On the Origin of Dating by Means of Natural Selection

Yesterday I resolved that this upcoming year I will spend at least 5 minutes outside each day. Now, I'm no cave dweller, but I'll admit that it's not totally unusual for 24 hours--sometimes even 48 hours--to pass and for me not to have stepped outside. These days usually, but not always, correspond to cold weather or days that I need to shower but really don't want to.

Today was one of those days where I probably needed a shower before heading into public, but I decided that I'd venture out anyways and hope that I don't run into anyone I know. I tied my hair back, clipped my unruly bangs in, well, a clip, and pulled on a pair of pants that needed a wash as badly as I did and a t-shirt from my clothes-suitable-only-for-painting-in pile. I figured my big, dark sunglasses would provide me with the needed anonymity to pop out for a pack of rechargeable batteries and my daily dose of Vitamin D.

I'm about 25 feet from my front door, nose buried in cell phone, when a male voice shouts out my name. Now, I'm quite a jumpy person. I gasp as if I had witnessed a brutal murder when someone creeps up behind me (read: walks into the brightly lit room without me noticing). This is a trait of mine that He got to know very well. I like to think that my jumpiness is a sign that I'm fit...like, in the Charles Darwin sense. I'm convinced that my chances of surviving in the wild are better than my de-sensitized friends (read: normal people), but my 'fitness' can be cumbersome in urban settings. And by cumbersome I mean cause me to look like an idiot. So, when male voice shouts out my name, what do I do? I look up, and before I register that it's Teenage Heartthrob passing by on his bike, I flail both my arms in the air like I'm a white dude with zero rhythm trying unsuccessfully to initiate the wave at a Snoop Dog concert. (In the wild, this gesture would function to scare off predators by making me look larger and more dangerous than I actually am.) I try to recover with what turns out to be a feeble-voiced, drawn out, "Oh, hhhaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiii."

Worse yet, I didn't even look cute to make up for my utter dorkiness.

Conclusion: I may be fit for the wild, but I have reason to be concerned for my survival in the dating world...

The family

In some ways, it was harder saying goodbye to His mom than it was to Him. Him and I had had a couple of days to prepare ourselves and to say all that we wanted to say to one another. So, when the time came to say goodbye, a firm hug and a kiss felt like enough. But with Her, there was so much left unfinished, unsaid, unexplained.

She was the first person we told. The morning of the day we were supposed to leave for Midwestern City, we got up, had really good sex, went for an emotionally-charged walk, then went back to the house and told Her. Well, He told Her, while I stood beside him with tears streaming down my face, unable to make eye contact. She had tears in her eyes before He even started talking. And the first thing she said was, "Like Jane and Paul." At the time, both He and I thought that this meant that his cousins were splitting too. Later we learned that what she meant was that they spent a few years apart before connecting again and going on to get married and have three adorable kids. What followed is a blur. I remember a hug and lots of nice words, but not the particulars. When she was driving me to the airport (well, playing chaffeur, since both He and I were in the back seat), she turned around at one point and said in a mock threatening tone, "You better stay part of this family!"

At the airport, I said goodbye to her first, while He waited a few feet away. As she came around from the driver's side, I lost the ability to speak, and turned into a waterworks show. She again said many sweet things, in the exceptionally eloquent yet entirely genuine way that she does. She told me she loved me. I tried to mutter it back, but all the words were stuck in my throat. I mimed that I'll write to her, and hoped that I would be able to tell her all the things that I wanted to but wasn't able to say in that moment. She stood with her back to the two of us, giving us as much privacy as possible in such a public space. We said our farewells, not so much with words, but with glances and touch and one last kiss. And then I turned around, took hold of my overweight suitcase and walked off.

A few weeks later, I finally managed to dislodge the words from my throat and write her an email. I kept it relatively short, thanking her for all the wonderful things that she'd done for me over the years, but mostly for making me feel so welcome and like a daughter. She isn't really the sentimental and emotionally expressive type, so when she told me a couple of years ago that she considers me the daughter she never had, it really meant a lot. And she made me feel that way. The bond that she had had with her mother-in-law, even after she divorced her son, was one that I had hoped to have with her: going on vacation together without the boys, having one-on-one lunches.

She wrote back to me a couple of days ago.

As I certainly don't have to tell you once more, I was very sad of seeing you and He parting. In my eye, you were (and still are) so much a part of the family, one of us. I'm glad that you and He are working at maintaining a friendship. Who knows what's in stock for any of us. Five-year plans, no matter how well-laid, have a way to turn out in such unexpected ways that it's almost useless to plan much in advance. I think you're both handling the situation as well as you can. Time has a way to take care of things, sometimes in much better ways than we can fathom ourselves.

I do reiterate my invitation to Guatemala. If neither one of you has found another love interest by Christmas (deep down, I almost wish you won't :)), you are both welcome in Guatemala, if that is not awkward to you or Him. Or any other time for that matter. You are and always will be welcome.

I haven't yet responded. But I do plan on giving her a call on Skype sometime in the next few months. And maybe a visit, too...

