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....

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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.

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.

This Weather's Bringing It All Back Again

How much do people really change? When my friends run out of patience with the Raf situation (bless their hearts), they inevitably turn to the phrase "people change" as a conclusion, and understandably so. I find myself asking the same questions over and over again - so much so that my poor roommate Lex has memorized the answers in spite of his most valiant efforts to constantly redeploy his empathy.

SaN: Do you think he'll ever write me again?
Lex: Maybe. Eventually.
SaN: Do you think he hates me?
Lex: No. I think he's afraid of the impact you have on his life.
SaN: How can he do this? How can almost a decade of friendship not matter to him?
Lex: It does matter to him. He's just trying to get by in his own world and you were collateral damage. He had to make a choice.

When we are faced with a situation in which another human being inexplicably betrays the trust created by a close bond, we are left feeling blindsided - wondering how we couldn't see such a thing coming. As blissfully uncomplicated as men can sometimes be, Raf's complexity has baffled me from day one.

I suppose the irony of this blasted situation is that for the longest time, it was Raf who had the stronger feelings for me as opposed to vice versa. Now, in my twenties, I am left feeling like I ran out of time to reciprocate and as a result am hemorrhaging my emotions into the vacuum left by his departure. I berate myself often:

- Did I not take his feelings seriously enough?
- Was I not expressive enough with my feelings?
- Was I so vain that I thought his adoration would last forever?
- Did I ever really think that we could make it work, or did I just like the attention?
- Did I lead him on?
- Did I do enough to let him know he was important to me?
- Did I drive him toward a placeholder instead of giving him the freedom to find someone he really loves? (More on this later)

There's a great song called Hold You Down by a band named JUMP. Their discovery is about the only good thing my psychotic ex Ryan ever contributed to my life. That, and the ability to definitively tell the assholes from the good guys for the rest of eternity.

The lyrics discuss the effects of paradigm shift (seeing the same issue from a different perspective).

Was I watching over you?
Or watching you fall apart?
Did I lend a hand to hold you down?
Or just a hand to hold?
Did I pull the wool over your eyes?
Or keep you from the cold?
In every look upon your face
There was an element of grace
Did I read between the lines?
Or erase...?

The snippet above pretty much describes the constant state of questioning in which I find myself - did I do good or evil in my friendship with Raf? Did I damage him with uncertainty? Did he finally just decide to cut his losses and exit with what dignity he had left?

Throughout our friendship I always had long-term boyfriends while Raf bounced around from one 3-month stint to the next. I would consistently get emails that extolled the virtues of one girl only to receive a follow-up declaring that it was over. He was restless, nomadic, and victim to a self-described incompleteness. This sense of purposelessness, coupled with his family's reticence to accept his desired vocation, made for quite the quarter-life crisis as we headed into the new millennium, now firmly bound to each other by unwavering loyalty and implicit understanding.

Photography was Raf's escape from the world's negativity. It was the one place where he could feel at peace and, most importantly, be good at something. To this day I am so proud and grateful to have been part of the force that compelled this kind of talent to firmly anchor his proverbial stake in the ground and tell his father he was going to follow his passion. (See below)

Back in the day we used to talk about the kind of photographic subjects Raf would pursue if given the chance. His answer was always the same: people. Ironically, what he has ended up specializing in is landscape photography. Why is this ironic, you say...?

...time for another Flashback.

It's a good thing Raf has shaved his head this year, or he wouldn't be able to strap on the helmet he's just been handed. I almost didn't recognize him coming down the long gravel driveway a week ago and might have walked clear past him had he not called my name from 50 feet away and started running toward me the instant my Keds-clad feet had hit the dirt.

In the meantime, we're being informed of the safety procedures of whitewater rafting. As I'm trying to get Raf's attention from across the gazebo, he motions sternly for me to pay attention to the woman explaining what to do in the event of a man-overboard situation. "On your back, feet up and pointed downstream, grab the closest possible oar, make sure you get pulled into the raft on your stomach, not your back. DO NOT STAND UP IN THE CURRENT." Check, check, check. Got it.

We are dismissed, and I strap myself into a damp life jacket. This is going to be awesome. I clamber into an eight-person inflatable raft with Raf at the helm. As we make our way down the first couple of Class II rapids I feel an icy splash at my back. I look behind me to see Raf holding the neon orange bail bucket and sporting an I-dare-you-to-retaliate grin. I glower at him and vow revenge. My opportunity strikes quickly - at the next eddy I "accidentally" over-paddle and catch him fully in the face with my backsplash. Excellent! We continue down the river, laughing and dousing each other in the freezing water, which is a welcome repast from the afternoon heat. The sun catches Raf's eyes and they prism into an array of hidden colors. He flashes me a smile that hangs in the space between mischief and tenderness.

Suddenly his face turns to horror as I'm flying through the air. I crash into the water and my world goes into slow motion.

My mouth is full of water. My body feels paralyzed. Where am I? My head goes under but the life jacket buoys me back up to the surface of the raging water. My limbs are numb from the cold. I am floating above myself in third person, compelling myself to swim. "Closest oar...downstream..." Adrenaline ordered by my brain finally reaches my body and my feet shoot up out of the water. Do not stand up, SaN, or the current will take you down and drown you. I spot the yellow raft and starting swimming for what seems like miles. An oar touches my fingertips. Raf. I latch on and let him pull me toward the raft. Then my mind goes numb. I emerge from my brief trance to Raf shouting my name. I don't understand what he wants. My hands have no feeling in them. I look down at my whitened knuckles. Why can't I move? Raf kneels over the edge of the raft, and I see his lips form the word "oar" over and over again. My mind has trouble parsing his words. What does he want me to do? His hands grab my life jacket and pull me toward him. "LET.GO.OF.THE.OAR!" I comply, and with one heave he has me back in the raft, soaked and shivering.

Raf: You alright, then?
SaN: Mmm-hmm
Raf: You eejit - don't scare me like that!
SaN: (...)

(...)

He was scared?

It's official: ravenous butterflies have set up shop and are making a meal out of my innards.

Later, as we browse the gift shop and flip through the souvenir photos of our raft, I spot a photography book. I flip it open and become engrossed in the images. Over my shoulder I hear a snort of derision. "Landscapes." He's back to being himself. "I like them", I tell him. Raf walks off and becomes interested in something else, but I can't take my eyes off the book.

On my birthday that year I get a package postmarked eight weeks earlier from halfway around the world. I open it and start laughing. Landscapes.

As the afternoon turns to dusk we walk back to the bus, still damp from the water but no longer shivering. Raf and I break into a run, racing each other to the parking lot. About halfway there we stop and look at each other for no good reason. He motions in the low sun and I give my silent assent.

I jump on his back and drape my arms around his shoulders.

We don't care who's watching anymore.