Facebook = Death

Guess what happens when you're a stupid idiot and spend way too much time cruising Facebook? You come across pictures you'd rather not see. Like this one:


Look closely....yep, that's a baby in a woman's lap. Beautifully photographed, might I add. And that can only mean one thing: I'm looking at Raf and Ingrid's first child without even realizing it. When my retinas finally get through to my neurons I get a little fuckratulations inside. A new pseudonym is born: The Kid (borrowed from ExMi). So there you have it. Today in a photograph. I thought I'd share my little emotional storm for your benefit.

New Year's Resolution #5 - FAIL

But hey....at least I'm in Europe. As lucky circumstance would have it, so are Lex, Marco, Cian, and Hayden. However, only Lex, Marco, and Hayden are in the same country as I am. (Cian is in Ireland, naturally.) Marco is at work. Lex is interviewing for a job all day. So today's million Euro question is: Do I call Hayden for some self-centered ego-stroking or don't I?

Revenge is Sweet?

This past semester of grad school has been rough for many reasons, not the least of which was my being part of a highly dysfunctional team with an unhinged leader. Those of you who have been following my Twitter updates (Alice - my most devoted friend - what would I do without you?), you've been aware of the headaches this woman has caused me as they occurred in real time. I won't get into the nitty gritty of this unbalanced lunatic's psychosis, but let me just say that if an entrepreneur ever asks you to write a business plan as part of a team that also includes her boyfriend (a spineless, if attractive, minion who also happens to have confessed his love for you), DO NOT say yes like I did. *Mental headslap*

Sifting through the debris of her abusive wake, I felt an all-too familiar sensation tickle my ego: the desire for vengeance. This was a woman who had publicly humiliated me, tried to have me removed from the team and thus fail the class, called the quality of my work into question, and started an administrative war over a school project. For most of the semester, Lex successfully convinced me that being flexible would be an excellent exercise in management which would prepare me well for the wolverine world of strategy consulting (my chosen career). 9 years as a ballerina and 2 as a gymnast were not enough to prepare me for the back-breaking exercise required to accommodate this woman's volatility and irrationality, but the fear of retribution kept me from pitching my case of unprofessionalism to the administration.

About two weeks ago, my team finally completed this hellish project and pitched our business plan to a panel of 14 judges, 13 of which agreed to fund our venture. This, of course, was a great success, but not one which Psycho Bitch was prepared to attribute in any fashion to the mountain of hard work and 15 hour days I had put into the project. Le sigh.

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I have a nasty talent for inflicting verbal and mental pain on people. This is something with which I tended to lash out when I was younger but have since learned to keep in check in an effort to be a kinder, more compassionate person. Most of the time that strategy works, but ooooooohhhh this woman got under my skin and was flirting with my bad girl ways. Vengeance was knocking and my ego had to be straightjacketed so as not to answer in kind.

There were several options, of course: academic destruction, professional destruction, or personal destruction. All three had their potential benefits. Academic destruction was the trickiest because it required the most proof of wrongdoing, whereas professional and personal destruction could largely be based on rumors and circumstantial evidence. Most people in the program had a long-standing distaste for Psycho Bitch based on their own interactions with her, so Doors 1-3 all had the potential for large scale damage.

As I contemplated these evil thoughts brought on by the impatience and childish pride of a former self, my father called. In despair I confessed my struggle and asked him for advice. He laughed at the recognition of our shared personality traits and relied on one of my mother's adages for advice: "You can always tell someone to go to hell tomorrow". "But I don't want to tell her off" I exclaimed, "I want to hurt her. I want her to see you can't fuck with me without there being consequences!!!" My father sighed and said: "San, when you were just 17 years old you taught me a valuable lesson in life." I nodded. I knew the story well...

My freshman year in college I had failed one of my work-intensive classes because my mother had cancer. When I asked my academic adviser for help, he had recommended I drop out of school, noting that the "Ivy League required something more than such excuses to make the cut." I was stunned. When my father suggested that year that I take up my F in Calculus with the Academic Review Board, I told him that a student trying to battle against an entire institution would be a waste of time. Instead, I said, I wanted to focus on how I could move forward and still accomplish my goal of graduating with a respectable GPA and getting into grad school. He disagreed with my decision but let me have the last word in my own academic career. I ended up graduating Magna Cum Laude and got into grad school with a scholarship. He would tell me later that that was one of the most important lessons I'd ever taught him: know when to cut your losses and move forward without looking back.

I sighed again. I knew what his next sentence would be: "Cut your losses. Move on." I thanked him for his advice, chatted for a bit longer and then hung up with a guilty conscience. Why was I being so petty? There were so many bigger issues in my life (some of them reasons for this blog, par example) - why was I worried about some no-name, 30-something bully with a chip on her shoulder, an infernal temper, and an inferiority complex? Her existence in my life as of the end of this project was terminated. She had no impact on my job prospects, my relationship, my family life, or my future in general. There was no reason to give her even one more nanosecond of my attention, even if it was in plotting her demise.

Later that day I got to thinking: giving up my pipe dream of pride-inspired revenge had proved relatively easy when pushed by sound logic. But what about the desire for vindication I feel on a regular basis when I think about Raf? He, too, had removed himself from my life and expressed the desire to stay out of it completely. For all intents and purposes he was the same as Psycho Bitch - irrelevant to my future. Then it dawned on me: the key was in the past. Raf is essential to the person I've become, and no matter how hard I try to purge his influence on me, I am - as of yet - unable to. How can I feel compassion for someone who has none in return? It continues to baffle me every time I write about, think about, feel, remember, mourn, blame, dream about, try to forgive, or - worst of all - pretend to hate him.

As I'm writing this post, my phone buzzes. Although I haven't yet forgiven my Blackberry for its surprise assault on my emotions a few weeks ago and thus still cringe at every notification sound it makes, I walk over to my dresser and pick it up. It's a text message from Lex: "Finally going to bed. Miss you and love you. You're a really great person. Don't forget."

With friends like that, the back burner seems like the right place for vindication....for tonight.

Merry Christmas Raf. I miss you.

Rehab

Today was a pinball kind of day. Rihanna just came out with a new song that puts me about 2 years behind schedule in terms of coping with the loss of Raf and has aptly titled it "Rehab." Every time I hear it, I feel my heart harden and my jaw clench. I wait for the emotional blow to hit me about 3/4 of the way through the song and let out a sigh of epic proportions when it's over. Lex knows not to ask questions. YouTube won't let me embed the song, but you can check out the video here (ignore the ludicrous video.) The last couple of seconds (4:32+) aptly capture the expression I most often use when I feel Raf's memory surround me.

Why does grief come over us in waves? Is it the result of the brain's compartmentalization, or is it a sign of unprocessed emotions? Am I putting myself through unnecessary guilt when I let my mind drift over the well-known landscape of regret and nostalgia, or am I experiencing mental indigestion because I'm incapable of correctly processing pain? I wonder what Jake's wife would have to say about this.

Speaking of Jake, I got an email from him a couple of days ago in reference to the Master Plan I recently wrote about:

Hi San,

Since reading your latest blog post, I feel like a klutz. The letter I've been writing is to you, not Raf. In your last post you said I was writing him the epic, but what I will say to Raf will be pretty short. In an ideal world he'll be inspired to say something like the email you inspired me to write to Maria* - and I meant what I wrote her - which was a short explanation and has definitely made that relationship a big positive. I have you to thank for that. Ach...forgive me, I'm an idiot. The MP as you put it (which sounds manipulative) is in the works, but the letter's to you...

I am now up to date with your blog. Great writing, you could do well as a writer. I only realised once I got to November that the most recent posts are at the top...I started at the end of each month and read to the beginning.