Totally worth it

This weekend I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I know, I know, I'm like 7 years behind the times. But I'm glad I am. Now was the perfect moment to watch it.

For those still uninitiated, the mind-bending flick centers around an intriguing procedure that allows people to have their memory of a person erased. (I will now proceed to outline the plot. Activate spoiler alert!) In this movie, Clementine and Joel recently broke up, and Clementine opts for the procedure. When Joel finds out, he decides to get the procedure as well. Most of the movie takes place during Joel's procedure, and we get a glimpse of his relationship through sporadic memories, which being to disintegrate and disappear as he is reliving them. At first he recalls all the bad memories, but as the good ones begin to surface he realizes he doesn't want to let them go, even if it means holding onto the bad as well. So, he struggles to keep them, but the resistance is ultimately futile and all of his memories of his former love are expunged. So when they meet again, they have absolutely no recollection of one another. They accidentally discover just how intimately they once knew one another when a former employee of the private clinic that performs the procedure mails them the cassette tapes of their initial interview, in which they explain why they want to have the memory of their former significant other erased.

And, well, the stuff they say on those tapes pretty much sounds like the sort of stuff my "I would dance over her dead body" friend was saying last night. But also the sort of stuff we all start thinking about near the end of a relationship. How something that you thought was cute when you first started dating now just annoys the shit out of you. Or stupid mundane things like the way he stands in front of the fridge with the door wide open for minutes at a time. Ugh, doesn't he know that it lets all the cold air out?

But, right after that super uncomfortable scene comes this next one, where these strangers can't imagine that the things they say on the tapes could be true about this oh-so-wonderful person they just met.  They decide to give it another go. Not because they're naive, no. Deep down they know they'll end up with their hearts broken all over again. But I like to think that they also know that even those shittiest of times are totally worth it if you also get to live through those truly incredibly moments, like when you're staring at your partner and thinking, "I'd be so happy if I just lived in this very moment forever."

"I would dance over her dead body"

Last night I went out for the first time since He and I broke up. And guess what? I actually had a really good time.

I got together with a friend I hadn't seen all summer at my favorite restaurant/bar in town, where I proceeded to have 2 black Russians followed by a gin and tonic (all this before 10:30 p.m.). Oh, yeah, I'm drinking again, bitchesssss! So, the alcohol had a lil bit to do with it, but really it was the realization that I've got a bunch of really cool people here in Midwestern City that I'm happy to call friends. Anywhoozle, he told me all about how he proposed to his girlfriend a couple of weeks back, and I congratulated him (and meant it), then told him all about how He and I broke up. Then we drank some more.

We ended up meeting up with more friends I haven't seen all summer, drinking more, and stumbling from bar to bar. Around 1:00 a.m., it's me and four dudes at bar #3, and the conversation turns to breakups. Apparently e'erbody 'round here has been doing it. One of the late arrivals tells us that he and his girlfriend had just broken up a couple of weeks back. "It didn't affect me all that much," he claimed...and then proceeded to spew vitriol for the next forty minutes. Now, the guy's got a right to be upset: his live-in girlfriend of two years apparently woke him up the morning after he had taken a big exam (and not too long after coming back from an overseas vacation where he took her to meet his family) and informed him that "we need to talk." She told him that while she had been away doing fieldwork in the summer, she met a guy that she is in love with and that he came back to Midwestern City with her, so could he please vacate their flat so that lover boy, who was waiting outside, could come in. Ouch!

So, yeah, he definitely has the right to be upset. And it doesn't help the situation that they're still working on a project together. So, we were all being sympathetic listeners, even as he proceeded to describe how selfish, inconsiderate, controlling, stupid, and fat she is. He continued to divulge way too many personal details, which none of us wanted to hear since we work with her too. And that's when he said it:  "I would dance over her dead body." And he meant it...all three times. "What? I don't want to punch her in the face. I don't want to strangle her with my bare hands. I'm a good guy." (This is where I lost it, laughing so hard...AT him, for thinking that not wanting to murder her makes him a good person.) "But if she died, I would dance over her dead body." Pretty harsh.

I was thinking about His death lately, too...but in the complete opposite way. You see, Hurricane Irene is ripping up the East Coast right now and is set to hit East Coast City tonight. But unlike my friend, I was so terrified that something would happen to Him. I even offered (only half jokingly) for Him to take refuge in Midwestern City. "Are you serious?", he asked affectionately. "Well, if it's a matter of life and death...", I responded.

We had a wonderful relationship. We still have a wonderful relationship--a different sort of relationship, but wonderful nonetheless. So, when it was my turn to talk about my break up, I had nothing bad to say about Him. Absolutely nothing. Drama was never a part of our relationship. For the longest time, we never fought. And when we did (rarely), we never raised our voices or called each other names or stormed out. And we always resolved the issue before bed (and, if the fight was in bed, we'd spend three minutes back to back before one of us turned over and spooned the other). Even our break up--the actual conversation itself--was entirely loving and amicable, an oddly twisted but perfect reflection of what our relationship had been like.


