wasn’t just going to “blow over.” Whatever. I was still pissed. The “creeping me out” comment still stung, hard. And I didn’t have much riding on the chance I’d get to see him again before he left, either.
So I was surprised that evening when in the middle of a dorm’s first hall meeting I was attending during freshmen Orientation when my cell rang and it was a text from Perfect. “Hey,” was all it said. But “hey” is how Perfect makes up for all our little disagreements. He always texts me back first to try and make up before I text him, and his “hey” is a joint “I’m calmed down” and “I’m sorry.”
I love his “hey”s.
“Hey, I’m in a dorm meeting for my job—can I text you back when it’s over?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
After the meeting, I sent him a text back. “Hey—so I think we had a massive communication breakdown last night. I was just really tired and cranky and wasn’t communicating well to get my thoughts across.” (And that’s as far as I’ll get to saying “I’m sorry.”)
“Ok, what did you want to tell me?” Perfect asked. “Just go for it.”
This is where my little brain started to churn to life. Why the need in Perfect to talk and for me to say something? All I ever asked for was to hang out/chill out/see each other in person. Not once, and you can check back in the texts, did I ever say something like “we need to talk” or “I need to talk to you.” The closest I came was saying I wanted to see him to clean slate. He was the one who came up with all the talking. Huh.
“No, that’s the thing—it was more of a chill thing since we didn’t get to really see each other yesterday. But, you know, I’m sure there would have been talking, otherwise it would just be weird.” Again, trying to keep tone light.
“Yeah, sorry,” he apologized for it again.
“Yeah, it kinda sucks. Will you be in coverage later? I’m eating but I’ll call you after.”
“I might be.”
“Ok. It’ll be like, 10/20 minutes.”
So, after eating and generally gnawing on my fingernails and cold sweating, backed up by the lovely Marissa who so nicely agreed to patiently sit on the stone wall behind East and watch me pace on the phone so if anything went wrong I wouldn’t be alone afterward to do something drastic like lie down in the middle of the pavement and wait for a car to run me over, I called Perfect. That’s right, my little fingers went down the contact list in my cell phone, found his real name, which, for the slow of you out there, is not, in fact, really “Perfect,” and pressed send. He picked up on the third ring, and I was yet again reminded that his voice starts somewhere around his kneecaps—possibly, even his ankles.
We chatted for six minutes, about this, that, and everything, except for US. Now, this may not seem like such a stellar performance, but let me remind you it only took us three and a half to break up. We talked packing, or lack thereof, as he got called into work; roommates and worries (how he and two other guys are supposedly going to fit into a men’s double with one shared refrigerator;) my day; about my “fun and weird” little quirks (his words, not mine,) when fire trucks with sirens blasting passed him on his end of the line and I had to tell him that due to my sensitive hearing I’d have to hold the phone away from my ear until they were gone; how we were both bummed we didn’t get to spend more time together and was he sure that he had no time this evening? (“No…I’m on my way to dinner with my parents now and then I have to pack, and tomorrow morning I’m going over to John’s house before I leave to say goodbye to him and his family,”) and just general other little things. He told me his game-plan for heading to school, when he started classes, etc. I told him about working freshmen Orientation and how he better participate in his icebreakers because they’re a bitch to organize.
It was funny, though—he was audibly nervous, stuttering a few words, “umm”ing all over the place, and repeating statements. It was sweet; it was cute; it made me light up and go flirty. We both worked hard at bringing “us” back to normal and making up, and by the time he told me he was at the restaurant and had to go, I felt good. “Ok, good luck with everything. Safe trip. And I’ll talk to you soon,” I told him. Though I didn’t get to give him the speech, it had occurred to me halfway through our conversation that it was ok—it was more important to make sure we were ok than to further rock the boat. I’d wait a few days—let him settle in to college, let me get through my first week of classes, and then we’d go from there.
After I hung up, Marissa looked at me from across the parking lot. “I could hear him,” she told me. “He’s got a sexy voice!”
“Yeah, I know,” I told her. “Whales can hear him it’s so low.”
Truth.
The thing that drives me crazy, however, is that one night, I’ll go to bed sure that it is over and done, and that was Perfect’s final chance and he’s made it clear that he’s over it all, over me—and then the next day, it’s all sunshine and smiles and hard work and apologies from him, and I rest my head on that same pillow that 24 hours ago I was sure was my Bed of Pain and this time, am convinced that he is one of the best people in the world and I adore him. (All considered, though, and I’m not saying this just because I’m dick-whipped, but he is a pretty stellar human being. And I’m sure he’s even better-seeming if you’re not romantically involved with him and don’t have to deal with the hot-and-cold bullshit.) It’s all so very emotionally taxing. My feelings aren’t used to this much whip-lash. Normally with my men, it’s cut and dried: they’re dicks who don’t really want to work for anything, so don’t expect much. With Perfect, it’s almost the complete opposite: if something goes down in a way not planned or doesn’t end well, he’s perfectly contrite and willing to meet me somewhere half-way to make up for it.
…Most of the time.
What’s Happened Since Then:
So, it’s now the third of September. Perfect has been away for six days, and, strangely, that’s how long it’s been since I’ve heard from him. I’ve sent him three texts that were received, but not responded to, and I know he’s alive because he’s been on Facebook posting. I get that life is different. I get that he’s adjusting. I get he’s busy with classes, and I get that his family was apparently still there on one of the days I texted him. But honestly, this is scaring me. because I also understand that he’s off meeting new people, and some of those people will be cute girls who will just be dying to get with him, and I can get a little insecure. The longest we’ve ever gone without talking was for six days when I ran away home and then to Saugerties because I was so mad at him I COULDN’T talk to him. This is weird.
I thought we were ok. I thought we had made up and were back on track. I thought he wasn’t mad anymore. But honestly, I have no idea what’s going on with him. Alli brought up a valid point that maybe, he kept bringing up talking because he knows EXACTLY what’s going on and wanted to hear me say it. Emily seconded her with another good point:
“If he’s the one who broke up with you, and he wants you back, he’s not going to want to be the one to say if first and look like an idiot who made a huge mistake. He’s going to want you to say it so he can then agree and he can save face. He may be scared to look like he was wrong. And you’ve been so chill with him and staying friends that he may honestly think it’s ok with you, and that you don’t want more. And by you saying you just wanted to “hang out” and deflecting all of his attempts to “talk,” it might really seem that way to him.”
Huh. Apparently, I may have been too cool of a cucumber. If that’s the case, and he does think I feel only platonic for him, the silence can be explained by him being away and trying to get back over me. What do you think, dear readers? Is he wanting to talk so we can banish the elephant in the room and he can straighten things out by saying, “no, I think we should just be friends,” or could he also be waiting for me to say the words “I want you back,” first? I’m honestly at a loss for this one.
Or, he could just me mad at me. But WHYYYYYY?! What does this uncharacteristic silence mean? I may have to actually ask Cait, who I’ve been generally avoiding due to latent anger and grudge issues since her stunning little immature performance last Thursday. (Oh, it’s been a week since I saw him. Ohhhh.)
Anyway, I’m calling him tonight if I don’t hear back from him before then. Even if he doesn’t pick up, I’ll still get to leave a message on his answering machine and ask what his damage is. Marissa and I will be downtown to meet her beau, so it would be a good time to be somewhere where I can’t flip the fuck out.
I’ll let you know how it goes, and until then, darlings,
XOXO
P.S-- And of course right as I publish this, he texts me back, but then doesn't answer the next text I send asking if I can call him later because I'm running off to class...of course. So confuzzled. As I said to Alli, "At least I know he's alive, unless he's figured out a way to text from the grave."
Back-story:
Tuesday, Perfect strayed back into the territory of “We Might As Well Be Dating” when he sent me a picture message of the 1 pound hamburger he devoured for lunch. He was so excited about this feat of digestive strength, the excitement continued through the rest of our afternoon discussion. Every text was promptly responded to. He was sweet. We were funny. It was great. I felt, again, like I had my boy back.
Wednesday afternoon, while I was on a ropes course with the rest of my Peer Advising staff, being piggybacked and carried around by men for hours, getting my ass groped by my friend, and watching people hang suspended by rope on a high-wire far above my head, I got a text from Perfect. Actually, my cell phone, which was located in my bra cup because the white spandex leggings and old blue soccer shorts I was wearing didn’t have pockets (oh, such a winning outfit!), received a text from Perfect, making my right boob vibrate like it has never vibrated before. There was some spastic movement to get it out, but it was worth the whole shocking endeavor when I read that he was coming to Burlington on Thursday, but didn’t know what time yet. He was driving home, and by the time I could respond to him, was out of service. Boo. So later that night on Facebook around 11, I caught him on Facebook chat right before he signed off and went to bed to tell him that I was in training until 3:30 and please, pleeeease could he come in the later afternoon/evening? “Ok, I will try hard,” he told me.
“Ah, yes—thank you,” I said. “Now g’night with you.”
“Nighty night,” he said. I wished him sweet dreams and in response he gave me the sort of Perfect answer that one must imagine him saying with a suggestive tone, possibly with an undercurrent of, “yes, sweet dreams about you and me having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex.”
“Oh, I will.”
Or maybe it was me that had the dreams about him and I having hot, hot, sweaty, animalistic sex. Guilty as charged.