Jake

Hmmm. I am most curious about this letter. He tends to be very insightful. It also got me thinking: what is going to say to Raf? Moreover, maybe it was time to start thinking about what exactly it is that I want from Raf in an ideal situation.

As I was contemplating these things, my phone buzzed. Blackberrys are amazing things, aren't they? They keep track of your email, your contacts, photos, music, and best of all: painful calendar reminders you'd rather forget. Thank you, Blackberry, for reminding me that December 2nd is Raf's anniversary. Thank you so very much. Perhaps you can also remind me that his child (which he neglected to tell me about) was born in September? Oh no wait, I'll remember that one on my own: it's about a week after my OWN birthday. Thank you, brain. You and Blackberry have been most excellent ninja memory assassins today. It's a good thing they haven't invented a Blackberry chip you can implant in your brain yet, because you can't throw a chip embedded in your cranium against the wall when your eyes well up with anger.

In other news, Hayden's father has put his gorgeous canal house on the market. I imagine this must be a pretty painful experience - downsizing because you're lonely even though that means leaving behind the last thing your wife did before she died: decorate and furnish that house. I was back in Europe for my second round (the one that got me the job) but didn't get in touch with him. When I got back to the States, I texted him saying: "Hey, I was in town but didn't have time to stop by. Next time, maybe. Hope you're well." No response, unsurprisingly.

That was in September. Flash forward a few months. Marco and I are about to start looking for apartments in January. Needless to say, irony felt it necessary to make sure all of the ones available and with decent parking are located exactly in the same neighborhood as Hayden's new place. Ah, yes. Well played, Lady Irony. Well played.

A question occurred to me recently while reading Raf's letters (yes, I ended up bringing them back with me from my parents' house. Bad girl, I know.)

Did he take advantage of me?

It's possible - the four-year age gap was significant when we met. But aside from our intense and prolonged bout of kissing during his visit there was no intimate physical contact to speak of, so that rules out motivation by sex. But what about emotional (ab)use?

I recently theorized that Raf took advantage of me emotionally at a time when I was vulnerable to losing my own emotional identity by being his crutch. This is based mostly on the blush of embarrassment I feel when reading our fervent correspondence from that time period, but I recall it as being nothing short of genuine on both our parts at the time of its unfolding. Certainly a teenage boy with nothing but sex on the brain would not take the trouble to cultivate an 8-year, emotionally intimate relationship with someone half a world away? There would be a virtual guarantee of no physical satisfaction, not to mention millions of other options in his home country.

As I do almost every week, I re-read Ingrid's angry email to me demanding my exit from Raf's existence, trying to glean some sort of truth in her venom. Even her hateful assessment of the situation certainly makes it seem like our bond was real.

The question Jake inspired remains: what do I want from Raf? An explanation? An apology? A friendship? The answer is so hard to pinpoint. Maybe there comes a time in grief where you're too far gone to want to go back. At what point do the wounds of bitterness and anger soften into the faint, throbbing pain of nostalgia? When have you buried and wept over enough pieces of your shattered heart to resent a perpetrator's effort to come back and help you dig them up? And if that desire goes away, why don't the emotional thorns?

Maybe that's the feeling of wisdom taking root in my soul...


*Explanation to follow at a later date (when I figure out what the hell he's referring to - my memory does not match my apparent wisdom. Oops!)

My First Time

Ahh...got you dirty bastards with my title, didn't I?

Sorry to disappoint. This is the first time I've been tagged in a Meme, so I will be completing mine today!

I was tagged by Alice over at Alice in Averageland. She just started a second blog about healthy eating and losing weight in addition to her awesome primary shenanigans. Go show the girl some love.

Alright, here goes:
Six Random Facts About Myself

1. Link to the person that tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Share six things/habits/quirks about yourself
4. Tag random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs

1. I fantasize all the time about being a guy

...and sometimes wonder if I'd be better at it than being a woman. Sure, my gender comes with perks (and boobs - very excellent), but I'm so horrible at forming friendships with women that I've basically given up on them and surrounded myself with male friends. My mother keeps telling me when they get married I'll have nobody, but I'm too intimidated by women and/or too worn out by the constant cattiness and inevitable guilt tripping that I'm just pathetically inept at even trying.

2. I'm afraid of the dark.

Not in a rational, "fear of the unknown" way, but in a "Lex must turn on every light in the apartment before I'll walk through the front door" kind of way. I always close my closets at night, I never leave my shower curtain drawn, and even when I'm sleeping next to Marco I lock the door. Guess I just don't like people sneaking up behind me.

3. My two biggest fears in life are:

- That my shower water will turn into hydrochloric acid while I'm standing under it. This comes from a Mickey Mouse comic that I read when I was nine where someone replaced Mickey's water with red paint, leading Minnie to believe he was covered in blood. I guess somewhere between that and reading about acid attacks aimed at "immodest" women in Pakistan, I got it in my head that this is a terrifying possibility.

- That my husband will murder me. This has to do with trust. I'm a very distrusting person and have had the rug pulled out from under me way too many times, so I always assume the same will happen in every relationship. Thus, my big fear is trusting someone implicitly, building and affirming that trust over 10 or so years, and then being murdered in my own bed by my husband.

4. I attract psychos, needy guys, or emotionally abusive guys.

I have never deviated from this pattern until I met Marco. Now I don't know what to do with myself. I've had to re-train my brain to convince myself that I deserve things like:
- A say in my sex life if I'm bored
- Flirting innocently
- Being proud of my accomplishments
- Making more money than my partner without wrecking my relationship
- Not giving up my close male friends
- Being who I am, weird quirks and wikipedia-esque brain and all
- Not cooking every night of the week or cleaning up after someone else

5. I do the New York Times Crossword religiously.

I am so competitive that I take pleasure in beating 12 year-old kids in the online game. Or 95 year-old Jewish grandmothers in Brooklyn. Whoever dares challenge me, really. This obsession means that I also read Rex Parker's NYT blog with a passion. I think I may have a crossword crush on him.

6. I have an unfortunate talent

...for getting under people's skin and finding the exact phrase or word that hurts them almost irreparably. I've used it once and then never again because I think it's a disgusting trait about myself, but somehow my brain stores information about people that I can use against them in the future. Most people have the feeling of not having been able to come up with the perfect comeback when being bullied - I always struggle not to spit out the perfect comeback. I've learned it's much better to de-escalate than to revel in Pyrrhic victories. Still, I often wonder if this skill makes me a bad person.


I'm going to tag:
Sparsely Kate
Cheap Thrills
So@24 (because he hates these)
Des
Lyla Lou (I know Alice already tagged you, but we miss you!!!)

Romantic or Creepy?

Lex says romantic.

I say creepy.

http://www.subwaycrush.com/

Discuss.


P.S. My blog idol, SO@24, left a comment on my blog today. I feel loved. (And slightly damp.)

And Then There Were Three

I received an email from Jake this week that said:

Yo San,

Haven't forgotten you...actually I'm thinking about writing a letter, which we all know will take me several months and almost be worth waiting for. Hope things are good and you haven't had too much snow!

Jake


That letter will almost certainly never be completed, but it's a nice thought. Unfortunately, Jake belongs to the variety of men who are terrible at correspondence, completing to-do lists, or....er...wait, maybe that's all men? Anyway, best not to get my hopes up.

My weekend out in California went well, except for the fact that Lex got himself mixed up in some freaky (and by the look on his face on the plane ride back, entirely regrettable) threesome in San Francisco while I was in Sacramento. Go figure. The man is a sexual deviant. I've promised to let him guest blog about it if there's enough demand.

By the way - HOLY SHIT HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SAN FRANCISCO? I feel a bit silly admitting that I had never been until this past weekend, but it was absolutely breathtaking. I can see why it makes lifers out of so many Americans.