I wonder what's more difficult: a particularly bad breakup, where the person has broken your heart and given you reason to never want to speak to them again, or a "good" breakup, where there are really no hard feelings and where, in fact, there's still a lot of mutual love. I always thought it was the first, but now I'm not so sure. Your thoughts?

Fuckety fuck fuck

Whhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy didn't I just listen to my own advice and stick to Curb?

Advice to future self: Even if you think you are fine (i.e. the missing and longing has started to give way to a calm sort of appreciation for all the wonderful times you shared together), do NOT read lovey dovey messages that you wrote to each other over the course of the relationship.

More later. Now: sleep.

A temporary antidote

I need a drink. Badly. And I plan on getting oh-so-pleasantly tipsy as soon as the doctor clears me. And by pleasantly tipsy I mean completely shitfaced (hello 19-year-old-me...and 21-year-old-me....and 25-year-old-me-at-the-Yelle-concert).


Until then, I resolve to stop listening to Adele and to instead watch Curb Your Enthusiasm  and the "Annie gets relaxed" scene from Bridesmaids on repeat (if you haven't seen the movie, stop whatever you are doing and watch it immediately).


Any other suggestions?

Someone you can poo around

I'm the type of person that goes to a restaurant and even if there's something I looooove on the menu I go for something I haven't tried before. Even if it turns out to be a flop, I leave feeling satisfied because I tried something new and learned a bit more about myself and the world around me.

I'm trying to apply this attitude to my newfound singledom--to regard it as an exciting opportunity to learn more about myself, rather than something that is frighteningly unpredictable and way out of my comfort zone.

But I find myself craving the familiar item on the menu. Suddenly, going for the same thing doesn't seem like the boring choice; no, its familiarity is comforting and appealing.

Okay, I'll stop with the food analogy (somebody has her appetite back!).

I've been missing him, of course, but for some odd reason this comment from a recent (post-breakup) Skype chat made me reallllllly miss him. 

[10:36:35 PM] i have to poo but i don't like pooin when my roommates are around
[10:36:35 PM] i'd poo if YOU were around though (nod)

This lil' comment had me smiling for the rest of the night. I'm not sure if what I felt was a sense of longing or appreciation. Longing for that comfort and familiarity, or appreciation for having shared that kind of intimacy with someone.

There were certainly times during our relationship when I wished we were a little less comfortable with one another. I wanted to keep a certain level of spiciness in our relationship, and hearing about his latest bowel movement ("It was THIS big!") wasn't helping. At first, I giggled when he'd fart under the covers, then look at me with a "shit, sorry!" look on his face and proceed to wave the stench in the opposite direction. And I took it as a sign of love when he'd come in and pee, not minding that I was brushing my teeth less than a foot away--teasing me, in fact, to join in on the fun: "Wanna hold it?" (And no, I never did...until the day after we broke up. Well, even then I didn't. I went to do it and he laughed and flinched, finally satisfied that I was willing to entertain the idea.) Even after we established some boundaries, I'd enjoy when we'd break them.

It sure is nice to have had someone you can poo around.*






*So that there is no misunderstanding, I am referring to pooing when the person is at home, perhaps in the next room...and maybe even talking to you. I am not referring to pooing in front of one another. That's just gross.

So many douchebags

I've been depressed. No, not in the need-counselling-and-medication way. It's more like the this-word-is-totally-unwarranted-to-describe-my-situation sort. I'm just not looking forward to the future...my romantic future, that is. Yes, this has more than a little to do with the videos in my last post (those have got to be fake, right? Right?!?!). It also has something to do with these horrible dating stories (they're entertaining to read, but not so entertaining when you're playing the lead role). And it definitely has a lot to do with recently-surfaced memories of guys I knew in college, as well as some trash t.v. with guys that would fit in well with the cast of Jersey Shore.

Simply put, there are a whole lotta douchebags out there.

During our relationship, I think I took for granted how easy it is to find someone (despite protests to the contrary by many of my single friends). After all, I scored a sweet, intelligent, good looking, funny, considerate, generous, moral, emotionally-available guy pretty much on my first shot. Things were pretty easy in our relationship. Don't get me wrong--relationships take work, but in our case it didn't take thatttt much work.

I'm starting to realize that it might not be that easy to find someone who is sweet, intelligent, good looking, funny, considerate, generous, moral, emotionally-available (and single, and lives in your zip code). Hence, the onset of depression that isn't really depression.

One of the reasons we decided to split was to "experience other people" (i.e. rub our private parts against people who are young and hot, while we're still young and hot). [This certainly was not the only reason we split nor the primary one, but it was a consideration.] Because after five years together--five years during which you are in the prime of your life, I might add--no matter how much you love the person, you start to wonder what it'd be like to be with other people. These thoughts become more intense when you start talking about getting engaged in a couple of years and committing to spend the rest of your lives together. And these thoughts don't go away even though you can picture your partner playing with the kids that you brought into this world together. Beer commercials and Sex and the City don't help the situation either.