What Should Have Happened:
Perfect, by all accounts, should have gotten into Burlington around 3:30 on Thursday afternoon. Because Cait and I had already discussed the fact that she wanted to go shopping with him, and I wanted to give them their alone time so he and I could have our alone time later, she was supposed to go home quickly after training, drop her stuff, and meet him on Church Street to take him away-to-college shopping. (This is one of their things they’ve been doing together for years, shopping.) Around 5:30 or 6, when they were done bleeding debit card money to Burlington’s retail establishments, he was supposed to come over to my apartment so that we could have some chill time alone together and catch up. Just really laid-back, fun stuff. We can’t shut up once we get on a roll, and plus, I wanted to take him on a walk to the underpasses to show him the amazing graffiti there, because I know that’s something he’s interested in. At some point, when I felt comfortable, I was just going to say, “Look, last time we talked seriously, you pretty much told me what you thought was logical and what you wanted, and I agreed to give it a try. Well, I tried, but it’s not working for me. I still feel the same way I did about you in May and June, and I honestly think we should just give this a try. It doesn’t have to be serious—in fact, I would be great with it being casual. But if we try and it works, then it works. If it doesn’t—no harm, no foul. But I think we’re missing out on a lot of fun stuff we could be doing, and I’d like to give us a try again.”
If he said yes, let’s give this another solid effort, theoretically, we would then fall madly into the closest possible bed, (hopefully, mine,) and have earth-shattering sex. Then I would whip out my trusty planner, we’d schedule our first visitation weekend, and then celebrate by having some wet and wild shower sex. (This is that “fun stuff” I alluded to earlier: sex. We basically have a relationship without the sex and this point, so wouldn’t that be fun to add?) I would visit him, he would come up to see me, it would be great, the sex would be amazing, and life would be generally beautiful.
If he said “no, I don’t feel that way,” then I would counter with a very polite, “well, then I’m confused, because that’s not what I’ve been hearing from our friends,” and delve a little deeper into the Is-He-Scared-Or-Is-He-Just-Over-Me? debate. In the end, if this were my answer, I would know to shake hands and call us good friends, get back up in the saddle, and start looking again. But he would know. And that’s all that would really matter.
What Really Happened:
Perfect and I kept in touch all day Thursday with check-ins and planning. I wasn’t sure if Cait knew he was coming, and she wasn’t sure if I knew he was coming, so by the time we both spoke up and but our heads together in joint effort with Perfect around 1 PM, I thought we had a pretty good plan worked out. Cait would meet him at 3:30 when we got out of training downtown. They’d shop and get their time together to catch up and say their goodbyes. Then Perfect would come to my apartment so we would get out alone time to catch up and try and work things out and say goodbye. (And, again—possibly fuck our brains out.)
Instead, when I texted him at quarter after 5 to check in and see if he was being close to done with Cait, I got an interesting response. “Cait’s on her way now.”
Ummm, excuse me?
Apparently, Cait had decided that today, yes, TODAY, THIS AFTERNOON, while Perfect more or less patiently waited for her by wandering around Church Street and bought two shirts at American Eagle, it would be a good time to get another piercing.
“I don’t know if I will be able to get over there!” Perfect texted. “I got a late start!”
“What time do you have to leave?” I asked.
“I was hoping to be home at 7, but that won’t work, lol,” he answered. It was, by then, almost 6:30.
“Uhhh, no, I don’t think so—hahaha—but I’d like to see you regardless of where you are, so please don’t leave!” I, um, I guess I almost begged.
“Well, if you want to come to Church Street real quick, I can say hi and bye.”
“Livid” does not begin to describe my emotions. In fact, “livid” now needs a new definition, because I far surpassed its limits.
“Oh my god, this is bullshit,” I texted back before I could control it. “Where are you; I’ll meet up with you.”
“Me and Cait are just walking out of Urban Outfitters. I need to leave soon. This was a real quick trip for me, sorry.”
I looked at Emily, who had happened to come home with me and witnessed this entire debacle, and I swear to god I felt smoke trickle from my nose and ears.
“This. Is. BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT!!!” I screamed while applying more mascara, grabbing my keys, and forwarding those texts all at once. “That’s IT! This is IT!”
I slammed out of the apartment, into my car, and rocketed downtown while blasting some…I can’t remember what it was—I think Matchbox Twenty. Yes, that’s right—“Push.” Because I was damn tired of being pushed and pulled around like this.
“Where are you?” I texted Perfect after parking at the top of the parking garage.
“The mall on Church Street—Pac Sun.”
By the time I got to the mall, I still hadn’t calmed down. People were visibly avoiding having to be near me. I could feel the anger crackling around me. It’s a wonder I wasn’t shutting lights off, something I normally do when my body’s energy gets out-of-control mad. (Yes, I’m a power gremlin. I can’t wear watch batteries, use motion sensor-activated sinks, toilets, soap or paper towel dispensers, and I occasionally turn off store- and streetlights.) I took a quick trip to the ladies room for one last look. And that look was manic. I called Emily to try and have her calm me down as I walked to Pac Sun, listening to her soothing voice and thinking Zen thoughts. I walked into the store, and did a lap. No tall, hulking manbeasts. No mutual friends.
“That’s it,” I told Emily. “This is going to be his balls on the floor of Pac Sun.” And then I turned around just in time to watch Perfect and Cait walk in the door behind me. Perfect looked wary and possibly, a little scared. Cait looked oblivious. Also, significantly more dressed-up than she had looked a few hours previously. So, she spent her time while she was supposed to be with Perfect going home, showering, changing into a cute dress, doing her hair and make-up, getting stuck with needles, and then commandeered my time. Great. What friends are for, right?
“I’ve got to go,” I told Emily. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Don’t kill him,” were her last words to me. “I don’t want to have to visit you in prison.”
As I looked at Perfect, looking at me, I was struck more by what hadn’t changed than what had. He still had the same look in his eyes the day he did when we saw each other after sleeping together—that looks of, “hey, I really like you,” along with a look of, “we’re here; what’s going to happen now?” But it was pushed back further and hidden with wariness, and dropped eye contact. We both circled around each other, almost sizing the other up as we did our, “hey, what’s up?”s. He became infinitely interested in a clothing rack. I lifted up a hoodie’s sleeve. We existed in the same place as each other, just standing there, soaking it in, our little psychological feelers testing out the waters, the vibes, the attitude. No one spontaneously exploded. He tried a hoodie on. I tried on a coat.
“That fits you really well,” he said. We looked each other dead in the eyes, the first lingering eye contact since we’d been together. I saw them, then, really, and it was as I suspected— nothing had changed. He may have gotten a little sharper and a little more guarded with me, but then again, so had I with him. But when it boiled down to it all, it was him and me. It has always been him and me. Cait drifted around, either clueless or pretending to be. I calmed down a bit.
And promptly got worked up again when after buying said hoodie, Perfect turned around and announced, “I’ve got to get going. I was supposed to be at John’s house at 7.”
“Ok,” I gamely said as we walked out of the mall. “How is Mullett?”
“He’s good,” Perfect said as we all stood on Church Street. “Man, I’m hungry.”
“So am I,” Cait said, rubbing her stomach. “Well, I’m staying downtown.”
Perfect looked at her. “Hey, I need cash for parking,” he told her, and she goggled at him for a minute before cracking her wallet open. I was impressed at his balls, but then again—only fair. If she made him wait for longer than the 2 hour free parking, then yeah, she should pay for it.
Money now in hand, Perfect and I both vacillated. “I’ve got to go back to the parking garage,” he said as he and Cait traded bags so they had all their individual items separated and in hand to leave.
“Oh, which one? I’m parked at the top of that one,” I said, pointing.
“So am I.”
“Great—walk back together?” I asked, and Perfect and I both looked at each other. A loaded look. Yes. Our five minutes alone.
“Yeah, great,” he said. We started to turn in unison.
Cait saw. “Hey, Perf, would you please drive me to Flatbread? I’m meeting Heather there for dinner.”
We both turned back and gave her the sort of incredulous look that people usually only make in movies. My mouth may or may not have actually been hanging open. This was the most aggressive semi-cock-block I’d experienced of my life. “Are you shitting me?” I wanted to say, shaking her. “Flatbread is one block down the street. You’re going to make him drive you there so that he and I get no time together? Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
Instead, Perfect gave a shrug and a look and said, “Yeah, sure.” Ok, so I can sort of understand this—you never deny your best friends something. If Nora or Alli or Melissa or Caiti were to say, “hey, give me a ride from your mailbox to your house?” I’d shrug and say whatever and get my car keys out, too. But really—am I alone in thinking this is completely unacceptable, childish, selfish behavior THROUGHOUT on her part?
So our (un)merry gang of three trooped up the stairs to the parking garage, chatting about tattoos and college and how I was going to throw Cait off of the parking garage roof the first chance I got. (Not. But I would have loved to somehow work that into conversation topic.) Perfect led us to a Jeep Wrangler, and I stood behind it, looking at it a bit unlovingly. A.) The Douche drove only Wranglers, making his way through 4, and B.) it wasn’t the loved/hated 4runner.
“New car?” I asked as Perfect put his bags away.
“Naw, it’s my dad’s,” he said, turning back around and coming to stand closer to me where I stood on the driver’s side of the car. Cait, who I had thought would at least have the decency to get in the car and give us some quasi-privacy, stood at the other side of the bumper. Perfect started playing with the rubber that lined the frame of the car door. Cait got the hint and put her bags away.
“So,” I started. “I really would have liked to get a chance to hang with you, but oh well. When do you leave, again?”
“Saturday. School starts Monday.”
“Oh, well,” I said, shifting from side to side, uncomfortable as he watched me. “I’ve got Orientation to work at, and then classes, but I’ll call you when things settle down. Pass on my wisdom and stuff like that, ok?”
“Ok,” he said. “I’d like that.”