As I've noted before, Jake's historical allure had worn off a bit since our phone call back in July. Where I had once felt a compelling urge to go seek him out in order to find some peace in my head, I now felt disappointment in knowing that even he looked at me askance when relaying my Raf story. Then again, I hadn't told him the whole deal. I hadn't told him about the kiss.


Flashback

The year 2000. I'm standing at the train station, tugging at my red, long-sleeved shirt. I shouldn't have worn it today - it always makes me sweat. I would have been late had my mom not finally put the kibosh on my agonizing between cornflower blue and bordeaux. "You're beautiful - stop with the micromanaging!" she had said. She was right. Still, I'm regretting my choice of outfit. Will he think I'm pretty? Thin enough? Perfect enough? Did I look like I was trying too hard, standing there in the cool autumn breeze in my long black peacoat, a scarf carelessly flung around my neck only because my mother had said "It's too cold to be wearing THAT!"?

Damn it. The train is late. I hated tardiness. It drove me crazy and went against all of my Type-A instincts. Didn't they know what today was? Didn't they understand that of all the trains in America, only this one would determine the rest of my emotional life? Raf is on that train.

Suddenly it's here - the thundering hoofbeat of a thousand mechanical horses. It hisses and squeals to a stop, passing me with a whoosh of diesel and metal sparks. I have to run to catch up to the last car. There are too many people - I can't see! What if he's not there? What if he decided he didn't want to come? What if.....

He's a hundred feet away. A hundred lousy feet. His eyes meet mine and he gives a half-wave. Suddenly I'm self conscious. How do I look? Should I walk over or stand on the platform waiting? Holy shit - a hundred feet. From an ocean to a hundred feet - is this even real? Seems like I've been waiting so long to see him that it can't be. All those letters he wrote me, and now... a hundred feet.

I start to walk toward him awkwardly. Stay cool. Stay cool. Stay....FUCK THIS! I start running, hair flying in the wind. He's running now, too, his giant backpack almost pulling him off-balance with every stride. We crash into each other, laughing, hug awkwardly, and don't let go. I can't believe he's here. A wave of relief comes over me as I pull away and look into his familiar face. Still the same. Comfortable. Warm. Right.

We pass our first day both like old friends and like new lovers: comfortable but weirdly shy around each other. As the sky goes dark we head to our respective rooms on the second floor of my parents' house. I dawdle around the hall, hoping to find a private moment to say goodnight, but soon I run out of excuses to still be awake (you can only brush your teeth so many times, after all.) I lie in bed, tossing and turning. I can't get my mind off Raf. I want to know what it was like, seeing me again. Is he happy to be here? Is it everything he imagined it would be?

Finally, I hop out of bed and creep into the hall. I have to be near him. When I get to his door, I pause. This is stupid. And childish. He's probably asleep. I sneak back across the hall - each floorboard squeaking too loudly for my self-conscious taste. As I turn the knob to shut my door I hear another squeak. It can't....no.....can it? My heart beating audibly now, I stand breathlessly in the darkness as I hear tentative footsteps draw closer.

The knob turns and it feels like an eternity. Raf hesitates before he pushes open the bedroom door. I'm frozen in the middle of my room. What do I do? He walks toward me, feeling his way in the moonless night. "I...I wanted to talk to you.....I......" I stammer. "I know. I don't know what to say...." he replies. I can hear him breathing now, smell his skin in the inky air. He stands millimeters away without touching me. "I....I've missed.....you...." I manage to say, now almost breathless with anticipation. His breath grazes my face. I shudder. "I...."

My sentence goes unsaid. His mouth touches mine and my thoughts go blank. It is perfect. It is how I imagined it would be. It is.....it just IS.

-------------------------

I'm lucky. When Jake picks me up from San Francisco, his wife is on a client call (she's a psychologist). Don't get me wrong - she's lovely - but it's a lot easier discussing this with him in private seeing as I barely know her. On the car ride to Sacramento I debate holding back parts of the story but eventually decide against it. Full disclosure is the way to go, I figure.

As I'm winding down my epic and Jake starts asking me questions mostly in the vein of "how do you feel about that?", I can't help but feel a bit betrayed. Here I was, baring my soul to someone I hadn't seen in a decade, and yet he was giving me some sort of psychoanalytical bullshit! This sucked. As the weekend wore on, however, Jake started to realize that this was really eating away at me and changed his approach. I felt grateful and nostalgic: these were the kinds of conversations we used to have all the time, and I was glad we had re-discovered them.

We drove out to Lake Tahoe on Saturday to watch the salmon spawning.


After taking in our share of the mating action (very Discovery Channel, by the way) we headed down to the Oktoberfest going on in the town next to the lake. As we watched children hula-hoop and browsed some of the arts and crafts stalls, Jake's wife suddenly said: "ooh, I want to look at the pictures over there!" Landscapes. Dozens upon dozens of them. As I stood looking at one riverbed shot in particular, my memories got the better of me and my eyes welled up. I swallowed hard. Why did Raf's memory have to follow me everywhere? Why did it have to be a part of everything I did? Why is it that to this day, every brilliant blue sky reminds me of him?

"What kind of landscapes does Raf do?" Jake asked, suddenly flanking me. "All kinds", I hoarsely replied, quickly blinking away the evidence of my nostalgic weakness. "Mostly Namibia and South Africa." I added. Jake nodded, clearly regretting the question as he eyed my reaction. "I'm....going to look at something else." I quickly added, then bolted toward the wrought-iron mug display.

Flying home, Lex asked me if I was happy that I had talked to Jake. I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder. In spite of my initial trepidations, I felt relieved to have had someone who knew Raf to talk to. My visit, all in all, had been a success.

After I got Jake's email, I went on Facebook to reply to his message. As I started typing my response, I froze. Raf had left a message on his wall:

Hello hello! Sounds like you are having a fine time! I'd love to live in California... Ingrid and i were there last year for a couple of weeks, she shares the sentiment! Hopefully one day we'll also be able to visit camp. We became parents three weeks ago, so currently future planning doesn't go much further than the next nappy change... Good to hear from you!

Of course.

At Least It's A Prime Number?

Best things about my birthday:

1) The parentals showed up to surprise me.
2) I celebrated with people I actually like (not a yearly occurrence, trust me.)
3) It's a prime number (Someone keeps insisting this is "cool")
4) 60+ people sang to me and remembered my name during the "...happy birthday dear so-and-so" part of the song.
5) Free tequila/sombreros at my favorite Mexican place. Need I say more?
6) Guitar Hero!


Worst things about my birthday:

1) Marco's expired visa. :(
2) I left my birthday cake on the bottom of the cart in the grocery store parking lot and had to speed back to save it from certain doom after seeing Lex mouth "oh fuck" in slow motion when we got home.
3) I'm old.
4) Some asshole rammed his truck into my little car as he was backing up to snatch the last parking space at school. (HELLO!? REAR VIEW MIRROR?!).
5) I think my uterus wants to have "the talk."
6) First birthday in almost 10 years without an email/photos from Raf.


Advice, anyone?

Dating Is Like Piranhas?

San: Maybe you should go on eHarmony
Lex: No way in hell. That's a religious dating site.
San: No it's not, it was just founded by religious people. It's not like you're logging onto the LDS dating site (do they have one of those?)
Lex: I don't know...what happens after you fill out the survey? They send you your matches?
San: I have no idea. They rejected my application three years ago.
Lex: What?! Why?
San: *Shrug* I dunno - something about "too complicated"
Lex: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
San: Shut up...
Lex: Alright, I'll check it out. But not eHarmony.