Then, when you're free to rub your private parts against hot, young people (permitted that they are okay with that, of course), you realize that many of them are douchebags.

Please shoot me if...

...I ever turn into this

...or consider going out with a guy like this.

Or at least refer me to some really good therapists, and threaten to shoot me if I don't go.

I think I got asked out on a date

I mean, I'm not sure.

It's this (cute) guy that works at my grocery store. I go in at least a couple of times a week, and we chat while he checks me out (as in rings up my groceries, not as in ravishes me with his eyes). He's one of those teenage heartthrob types, with boyish good looks, sexy disheveled hair, and a smile that dares you not to smile back. I could never decide whether he was flirting with me or just that super-cute-smiley-guy--and, frankly, I didn't really concern myself with the question, for I was in a loving relationship.

Still yummy.

I think it was Day 2 or Day 3. I realized that I couldn't survive on hot lemon water for long, so I forced myself out of the house and headed to the grocery store, hoping I wouldn't see anyone I knew. And then I saw him. Oh yeah, I forgot that he existed! Apparently he was surprised to see me, too. A big grin came over his face, he momentarily ignored the customer who was asking him something, and he said, "Look who it is, 20 years later!" I suppose I didn't mention to him that I'd be away for over two months. But why would I?

So, between questions like "What's your member number?", "Credit or debit?", "Do you need a bag?", we talked about what we did this summer. I found myself (my no makeup, red-eyed, frizzy haired self) smiling at this boy that stood before me, and thinking, "I don't remember you being this cute." I asked if he'd been biking much. Stupid question, right? Thing is, I didn't know all that much about him, but one of the only things I did know was that he had been in a few races in the spring. And that's when he casually mentioned a bike event that'd be happening sometime the following week, adding "You should come. It's fun." He didn't have the details, so he said he'd let me know more the next time I came in.

In the meantime, I discovered that my friend who I leant my bike key to was out of town and there was no way of freeing my bike from my front porch. Problem solved: I couldn't go. That's the worst excuse ever, right? I'm not sure that he was fully convinced when I told him the words clumsily stumbled out of my mouth. Especially because I was carrying my bike helmet (you get 5% off your purchase). Doh!

My (Pre-)teen heartthrob #2

"There's always next time," he said (or I imagined, in my state of utter embarrassment after being caught scamming his store.....Me: "Oh, right, I have my helmet...This is illegal, right?" Teenage Heartthrob: "Yeah. Usually I'd get mad, but I'm not mad." Me: "But, I walked. And the whole point is to encourage people not to drive, right?", I reasoned.....aloud....thus making myself look like an immoral, fumbling idiot).


But anywayssssss. The point is that accepting the date (was it even a date?...this isn't a rhetorical question) was never an option. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. But now that I can, I have to figure out if I want to.

Which brings me to the question: After a serious relationship has ended, how long do you wait before you start dating? or simply screwing? Of course, there's no formula (well, there probably is a formula, somewhere out there on the Internet). The answer is probably "when you feel ready." But I'm not sure you ever feel ready. You just gotta do it, and pity the poor soul that's unfortunate enough to be the first date/fuck/relationship after him. As my good friend said to me the other day, "I don't believe you can really get over someone until you meet someone else."

This just seems so wrong now.
I wasn't even a pre-teen.

I'm inclined to agree with her, but I don't want to meet anyone else right now...at least I don't think I do. I definitely don't want to jump into another relationship--that much I know for sure (and that much was confirmed by The Dating Persona Test)--but what about something more casual? Like a hot body to rub up against and maybe watch the occasional movie with?

Let's get things straight. I'm not looking to start dating. I do not plan on actively pursuing possibilities that could lead to dating. I certainly don't plan on strapping on a pair of heels and hitting da dance floor, and I definitely don't plan on signing up to some online dating service. But, if I were to be asked out, by Teenage Heartthrob or any other attractive male specimen, what then? Decline (more gracefully, hopefully), or see where it goes? (Again, that is not a rhetorical question.)

(Let me pause to say that I don't think I need to answer this question anytime soon. I'm pretty sure Teenage Heartthrob is either a) turned off, or b) thinks that I blew him off with a lame excuse and has resolved not to ask me to join him for any extra-curricular activities.)

And, even if I do feel ready to grab a drink with someone, and maybe later have him put out the fire of my burning loins, there's something else to consider... His feelings (no, not the one that you're screwing (oh, puns, how I enjoy thee!)). I would be totally devastated if I found out that a mere few weeks after our relationship ended, He was playing firefighter with another girl. Or even sharing a cocktail with her. (Let's recap: our breakup was a mutual decision; we'd dated seriously for nearly five years; we were really happy and in love for just about our entire relationship.) So, there's the respect for the former partner thing to consider, too.

But how long do I allow my loins to burn? And how long until I can start dating without feeling guilty about it?

Help!

