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....
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
A Rolling Stone Gathers No ... Memories?
Today's Aside:
The Daily Show is quickly becoming one of the most trusted news sources in America. I'd like to hear your thoughts on that, readers.
Nevertheless, Jon Stewart is a hottie.
(Definitely supports Lex's theory, but oh well.) On to today's post.
-------
I'm spending a little time on the East Coast this week, helping Marco pack his things before the expiration of his visa forces him out of the country. We have two remarkably different styles while doing this. He's a total packrat that hangs on to every little piece of paper, movie ticket stub, receipt, bad photograph, and museum map we've come across in his time here. He shovels them all into suitcases like he can't live without them, even though they've spent the better part of the year gathering dust in his bookcase or on his bulletin board. Then there's me, the cruel and relentless disposer, trimmer of extraneous data fat.
While Marco is at work I sneak through piles of this crap and eliminate things that really don't need to go back overseas (I mean, seriously: do you need a receipt from the gas station we stoppped at for a Coke on our way up to Maine?). He is despondent when he sees me putting his furniture on Craigslist or eBay for under $50 a piece, upset when I insinuate his inefficiency in pruning his collection of "mementos", unsatisfied until he realizes he won't need to pay $150 to check that third suitcase after all.
I get this merciless ability to streamline my life from my mother, I realize. (Marco is much more like my father in that respect). Throughout the tens of times that we've moved around the world, my brother and I feared her for her muck-out mantra: "If you have to think about it, throw it away." Now don't get me wrong - my mother is just about the sweetest person on this Earth - but during moving season she would have us root out all of the excess until, upon her third or fourth inspection, only the essentials were left. Nothing was sacred - not even our impressive collection of stuffed animals when we were younger - and everything had a purpose: clothes we no longer wanted were given to the needy, electronics our young attention spans had discarded were shipped or driven to recycling centers, books we hadn't read in ages were donated to the local library. My mother was building a lean enterprise, and we struggled to adjust, coming up with reasons months in advance to keep certain items marked for disposal. As technology advanced, she started putting items on eBay and Amazon - even once accidentally selling a gorgeous book I had received as a gift from Cian.
Someone once remarked to me when they heard this story that I must have no memories left, and I paused to consider this. As much as my brother and I dreaded the almost yearly mucking of our proverbial stalls, we had always seen it as sort of a farce, screaming in mock horror whenever our mother announced its commencement. There was never any animosity toward her, just the realization that we had to keep track of our things and be that most elusive of qualities: responsible. It made sense: our posessions multiplied like rabbits from one house to the next, and there had to be some sort of process for keeping order. Perhaps foreseeing some sort of perpetual memory loss, my mom and I had made a deal long ago: I got to keep one giant shoebox full of whatever I wanted, as long as it was all in that box, labeled and organized so that it would be easily identifiable and not thrown away by accident.
Last weekend, at my parents' house, I opened that box. It had been years since I'd gone through it - I'd "evolved" while away at university and developed a filing system of my own. Inside were mostly mementos and letters from exes - things my mother had advised me I would want to look back on later in life and read, even though at the time I wanted to do nothing more than burn them. "This is how you learn", she would say. "This is how you see how far you've come. You'll want these when you're 30, trust me."
The bundle I was looking for lay underneath the Valentine's Day cards, the high school prom photos, and the baseballs and mix CDs from my ex. Dozens of identical white envelopes marked self-consciously with the pointy handwriting I so adored. They were addressed all over the world - to almost every place I had lived. He had kept track of me, written me, sent me photographs, always in the same white envelopes. No return address, just his four initials. A whole relationship held together by a single rubber band.
I found that box in under a minute, even amongst the chaos of my parents' new house, and for the first time in my life I was grateful to my mother's insistent spring cleaning ritual. Filtering every 6 months or so had allowed me to distill what was truly important and keep it safe. I had gathered memories - they were just carefully stowed away until further notice.
As I started packing my bag to head back out West, I nestled the bundle of white envelopes safely between my clothes. I would read them when I got back to my apartment, have my emotionally overwhelming moment(s), and move on. I planned to observe this part of my life like I would a time capsule: as an interesting but otherwise irrelevant portion of history. The next morning, as I was trying to help my brother schedule an appointment online, I mentioned that I was going to fly to see Marco. Not having clearly heard me, he exclaimed: "who, Raf? When are you going?" I froze.