And then he came up to me, hunkered down, and gave me the best hug of my life. For two people separated by a solid foot of height and a proverbial elephant in the room, we mesh together so perfectly, it was hard for me to let go as he held me and rubbed my back. As always, one of his massive hands spanned my entire back, warm and comfortably heavy, just so there. I clung on to his shoulders, and closed my eyes, breathing him in, the scent of boy—clean laundry, forest air, soap, deodorant, and musk. The same smell that still lingers on my sheets and in my pillows. The same smell I’d know anywhere. We stood like that for a good thirty seconds, and then like little cracks fracturing us apart, let go, little by little. It felt like a sculpture being chiseled apart. Or maybe that was just my heart.
We said goodbye, and I walked across the roof of the parking garage to my car. The Wrangler revved to life, and I stood by my car, pretending to look for my keys and waved back as Perfect and Cait drove by, waving—Cait, enthusiastically; Perfect, a single deliberate rotation of one hand from right to left. Goodbye. And then, they were gone.
I sat in my car, gulping down dry sobs because the tears wouldn’t come, blasting “Kiss The Rain,” and wondering if this was it. I turned my engine over, drove up to the Admissions building of my college that sits conveniently overlooking Main Street, and ran across the parking lot to sit on the porch and watch cars drive by. I knew Cait—she would dawdle saying goodbye to Perfect when he went to drop her off at Flatbread, and traffic was bad. Sure enough, 10 minutes later, I watched the Wrangler chug to the top of the hill and looked across at Perfect, sitting so solid in the driver’s seat, a bit like a salmon in a sardine can. And although that bitch may have gotten his last minutes, I was the last person to watch him leave Burlington.
I went home and ran two miles in the trails by the river about, mad at him, mad at Cait, mad at the situation, and mad at myself. Alli and Dan found me an hour later and took me out for ice cream, or rather, a stirring rendition of “This Is Exactly Where I Was Three Hours Ago,” complete with “we’re parking one spot over from where Perfect parked,” “we’re walking down the stairway we walked up,” “we’re standing on the street where we stood,” and “oh god, I feel like shit.” When a lady accidentally stepped on the back of my foot in Ben & Jerry’s, the only thing that kept me from turning around and taking her out with a flawless right hook was the fact she looked like my mother. When two college guys hooted after me and my short shorts, I almost turned around to harass them back.
“Do we need to take you to Mr. Mike’s tonight so you can get in a fight?” Alli asked me.
“YES,” I answered vehemently. Something in the way I said it or looked when I said it must have made her reconsider.
“Maybe not,” she amended nervously.
With help, I drafted a text and sent it to Perfect at 9, not expecting a response back until the next morning. “So I’m not gonna lie,” it said. “I was a little disappointed about today. I really would have liked a chance to spend a little more time with you. Would you be free to meet tomorrow in MontP middayish?”
As I was driving Emily home around midnight, I got one of the great shocks of my young life. At 12:11 AM, Perfect texted me back. “I got to get college stuff going! What do you need to talk to me about?”
“It wouldn’t take long, I promise,” I texted back, while driving. (Very dangerous—don’t follow in my example.) “I’d just like a chance to actually see you before you leave.”
“I don’t know! Can we talk on the phone?”
“I’m driving my friend home right now and I’m hella tired after last night…I’ve got the morning free so it would just be easier if we could make that work. And I hate phones, if you can’t tell by the texting, hahaha,” I replied, trying to keep the tone light.
“I am busy, though.” Stubborn. Obstinate. A little bit mad and peevish. This is both Perfect and I I’m talking about by this point. It was like 12 rounds of passive-aggressive text-boxing—I’d punch him with a “visit tomorrow,” and he’d counter back with a “call me now” punch of his own. Neither one of us were giving in, so I dug in.
“When are you not super-busy tomorrow, or if you have to go into town for anything anyway?”
“Atta-girl,” Emily coaxed from the passenger seat beside me. “Don’t let him win! Don’t give in! Don’t give up!”
“I am at home packing and have plans with friends and need to take care of the dogs! So we can’t talk on the phone? What’s so important? You’re creeping me out! Lol.”
Now, for any men reading this, telling a woman she’s “creeping you out” is pretty much the recipe for an instant fight. Emily watched me puff up and tried to deflect. “I’m sure that’s not what he meant,” she said. “You know, like ‘freaking me out’ or ‘making me nervous,’ not creeping like "creepy"!”
I’d give her that, and looked over at her, flushed and hot with nerves and anger, but voice still droll and sarcastic humor still intact. “Well, he just saw me. It’s not like I’m trying to tell him I’m three months pregnant with his child. Or going to profess my undying love to him. So I guess no, I’m not creepy.”
Instead, I texted this back: “”Well, you’ve been freaking me out, so join the club! I just want to clean slate before you leave and I’d rather be able to do it in person because it’s easier for me than calling.”
And then Perfect made the mistake that broke the argument’s back: “Clean what slate, I am really confused and drunk right now with friends.”
Ok, so, not only are you admittedly DRUNK, but you’ve been furiously texting me for the past hour now in front of your friends, so, excuse me, but wouldn’t that appear a little awkward? “No, we’re not together, but I’m going to text her and ignore you and get into a very couple-esque argument about seeing each other over here in the corner while we’re supposed to be out chilling together.”
I hope his friends are as confused about us and I am, because that way, I’m not alone in this.
“Then this definitely isn’t the time to debate this. I’m tired and driving,” I told him with finality.
And then, Perfect did something I would have never expected from him. “Ok, drive safe, bye,” he said, and then he turned his phone off. End of conversation. Firstly, he NEVER tells me to drive safe—that’s my line to him. Last-ditch effort to say, “I’m mad at you but I still care.” Secondly, Perfect NEVER gets mad. And thank god, because I bet he can Hulk up really quick. But no—Perfect does not get angry. Perfect gets mildly annoyed. It is mind-numbingly hard to get a rise out of Perfect, and him turning his phone off is the equivalent of another man yelling and throwing things. Or storming away for “a drive” as some prefer to do. I have to admit, I was a bit perversely pleased that I was able to get a rise and response out of him like that. If I could crawl under his thick skin enough to instigate that response, it’s got to mean something, right?
And in other news, that was out first real fight. Spats, we’ve had before. They blow over, but the next morning when I texted him to say “Hey, good morning, I’m up—let me know when you have coverage so we can continue our 12 rounds,” and watched the little green Verizon check-mark appear ten minutes later when he got coverage and the message was received but not responded to, it was obvious that this wasn’t just going to “blow over.” Whatever. I was still pissed. The “creeping me out” comment still stung, hard. And I didn’t have much riding on the chance I’d get to see him again before he left, either.
So I was surprised that evening when in the middle of a dorm’s first hall meeting I was attending during freshmen Orientation when my cell rang and it was a text from Perfect. “Hey,” was all it said. But “hey” is how Perfect makes up for all our little disagreements. He always texts me back first to try and make up before I text him, and his “hey” is a joint “I’m calmed down” and “I’m sorry.”
I love his “hey”s.
“Hey, I’m in a dorm meeting for my job—can I text you back when it’s over?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
After the meeting, I sent him a text back. “Hey—so I think we had a massive communication breakdown last night. I was just really tired and cranky and wasn’t communicating well to get my thoughts across.” (And that’s as far as I’ll get to saying “I’m sorry.”)
“Ok, what did you want to tell me?” Perfect asked. “Just go for it.”
This is where my little brain started to churn to life. Why the need in Perfect to talk and for me to say something? All I ever asked for was to hang out/chill out/see each other in person. Not once, and you can check back in the texts, did I ever say something like “we need to talk” or “I need to talk to you.” The closest I came was saying I wanted to see him to clean slate. He was the one who came up with all the talking. Huh.
“No, that’s the thing—it was more of a chill thing since we didn’t get to really see each other yesterday. But, you know, I’m sure there would have been talking, otherwise it would just be weird.” Again, trying to keep tone light.
“Yeah, sorry,” he apologized for it again.
“Yeah, it kinda sucks. Will you be in coverage later? I’m eating but I’ll call you after.”
“I might be.”
“Ok. It’ll be like, 10/20 minutes.”
So, after eating and generally gnawing on my fingernails and cold sweating, backed up by the lovely Marissa who so nicely agreed to patiently sit on the stone wall behind East and watch me pace on the phone so if anything went wrong I wouldn’t be alone afterward to do something drastic like lie down in the middle of the pavement and wait for a car to run me over, I called Perfect. That’s right, my little fingers went down the contact list in my cell phone, found his real name, which, for the slow of you out there, is not, in fact, really “Perfect,” and pressed send. He picked up on the third ring, and I was yet again reminded that his voice starts somewhere around his kneecaps—possibly, even his ankles.
We chatted for six minutes, about this, that, and everything, except for US. Now, this may not seem like such a stellar performance, but let me remind you it only took us three and a half to break up. We talked packing, or lack thereof, as he got called into work; roommates and worries (how he and two other guys are supposedly going to fit into a men’s double with one shared refrigerator;) my day; about my “fun and weird” little quirks (his words, not mine,) when fire trucks with sirens blasting passed him on his end of the line and I had to tell him that due to my sensitive hearing I’d have to hold the phone away from my ear until they were gone; how we were both bummed we didn’t get to spend more time together and was he sure that he had no time this evening? (“No…I’m on my way to dinner with my parents now and then I have to pack, and tomorrow morning I’m going over to John’s house before I leave to say goodbye to him and his family,”) and just general other little things. He told me his game-plan for heading to school, when he started classes, etc. I told him about working freshmen Orientation and how he better participate in his icebreakers because they’re a bitch to organize.
It was funny, though—he was audibly nervous, stuttering a few words, “umm”ing all over the place, and repeating statements. It was sweet; it was cute; it made me light up and go flirty. We both worked hard at bringing “us” back to normal and making up, and by the time he told me he was at the restaurant and had to go, I felt good. “Ok, good luck with everything. Safe trip. And I’ll talk to you soon,” I told him. Though I didn’t get to give him the speech, it had occurred to me halfway through our conversation that it was ok—it was more important to make sure we were ok than to further rock the boat. I’d wait a few days—let him settle in to college, let me get through my first week of classes, and then we’d go from there.