Retiring the "we"

When you're in a steady long-term relationship, you always seem to be making some sort of plans. Where you'll go on your next vacation. Whether you'll be spending the next holiday with your mom or his mom or his dad (which gets really complicated when each lives in a different country, and neither of you live close to any of them). How you'll squeeze in visits with all of them (and hopefully extended family too) over the summer months, plus attend friends' weddings, plus find some time to relax. Or you're preparing for your birthday or his birthday or your anniversary or Valentine's Day. There's always something.

And this makes breaking up really inconvenient (in addition to heart wrenching, disorienting, superbly shitty, etc). In our case, we had purchased two one-way (non-refundable) plane tickets to Midwestern City, where we were to spend most of August, before He moved to East Coast City and we embarked on our second year of long-distance. I was going to visit in mid-September to get him settled in his new apartment and to meet his new friends and entrench our committed relationship status. He had pitched several times already the idea of spending the Christmas holidays in Guatemala, where his mother now lives. We had already committed I had already committed us to two weddings in Toronto next summer (two of my besties are getting hitched, and I'll twice be a bridesmaid!), and we were beginning to think about where and how we'd spend the rest of the summer: perhaps another visit to my Eastern European homeland, or summer in Montreal again, or taking it easy in one of our two cities, or more exotic travel destinations--these were all contenders. I won't even mention the long-term planning: where we'd live after we graduated with fancy letters behind our names (Montreal, if we could have it our way), marriage (kicked off with a small, tasteful, non-traditional ceremony), house (modest, with eclectic decor that consisted of antiques and things we picked up on our travels); kids (one girl that'd be just like me, one boy that'd be just like Him, and one child that we'd adopt and love just as much).

All those plans came to a rather abrupt halt. There was no more we--at least not in that sense. It was just me. And I'm trying to figure out if I like the just me thang or not. It's kinda like when you spot a top that looks fabulous on the rack, but when you try it on you're not totally convinced, so you end up just staring at yourself in the mirror, adjusting, checking it out from a million different angles, all the while making ridiculous faces, and concluding with, "I don't know," while the commission-based sales person surreptitiously rolls her eyes at you.

You see, when the breakup was on our radar, one of the things I kind of looked forward to was the prospect of not having to compromise, or take His feelings or desires into account, or even having to consult with anyone. These things never bothered me during the relationship, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't get more than a bit excited by the thought of being totally selfish for a while without feeling guilty about it. The shirt looked fabulous on the rack. I looked forward to trying it on.

But the other day I found myself looking into the computer screen saying, "I don't know." We were messaging on Skype (yes, we've been talking...more on that some other time) and I mentioned that I was watching the episode of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations where he visits Montreal, and that he was currently gorging himself on foie gras poutine at Au Pied De Cochon, probably the city's most famous restaurant. I should explain that in all of our years in Montreal, we had never gone (mostly because I don't eat flesh of land animals and also because it's terribly expensive). I should also explain that Anthony Bourdain is probably the only celebrity that He cares for, and lost his shit over when we saw him filming in the streets of Montreal this summer. Anyways, I mention to Him that Bourdain proclaimed Au Pied De Cochon one of his favorite restaurants in the world, to which He responds, "ya! ive got to go there some day." *Ouch* I mean, even though we've talked about getting back together in the future, I harbor no delusions that it'll happen anytime soon. I'm fully aware that we'll be leading separate lives for a while, experiencing new things and eventually people (that was (part of) the point of the breakup). Nevertheless, hearing him say "I've got to go there some day"  hurt. We loved exploring new restaurants together. That was our thing. (Writing in past tense is another of those ouch-inducing things). "Fuck freedom and not having to compromise," I wanted to say, "I just want to explore new things and places together, and share the things we love and are excited about with each other." Instead, I waited twenty minutes to reply, then came up with, "Bourdain played hockey in a Concordia uniform!"

Time for you to (not so) surreptitiously roll your eyes.

Half-Cocked: Random Brutal Sex Dreamer

....Apparently that's what I am, according to OKCupid.com: a Half-Cocked, Random Brutal Sex Dreamer. I don't know what possessed me to take "The Dating Persona Test." Actually, I do. I just spent the last couple of hours reading Cindy Chupak's "The Between Boyfriends Book", about single life in NYC. I wasn't particularly looking for something like that, but when I noticed it on the shelf of my friendly neighborhood thrift store, I figured it would provide a couple of hours of amusement.

Next thing I know, I'm on OkCupid.com filling out "What kind of dater are you?" No, I didn't create an online dating profile. I have no interest in dating anytime soon, and I especially have no interest in online dating anytime soon. My dating profile confirmed my reluctance to enter into an emotional relationship.......

Half-Cocked: Random Brutal Sex Dreamer

Fiery. Hungry. Blatant. Sexual. Christ. You are Half-Cocked.

There’s a lot of wild lust inside you, banging around, that much is obvious. There’s also a lot of untamed emotion. When either escapes, look out. One minute you’re completely together, the next you’re a howling gale of hormones and opinions.