San: We're not friends anymore, man. He's married now. His wife hates me.
Lil Bro: So? You guys were friends, like, way before he met her.
San: It didn't work out. I don't know what to tell you.
Lil Bro: That's so dumb. He's a moron. I mean, you're my sister, you know? How can he not love you?
San: He's not a moron he's just.....no, you're right. He's a moron.
Lil Bro: Hey have you seen this website? It's so cool.......blahblahblahblahblah
(my brother has a short attention span)
I walked over to my suitcase and put my hands on my hips. Raf didn't belong anymore. He had chosen to leave my life. He had no business being all over my apartment, making the last year of my education a replay of regrets - pain with which I would punish myself on days when I got too close to happiness. These letters should not be in my suitcase - they needed to be shelved away until I was either old enough to have forgotten him or wise enough to take his memory in stride. But I knew better than to throw them in the trash. "This is how you learn", after all.
The Daily Show is quickly becoming one of the most trusted news sources in America. I'd like to hear your thoughts on that, readers.
Nevertheless, Jon Stewart is a hottie.
(Definitely supports Lex's theory, but oh well.) On to today's post.
-------
I'm spending a little time on the East Coast this week, helping Marco pack his things before the expiration of his visa forces him out of the country. We have two remarkably different styles while doing this. He's a total packrat that hangs on to every little piece of paper, movie ticket stub, receipt, bad photograph, and museum map we've come across in his time here. He shovels them all into suitcases like he can't live without them, even though they've spent the better part of the year gathering dust in his bookcase or on his bulletin board. Then there's me, the cruel and relentless disposer, trimmer of extraneous data fat.
While Marco is at work I sneak through piles of this crap and eliminate things that really don't need to go back overseas (I mean, seriously: do you need a receipt from the gas station we stoppped at for a Coke on our way up to Maine?). He is despondent when he sees me putting his furniture on Craigslist or eBay for under $50 a piece, upset when I insinuate his inefficiency in pruning his collection of "mementos", unsatisfied until he realizes he won't need to pay $150 to check that third suitcase after all.
I get this merciless ability to streamline my life from my mother, I realize. (Marco is much more like my father in that respect). Throughout the tens of times that we've moved around the world, my brother and I feared her for her muck-out mantra: "If you have to think about it, throw it away." Now don't get me wrong - my mother is just about the sweetest person on this Earth - but during moving season she would have us root out all of the excess until, upon her third or fourth inspection, only the essentials were left. Nothing was sacred - not even our impressive collection of stuffed animals when we were younger - and everything had a purpose: clothes we no longer wanted were given to the needy, electronics our young attention spans had discarded were shipped or driven to recycling centers, books we hadn't read in ages were donated to the local library. My mother was building a lean enterprise, and we struggled to adjust, coming up with reasons months in advance to keep certain items marked for disposal. As technology advanced, she started putting items on eBay and Amazon - even once accidentally selling a gorgeous book I had received as a gift from Cian.
Someone once remarked to me when they heard this story that I must have no memories left, and I paused to consider this. As much as my brother and I dreaded the almost yearly mucking of our proverbial stalls, we had always seen it as sort of a farce, screaming in mock horror whenever our mother announced its commencement. There was never any animosity toward her, just the realization that we had to keep track of our things and be that most elusive of qualities: responsible. It made sense: our posessions multiplied like rabbits from one house to the next, and there had to be some sort of process for keeping order. Perhaps foreseeing some sort of perpetual memory loss, my mom and I had made a deal long ago: I got to keep one giant shoebox full of whatever I wanted, as long as it was all in that box, labeled and organized so that it would be easily identifiable and not thrown away by accident.
Last weekend, at my parents' house, I opened that box. It had been years since I'd gone through it - I'd "evolved" while away at university and developed a filing system of my own. Inside were mostly mementos and letters from exes - things my mother had advised me I would want to look back on later in life and read, even though at the time I wanted to do nothing more than burn them. "This is how you learn", she would say. "This is how you see how far you've come. You'll want these when you're 30, trust me."
The bundle I was looking for lay underneath the Valentine's Day cards, the high school prom photos, and the baseballs and mix CDs from my ex. Dozens of identical white envelopes marked self-consciously with the pointy handwriting I so adored. They were addressed all over the world - to almost every place I had lived. He had kept track of me, written me, sent me photographs, always in the same white envelopes. No return address, just his four initials. A whole relationship held together by a single rubber band.