After I hung up, Marissa looked at me from across the parking lot. “I could hear him,” she told me. “He’s got a sexy voice!”
“Yeah, I know,” I told her. “Whales can hear him it’s so low.”
Truth.
The thing that drives me crazy, however, is that one night, I’ll go to bed sure that it is over and done, and that was Perfect’s final chance and he’s made it clear that he’s over it all, over me—and then the next day, it’s all sunshine and smiles and hard work and apologies from him, and I rest my head on that same pillow that 24 hours ago I was sure was my Bed of Pain and this time, am convinced that he is one of the best people in the world and I adore him. (All considered, though, and I’m not saying this just because I’m dick-whipped, but he is a pretty stellar human being. And I’m sure he’s even better-seeming if you’re not romantically involved with him and don’t have to deal with the hot-and-cold bullshit.) It’s all so very emotionally taxing. My feelings aren’t used to this much whip-lash. Normally with my men, it’s cut and dried: they’re dicks who don’t really want to work for anything, so don’t expect much. With Perfect, it’s almost the complete opposite: if something goes down in a way not planned or doesn’t end well, he’s perfectly contrite and willing to meet me somewhere half-way to make up for it.
…Most of the time.
What’s Happened Since Then:
So, it’s now the third of September. Perfect has been away for six days, and, strangely, that’s how long it’s been since I’ve heard from him. I’ve sent him three texts that were received, but not responded to, and I know he’s alive because he’s been on Facebook posting. I get that life is different. I get that he’s adjusting. I get he’s busy with classes, and I get that his family was apparently still there on one of the days I texted him. But honestly, this is scaring me. because I also understand that he’s off meeting new people, and some of those people will be cute girls who will just be dying to get with him, and I can get a little insecure. The longest we’ve ever gone without talking was for six days when I ran away home and then to Saugerties because I was so mad at him I COULDN’T talk to him. This is weird.
I thought we were ok. I thought we had made up and were back on track. I thought he wasn’t mad anymore. But honestly, I have no idea what’s going on with him. Alli brought up a valid point that maybe, he kept bringing up talking because he knows EXACTLY what’s going on and wanted to hear me say it. Emily seconded her with another good point:
“If he’s the one who broke up with you, and he wants you back, he’s not going to want to be the one to say if first and look like an idiot who made a huge mistake. He’s going to want you to say it so he can then agree and he can save face. He may be scared to look like he was wrong. And you’ve been so chill with him and staying friends that he may honestly think it’s ok with you, and that you don’t want more. And by you saying you just wanted to “hang out” and deflecting all of his attempts to “talk,” it might really seem that way to him.”
Huh. Apparently, I may have been too cool of a cucumber. If that’s the case, and he does think I feel only platonic for him, the silence can be explained by him being away and trying to get back over me. What do you think, dear readers? Is he wanting to talk so we can banish the elephant in the room and he can straighten things out by saying, “no, I think we should just be friends,” or could he also be waiting for me to say the words “I want you back,” first? I’m honestly at a loss for this one.
Or, he could just me mad at me. But WHYYYYYY?! What does this uncharacteristic silence mean? I may have to actually ask Cait, who I’ve been generally avoiding due to latent anger and grudge issues since her stunning little immature performance last Thursday. (Oh, it’s been a week since I saw him. Ohhhh.)
Anyway, I’m calling him tonight if I don’t hear back from him before then. Even if he doesn’t pick up, I’ll still get to leave a message on his answering machine and ask what his damage is. Marissa and I will be downtown to meet her beau, so it would be a good time to be somewhere where I can’t flip the fuck out.
I’ll let you know how it goes, and until then, darlings,
XOXO
P.S-- And of course right as I publish this, he texts me back, but then doesn't answer the next text I send asking if I can call him later because I'm running off to class...of course. So confuzzled. As I said to Alli, "At least I know he's alive, unless he's figured out a way to text from the grave."
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
"You May Have Changed Me, But I Made Me."
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the things that make us. Nothing existential—I was done with the practical knowledge of physics after CP Physics senior year of high school, and I’m a lethargic pagan with Zen tendencies and religion usually gives me a throbbing headache. More like, the little (and sometimes not so little) things that makes someone up—the little pieces/parts that are unique yet universal.
Maybe it’s the fact I’ve been home so much lately. Going back to the house I grew up and seeing the people I grew up with and sleeping in the same room I did for 18 years of my life (even if I wake up bolt upright every first night home now mid-panic attack because I don’t know where I am,) makes me think about the person I am and who I’m becoming.
There are the little universal things: most daughters use the same brand of make-up as their mothers because that’s what they started experimenting with when they hit middle school or puberty, whichever came first. (To this day, I’m a Clinique girl—foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara, lip color and all. Thanks, Mama.) Most people still eat at the same time they grew up eating dinner—I’m stuck around 8 or 9 PM because that’s usually when my dad’s wonderful culinary ventures were finally done by. Fathers remain, as John Mayer said, the “god and the weight of their [daughters’] world.” My father is still the person I seek the most approval from—he’s the one I desperately want to like the guys that actually make it home.
(Hmmm, interesting side-note: you know how Freud and psychologists always say that women look for partners like their fathers? I tend to disregard this claim, but this last little endeavor of mine got me comparing notes. Perfect’s birthday is the day before my father’s. My dad also threw discus quite spectacularly in high school. They both like wood-working. They both hunted in their youth. They’re both painfully logical. They both have far more female than male friends. And they both like things THEIR way—their timing, their plans, their deal. They both seem to be hopelessly good at anything they turn their hand to. I believe they are what you would call a “Jack Of All Trades, Master Of All, But Bored Very Easily In Their Pursuits.”)
There are the things you’re born with: a predisposition for warm weather, cool drinks, and good music. A love of cities and men with hazel eyes. Short calves and shorter stature. The same blue eyes, blonde hairline and forehead that everyone else on your dad’s side of the family has. A tendency to talk quickly, even more so when you’re either A.) mad, or B.) in Jersey. The way you sleep on your right side at night and curl up in the fetal position. How you laugh. What words you stutter—“rural,” “tinted windows,” and “Hawaii.” A love of jewelry and cars. Luck at the racetrack and the blackjack table. Baby toes. Dry humor and an inquisitive mind.
There’s the things that are harder to explain: how you can always, always—road blocks, detours, maps lost, bad directions given—find your way home. Like a homing pigeon. I can always point you in the direction my home is. I can tell you how to get there from the east, west, north, south, and which way is bound to have bad pot holes in the road.
Home seeps into your veins. Both my parents are New Jersey transplants, but I’m a Vermont Girl through and through. My night vision is phenomenal from running through fields at night, holding a beer bottle in one hand, and the can of gasoline for the bonfire in the other, or holing up in a playground’s tunnel tube with a polar fleece blanket and bottle of vodka in the middle of winter with the Twinny. I’ve ridden in the bed of a drunken friend’s truck and gone muddin’ and field driving. I could drive a Gator or Kubota before I could handle a gold cart. I drive better on dirt roads than paved ones. I own a pair of Carhartt pants for the winter, and I slip into the Vermont vernacular of “hun’nin’” and “fer” and “yer” and drawling out long and flat vowels as easily as I picked up contra dancing and wearing plaid. (That was “hunting” and “for” and “your,” for those of you who don’t speak Backwoods.) I cleanly killed a 150 pound doe on the opening day of fall hunting season, even if it was with my car and not a rifle. One of my favorite prom memories was when they played Big & Rich’s “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy,” and the glittery and well-coiffed and be-tuxed dance floor turned into a massive hoe-down.
And I’ll admit, there’s something appealing to me in the date described when they sing, “‘I’m a Thoroughbred,’ that’s what she said in the back of my truck bed as I was getting’ buzzed on suds out on some back country road. We were flyin’ high, fine as wine, havin’ ourselves a big and rich time, and I was goin’ just about as far as she’d let me go. But her evaluation of my cowboy reputation had me beggin’ for salvation all night long, so I took her out giggin’ frogs, introduced her to my old bird dogs, sang her every Willie Nelson song I could think of, and we made love.” (I think I actually may have done something like this—one of my high school beaus knew to cut the engine of his Wrangler a hundred yards from the end of my driveway and coast to the mailbox, where I would meet him after sneaking out around midnight with a six-pack of Bud and the knowledge that my parents were fast asleep, thinking I was on the other side of the wall in bed.)
And then there’s the things you accumulate along the way: Your education, or what you so choose to take with you from it—to this day, I can relay physics theorems with you and the major players in the American Revolution and positively OWN a five paragraph paper complete with opening paragraph with thesis, three supporting paragraphs, and a conclusion paragraph that ties them all together in air-tight and faultless detail, but get me a calculator for simple math.
The people that helped shape you: teachers, friends, authority figures. Alli, my riding trainer, is my second (much younger, much more entertaining) mother, and the person other than my father who guys should really go out of their way to impress, pulling out all the stops—handshakes, “yes ma’am,” “no, ma’am,” “pleasure to meet you,” and all. If I bring a guy to the barn, that’s when they know I’m serious about them—not when I bring them home. My parents I can survive you meeting without much of a to-do, but meeting my horse and my trainer is like meeting my child and therapist.