Three days later:

San: Did you put your profile up?
Lex: Yeah. I tried to be as open-minded as possible. You know, girls 18+ within 250 miles - but no proselytizing freaks! I draw the line at indoctrination.
San: What about other freaks?
Lex: That's fine. Except the vampires. I don't want some girl with fangs looming over me in the middle of the night.
San: ....and? Any matches?
Lex: Oh my God! It's been ONE DAY. You're ridiculous.


The following week:

Lex: We've got a problem
San: What is it?
Lex: All of my matches are really young and slutty.
San: So?
Lex: They're 19! And aggressive as hell! It makes me feel like a dirty old man.
San: You're only 26. Let me see them.
San: ......errr....you may have a point.
Lex: *Sigh* Dating is like piranhas.

Cake Wrecks

I discovered a hilarious new blog called Cake Wrecks. I want you all to go check it out. In particular, I want you to look at this post.

Let me know your thoughts! Am I the only one that finds these funny? Maybe it's like Lolcats? That seems to be hit-or-miss, too. I find it hilarious, while Lex tends to get this bewildered look when I spend yet another grad school class snorting and snickering uncontrollably while visiting the site.

Me - immature? Never....

And So It Is....Just Like You Said It Would Be

The day before my interview I called Lex and Marco from Europe, sniffling and feeling way too sorry for myself. I had, once again, run into the inevitable: Hayden letting me down. Lex tried to be delicate in his assessment but nonetheless pointed out to me: "...you knew this was going to happen. It probably upsets you more that you knew and it happened anyway. You got your hopes up anyway."

I had landed at 9am on Wednesday, groggy and cranky from spending the night flying across the ocean. After shuffling through customs trying to answer questions about the purpose of my trip in a language I don't speak nearly often enough, I dragged my suitcase over to the giant train departure information boards to catch the next one into the city. Two minutes before my train was due to arrive, a fragile old man tapped me on the shoulder and said: "Miss, how do I take the train? I haven't been on one since the War (WWII)." I couldn't help myself - I'm such a sucker for helping people like this, probably because I've spent most of my own life moving from place to place and trying to get the hang of unfamiliar territories. I walked him back upstairs to the terminal at a snail's pace and helped him buy a ticket, find the correct train, and get to his departure track.

As I ran down the stairs to catch my own train, I cursed the city's meticulously on-time departures. In front of me the behemoth was slowing inching its way out of the station. With a sigh heavier than my suitcase, I lugged the overpacked testament to my neuroses (2 suits, 7 shirts, 5 pairs of shoes, 10 pairs of underwear for 4 days - I mean, seriously) onto the escalator in search of the next train out.

Around 11:30 I inserted the spare key into the front door of Hayden's former house (he and Alicia have since moved out) and settled myself into the guest bedroom on the fifth floor. I text messaged Hayden: "I'm at your dad's place" and hopped in the shower. As I was brushing my hair, his reply arrived: "Ok. I'm busy at the fraternity signing people up until 7PM. I'll call you after." It was noon and I was dead tired, so I crashed and took a nap. When I woke up it was 4pm, and upon seeing the empty fridge downstairs I walked to the corner shop and bought some necessities. Hayden's father had a business dinner that evening and wouldn't be home until later. I switched on the TV and watched Michael Phelps brandish yet another gold medal at the Summer Olympics, his immense talent marred heavily by his signature arrogance and inane blather.

Around 10pm I started to get annoyed - Hayden still hadn't called me. Of course it was possible that the sign-ups had run over, but I wished he had let me know he wouldn't be able to make it in that case. Minutes later his father came home and we chatted for a few hours, mostly about the past, what it was like to date as a widower, and what we were both doing with our lives nowadays. When he asked me why I wasn't out and I hesitated in my answer, trying to be polite, he knew immediately what was going on. Suddenly he said: "you know, Hayden loves you very much. He's just such an imbecile with emotions." As kind as his words were, something inside of me just could not accept them. Weren't they just the consolation prize in a seriously flawed friendship? Hayden may love me more than I know, but the man has more baggage than my heart can handle. Maybe I'm unkind. Maybe I should give him more leeway because his mom died. But at what point do you differentiate between actions that are a result of grief and lingering psychological scars and actions that are just thoughtless and unwarranted? Will I ever be able to carry on some semblance of a normal friendship again?

As I stared out the living room window into the cool night, I couldn't help but feel utterly stupid. Why did I keep getting my hopes up, thinking that Hayden and I would someday be friends like we used to be? Why had he sent me that text message telling me he was looking forward to seeing me and talking to me like we used to? I fought back tears as I climbed up to my attic retreat. I am a gullible moron who believes in the good in people. Way to go.

On the phone the next day, I couldn't help but laugh when Marco called me back five minutes after I'd told him how disappointed I was and said: "I have a battle plan. You're going to get out of that house and make plans with every single person you know in the city. Then you're going to go to that used bookstore you like and pick out the coolest book you see and buy it for yourself. Then you're going to walk over to the park and read that thing cover to cover until you feel like you're in possession of yourself again. Then you're gonna go to sleep at 10pm so that you kick ass at your interview. Then you can call me and tell me you made it to the second round and I'll tell you how fabulous you are. I love you. Call me later."

Well, I did make it to the second round in my interview the next day. They're flying me back over here in September. That night I took the train out to see my family. 10 of us happened to all be in the same country - a rarity in our clan - and we barbecued until the wee hours. As I was sitting by the outdoor hearth, surrounded by people who love me and support me, Hayden faded from my mind, and I thought of Lex's eternal delicacy and Marco's unwavering desire to solve all of life's problems. I am one lucky girl. Maybe someday Hayden will be a friend again, but for now I'll keep his memory in a box, stored near Raf.

Tonight I made plans to eat with Alicia and her father. It's my last night here. As I'm typing this blog entry I get a phone call - it's him. He wants to know if he can join us...

Return of the Slack

Astonishment of the day:


Anderson Cooper is gay? And a member of the Vanderbilt family? I'm seriously behind on my facts. Whatever, I still have a massive crush on the guy. Lex has this theory that I like old men (as opposed to my theory that I like oldER) men. But seriously, AC is only 40-ish and besides, how sexy is his snow fox look? Purr....

On with today's REAL post....

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Is it possible that when life savagely thwarts one relationship, it sometimes compensates by allowing you glorious vindication in another? Kind of like an emotional diet, where you substitute giving up points in one arena with indulgences in a separate one? Today it feels like both of those things are true.

When we are hurt by those we love and the relationship breaks beyond repair, most of us secretly hope for the day when the person who wronged us will come crawling back, begging for a second chance. This desire is, more often than not, motivated mainly by an almost undeniable need both for closure and also for the knowledge that we made our best effort possible to keep the relationship in a working state. If the person who wounded us comes back for another chance, it displaces much of the blame for the relationship's demise from our shoulders onto some deficiency in the other party, in timing, or in life as it was then. It is, in effect, a final chapter in a very necessary catharsis that will otherwise take months of self-analysis, self-abasement, and regret to overcome.

I was never lucky in this regard - exes never came crawling back, begging for another go at it. I either had massive blowouts with the needy/emotionally abusive basket cases I unfortunately attracted (Ryan), or else I hurt the guy so badly by breaking up with him that he never wanted to talk to me again. And of course then there's Raf....well.....there's Raf. The only middle ground was the men I flirted with but with whom I was never in a relationship - these men tended to return time and time again for their fix of borderline romance, although most of them have since evolved into very platonic male friends.

[On a separate note, why is it so hard for me to make proper friends with women? I am somehow deficient in this arena and try very hard not to be, but to no avail. As a result I'm usually the woman who blossoms into a socialite when surrounded by men at a party but clutches her drink awkwardly as her foot repeatedly finds its way into her mouth when amongst a group of women. Argh!]