I found that box in under a minute, even amongst the chaos of my parents' new house, and for the first time in my life I was grateful to my mother's insistent spring cleaning ritual. Filtering every 6 months or so had allowed me to distill what was truly important and keep it safe. I had gathered memories - they were just carefully stowed away until further notice.
As I started packing my bag to head back out West, I nestled the bundle of white envelopes safely between my clothes. I would read them when I got back to my apartment, have my emotionally overwhelming moment(s), and move on. I planned to observe this part of my life like I would a time capsule: as an interesting but otherwise irrelevant portion of history. The next morning, as I was trying to help my brother schedule an appointment online, I mentioned that I was going to fly to see Marco. Not having clearly heard me, he exclaimed: "who, Raf? When are you going?" I froze.
San: We're not friends anymore, man. He's married now. His wife hates me.
Lil Bro: So? You guys were friends, like, way before he met her.
San: It didn't work out. I don't know what to tell you.
Lil Bro: That's so dumb. He's a moron. I mean, you're my sister, you know? How can he not love you?
San: He's not a moron he's just.....no, you're right. He's a moron.
Lil Bro: Hey have you seen this website? It's so cool.......blahblahblahblahblah
(my brother has a short attention span)
I walked over to my suitcase and put my hands on my hips. Raf didn't belong anymore. He had chosen to leave my life. He had no business being all over my apartment, making the last year of my education a replay of regrets - pain with which I would punish myself on days when I got too close to happiness. These letters should not be in my suitcase - they needed to be shelved away until I was either old enough to have forgotten him or wise enough to take his memory in stride. But I knew better than to throw them in the trash. "This is how you learn", after all.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
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...
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...
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Ciao, Bello!
I'm off to Europe for the week to do my interview. Wish me luck! See you when I return Sunday.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
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.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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.
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.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Grumble Grumble
It's been one of those days....I forgot my favorite heels at home and had to come to work in sandals. My boss is in a strop with the world of which I am bearing the brunt, my car's maintenance light came on this morning and made an alarming beeping noise, I fell back asleep after my shower and didn't get to work until 9:30, and on my way to the gym at 6:00 this morning some moron almost ran me over in a white Camaro. Add to that the fact that I can't get any of my answers to fit properly into the New York Times Crossword today, and I give up. Best to just roll with it and hope for a better day tomorrow.
You want to know what made my day today? You. Yes, you - especially if you're one of my readers that comments on my blog. I was thrilled to see so many people take the time to write really thoughtful comments on yesterday's post. In a world where everyone multi-tasks and nobody has the time to even sit down for a cup of tea, I value those snippets of focused attention. Well done, my cyber friends! Well done. You are fabulous. Thank you.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, August 4, 2008
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.
Friday, August 1, 2008
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...
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...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
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.
[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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
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.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Sweet Dreams Are Made of This
I dreamt about Raf last night. This is not unusual, as I tend to dream about him quite frequently, but most of the time I don't realize it's a dream until I wake up disappointed. This time I spent most of my REM cycle racing around, telling people I was in a dream until one of them said "Fine - WAKE UP!" and I did.
Maybe the dream was spurred on by the talk I had a few days ago with Jake, another camp figure.
Jake is one of those guys that every girl from age 5 to age 50+ has a secret crush on - and the girls and women at camp were no different. The female directors loved him, counselors were enamored by his flippant trans-Atlantic accent, and little girls went giddy trying to sign up for the activity which he would be leading. I distinctly remember sitting on a bus with other girls heading towards our 2 weeks of summer bliss, gossiping about whether or not he would be there and swapping stories about how cute he was.
Jake has this way of complimenting you that makes you feel like he's been studying you for ages, only to come up with the kind of relevant and generous compliment of which you can only hope to experience a sequel. Many hearts were broken when he got engaged and then married - the only consolation was that his wife was at least as beautiful and as kind as he was. We had emailed back and forth over the years, but as we are both notoriously bad at keeping in touch, it had been at least 7 years since I had had verbal contact with this Thoreau-quoting, French-speaking, motorcycle-riding import. Naturally, I went with impulse (nostalgia) rather than reason and picked the most convenient time I could think of to call him: while I was at the grocery store. (D'oh!)