Outside relationships, your intense, mercurial personality makes you a charmer. You can be fiercely devoted, and it’s likely that many of your friends will be friends-for-life. Of course, your enemies are likewise certain and zealous, especially your exes and their therapists.

You will find the right person. In the short term, he’s someone virile who won’t sweat your imperfections. In the long term, he will be someone mature and caring who will grow to love them.

 OKCupid tells me that my half-cocked self should consider The Playboy: Random Gentle Sex Master (a guy who is "after physical rather than emotional relationships", "move[s] on BEFORE sleeping with her", and has low standards). 

The Billy Goat: Deliberate Brutal Sex Dreamer is also a good match for me, apparently (he's "horny", "stubborn", "kinda cute", "slightly immature" and "often found on rough terrain"....oh and "unready for total commitment", preferring instead to "have a consistent available, preferably not-too-chatty, hookup"). 

I am to expressly avoid The Slow Dancer: Deliberate Gentle Love Dreamer (a guy that is "steady" and "reliable" and whose "focus is love, not sex").

There you have it, folks. In the months ahead I get to look forward to steamy sex with guys that sport cheesy scorpio tattoos...and/or goats. 

Images from OkCupid.com

Friday night blogging

Yes, I'm aware that it's past 2 a.m. on a Friday night (technically Saturday morning) and I'm blogging while my friends are probably beginning to stumble out of the bar and slur "good night" to one another. I was supposed to meet them tonight, but instead stayed home and Skype-dated with my gal pals back home, checked out Etsy.com and Craigslist, and watched the finale of So You Think You Can Dance (wahooooo for Melanie! and for Hulu!). No, my staying in is not some form of self-imposed punishment. It's just that most of the people there--a mix of (not super close) friends and acquaintances--I haven't seen all summer, and I just didn't want to go through the whole explanation thing tonight. Especially since I'm still not allowed to touch a drop of alcohol, which I've so badly wanted to drench myself in lately.

Buuuttttt I didn't sit at home concocting stories, as I did last Saturday. And that's something to be proud of, I think, since I knew He was out with his roommates for the first time in East Coast City...Skype never lies). Three cheers for progress!

A fresh start

Two days ago, He moved to East Coast City, where he'll be living for the next fiveish years while earning a bunch of letters behind his name (well, just three: PhD). (Yup, He's a smart one. *Sigh*)

I'm excited for Him--I am. Buttttt a not-so-teeny-tiny part of me resents that He gets a fresh start, and I don't. Over the next month, he'll begin to meet people who will become his friends and colleagues, and will get to know Him--just Him, not us. When they inquire about His relationship status (and they will. Did I mention He's really good lookin? *Sigh*), He'll be able to answer, "Yeah, I'm single" without having to give any sort of explanation, "and, yeah, I'm up for a drink tonight." What I have to look forward to this next month, as friends and acquaintances roll back into town from summer vacation and pose that dreaded question, "How was your summer?", is telling them--people who, when they met me and inquired about my relationship status a year earlier, got to know me as Me with long-term, now also long-distance boyfriend--that I'm now just Me...that we failed, just like so many of them had. He'll discover new restaurants and drinking establishments and running routes, while I'll continue to frequent the ones that we discovered together.

All this bothers me, as much as I wish it didn't.

But what really ignites a riot in my internal organs is this: He's getting a new cell phone number. He's not even getting a new phone (no, he's determined to have his Motorolla Razor last a decade), just a new East Coast City area code. Whyyyyyyyyyy? We're not in Canada anymore, tootsie, where you have to change your number when you move cities or else face the gods of sky-high cell phone bills. Here, in Ame'rica, the cell phone plans are more expensive for a reason: no roaming inside the country. Now you're a smart boy, Mr. future PhD, so I know I don't have to tell you that it's completely unnecessary to go through the hassle of changing your number and probably paying some stupid fee (because AT&T sux) to do it. Why not hang onto the number that I've committed to memory, even though it's at the top of my speed dial list? The number that like a ka-gillion places could reach you, my emergency contact, at when I break a rib, am found unconscious, get into a car accident?

And then the riot was set ablaze when this question popped to mind: under what name do I store His new number? Every entry that I've had for Him has been some cutesy pet name (yuck, I know). Firstname Lastname doesn't seem right. No.

Perhaps....

-The Man Who Played Scratch and Sniff With My Armpits...After I Stopped Wearing Deoderent
-The Man Who Would Get Gitty Every Time I Responded Affirmatively To The Question, "Would You Allow Me To Eat You If You Died in a Plane Crash?"
-The Man Who Dropped Anything and Everything When I Called Out "Snuggle Tiiiiimmmmmeeee!" (and for whom I dropped anything and everything when he called out "Snuuuuggggle Time!")
-The Man Who Made Me Who I Am

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Update:

A couple of weeks later, a slightly wiser me had a bit more to say about this. More precisely, I had this to say.

Confessions

When I was filling out all the I-promise-never-to-sue-you paperwork at my new yoga studio, I listed Him as my emergency contact.