But now, as my birthday approaches (eek!) it seems that relationship karma is finally making its overdue house call - its delay probably exacerbated by the distance it had to travel from Raf's corner of the globe all the way to mine. In a weird twist of fate, I am being sent overseas for work and will be staying in the same city as a childhood friend with whom I have a complicated history (Ah, you thought perhaps there was only one? You were wrong, my dears. Very wrong).


Flashback:

Hayden is just your run-of-the-mill gorgeous, European, dark-haired/light-eyed, six foot six kind of guy. He's also single at the moment. We've known each other since we built tree forts in our yards way back in the day. Our parents were good friends, so we spent a lot of time being bored at dinner parties and coming up with way to entertain ourselves at the kids' table. (Wet napkin throwing contest? Noodle fight? So many options...)

Eventually my family moved away from our old stomping grounds and I would only see Hayden once every couple of years. When we were 14, our families went on a joint trip along the East Coast and explored all the seafood and ocean-side mansions it had to offer. Hayden was chubby and had large, round glasses just like his father, and I was a skinny 2x4 who desperately wanted to have boobs like every other girl in my grade. We held hands under the tables at restaurants that summer, and it was the first time a boy had ever held my hand like that. But alas, our families parted ways after our vacation and he headed back to his side of the pond.

Many years later (but before I met Marco) I was about to embark on a backpacking trip with my brother when my parents suggested we stop by and see Hayden's family. I balked immediately. His mother had died a few years previously when he was 16, and he had (quite understandably) become a very dark, brooding, weird guy. I never felt comfortable talking to him after the fact, as he seemed to resent me both for still having a mom and also for not being able to attend the overseas funeral. At the time I wasn't equipped to deal with this irrationality, and so our friendship gradually faded.

This time, however, my parents weren't giving me a choice. Like it or not, we were going out to dinner with Hayden, his father, and his sister. Suddenly I felt nervous. Now equipped with the body measurements I sought after at 14, I felt almost too self-aware of my own sexuality. What would it be like to see him again? Would he still resent me? Would we be able to be playful and upbeat like we used to be? Would he want to be my friend again? I fretted over 15 different shirts and finally picked an olive green wrap-around that showed just enough but was still demure. As I stood on the cobble-stone street, unstable in my stilettos, in front of the incredible 5-story city residence his mother had decorated before she died, I silently hoped for them not to be home.

As soon as the brass clinker had hit the door, it swung open. Hayden's father welcomed us with his infectious laughter and his familiar warmth before we headed out to the latest über-trendy eatery the city had to offer. Hayden was running late and would be joining us shortly. His sister Alicia was already present. As we noshed on bits of over-stylized cuisine, I decided to dash to the washroom before Hayden got there. Hurriedly eyeing the front door, I tip-toed across the slippery slate floor (which, for any of you who regularly wear stilettos, is no mean feat in 4-inchers) and almost mowed down our waiter. As I was coming out of the bathroom, a cute guy in a tight black shirt gave me a wry smile. I returned his glance, my confidence buoyed by his attention, but he wouldn't stop looking at me. In fact, he was following me to my table. Hayden had surely grown into his own. As we said our hellos by means of kisses on the cheek, I felt my face flush with embarrassment. All this time I had been worrying about seeing him, and then I hadn't even recognized him!

As the evening drew to a close, I felt relieved. We had spent most of dinner talking about Hayden's recent trip to Thailand, and when I tentatively teased him about the quite feminine silver arm cuff he sported as a souvenir, he batted at me about my "American-looking" clothes in return. I felt comfortable again, and since we had a few days left before our trip, my brother and I decided to stay with Hayden and Alicia in the city when our parents returned to the United States.

After a few rowdy nights of clubbing, my brother and Alicia decided to go see their respective friends for an evening. Hayden and I walked to a laid back bar and sat down for a beer. After laughing and drinking for about an hour I confessed my initial apprehensions, and he told me that he regretted being such a jerk over the last few years. Suddenly all of my own regrets came pouring out of me, and I teared up when I apologized for not being able to attend his mother's funeral. He looked at me with the most tenderness I'd ever seen in his face and said: "Babe, I love you. I've loved you since we were 4. You're my best girl - you know that. My mother loved you. We all do. Don't worry so much."

Later, as we walked home a little tipsy, he slung his arm around my neck and nuzzled the top of my head. As I climbed the steps to the 5th floor guest bedroom and brushed my teeth that night I felt like I had found my old friend again. Heady from the alcohol and filled with nostalgia, I tiptoed back down the stairs and knocked on Hayden's door. "I just want you to know I'm glad that mfhhfhhdddghgh" .... my words faded into nothing as he pulled me in and kissed me.

During the subsequent backpacking trip with my brother, I kept getting text messages from Hayden: "I miss you.....my sweatshirt still smells like you.....let me know when you're back in the country....I love you.....I'm so glad we're friends again......etc."

Since I was about to embark on my year and a half studying abroad, I wouldn't have the chance to be back in the country until halfway through my first semester. Shortly after my 20th birthday I sent him a text message: "I'm back for a few days. Let me know if you want to get a cup of coffee." No reply - which was weird, since I was staying with his dad for duration of my visit. I never heard from him. As I was leaving for the airport I told Alicia I felt sad that he hadn't written back.

SaN: *sigh* Half the time I seriously don't understand what's going on in his twisted brain.
Alicia: It's too hard for him to see you. He misses you all the time and can't handle the idea that you're so far away. I think he has a girlfriend now and didn't want to upset you.
SaN: Seriously? When did this happen?
Alicia: I don't know, he probably met her at some party. Look, she'll last maybe 2 months. We both know you'll be my sister-in-law in 10 years' time. That's what mom would have wanted, and that's what we all want, including him. Just let him be a stupid boy. He'll grow out of it.

I felt confused. What was the point of re-establishing emotional intimacy if he was afraid to be without me? He should have just kept it superficial in that case. It began to dawn on me that Hayden and I still weren't on the same emotional plane. Oh well. It had been 2 years since Ryan and I exploded into oblivion and I'd had my share of ups and downs. I wasn't going to let anyone ruin my time abroad. With this in mind, I headed to the Mediterranean for 6 months, then Northern Europe for another 6. When I finally returned to the US, Marco and I had been dating for almost 8 months.

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So, that's the last I had heard of Hayden. When I found out that I would be going to Europe for work for a week or so and would be in his city, I called his dad to see if I could stay at their place. No luck (he doesn't check voicemail or email - weird, I know). Apparently he had been super busy at work and hadn't seen my note that I was coming by in about a week. With no resource left except for Hayden's cell number, I dialed hesitantly but tried to sound confident.

Hayden: Hello? Hello?
SaN: Hayden? You there?
Hayden: Hello? Yeah, hey.
SaN: Hey, it's SaN - you got a minute real quick?
Hayden: Not really, but go ahead.
SaN: I'm in the city for a couple of days in about a week. Think I could crash at your dad's place?
Hayden: Shouldn't be a problem. Try him on his work number.
SaN: Ok will do, sorry to disturb
Hayden: Yeah, talk to you then. Bye.

I hung up feeling like crap. Why did he have to be so grouchy? He hadn't talked to me in well over 3 years - couldn't he at least take a minute to catch up? Now he was just being a regular old narky asshat.

While I was at Marco's this weekend I got a text message:

Dear SaN
Sorry for my kind of weird and short and not fun conversation, but I was right in the middle of moving into my new apartment. I live alone now, so if it doesn't work out with my dad's place you can always sleep here. Either way we're going to go do something fun. I do hope to see you/talk to you like we used to soon.