As I stood balancing my 24 cans of Coke Zero perilously on the Cheese Nips shelf with my knee, cradling my cell phone between my ear and my shoulder, sweating profusely and wondering how stupid I sounded relaying my Raf story to Jake, I realized how I had idolized this conversation in my head. For a long time, I had thought of Jake as the end-all, be-all guru who would understand my history with Raf and comfort me by saying things like "Of course he still loves you" and "There will come a day when he'll regret what he said." But the more I talked to Jake the more I realized that when it comes to this Raf business, I truly am alone. I suppose that's another reason for this blog - communal empathy, right? There's got to be someone out there who has shared a similar experience and knows what I'm talking about.
On a separate note, Sparsely Kate left a really nice comment on my blog, telling me that she liked the flashback portion of it. Thanks for being my first supporter! Please check out her blog if you get the chance - she's lovely.
Ready for another Flashback? I thought so.
It's the Fourth of July. I'm riding a pretty Paint named Lexington through the hillside just beyond camp. Two of the girls with whom I share my cabin are trotting along beside me. I can feel the gelding twitch under the saddle - he knows we're heading for home. It's been a long day, and the merciless sun coupled with little to no shade has made the trail ride almost unbearable for the horses. Lexington is annoyed by the flies that bite his flanks but has been behaving himself so far. (Pretty impressive for an animal that spends his days being kicked and pulled at by inexperienced riders.)
Our riding instructor and trail guide, Seth, is a total hottie. One of my cabin mates and I exchange wry smiles - the other girl we're riding with hooked up with him last week in the outhouse and is gunning for a repeat performance tonight while the fireworks go off and the director's attention is diverted.
I start into a slow canter, hoping to entice someone into a race toward the stables. Seth responds, kicking his large Bay into an instant gallop, catching up to me and passing me. Lexington's competitiveness goes into overdrive, and he juts his head forward begging for the slack to transition to a gallop. I finally let him go and he blasts off after the Bay, thundering along the field and through the trees. I'm still laughing at the little alpha male underneath me as I pass Seth and make the final turn toward the stables.
Later, as I'm washing Lexington and putting him up for the night, the girl of outhouse-romp-fame comes up to me and firmly plants herself in front of the door through which I'm attempting to exit. "You're not planning on hooking up with him, are you?" I chuckle, trying to contain my hilarity, but to no avail. The tickle in my throat turns into giant, snort-filled laughs. Seth is in his 30s, and I couldn't be less interested. The girl storms off. I sigh. Women are so complicated.
My mockery of the May-December romance between my cabin-mate and Seth earns me few brownie points with the rest of our roommates, and I spend the rest of the evening being ignored. That night, I climb onto the hill overlooking the lake to watch the fireworks. As I'm trying to swat away a particularly insistent mosquito, I smell rain. Raf sits down next to me. He's been working out on the lake all day, and I'm glad he can't see me blush in the darkness when I think about how I've been watching him swim in the mornings.
We sit in silence, as usual. The fireworks start and he notices my face. "Are ya worried about somethin'?" I confess that I'm concerned for the horses. The stables are across the lake, and I'm tempted to head out there to calm them down. The loud bangs from the fireworks must be scaring them by now. Raf looks at me and says: "well, it's probably best you're not over with the horses and all that." He puzzles me. Why would it matter to him? " 'Coz I'd rather have ya here with me."
*Gulp*
I carefully lean into him and he takes my hand so that nobody else can see it. As he traces amoebas in my palm with his index finger, I feel at peace.
Maybe the dream was spurred on by the talk I had a few days ago with Jake, another camp figure.
Jake is one of those guys that every girl from age 5 to age 50+ has a secret crush on - and the girls and women at camp were no different. The female directors loved him, counselors were enamored by his flippant trans-Atlantic accent, and little girls went giddy trying to sign up for the activity which he would be leading. I distinctly remember sitting on a bus with other girls heading towards our 2 weeks of summer bliss, gossiping about whether or not he would be there and swapping stories about how cute he was.