+

I also haven't replaced the faded piece of paper stuck to my mailbox that tells the mail carrier that He and Me reside there (and not to leave flyers, please).

=

P.s. No, we never resided in  this particular apartment together. Yes, I put his name on the nameplate anyways. And I'm keeping it for the same reason I put it up: it's a security measure...y'know, because thieves and murderers are deterred by two names on a mailbox as opposed to one.

Breaking the news part deux

I said I wanted at least one jaw to drop. I didn't have to wait for long.

[A transcript of a Skype chat with a friend back home, trying to arrange a time to speak.]

Me: We should chat soon.
Friend: I can later this week. Tonight is the night I watch Bachelor Pad (a 3 hr show). lol
Me: Three fricken hours?! Oh my. Okay, I'll catch you later this week. There's some news I ought to share with you, though I'm sure you've already heard.
Friend: I haven't heard anything?!
Me: Well then, we'll have much to talk about.
Friend: Are you going to say another proposal? lol [Our mutual best friend got engaged this summer.]
Me: [I cringe - ouch!] No, m'dear. I'd rather tell you over the phone.
Friend: Hmmm. This sounds important. I wanna know!! I think ur engaged lol.
Me: You'll laugh when I tell you, then. I'm certainly not engaged.

Breaking the news

"But aren't you shocked and devastated, mama?" I didn't actually say it aloud, but that's what I was thinking.

My mother had loved Him. During our bi-annual visits, she would rise early before work and stand over a hot stove patiently flipping crepes for two hours because she knew He liked them. At the end of our visit, she would hug and kiss Him as affectionately as she did me, and she would pack Him all sorts of goodies He mentioned liking (usually in passing and mostly out of politeness). And she always asked about Him with genuine affection and care, even when our conversation lasted only a couple of minutes ("Okay, we'll talk later. Just tell me, are you good? Is He good?")

Why, then, was she not totally shocked and utterly devastated when I told her that her future son-in-law and I had decided to end our relationship? And why weren't my friends, when I told them? Don't get my wrong, they were all incredibly supportive, offering up wise words of advice (and, thankfully, steering clear of cliches), and often just listening to me cry (one admitting, a few days later, that she couldn't make out anything that I said between my gasps for air during our hour-long long-distance conversation).

That was all wonderful and helpful, but I wanted them to feel as though the world had turned on its head, and I wanted them to question whether love truly exists. Instead, we talked about my breakup (at length), then moved on to other topics of conversation.

So now I'm left trying to find comfort in the idea that breakups--as all-consuming and totally disorienting as they are to the two people whose relationship ended--happen so often that they really aren't all that shocking.

But for now I want to see at least one jaw drop. 

Crazy: this season's normal

Disclaimer: I figured when I started this blog that you would inevitably discover that I lean towards the crazy end of the crazy-sane spectrum (*bats eye lashes*)…but I didn't think it would occur this soon.

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After a few days of uncontrollable bouts of crying, the tears dried up. Just like that. It was rather disturbing, actually, to think that within a mere matter of days I could get over Him--the man who was going to make me two wildly attractive and intelligent children, and with whom I was going to adopt a third; the man who insisted I walk on the inside of the sidewalk, so that he would take the impact lest a car swerve off the road; the man who would stare at me naked and tell me he worshipped my body. He continued to flood my thoughts, but I was carrying on as usual: seeing friends, regaining an appetite, yogaing, and unpacking countless packages that were a result of online retail therapy on Day 1 and 2. I started to feel okay, good even.

And then, just after I broke the one-week-sans-crying mark, my eyes turned into bottomless wells. (Oh, if you're thinking this all sounds rather normal, just you wait…)

It was a Saturday night, and I decided to spend it at home. After hanging out with friends for the last few nights, I longed to curl up on the couch with Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections and a generous glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Instead, I spent it mentally writing my own twisted and sadistic novel about what my former lover was up to that night and cursing my doctor for ordering me not to drink for the rest of the month (I'm not dying, in case you're wondering). 

(Okay, here comes the crazy. *Breathes out*)

You see, that day He wasn't on Skype. Which was fine. I knew that He was running errands (no, I haven't been stalking Him; He told me this), but the evening came and then the night, and the green checkmark next to His name never lit up. But my creative juices did. I started conjuring up scenarios, and despite warnings from Rational Self I convinced myself that those fictional scenes were indeed taking place. I had decided that His brother roped Him into going out that night. Though a bit reluctant, He rationalized that he hadn't seen much of Brother during our month-long visit to Montreal, and besides it's their Mutual Friend's birthday, and He hasn't seen much of Mutual Friend in the past couple of years either. Yup, He's definitely out with Brother and Mutual Friend. And Brother, as we all know, is a notoriously hardcore partier who abandons Him five minutes after arriving. Left standing alone, He heads to the bar for a gin and tonic. That'll keep him busy for a while, He figures, and it'll give him something to hold so he doesn't have to worry about what to do with his hands. He thinks of me, but those thoughts are interrupted by the beautiful blonde that struts by in her itsy bitsy piece of garment that she's trying to pass off as a skirt. He has his drink in hand by now, and wonders what to do next. It doesn't feel right picking up da ladies just yet--it's hardly been a week since we broke up--but it's not really socially acceptable to join up with a random group of guys either. And so, after twenty minutes or so, He decides to approach some girl (not the one in the "skirt", another one). (Oh, the other variation of this story goes like this: Brother introduces Him to some attractive piece of Montreal ass, then takes off to do the social butterfly thing.) In either scenario, He ends up talking to some girl. Worse yet, they're speaking in le Francais, something He was never able to do with me. And this turns Him on. And even though I pop into His mind and he feels a tad bit guilty, His rational side pushes him on, telling him that this sort of thing is necessary in order to “move on”. And besides, his penis chimes in, you won't have a chance to hook up with a Quebecois chick for another year at the very least! 