Now I have a question, readers: WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT LAST LINE MEAN? Please, somebody de-mystify the male mind for me. Is he gunning for a hookup? Is he being platonic? Is he just a bad grammarian? What does "see you like I used to" mean? Tipsy and in heat? Unnghhh.

Other than the aforementioned confusion, I feel a little spot of weirdness blooming in my stomach. Obviously nothing will happen because my love life already has an incumbent, but I'm not quite sure how to act around Hayden now.

The only thing I can assert with confidence is that his ship has most definitely sailed. He had his chance and blew it. We may have been great for each other, but in the end the timing didn't work out. You may think it's trivial, but I think it's a big part of whether or not people should get together. You can't sit around your whole life waiting for another person to grow into the person you want them to be. Then you end up with someone like, well, you know...

And thus sweet vindication makes its world tour stop in my backyard. I may never get the chance to see Raf come back, but I sure as hell feel good knowing that Hayden has regrets. Does that make me evil?

I think it makes me human.

I Get By With a Little Help

This weekend I jetted off to see Marco in his timezone and was reminded that United Airlines is the devil.

I was sitting on a 200-seat plane only 30% full and when I attempted to sit in the exit row to give the mom and her kid next to me some space, the flight attendant reminded me that the exit row was reserved for people who paid $39 to sit there. I looked at him incredulously and patiently attempted to explain the economics behind customer retention in a case like this (i.e. why does it matter if I sit here? I'm not robbing anyone of a seat and a little customer service in a case like this might make me use United again), but to no avail. He sent me back to my seat. So there I was, crammed in with two other people when there were 140 other seats open.

It seems to me that United's business model looks a little bit like this:

Zero knowledge of basic economics + Lack of employee empowerment + Underpaid flight attendants = Sucky Airline

Not to mention that getting in and out of airports like Hartsfield, LAX, Newark, and O'Hare is basically a lost cause 93% of the time. (Don't even get me started on Philadelphia or Denver).

Ok, end of United rant.

So...as I was saying, I went to see Marco this weekend. People tend to complain a lot about long distance relationships, and some of those gripes are certainly warranted. On the other hand, I tend to find that it has its positive effects as well. For one, you're always super excited to see the other person on the weekends. Secondly, you tend to find out pretty quickly whether or not you want to be together, since nothing is easier than to just stop calling. It's the perfect out for commitment-phobes. No confrontation. No guilt. No seeing the other person all over town. Just silence. (Pretty shitty, I know. I'm not condoning this as a method, but it's a possibility.)

Since the beginnings of our relationship, Marco and I have gone through various phases: same-city dating, love-nesting, mini-long distance, mid-long distance, and super-long distance. Maybe next year we'll both move back to Europe and find a nice apartment together in a big bustling city so we can take a crack at a life together, but for now we're still flying and time-zone hopping.

I always wonder how it is possible for me to be so happy with Marco and simultaneously feel such grief over Raf. Now, mind you, Marco has known about Raf from the beginning. I'm always very up-front with the person with whom I'm in a relationship in that respect. However, I'm also smart enough to know that sitting around all day complaining about how I miss Raf and feel betrayed is not that great for my relationship. Since the feelings come and go in phases I just tend to let them wash over me and then move on with them properly stowed away.

Raf wrote to me a week before his wedding: "I think about you often - every day, really - and most days I get a lump in my throat." That pretty much sums up how I feel as well. But it's never a lump that prevents me from living my life - it just confuses me enough to blog about it! You must be wondering whether all I do is sit around all day and pine. Luckily that is not the case, although I do have days when I feel like everything I do is marked by Raf's memory. In that sense it's a lot like the death of a loved one - at least that's how it usually feels to me since I have no contact with him and basically zero hope of ever seeing him again.

On the phone with Lex last night, I wondered if losing Raf would've hurt less if I hadn't, well, lost him. If we had just remained friends but faded out of each others' lives over the next 20 years, would it feel the same? Lex posited that it would not - that I would come to terms with it on my own and eventually no longer wake up every day thinking about it. I agree to a certain extent - Raf's departure was made worse by its emotional violence, but that doesn't mean it would have been any better had he still married Ingrid and I'd had to live with her insecurity and control issues (which Alice and Lyla sagely pointed out) for the rest of my life. So, what's better? I guess I'll never know. All I can deal with is the present.

I was standing in the shower with Marco on Sunday, shampooing my hair, when I suddenly felt the water move from just over my head to exactly the right spot on top of it. Then I felt a kiss on my neck. When I opened my eyes, Marco was soaping himself as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Without me saying anything, he had seen that I had been standing far forward in the tub to rinse my hair and had subtly realigned the shower head to make it easier for me. It was such a simple thing to do, yet so emblematic of who he is as a person. Later that day, we drove to the airport:

SaN: I hate leaving you. It always feels so permanent.
Marco: I know - I hate it, too.
SaN: But at least we have a lot more weekends together, right?
Marco: ....and hopefully an entire life.
SaN: *Blush*

It's moments like those two that make me realize that if I hadn't been through all of this bullshit with Raf, I may have never met Marco in the first place. And so, whenever I'm feeling a wee bit too sorry for myself and cursing Raf for breaking my heart, I look up at this wonderful man who takes the time to know how I like my eggs, to tell me the truth about what I look good in, to know what all my little body language cues mean, to indulge my handbag addiction just enough (but still steer me away from the $1,000 Gucci bags in Milan), to figure out how he can get me to like fish, and to adjust the shower head when my face is full of soap. And then I realize how lucky I am - not just to have him, but also to have friends like Cian and Lex who know the difference between a moment of anguish and senseless wallowing and have the kindness to tell me when I've crossed the line between the two.

When I think about these things, a small "thank you" goes up to whatever force compels our universe to keep existing and I know that I will eventually make peace with this storm in my head.

In the meantime, I'll have Raf's photos to remind me of all that was good between us until one day I am able to forgive him.

October Is The Cruellest Month

When you grieve, you're supposed to go through stages: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Theoretically, when you hit Acceptance you're over most of your anguish and have found some sort of closure and inner peace. With Raf I tend to feel like I bounce around those stages like a pinball in a machine.

Denial -Anger - Anger -Anger - Depression - Anger -Angerangerangerangeranger - Denial - Barbarbarbargaining - Depression - AngerDenial - Extra ball! - Anger - Denial - Denial - Ddddenial.....Bonus! Start again!

On the way home from work two months ago I discovered a rusty silo by the side of the highway on which someone had spray-painted the words "4give YoSelf." The first time I saw that graffiti I started crying while driving at 70 miles per hour. I called Lex and tearfully stammered that I couldn't do it, that I couldn't move on, that I couldn't forgive Raf (much less myself) for all the emotional crimes committed over the last 10 years. I remember weaving through traffic, the picture of hysteria but utterly devoid of energy inside, sobbing "I can't.....I can't.....I can't..." until finally Lex calmed me down.

Today I read another blog - Diary of a Dessert Lover - and Des struck me with the following:

I realize, there comes a time when you have to give up the fight. I think that time comes when the other person has already given up – or expects you to want the relationship to work more than them. Both are bad, in my books.

But I can't do it. I can't let go. Does that make me pathetic or just stubborn? Is there another stage of grief where I will finally be released from this pinball hell into a bittersweet "Game Over"?

Even the city moves on. About two weeks ago I drove by the silo, pretending not to see it but peeking at it in my peripheral vision. The owner had painted right over that bright blue mantra. This time, I straightened up in my seat, called Lex and told him what had happened. Then I surprised myself by saying "you know what, maybe it's time to forgive myself." But Lex was busy at work and the conversation had to be aborted (bless his heart). The next day I fought back tears as I passed the silo.

I am an idiot.