Jake has this way of complimenting you that makes you feel like he's been studying you for ages, only to come up with the kind of relevant and generous compliment of which you can only hope to experience a sequel. Many hearts were broken when he got engaged and then married - the only consolation was that his wife was at least as beautiful and as kind as he was. We had emailed back and forth over the years, but as we are both notoriously bad at keeping in touch, it had been at least 7 years since I had had verbal contact with this Thoreau-quoting, French-speaking, motorcycle-riding import. Naturally, I went with impulse (nostalgia) rather than reason and picked the most convenient time I could think of to call him: while I was at the grocery store. (D'oh!)
As I stood balancing my 24 cans of Coke Zero perilously on the Cheese Nips shelf with my knee, cradling my cell phone between my ear and my shoulder, sweating profusely and wondering how stupid I sounded relaying my Raf story to Jake, I realized how I had idolized this conversation in my head. For a long time, I had thought of Jake as the end-all, be-all guru who would understand my history with Raf and comfort me by saying things like "Of course he still loves you" and "There will come a day when he'll regret what he said." But the more I talked to Jake the more I realized that when it comes to this Raf business, I truly am alone. I suppose that's another reason for this blog - communal empathy, right? There's got to be someone out there who has shared a similar experience and knows what I'm talking about.
On a separate note, Sparsely Kate left a really nice comment on my blog, telling me that she liked the flashback portion of it. Thanks for being my first supporter! Please check out her blog if you get the chance - she's lovely.
Ready for another Flashback? I thought so.
It's the Fourth of July. I'm riding a pretty Paint named Lexington through the hillside just beyond camp. Two of the girls with whom I share my cabin are trotting along beside me. I can feel the gelding twitch under the saddle - he knows we're heading for home. It's been a long day, and the merciless sun coupled with little to no shade has made the trail ride almost unbearable for the horses. Lexington is annoyed by the flies that bite his flanks but has been behaving himself so far. (Pretty impressive for an animal that spends his days being kicked and pulled at by inexperienced riders.)
Our riding instructor and trail guide, Seth, is a total hottie. One of my cabin mates and I exchange wry smiles - the other girl we're riding with hooked up with him last week in the outhouse and is gunning for a repeat performance tonight while the fireworks go off and the director's attention is diverted.
I start into a slow canter, hoping to entice someone into a race toward the stables. Seth responds, kicking his large Bay into an instant gallop, catching up to me and passing me. Lexington's competitiveness goes into overdrive, and he juts his head forward begging for the slack to transition to a gallop. I finally let him go and he blasts off after the Bay, thundering along the field and through the trees. I'm still laughing at the little alpha male underneath me as I pass Seth and make the final turn toward the stables.
Later, as I'm washing Lexington and putting him up for the night, the girl of outhouse-romp-fame comes up to me and firmly plants herself in front of the door through which I'm attempting to exit. "You're not planning on hooking up with him, are you?" I chuckle, trying to contain my hilarity, but to no avail. The tickle in my throat turns into giant, snort-filled laughs. Seth is in his 30s, and I couldn't be less interested. The girl storms off. I sigh. Women are so complicated.
My mockery of the May-December romance between my cabin-mate and Seth earns me few brownie points with the rest of our roommates, and I spend the rest of the evening being ignored. That night, I climb onto the hill overlooking the lake to watch the fireworks. As I'm trying to swat away a particularly insistent mosquito, I smell rain. Raf sits down next to me. He's been working out on the lake all day, and I'm glad he can't see me blush in the darkness when I think about how I've been watching him swim in the mornings.
We sit in silence, as usual. The fireworks start and he notices my face. "Are ya worried about somethin'?" I confess that I'm concerned for the horses. The stables are across the lake, and I'm tempted to head out there to calm them down. The loud bangs from the fireworks must be scaring them by now. Raf looks at me and says: "well, it's probably best you're not over with the horses and all that." He puzzles me. Why would it matter to him? " 'Coz I'd rather have ya here with me."
*Gulp*
I carefully lean into him and he takes my hand so that nobody else can see it. As he traces amoebas in my palm with his index finger, I feel at peace.
Friday, July 25, 2008
The Anxiety of Influence
Part of what makes it so difficult to write about Raf after all these years is that it becomes impossible to recall experiences exactly the way they were. Because I know how the story ends - the anger, the resentment, the impossible stalemate, I find it difficult to write without carefully meting out my words.
My roommate Lex is the only other person who knows about this blog (and probably its only reader). Last night, as he was perusing my first couple of posts, he said to me "I think this will be good for you...but I know you, and you're editing yourself."