Past relationships you bring with you—scars, lessons, and all. Every new guy I date has to deal with the damage and triumphs of previous boyfriends. After the Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend, I acquired the need to know, in brief terms, where, with whom and what guys were doing when not with me. (That’s what a cheater will do to you.) After Catholic Boy, virgins were nixed from the dating list. After the Douche, men who followed through were given priority. The Flaky Artist started the Tall Boy Obsession. Legs taught me what abandonment feels like. Jersey Blunt gave me a taste of what a real guy is supposed to do—call back, text you first occasionally, and like to include you in what they’re doing, even if it is helping him sell his wickedly good weed. And Perfect gave me that guy that every other boy in the future will despise: that ex that’s still around, on my phone and a few towns over, who did everything right; the Golden Boy; the one I still can’t say one bad thing about, even when pressed. I can give a shrug and a “He drove me crazy, but he put both toilet seat and cover down, what more do you need to convince you?”
I recently pulled my senior year book out again, feeling a little nostalgic at the end of another summer as I watch people getting ready to leave for their first year of college. I remember that newness, that feeling of “thank god; I’m finally outta here!” and the fears that came with it: Will I like my roommate? Will I make new friends? Will I be homesick? Will the classes are too hard? Will I get caught partying by the cops? Will the girls be cute? Will the guys be hot? Will all my stuff fit into my dorm room? Will I have to share a bathroom? Will my roommate sex-ile me? Will I be sex-iling my roommate? Will I get good grades? Will my professors like me? Will I like my professors? Will the food suck? How often will I get to visit home? Will my friends from home stay in touch? Will I like it there? Will I grow up?
I now look back on this, and I can give a firm “yes” to all of these things. And if at first it seems like “no,” give it another try.
In my senior bio, my future plans and quote were wise beyond my years. Somehow, my 18 year old self knew back then that College Carissa would need to open that page up, and see something other than the fact that it is never, EVER a good idea to include your current boyfriend or girlfriend in your bio—something I failed at, mentioning Catholic Boy and our romps in the Tech Room twice. Instead of focusing on this, I left myself two pieces of gold: “‘I’ve done the math enough to know the dangers of a second-guessing.’- Tool, and future plans: conquer the Amazon with a mongoose, and when that’s not exciting anymore, raise sheep in Ireland with a gorgeous farmer. (Or go to college, be happy, and love one man, or many.)”
It was telling already, even then. Along with the picture of me accosting a life-size Beef-eater bedecked teddy bear with a leg and am arm over it like it was a giant, furry stripper pole in London that accompanied it as my senior portrait.
I’ve always enjoyed a bit of shock value. That remains the same.
XOXO
Maybe it’s the fact I’ve been home so much lately. Going back to the house I grew up and seeing the people I grew up with and sleeping in the same room I did for 18 years of my life (even if I wake up bolt upright every first night home now mid-panic attack because I don’t know where I am,) makes me think about the person I am and who I’m becoming.
There are the little universal things: most daughters use the same brand of make-up as their mothers because that’s what they started experimenting with when they hit middle school or puberty, whichever came first. (To this day, I’m a Clinique girl—foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara, lip color and all. Thanks, Mama.) Most people still eat at the same time they grew up eating dinner—I’m stuck around 8 or 9 PM because that’s usually when my dad’s wonderful culinary ventures were finally done by. Fathers remain, as John Mayer said, the “god and the weight of their [daughters’] world.” My father is still the person I seek the most approval from—he’s the one I desperately want to like the guys that actually make it home.
(Hmmm, interesting side-note: you know how Freud and psychologists always say that women look for partners like their fathers? I tend to disregard this claim, but this last little endeavor of mine got me comparing notes. Perfect’s birthday is the day before my father’s. My dad also threw discus quite spectacularly in high school. They both like wood-working. They both hunted in their youth. They’re both painfully logical. They both have far more female than male friends. And they both like things THEIR way—their timing, their plans, their deal. They both seem to be hopelessly good at anything they turn their hand to. I believe they are what you would call a “Jack Of All Trades, Master Of All, But Bored Very Easily In Their Pursuits.”)
There are the things you’re born with: a predisposition for warm weather, cool drinks, and good music. A love of cities and men with hazel eyes. Short calves and shorter stature. The same blue eyes, blonde hairline and forehead that everyone else on your dad’s side of the family has. A tendency to talk quickly, even more so when you’re either A.) mad, or B.) in Jersey. The way you sleep on your right side at night and curl up in the fetal position. How you laugh. What words you stutter—“rural,” “tinted windows,” and “Hawaii.” A love of jewelry and cars. Luck at the racetrack and the blackjack table. Baby toes. Dry humor and an inquisitive mind.
There’s the things that are harder to explain: how you can always, always—road blocks, detours, maps lost, bad directions given—find your way home. Like a homing pigeon. I can always point you in the direction my home is. I can tell you how to get there from the east, west, north, south, and which way is bound to have bad pot holes in the road.
Home seeps into your veins. Both my parents are New Jersey transplants, but I’m a Vermont Girl through and through. My night vision is phenomenal from running through fields at night, holding a beer bottle in one hand, and the can of gasoline for the bonfire in the other, or holing up in a playground’s tunnel tube with a polar fleece blanket and bottle of vodka in the middle of winter with the Twinny. I’ve ridden in the bed of a drunken friend’s truck and gone muddin’ and field driving. I could drive a Gator or Kubota before I could handle a gold cart. I drive better on dirt roads than paved ones. I own a pair of Carhartt pants for the winter, and I slip into the Vermont vernacular of “hun’nin’” and “fer” and “yer” and drawling out long and flat vowels as easily as I picked up contra dancing and wearing plaid. (That was “hunting” and “for” and “your,” for those of you who don’t speak Backwoods.) I cleanly killed a 150 pound doe on the opening day of fall hunting season, even if it was with my car and not a rifle. One of my favorite prom memories was when they played Big & Rich’s “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy,” and the glittery and well-coiffed and be-tuxed dance floor turned into a massive hoe-down.
And I’ll admit, there’s something appealing to me in the date described when they sing, “‘I’m a Thoroughbred,’ that’s what she said in the back of my truck bed as I was getting’ buzzed on suds out on some back country road. We were flyin’ high, fine as wine, havin’ ourselves a big and rich time, and I was goin’ just about as far as she’d let me go. But her evaluation of my cowboy reputation had me beggin’ for salvation all night long, so I took her out giggin’ frogs, introduced her to my old bird dogs, sang her every Willie Nelson song I could think of, and we made love.” (I think I actually may have done something like this—one of my high school beaus knew to cut the engine of his Wrangler a hundred yards from the end of my driveway and coast to the mailbox, where I would meet him after sneaking out around midnight with a six-pack of Bud and the knowledge that my parents were fast asleep, thinking I was on the other side of the wall in bed.)
And then there’s the things you accumulate along the way: Your education, or what you so choose to take with you from it—to this day, I can relay physics theorems with you and the major players in the American Revolution and positively OWN a five paragraph paper complete with opening paragraph with thesis, three supporting paragraphs, and a conclusion paragraph that ties them all together in air-tight and faultless detail, but get me a calculator for simple math.
The people that helped shape you: teachers, friends, authority figures. Alli, my riding trainer, is my second (much younger, much more entertaining) mother, and the person other than my father who guys should really go out of their way to impress, pulling out all the stops—handshakes, “yes ma’am,” “no, ma’am,” “pleasure to meet you,” and all. If I bring a guy to the barn, that’s when they know I’m serious about them—not when I bring them home. My parents I can survive you meeting without much of a to-do, but meeting my horse and my trainer is like meeting my child and therapist.
Past relationships you bring with you—scars, lessons, and all. Every new guy I date has to deal with the damage and triumphs of previous boyfriends. After the Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend, I acquired the need to know, in brief terms, where, with whom and what guys were doing when not with me. (That’s what a cheater will do to you.) After Catholic Boy, virgins were nixed from the dating list. After the Douche, men who followed through were given priority. The Flaky Artist started the Tall Boy Obsession. Legs taught me what abandonment feels like. Jersey Blunt gave me a taste of what a real guy is supposed to do—call back, text you first occasionally, and like to include you in what they’re doing, even if it is helping him sell his wickedly good weed. And Perfect gave me that guy that every other boy in the future will despise: that ex that’s still around, on my phone and a few towns over, who did everything right; the Golden Boy; the one I still can’t say one bad thing about, even when pressed. I can give a shrug and a “He drove me crazy, but he put both toilet seat and cover down, what more do you need to convince you?”
I recently pulled my senior year book out again, feeling a little nostalgic at the end of another summer as I watch people getting ready to leave for their first year of college. I remember that newness, that feeling of “thank god; I’m finally outta here!” and the fears that came with it: Will I like my roommate? Will I make new friends? Will I be homesick? Will the classes are too hard? Will I get caught partying by the cops? Will the girls be cute? Will the guys be hot? Will all my stuff fit into my dorm room? Will I have to share a bathroom? Will my roommate sex-ile me? Will I be sex-iling my roommate? Will I get good grades? Will my professors like me? Will I like my professors? Will the food suck? How often will I get to visit home? Will my friends from home stay in touch? Will I like it there? Will I grow up?
I now look back on this, and I can give a firm “yes” to all of these things. And if at first it seems like “no,” give it another try.
In my senior bio, my future plans and quote were wise beyond my years. Somehow, my 18 year old self knew back then that College Carissa would need to open that page up, and see something other than the fact that it is never, EVER a good idea to include your current boyfriend or girlfriend in your bio—something I failed at, mentioning Catholic Boy and our romps in the Tech Room twice. Instead of focusing on this, I left myself two pieces of gold: “‘I’ve done the math enough to know the dangers of a second-guessing.’- Tool, and future plans: conquer the Amazon with a mongoose, and when that’s not exciting anymore, raise sheep in Ireland with a gorgeous farmer. (Or go to college, be happy, and love one man, or many.)”