Cian, one of my best friends, once said to me in his terse Irish way: "he's an arse, and you'd never let anyone else treat ya this way. What, has he got magical powers or somthin'?" I couldn't help but laugh. Cian is one of those guys who is hopelessly blunt and cynical yet so unexpectedly warm when you need it most. I've really come to value his friendship as well as his ability to tell me to "stop yer whinin'" over the last two years. Cian's long-term girlfriend left him right before he went to get his PhD only to shack up with one of his best friends, so he's got some valuable experience in the grief stages department. More importantly, for all of his cynical blather and "he's an arse" comments, he knows what it feels like to carry the dismal knowledge that you will never stop loving someone no matter how hard you try or how much time passes.

I often ask myself (as I did above) if I can't give up on Raf simply because I'm delusional or because I'm just plain stubborn. Maybe it's because I can't believe that someone who loved me so passionately for almost a decade now no longer wants to speak to me. Maybe it's the fact that he has always told me the woman to whom he is married was not his first choice. Maybe it's the fact that he once told me "you are the light in my photography." I don't know - or maybe I don't want to know. Like I said, I'm a pinball. I just find it so hard to deal with the fact that I may never speak to him again...

When I was on the phone with Jake the other day, I tried explaining this feeling to him in two segments. I'll try the same thing here, and maybe someone will understand me. First, I feel like I ran out of time. Second, I feel like our last memories of each other are unfairly skewed.

What I mean by this is the following. When Raf and I were younger, we never talked about the possibility of having a relationship together but it was always palpable in the tension between us. As he and I met other people, the hope for that relationship gradually waned but never disappeared. We lived more than 4,000 miles away from each other and were both students trying to finish up our education - first high school, then university, then graduate school. There was an understanding between us that even if we were to be together in the future, nothing would be possible until both of us were (semi)adults with degrees and financial independence.

Right before my third year of university I got a call from Raf. He wanted time to think about his relationship with his girlfriend, Ingrid, but this would mean not talking to me for a while so that he could sort out his feelings for her. I swallowed hard, cleared my throat, and with all of the willpower I possessed I told him I would always be his friend and that he should take whatever time he needed. When he figured it out, I said, I would be here to support whatever decision he made.

The months went by and I headed off to Europe for a year and a half abroad. While I was in the UK I got an email: "Ingrid and I are engaged!" I smiled. Then I cried. Then I smiled again. Raf sounded ecstatic, and I had been blissfully happy with Marco for about 5 months in the meantime. I went through all of the possible "don't do it!" letters in my mind and then sat down over three days to compose a reply. It was short but sweet: "I'm very happy for you. If this is what makes your life complete then I feel at peace. Congratulations!"

Over the next few months I tried to put it out of my head and focus on how happy I was with Marco, but my heart felt confused sometimes. It wasn't until I met Cian that I was able to get my head screwed on straight and sorted out again. "If you love him, you have to let him live his life." Cian was right. I took comfort in having chosen the high road. I would finish my degree, get into graduate school, and start my Masters degree.

Raf and I could be friends - we always had been, and we would be able to navigate whatever new complexities his marriage would bring one day at a time. I would do my utmost to respect Ingrid, who seemed like she just absolutely adored Raf and took very good care of him, even if his feelings for her weren't always of equal strength. I would be an adult and take responsibility for my actions. After all, if I had wanted Raf I should have told him so more definitively, right? You couldn't blame the man for trying to find love with Ingrid.

Around September 2007 things started to go downhill. I got an email from Raf that said "Ingrid and I have broken up. I told her the truth for once. I feel dead inside." Turns out boy genius had never told his lovely wife about me and she had discovered that he sends me quite a lot of emails. She's furious, calling for a divorce, he's begging her to stay. Then he emails me.

I tell him to give her some space and explain the situation to her when she's calmed down. "Whatever you do, do NOT make it sound like she was the backup plan. She is your wife, and she is the most important woman in your life now. You do not throw away a marriage over one argument." I cringed as I hit "send" but felt content about how I handled the situation. After all, I had already resigned myself to Planet Platonic and I wasn't about to let all my hard work stuffing away my emotions go to waste. Plus, I now had almost 2 years going with Marco, who was looking more and more like super gorgeous, knee-weakening, emotionally stable, serenely kind, want-to-have-your-children permanent material.

Ingrid returns, they make up, and Raf emails me a happy "all is well." The next day I send him a text message: "Glad all is well. Love, SaN" Another day after that I get an email in my Inbox from Raf's address. It's from Ingrid. This is great! Now she knows that I'm not a threat - maybe I can even go visit them sometime! Boy am I wrong. Ingrid's email alternates between pleading with me to understand her "situation" and spewing bile and venom like a pro. Half threat, half entreaty, she basically tells me to go to hell but to be sure to empathize with her on the way down there. I'm baffled. What has Raf told her???

I will never get the chance to find out. October 2007 holds the last day of our friendship. On that day, I read Raf's last email to me again and again through a blur of angry tears: "That text message was completely inappropriate.....can't you see your role in bringing this about?......This has to end now.........I am not doing this in anger......." Then it hits me. Over and over again, like a shower of bullets. The rat-tat-tat of his last line spitfires at me:

I do not want to be friends with you anymore.

In one year I would have been done with my education. An adult. Independent. Across the ocean. The finish line was in sight - at long last I would finally be at a point where I would be able to make the biggest decisions of my life. I would be able to see him for the first time in 7 years. We would reminisce and laugh, I would meet Ingrid and all would be well. Eventually, when I got married, he would be there to support me, too. Maybe even photograph the wedding like I'd always hoped.

I felt betrayed and furious. I forwarded the email to Cian and started trembling with rage. FUCK HIM. FUCK HIM!

I had done everything right - I had supported him when he got engaged and when he needed time to think, coached him to prevent his divorce, told him I was happy for him and compartmentalized all of my feelings for him so that they wouldn't interfere with his happiness. Doing all this for him had been the ultimate sacrifice - the utmost test of whether or not my love for Raf was selfless enough to support him as we both grew into our lives.

Now he was telling me that I was expendable? That our friendship meant nothing to him? I couldn't believe this was happening. My thoughts spiraled out of control and I bolted from my apartment and started running. When I stopped, I didn't know where I was. I felt overwhelmed with confusion and rage. This wasn't supposed to happen. I felt dizzy and sat down on the sidewalk. I put my head between my legs and tried to slow my breathing. "This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass....." I tried to repeat in my head, but to no avail. I retched. Nothing. I yelped in anguish. No tears. Raf had emptied me of all my emotions and salted the earth left behind with just one email.

My biggest regret of the way things ended will forever be that Raf gets to remember me as the woman who adored him, admired him, and always missed him. My last memory of him, however, will be the grenade he launched on the piece of my soul that harbored him. He will always be able to tell himself that this was "what needed to be done", whereas I will live out my days wondering what error I committed to merit such a unilateral and vicious demotion.

I've tried to hate him, but I cannot.
I've tried to forget him, but I cannot.
I've tried to give up the fight, but I cannot.
I've tried to forgive him, but I cannot.
I've tried to forgive myself, but I cannot.

Part of me is thus indefinitely in repair while the rest of me navigates my perfect life with my perfect job, my perfect degrees, my perfect family, and my perfect boyfriend with ease.

I am somehow defective.

I am drowning.

Help...

30 First Dates

Yesterday I was reading one of Ask Alice's entries over on another blog. She was talking about Dating Dealbreakers, and it was as if I had written the list myself. It got me thinking about my own dating fiascos and I thought it might be fun to write about them here.

After psycho Ryan and I broke up, I went on over 30 excruciatingly horrible dates before running off across the ocean and (literally) bumping into Marco, the current incumbent in my love life and my presumptive husband-to-be. While I can't remember much more than snippets of mental pain from most of these abominations, a handful of them have permanently seared themselves into my bottom five list of worst dates ever. Here they are (in no particular order) for your Schadenfreude.