I suppose he's right, but part of that comes from the desire to want to recall every experience exactly as I took it in with my whole being. Harold Bloom called this dilemma "The Anxiety of Influence" and describes it not only as all writers' inability to produce a wholly original thought because of their precursors, but also as the problem of memory superimposing itself on recollection.
I keep wondering how I should structure these posts. Would it be easier to write them the way my brain works - i.e. in flashes and snippets from the past mixed with my present stream of thought? I'll have to get some input on that after I've experimented for a while. I also wonder how long it will take for my recollection of a decade worth of memories to sync up with the present. Hmm...
For now, I'll continue with the story.
Flashback
I'm sitting on the dining hall porch at camp. It's raining, but that doesn't prevent me from intuiting Raf's presence. He's sitting at the other end, about 20 feet away with his chin on his knees, staring out at the muddy lake at the base of the hill. In a self-described effort to rebel against his father's idea of "normal", he has grown his hair into the biggest afro I've ever seen on a white man. We exchange snatches of sarcasm and somehow fall into reluctant conversation. Everyone has retreated into their cabins to wait out the storm, but we sit and talk for almost an hour, letting our legs be splattered by red clay and raindrops until we're covered in the stuff.
He tells me about his family, wondering how to tell his father that he wants to be a photographer. "My father wants me to get a real job, yeah? But what does that mean? Photography is real to me. It's what I love doing." I balk for a nanosecond - I've never been good with sudden intimacy. His honesty makes me uncomfortable, and I'm puzzled by the apparent wisdom he thinks I have to impart.
We sit in silence for so long that I think he's going to get up and leave, but he just waits for me to mull his existence over like it's the most normal thing in the world, until finally I say: "well, have you ever tried just telling the man what you want?" This is a completely foreign concept to Raf, who looks at me as if I had just suggested he take a nailgun to his eye for kicks. "Well.....? Have you?" No, he concedes, he hasn't. Tentatively, I suggest that maybe he should write his father a long, honest letter and see what happens. The earlier perplexion has disappeared from his face and suddenly he's gone, running across the grass to his cabin to start the opus. "This guy is bonkers..."
I go inside the dining hall and grab an apple. When I swing the porch door open I nearly clip his face. He's standing right smack dab in front of me holding all the writing implements he could find.
"Will you help me, then?"
Damn it. I like him.
My roommate Lex is the only other person who knows about this blog (and probably its only reader). Last night, as he was perusing my first couple of posts, he said to me "I think this will be good for you...but I know you, and you're editing yourself."
I suppose he's right, but part of that comes from the desire to want to recall every experience exactly as I took it in with my whole being. Harold Bloom called this dilemma "The Anxiety of Influence" and describes it not only as all writers' inability to produce a wholly original thought because of their precursors, but also as the problem of memory superimposing itself on recollection.
I keep wondering how I should structure these posts. Would it be easier to write them the way my brain works - i.e. in flashes and snippets from the past mixed with my present stream of thought? I'll have to get some input on that after I've experimented for a while. I also wonder how long it will take for my recollection of a decade worth of memories to sync up with the present. Hmm...
For now, I'll continue with the story.
Flashback
He tells me about his family, wondering how to tell his father that he wants to be a photographer. "My father wants me to get a real job, yeah? But what does that mean? Photography is real to me. It's what I love doing." I balk for a nanosecond - I've never been good with sudden intimacy. His honesty makes me uncomfortable, and I'm puzzled by the apparent wisdom he thinks I have to impart.
We sit in silence for so long that I think he's going to get up and leave, but he just waits for me to mull his existence over like it's the most normal thing in the world, until finally I say: "well, have you ever tried just telling the man what you want?" This is a completely foreign concept to Raf, who looks at me as if I had just suggested he take a nailgun to his eye for kicks. "Well.....? Have you?" No, he concedes, he hasn't. Tentatively, I suggest that maybe he should write his father a long, honest letter and see what happens. The earlier perplexion has disappeared from his face and suddenly he's gone, running across the grass to his cabin to start the opus. "This guy is bonkers..."
I go inside the dining hall and grab an apple. When I swing the porch door open I nearly clip his face. He's standing right smack dab in front of me holding all the writing implements he could find.
"Will you help me, then?"
Damn it. I like him.
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