It was telling already, even then. Along with the picture of me accosting a life-size Beef-eater bedecked teddy bear with a leg and am arm over it like it was a giant, furry stripper pole in London that accompanied it as my senior portrait.
I’ve always enjoyed a bit of shock value. That remains the same.
XOXO
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
For Finding and Keeping
How To Be A Stellar Girlfriend, Or, Ways To Make It Virtually Impossible For Him To Leave You Without His Buddies Killing Him And Jumping To Line Up For You:
#1: It starts simple—the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach. If you can, cook for him. Or if baking’s more your thing, bake yummy things that will make the entire house or apartment smell edible. Even if you think you’re a horrible cook, just seeing you doing something in a kitchen hits a man in some primal part of his brain. Baking brownies from a box is remarkably simple and hard to screw up—try it sometime when he’s around. Or, invite him over for a dinner. I have a fail-proof recipe for seared steak and parmesan oven fries that very well could inspire fights, marriage proposals, or un-ending relationships. (Though you may say, “then why are you still single, smarty-pants?” Well, I haven’t gotten the chance to cook it for any of my men, yet, although a friend’s boyfriend DID have some of the oven fries and declared that if he weren’t an already taken man he would ask me to be his girlfriend. And that was just the fries! Imagine what a good steak could to do a red-blooded man!)
#2: Sneak their favorite treats into their car, gym bag, locker, refrigerator, office, apartment; whatever. Whether it’s chocolate covered gummy bears, like one of my exes, or a six-pack of their beer of choice, a new set of tongs for the grill, a pack of the condoms he likes, or the newest issue of Maxim or the movie he’s been waiting to come out on DVD, when he finds it, he’ll instantly think of you and how considerate you are.
#3: Treat them out to dinner, a drink, or a movie, like they would normally take you out. It’s a cute way to reverse roles and seem like you’re saying, “See? I’m with him. I’m proud of him.” They’re so used to being expected to pay for the women’s way , or at least attempt to offer if you normally go Dutch, that he’ll feel like he has a girl who’s really happy to be with him, and not with his checkbook.
#4: Ok, so, this one is a bit cliché, but so true. Give them head while they watch their favorite movie at home. The only thing that could possibly make “The Departed” more is if his dick is getting sucked or whacked off while the mobsters onscreen are getting whacked, too—just in a different, more Italian, Cosa Nostra way.
#5: Go buy something new from Victoria’s Secret or your favorite local lingerie shop that they’ve never seen you in before so you can spice up a night with the newness of it. Bonus points if it’s something you don’t normally wear, like garters and a garter belt, a corset, or a teddy. It will give him a new sort of thrill to see you in something new to both of you. Plus, hey, you both get to christen a new item of clothing. Ahhh, memories.
#6: If you live farther apart, make sure you split drive-time to visit each other equally. Gas is expensive, and plus, no one wants to feel like the host all the time. Swapping who drives each visit shows that you’re willing to put in your share of time, mileage, and gas to make this thing you two have going work—that you will physically drive to see him.
#7: Bone up a little bit on his favorite sport. Wikipedia is a good place to start for quick information. Really, if during a game you can tell the difference between a three-point shot and a free-throw attempt and what it’s worth, he’ll appreciate your effort and enthusiasm. Also, it might behoove you to know what the real definition of a “tight end” is.
#8: If he’s going to be spending nights at your place and needing someplace to wash up in the morning, get a couple extra toiletries to make him feel more at home. Get some manly soap so he doesn’t have to use your girly shower gel and then go into work, or worse, use nothing at all because he doesn’t want to smell like magnolias and jasmine. Buy a spare toothbrush in case he forgets his; believe me, this is a godsend to you, too. Make sure there’s an extra-big towel in a gender-neutral color that he can use—blues, greens, browns, and reds are good. No man wants to have to use your pink, you-sized towel, because let’s face it, you won’t be able to stop yourself from laughing when you see it wrapped around his waist like a dishtowel from the kitchen.
#9: Respect the “guy time.” Like you need your time with the girls without him so you can tell them all about your life with him, he needs time with his boys without you so he can either tell him about life with you, or actually not have to talk about you for once because you’re not there. If you do want to be included in the guy-time, ask him if he wants to invite the guys over to your place for a movie-night or casual Friday night. Offer to cook or provide the snacks as an incentive. Once they’re there, don’t monopolize conversation or try to distract them for the real reason they’re there: the movie, the beer, and your boyfriend. Let them do their thing. Watching the dynamics can be interesting and educational because you get to see your guy in his natural habitat—with other guys.
#10: If it’s not a big deal, and you can realize this, don’t tell him and try to make it his big deal, too. I see so many girls who make drama because they can’t help it and then drag their guys into it, which then drives him nuts, which then she can’t understand why he’s freaking out at her, too. Really—if you can work it out for yourself, lady, you do it. If you can’t handle it, then go to your girl friends. Only if you can’t help yourself, or can’t turn to your friends or mother for advice or an ear to rant to, then you go to your man. Half of the crap, yes, crap that is going on in your life or your friends’ lives he doesn’t want to hear about. The other half he’ll be more open to hearing and helping you with if you don’t burden him with made-up drama. A hiring, firing, pregnancy, win, loss, or piece of insightful personal information is worth sharing. A chipped nail, missed or lately-responded to text, misplaced ATM card, bicker at work, or jerk that cut you off while driving home isn’t worth the raised-voice, flapping hands spill-fest. Don’t be the “fulla drama mama.” Yes, there are some exceptions to every rule, but for the most part, dudes dig cool chicks, and that goes for laid-back personality. To your friends, roommates, and parents you can be a mess—to the guy you’re seeing, relaxed is a better mood to go for.
If you have any other tried-and-true tips, tricks, or hints, please, write in and leave a comment! I’d love to get a long, interactive, and informative list going that can be referred back to in times of confusion or need. Really, I need your help here, reader. You must have at least one fail-proof trick, you captivating creature. And guys, you’re not exempt. Let us know if something we “swear by” is complete bullshit, or if there’s something that would send you over the moon if your girlfriend or the girl you were dating did for you.
As Magnets Don’t, Opposites Attract Me:
Couples are a touchy subject for me, if you haven’t figured out by now. Just about the only couples I can stand are either ones I know, and not even then in some cases. I try to spend as much time in couple-free zones as possible. (Emily and Travis may be that exception, but they also have figured out the perfect blend of cute couple-dom while still retaining separate and non-overly touchy-feeliness around other people.) However, I can tell you what couples I do like. Couples who are complete opposites, because it always makes me wonder what brought them together. Couples who are mismatched in height. Couples who do decidedly un-coupley things, like skeet shooting or kayaking. Couples who just stay in and don’t feel the need to inflict their couple-ness on other un-coupled people. Couples I am a part of. (Ha. Ha. Of course.)
I’ve learned a few things from the couples I find cute. I’m a notoriously hard-to-peg person when it comes to having a “type” or categorizing what I like in a man—really. Let me take you on a written slide-show. First, there was the Inappropriately Aged Boyfriend—24 (I was 16, hence the moniker), red-headed, beardy, five-eight, with no real defined hobbies or interests other than ultimate frisbee, cooking, and working on expanding his beer-gut and bedding younger women. Then there was Catholic Boy, a grade below me in high school—dark, tan, soccer-boy fit, five-six, ten pounds heavier than I was, and into art, country music, and obeying his Mommy and priest. Then there was the Douche, half a year older—a short, stocky, and swarthy Italian with a Beatles haircut, who played the guitar, loved classic rock and partying, and never followed through with anything he said. The Flaky Artist was tall—six foot and one inch—had just shaved his head and looked like a lanky neo-Nazi and twenty days younger than me. He was into drawing, alternative music, cuddling, and videogames. Then Legs, a graduating senior in college when I was a freshmen—five-ten, 185 pounds of stocky soccer-body and those infamously toned legs, big blue eyes, pouty Cupid lips, receding hairline, baggy-casual clothing, hip-hop music, photography and a snowboarding and World of Warcraft addict. (You wouldn’t have ever known it looking at him.) Jersey Blunt was older than me while a year in college behind due to a probation stint, six-four with black hair and bright blue eyes, thick and expressive eyebrows, a nose with character and a mouth that matched it with what came out of it, and lanky while still managing to be broad in the shoulders and muscular; a button-upped dealer with a gangsta lean. He owned Timberlands, but he also owned a really nice pair of khaki Dockers which he ironed out. He loved his “mugobs” or “gobbies”—what we would call “sunglasses” and owned pairs made by such insignificant people as Dolce and Gabbana, as well as a watch by someone called “Movado”. And then, Mr. Perfect. Six-three, six months younger and two years behind me in the college adventure time-frame, 204 pounds of broad and thick muscle, floppy brown hair, clean-cut Vermont farm-boy attire like the classic broken-in jeans and waffle-thermal longsleeves in colors like muted lake blue, bright hazel eyes that always seemed to laugh, cheekbones that could cut glass, eyelashes a girl would kill for, a strong, straight, “perfect” nose, and a smile that could stop crime. Yeah. Obviously, this guy did, and still does nothing for me. Yeah, right. Hubba hubba.
There are some similarities. I’ve dated more men with brown or hazel eyes than blue, and I don’t really like blonde men—I prefer brunettes, usually with longer-ish hair; you know the cut: it comes down over their ears, the back of their neck, and their forehead resulting in a need for them to flick or toss it out of their eyes when they go too long between cuts, which is often. But I love it. I seem to be partial to Italians or darker-complexioned men, or men who at least tan well in sunlight. I also much prefer tall men, and they have to weigh more than me. I like muscles, quite a bit—after The Inappropriately Aged Boyfriend, I decided that was one thing I could be shallow about. I tend to be attracted to men whose physiques do the classic “V” of broad shoulders and slimmer middles and hips, although Perfect was a “perfect” rectangle, and I loved the sense of broadness and solidness he had. However, I seem to attract blue-eyed men with criminal records of average height and pot-smoking habits. Hmmm. Other than that though, personality seems to be what really draws me in. None of my past relationships really share looks or personality in common, so it seems to be a certain je-ne-sais-quoi about a guy that pulls me in.