#5) The Comedian
He is your classic internet dating disaster. Online he comes off convincingly enough that you think you've covered your bases and double-checked your Google searches. He seems witty, ambitious, intelligent, and kind. His photo implies he's not bad looking, but he's no Gael Garcia Bernal either.

Swoon! Thank you, Mexico.

I digress. (Is it hot in here?).

When he asks me out for dinner, I suggest lunch instead (much easier to evade a creepy guy during daylight hours when shops are open). He's a little chubbier than in his picture, but dating psycho Ryan has taught me that picture-perfect is definitely not everything.


We head to my favorite Thai place and order crispy rice squares as an appetizer. I'm halfway through thinking that this isn't so bad when he starts telling me he's a comedian. The pleasant muzak record in my head stops abruptly. This can only end badly. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't appreciate a little Robin Williams: Live on Broadway or some good Frank Caliendo or Margaret Cho, but my intuition is telling me it's all downhill from here.

[Sidenote: I once told Ryan that I thought women tend to have better intuition than men do, and he flipped out, pulled the car over, and proceeded to lecture me on women's inferiority to men as noted in the Bible. Yeah....that should have been my first sign, right? Alas, I was young and he was brooding and sexy.]

Sure enough, The Comedian starts cracking jokes.....WITH SOUND EFFECTS. And I don't mean "vroom vroom, it's a car!" - I mean farting, burping, and anything else that he can think of. The man actually rips one between shoveled mouthfuls of crispy rice. At this point, he's attracting the attention of the waiters, standing on his chair doing the chicken dance. The sad part is, it's only funny in retrospect. If this was one of my friends, family members, or anyone else with whom I have a close relationship, I could handle this. But a stranger on a first date? Fuhgettaboutit. I'm mortified. So I do what any good Batgirl would do - I climb out the bathroom window. The next day I get a message from him: "Hey bitch, you owe me $10." Lovely.

[By the way, Lex is now surely sitting behind his computer screen, reading this and going: "Hmm, $10 with 5% interest amortized over approximately 4 years since you've been on that date....economic implications.....supply and demand.....Euler's theorem......Golden Ratio blahblahblahblah." He's so awesome.]


#4) The Sprinkler
I'm sitting in a dark jazz bar with a Caipirinha, waiting for a blind date with which my roommate's cousin's dog's flea's uncle's second cousin's aunt's owner set me up. (You get the idea). On stage a woman in a red sequined dress is performing the most horrible rendition of "Summertime" I've ever heard. It sounds like she's a drunk, tone-deaf chain smoker with a feather boa stuck down her throat.

My blind date walks in looking very emo-chic in a corduroy blazer, converse high-tops, and faded dark jeans. Hmm...I like. He orders an Appletini (er...ok) and sits down across from me in the padded booth. Our conversation navigates its way pleasantly through both deeper and more casual topics, and I'm beginning to like this guy.

As I sip my drink, I suddenly feel a fine mist cover my face and douse my silk shirt. My first instinct is: "Who set off the fire sprinklers?", but it's my date - he's choking on his drink and spraying the contents of his mouth all over me. While slightly miffed, I'm also amused - this is the kind of thing that only happens in movies. I'm all prepared to laugh it off when my date starts profusely apologizing and just.won't.let.it.go. Seriously, the man spends the next half hour almost in tears telling me what an ass he is. Ok, so it's a little bit over the top, but I can deal.

Just as I'm about to shift gears and get back into our conversation, he starts crying. Now as I've noted previously, I'm uncomfortable with sudden intimacy. I try to calm him down, but he just dissolves into a fit of sobs. "I hate myself I hate myself I hate myself I hate myself" comes out in garbled, snot-filled intervals. This man has baggage, and I'm jumping ship. I flag down the waiter, pay our bill, get The Sprinkler into a cab home.

Holy crap.

#3) The Mountaineer
Lex would argue that this doesn't count as a first date, since it was more of a horrible first encounter, but I'm including it anyway because it was scary and taught me to be more careful.

I'm sitting at a presentation about people who have overcome obstacles to achieve their goals. The guy speaking is a tall lumberjack sort who likes to hear himself speak. He's telling the audience about his successful conquest of the seven tallest mountains in the world. As we're filing out of the room, he pulls me aside.

Mountaineer: I couldn't help but notice your interest in my story.
SaN: Uh, yeah, sure. Very cool. Good job.
Mountaineer: You want to go out for a drink sometime?
SaN: That's really nice of you. I know it takes a lot of guts to ask a girl out, but I'm not interested. Thanks, though.
Mountaineer: I'm not taking no for an answer.
SaN: Uhh....sorry, but that's my answer. I gotta go. Good luck with your climbing.

As I'm waiting for the elevator to close behind me, he grabs the door and squeezes himself in with the rest of the crowd. I have to go to the 6th floor, but the rest of the people in our elevator get out at the lobby or on lower floors. Mountaineer is now making me very uncomfortable. Suddenly he turns to me and says "I'm not accustomed to not getting what I want." I ignore him, which infuriates him. He corners me in the back of the elevator. "Come on, just one kiss." Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!!! The only thing I can think to do is to spit in his face and knee him in the balls. Luckily he crumples to the floor right before the elevator door opens and I run out as quickly as I can, hoping to break one of his fingers with my stilettos in the process.

#2) The Aussie Googler
Internet dating is the devil. (See #5). I met a nice enough Australian guy online, and eventually we decided to go out for coffee. As I'm standing in line at the coffee shop, I hear a voice behind me. "You must be SaN." Ummm, ok. Kind of weird, but whatever. "How did you know?" I ask. "Oh, I recognized you from your photo." Strange, since I hadn't put up a photo. Maybe I had sent him one - I couldn't remember. We sit down with our mugs and start talking. He starts asking me all sorts of questions that sound eerily familiar. He's pushing all the right buttons, but it feels like a script. Finally I ask him "look, did you Google me or something? It's ok to tell me." Yes, he admits, he has. That's creeps me out. I excuse myself and tell him I'm leaving. As I would later find out, not only had he Googled me, but he had messaged my friends to find out more about me. Since I hadn't checked my email in a couple of days I wasn't aware that they were sending me messages saying "Hey, I got this weird request from some guy today. Isn't this the person you were talking to online?" Note to self: check all email before a blind date. Grrr..... A week later there's an email in my inbox. "Want to hang out again?" I delete my profile off the site.

#1) The Argentine Double-Tango
My friend Claire and I are on a double date with two guys from Argentina. We're at an enoteca downtown and thoroughly enjoying our Chilean reds. A1 and A2 are funny, charming, the whole deal. When they ask us if we want to go dancing at a salsa bar, we don't hesitate. Claire and I share a passion for older (not old!) men, Latin music, and a great pair of shoes. Heady from the wine, we show off our best moves on the patio in the warm autumn air. The whole deal feels like a photo montage out of a dance movie. When A1 and A2 invite us back to A1's apartment for a nightcap, we look at each other and shrug. Why not? The dancing continues at A1's apartment, as does the wine drinking. Around 3:00 AM Claire and I yawn. It's time to go. As we're about to walk to the door, A1 and A2 pull us into a side room and starting gunning for a foursome. Hard. If it weren't for the wine, Claire and I would be out the door screaming, but tonight it's just hilarious. We push them away with definitive "no"s (in English and Spanish) and stumble down the brick sidewalk laughing and hollering until we find a cab and head home.

So there you have it. Hope you enjoyed the train wreck. Thanks for tuning in.

Lex will be berating me for my lack of judgment later tonight.