So what does this have to do with me and couples? Well, dating all these diverse guys has made me realize the things I find adorable in couples. One—I love height-mismatched couples, especially if the guy is really tall and masculine and broad and the girl is really small and cute. Being with tall guys always made me feel more tiny and feminine than I do normally, and I have a “big personality”, so this is usually hard to accomplish. Most of the time, until I need to reach a shelf, I think I am about five foot and ten inches. When Jersey Blunt could tuck me under his chin up against his chest, or the Flaky Artist would draw me up next to his body and tuck me into him under and arm and rest his head on top of mine where I cuddled in his nook on the couch or Perfect could lift me up and move me around , or carry me piggy-packed for over half-an-hour, I finally got to feel like the petite girl I really am. This directly correlates to my behavior—you can visibly watch me become softer, sweeter, more girlish and less dominant. I bat my eyelashes more. My voice raises an octave, and my mannerisms become more delicate. When I see couples like this—him clearly masculine, her clearly feminine—it reinforces this idea, which I love to see; two people, so comfortable in their roles and with each other that he gets to feel like The Man and she gets to be quiet and lovable and light and airy. Call me traditional, but I can’t help it—when I see these couples on the street, I always think one thing: Love.
I also like couples who are complete physical opposites in their features: he’s dark and she’s light, or vice-versa. If he has really heavy features and black hair and dark eyes, and she’s refined-looking and pale and has wispy and almost silver hair, I think of things like the evil prince and the peasant girl who melts his heart from my childhood story books. (I’m a sucker for storylines, especially in couples.) Or if she’s all sultry and mocha, and he’s icy and cold, it makes me wonder how their opposites attracted. (Again, with the storylines.) The couples that look alike, like they’ve been together so long they’ve started to become one another; they don’t interest me so much. It’s the ones that look so striking together that get me thinking, wondering, and liking.
Where The Wild Things Are:
Every week, an alternative newspaper called “Seven Days” hosts an iSpy section along with the personals. Like a little kid with Christmas presents, I know which one I want to open up to first, but I do love the delicious sense of putting off desire, so instead, I pretend-casually flip through the first section, read all the pertinent area news, open up the second section (getting warmer now,) and read through all the club listing, checking out who’s coming into town. I then read the personals, just for fun, and to play “Guess That Person” because it is, after all, a small town, and finally! On the next fold, the iSpys.
An “iSpy” is basically an ad someone takes out with a description, time, and place that they met someone they want to reconnect with or meet. Or, it can be a shout-out to a friend, a thank-you to a dear lover, or a general note to a group of people or establishment. To me, the iSpys are the ultimate Valentine. Though not especially a fan of Valentine’s Day myself, as I have always, always, always been single and generally tried to avoid the masses of happy and money-spending couples, there is something so fantastic, so novel about a witty and clever blurb in an old-fashioned, black-and-white newspaper whose ink rubs off onto your hands as you turn the wide pages.
I desperately want to be Spied. Every time I go about town, I dress in something distinctive to mark me out from all the other short, small blondes across Burlington with blue eyes. Every week is like a new birthday or Christmas—my heart speeds up and as I get closer to that page, I always think, “Maybe this will be it.” Who would Spy me? That’s half the fun. What would it say? Would it be smart, or would it be totally corny? (I guess this boils down to “what sort of total stranger would I attract?”) How would I respond? Would I respond, or would I take it as the most flattering thing of my life, move on, and never read the iSpys again, mission complete?
I don’t think so. As this hasn’t happened yet, I instead read the iSpys to see what sort of people DO get Spied in my place, or what particular towns are particularly Spy-heavy. Montpelier, actually, attracts a lot of Spying. There’s one blonde, 30-something worker at the Meadow Mart with a great smile who was getting consistently Spied in a bunch of consecutive issues this past Spring. Sometime when I’m in town next, I’m going to stop by and try to find her and see what all the fuss was about.
And an Honorable Men-tion:
A special thank-you tonight to Will, who still gives me the best relationship advice a straight guy can give his female friend, not sparing the gory details of the inner-workings of the young male mind, always sticking up for the manliness and spirit of the guy I’m trying to force into submission to make me see it from his point of view, and for saying the hard things even when he knows I may not want to hear it though it’s the truth—all of this even after the completely unfounded rumors going around campus that we were hooking up. Now that’s friendship. (Also, if anyone knows where/how those rumors started, feel free to fill us in, because we’re clueless. Though I’m sure anyone overhearing us in the cafeteria as I ask him something like, “Hey, what do guys think about when they’re watching porn?” or say something like “I had the most amazing orgasm last night,” would think they knew what’s going on. But honestly—that’s how I talk to all my friends. Aren’t they the lucky bunch?)
Goodnight!
XOXO
#1: It starts simple—the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach. If you can, cook for him. Or if baking’s more your thing, bake yummy things that will make the entire house or apartment smell edible. Even if you think you’re a horrible cook, just seeing you doing something in a kitchen hits a man in some primal part of his brain. Baking brownies from a box is remarkably simple and hard to screw up—try it sometime when he’s around. Or, invite him over for a dinner. I have a fail-proof recipe for seared steak and parmesan oven fries that very well could inspire fights, marriage proposals, or un-ending relationships. (Though you may say, “then why are you still single, smarty-pants?” Well, I haven’t gotten the chance to cook it for any of my men, yet, although a friend’s boyfriend DID have some of the oven fries and declared that if he weren’t an already taken man he would ask me to be his girlfriend. And that was just the fries! Imagine what a good steak could to do a red-blooded man!)
#2: Sneak their favorite treats into their car, gym bag, locker, refrigerator, office, apartment; whatever. Whether it’s chocolate covered gummy bears, like one of my exes, or a six-pack of their beer of choice, a new set of tongs for the grill, a pack of the condoms he likes, or the newest issue of Maxim or the movie he’s been waiting to come out on DVD, when he finds it, he’ll instantly think of you and how considerate you are.
#3: Treat them out to dinner, a drink, or a movie, like they would normally take you out. It’s a cute way to reverse roles and seem like you’re saying, “See? I’m with him. I’m proud of him.” They’re so used to being expected to pay for the women’s way , or at least attempt to offer if you normally go Dutch, that he’ll feel like he has a girl who’s really happy to be with him, and not with his checkbook.
#4: Ok, so, this one is a bit cliché, but so true. Give them head while they watch their favorite movie at home. The only thing that could possibly make “The Departed” more is if his dick is getting sucked or whacked off while the mobsters onscreen are getting whacked, too—just in a different, more Italian, Cosa Nostra way.
#5: Go buy something new from Victoria’s Secret or your favorite local lingerie shop that they’ve never seen you in before so you can spice up a night with the newness of it. Bonus points if it’s something you don’t normally wear, like garters and a garter belt, a corset, or a teddy. It will give him a new sort of thrill to see you in something new to both of you. Plus, hey, you both get to christen a new item of clothing. Ahhh, memories.
#6: If you live farther apart, make sure you split drive-time to visit each other equally. Gas is expensive, and plus, no one wants to feel like the host all the time. Swapping who drives each visit shows that you’re willing to put in your share of time, mileage, and gas to make this thing you two have going work—that you will physically drive to see him.
#7: Bone up a little bit on his favorite sport. Wikipedia is a good place to start for quick information. Really, if during a game you can tell the difference between a three-point shot and a free-throw attempt and what it’s worth, he’ll appreciate your effort and enthusiasm. Also, it might behoove you to know what the real definition of a “tight end” is.
#8: If he’s going to be spending nights at your place and needing someplace to wash up in the morning, get a couple extra toiletries to make him feel more at home. Get some manly soap so he doesn’t have to use your girly shower gel and then go into work, or worse, use nothing at all because he doesn’t want to smell like magnolias and jasmine. Buy a spare toothbrush in case he forgets his; believe me, this is a godsend to you, too. Make sure there’s an extra-big towel in a gender-neutral color that he can use—blues, greens, browns, and reds are good. No man wants to have to use your pink, you-sized towel, because let’s face it, you won’t be able to stop yourself from laughing when you see it wrapped around his waist like a dishtowel from the kitchen.
#9: Respect the “guy time.” Like you need your time with the girls without him so you can tell them all about your life with him, he needs time with his boys without you so he can either tell him about life with you, or actually not have to talk about you for once because you’re not there. If you do want to be included in the guy-time, ask him if he wants to invite the guys over to your place for a movie-night or casual Friday night. Offer to cook or provide the snacks as an incentive. Once they’re there, don’t monopolize conversation or try to distract them for the real reason they’re there: the movie, the beer, and your boyfriend. Let them do their thing. Watching the dynamics can be interesting and educational because you get to see your guy in his natural habitat—with other guys.
#10: If it’s not a big deal, and you can realize this, don’t tell him and try to make it his big deal, too. I see so many girls who make drama because they can’t help it and then drag their guys into it, which then drives him nuts, which then she can’t understand why he’s freaking out at her, too. Really—if you can work it out for yourself, lady, you do it. If you can’t handle it, then go to your girl friends. Only if you can’t help yourself, or can’t turn to your friends or mother for advice or an ear to rant to, then you go to your man. Half of the crap, yes, crap that is going on in your life or your friends’ lives he doesn’t want to hear about. The other half he’ll be more open to hearing and helping you with if you don’t burden him with made-up drama. A hiring, firing, pregnancy, win, loss, or piece of insightful personal information is worth sharing. A chipped nail, missed or lately-responded to text, misplaced ATM card, bicker at work, or jerk that cut you off while driving home isn’t worth the raised-voice, flapping hands spill-fest. Don’t be the “fulla drama mama.” Yes, there are some exceptions to every rule, but for the most part, dudes dig cool chicks, and that goes for laid-back personality. To your friends, roommates, and parents you can be a mess—to the guy you’re seeing, relaxed is a better mood to go for.
If you have any other tried-and-true tips, tricks, or hints, please, write in and leave a comment! I’d love to get a long, interactive, and informative list going that can be referred back to in times of confusion or need. Really, I need your help here, reader. You must have at least one fail-proof trick, you captivating creature. And guys, you’re not exempt. Let us know if something we “swear by” is complete bullshit, or if there’s something that would send you over the moon if your girlfriend or the girl you were dating did for you.
As Magnets Don’t, Opposites Attract Me:
Couples are a touchy subject for me, if you haven’t figured out by now. Just about the only couples I can stand are either ones I know, and not even then in some cases. I try to spend as much time in couple-free zones as possible. (Emily and Travis may be that exception, but they also have figured out the perfect blend of cute couple-dom while still retaining separate and non-overly touchy-feeliness around other people.) However, I can tell you what couples I do like. Couples who are complete opposites, because it always makes me wonder what brought them together. Couples who are mismatched in height. Couples who do decidedly un-coupley things, like skeet shooting or kayaking. Couples who just stay in and don’t feel the need to inflict their couple-ness on other un-coupled people. Couples I am a part of. (Ha. Ha. Of course.)
I’ve learned a few things from the couples I find cute. I’m a notoriously hard-to-peg person when it comes to having a “type” or categorizing what I like in a man—really. Let me take you on a written slide-show. First, there was the Inappropriately Aged Boyfriend—24 (I was 16, hence the moniker), red-headed, beardy, five-eight, with no real defined hobbies or interests other than ultimate frisbee, cooking, and working on expanding his beer-gut and bedding younger women. Then there was Catholic Boy, a grade below me in high school—dark, tan, soccer-boy fit, five-six, ten pounds heavier than I was, and into art, country music, and obeying his Mommy and priest. Then there was the Douche, half a year older—a short, stocky, and swarthy Italian with a Beatles haircut, who played the guitar, loved classic rock and partying, and never followed through with anything he said. The Flaky Artist was tall—six foot and one inch—had just shaved his head and looked like a lanky neo-Nazi and twenty days younger than me. He was into drawing, alternative music, cuddling, and videogames. Then Legs, a graduating senior in college when I was a freshmen—five-ten, 185 pounds of stocky soccer-body and those infamously toned legs, big blue eyes, pouty Cupid lips, receding hairline, baggy-casual clothing, hip-hop music, photography and a snowboarding and World of Warcraft addict. (You wouldn’t have ever known it looking at him.) Jersey Blunt was older than me while a year in college behind due to a probation stint, six-four with black hair and bright blue eyes, thick and expressive eyebrows, a nose with character and a mouth that matched it with what came out of it, and lanky while still managing to be broad in the shoulders and muscular; a button-upped dealer with a gangsta lean. He owned Timberlands, but he also owned a really nice pair of khaki Dockers which he ironed out. He loved his “mugobs” or “gobbies”—what we would call “sunglasses” and owned pairs made by such insignificant people as Dolce and Gabbana, as well as a watch by someone called “Movado”. And then, Mr. Perfect. Six-three, six months younger and two years behind me in the college adventure time-frame, 204 pounds of broad and thick muscle, floppy brown hair, clean-cut Vermont farm-boy attire like the classic broken-in jeans and waffle-thermal longsleeves in colors like muted lake blue, bright hazel eyes that always seemed to laugh, cheekbones that could cut glass, eyelashes a girl would kill for, a strong, straight, “perfect” nose, and a smile that could stop crime. Yeah. Obviously, this guy did, and still does nothing for me. Yeah, right. Hubba hubba.
There are some similarities. I’ve dated more men with brown or hazel eyes than blue, and I don’t really like blonde men—I prefer brunettes, usually with longer-ish hair; you know the cut: it comes down over their ears, the back of their neck, and their forehead resulting in a need for them to flick or toss it out of their eyes when they go too long between cuts, which is often. But I love it. I seem to be partial to Italians or darker-complexioned men, or men who at least tan well in sunlight. I also much prefer tall men, and they have to weigh more than me. I like muscles, quite a bit—after The Inappropriately Aged Boyfriend, I decided that was one thing I could be shallow about. I tend to be attracted to men whose physiques do the classic “V” of broad shoulders and slimmer middles and hips, although Perfect was a “perfect” rectangle, and I loved the sense of broadness and solidness he had. However, I seem to attract blue-eyed men with criminal records of average height and pot-smoking habits. Hmmm. Other than that though, personality seems to be what really draws me in. None of my past relationships really share looks or personality in common, so it seems to be a certain je-ne-sais-quoi about a guy that pulls me in.
So what does this have to do with me and couples? Well, dating all these diverse guys has made me realize the things I find adorable in couples. One—I love height-mismatched couples, especially if the guy is really tall and masculine and broad and the girl is really small and cute. Being with tall guys always made me feel more tiny and feminine than I do normally, and I have a “big personality”, so this is usually hard to accomplish. Most of the time, until I need to reach a shelf, I think I am about five foot and ten inches. When Jersey Blunt could tuck me under his chin up against his chest, or the Flaky Artist would draw me up next to his body and tuck me into him under and arm and rest his head on top of mine where I cuddled in his nook on the couch or Perfect could lift me up and move me around , or carry me piggy-packed for over half-an-hour, I finally got to feel like the petite girl I really am. This directly correlates to my behavior—you can visibly watch me become softer, sweeter, more girlish and less dominant. I bat my eyelashes more. My voice raises an octave, and my mannerisms become more delicate. When I see couples like this—him clearly masculine, her clearly feminine—it reinforces this idea, which I love to see; two people, so comfortable in their roles and with each other that he gets to feel like The Man and she gets to be quiet and lovable and light and airy. Call me traditional, but I can’t help it—when I see these couples on the street, I always think one thing: Love.
I also like couples who are complete physical opposites in their features: he’s dark and she’s light, or vice-versa. If he has really heavy features and black hair and dark eyes, and she’s refined-looking and pale and has wispy and almost silver hair, I think of things like the evil prince and the peasant girl who melts his heart from my childhood story books. (I’m a sucker for storylines, especially in couples.) Or if she’s all sultry and mocha, and he’s icy and cold, it makes me wonder how their opposites attracted. (Again, with the storylines.) The couples that look alike, like they’ve been together so long they’ve started to become one another; they don’t interest me so much. It’s the ones that look so striking together that get me thinking, wondering, and liking.
Where The Wild Things Are:
Every week, an alternative newspaper called “Seven Days” hosts an iSpy section along with the personals. Like a little kid with Christmas presents, I know which one I want to open up to first, but I do love the delicious sense of putting off desire, so instead, I pretend-casually flip through the first section, read all the pertinent area news, open up the second section (getting warmer now,) and read through all the club listing, checking out who’s coming into town. I then read the personals, just for fun, and to play “Guess That Person” because it is, after all, a small town, and finally! On the next fold, the iSpys.
An “iSpy” is basically an ad someone takes out with a description, time, and place that they met someone they want to reconnect with or meet. Or, it can be a shout-out to a friend, a thank-you to a dear lover, or a general note to a group of people or establishment. To me, the iSpys are the ultimate Valentine. Though not especially a fan of Valentine’s Day myself, as I have always, always, always been single and generally tried to avoid the masses of happy and money-spending couples, there is something so fantastic, so novel about a witty and clever blurb in an old-fashioned, black-and-white newspaper whose ink rubs off onto your hands as you turn the wide pages.
I desperately want to be Spied. Every time I go about town, I dress in something distinctive to mark me out from all the other short, small blondes across Burlington with blue eyes. Every week is like a new birthday or Christmas—my heart speeds up and as I get closer to that page, I always think, “Maybe this will be it.” Who would Spy me? That’s half the fun. What would it say? Would it be smart, or would it be totally corny? (I guess this boils down to “what sort of total stranger would I attract?”) How would I respond? Would I respond, or would I take it as the most flattering thing of my life, move on, and never read the iSpys again, mission complete?
I don’t think so. As this hasn’t happened yet, I instead read the iSpys to see what sort of people DO get Spied in my place, or what particular towns are particularly Spy-heavy. Montpelier, actually, attracts a lot of Spying. There’s one blonde, 30-something worker at the Meadow Mart with a great smile who was getting consistently Spied in a bunch of consecutive issues this past Spring. Sometime when I’m in town next, I’m going to stop by and try to find her and see what all the fuss was about.
And an Honorable Men-tion:
A special thank-you tonight to Will, who still gives me the best relationship advice a straight guy can give his female friend, not sparing the gory details of the inner-workings of the young male mind, always sticking up for the manliness and spirit of the guy I’m trying to force into submission to make me see it from his point of view, and for saying the hard things even when he knows I may not want to hear it though it’s the truth—all of this even after the completely unfounded rumors going around campus that we were hooking up. Now that’s friendship. (Also, if anyone knows where/how those rumors started, feel free to fill us in, because we’re clueless. Though I’m sure anyone overhearing us in the cafeteria as I ask him something like, “Hey, what do guys think about when they’re watching porn?” or say something like “I had the most amazing orgasm last night,” would think they knew what’s going on. But honestly—that’s how I talk to all my friends. Aren’t they the lucky bunch?)
Goodnight!
XOXO
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