Now this is the part of the story where I got stuck. I couldn't decide whether He'd just indulge in a bit of flirtation (reasoning to himself that I would never know, and therefore not be hurt; that he really had no other viable option, other than to stand alone all night; that he doesn't care for the girl, but wants to prove that he's still got what it takes to play the game), or whether He'd get touchy, perhaps grabbing the small of her back to guide her through the crowd; or whether He'd go so far as to taste the vodka that lingered on her tongue ("Kissing in a club is sooooo tacky," I thought to myself, choosing to ignore all the naughty things He did to me in one particular drinking establishment when we first started dating…and then again three New Year's Eves ago). 

So there you have it: crazy! But also somewhat normal. I knew that even if the unlikely scenarios that I had mentally pen stroked were indeed unfolding, it doesn't mean that He no longer cares for me. And that even if it wasn't happening that night, it would happen some time, and regardless of when it happens it'll seem "too soon". I realized that my tears were activated not by my zodiac sign's jealous tendencies, but rather by the realization of what I'd been ignoring all week: it's really over.

Day 1 of Life A.H. (After Him)

Or was it day 3? or 14? I'm not sure when to start counting. 

Do I start from that initial conversation two weeks prior, which ended with us deciding that it was probably best not to continue our relationship? No, because the rest of the day we spent in each other's arms, just gazing at one another; and the next day he dutifully downed my glass of tomato juice which his sweet ol' grandma serves to all her lunch guests; and then we spent the rest of the day strolling hand in hand through Montreal's Botanical Gardens, taking sickly couple photos, and, sometime around the Japanese Pavillion, admitting aloud what we'd both been feeling all day long: "I want to be with you". On a honeymoon high, I charged my credit card with two one-way flights to the Midwestern city in which I'd been studying for the past year, some 900+ miles away from the city in which he'd been studying in that year. We planned to spend the month of August in Midwestern City, just like we had last August, when together we painted every single wall and ceiling in my new apartment…during a heat wave…without A/C. So no, definitely not day 14. 

Maybe that day--the day I boarded a flight to Midwestern City solo--was actually day 3. Two days prior, we had revisited the conversation, and four hours later we reached the same conclusion that we had two weeks earlier. But there was no going back this time. Knowing that our clock was ticking down, we spent the next two days affectionally joined at the hip, except for the twenty minutes when I excused myself to call Expedia and change the reservation from two to one. Hundreds of miles would separate us soon enough, and we just wanted to be us for a little while longer. So we stayed up until our eyes failed us, held each other all night long, lazed around in bed longer than usual, and had great sex. When he dropped me off at the airport, it wasn't as difficult to say goodbye as I had expected. We had said it all to one another in the last two days. And besides, we agreed to remain best friends, so it wasn't really the end, right? So no, it wasn't day 3 either.

Day 1, I suppose, was when I arrived at my front doorstep in Midwestern City and realized that I'd have to haul 100 lbs of luggage up three flights of stairs all by myself. If He was there, I'd probably insist on doing it myself anyways, but the point is He wasn't there to grab the handle despite my protests and make some comment like, "Gotta be faster on the trigger, tootsie." And that's when the tears that had been streaming silently down my face since I sat at Gate A15 in YUL turned into full on sobs. I think I made it inside my flat before the desperate gasps for air started, brought on by the realization that exactly one year ago the two of us had arrived in Midwestern City to an empty apartment, save for the air mattress an acquaintance had offered up to spare us from the hardwood floors. Approximately a year prior to that, we had also arrived to a completely empty apartment, that time in a similar city in the South, where he was starting a two-year Master's program, and where I'd be living with him and playing housewife while applying to graduate schools. There was not even an air mattress that time; instead, He made a makeshift bed out of my yoga mat and the clothes contained in our three suitcases (the only things that we brought with us, having sold off everything else in our Montreal apartment). This time around I had a comfortable bed, furniture, and a stack of mail...but not Him.

Yup, that was Day 1. And it sucked.

Oh, hello. I didn't expect to see you here.

Once upon five years ago, Fiercely Independent & Stubbornly Single Me met Him and suddenly morphed into Oh So Happily Committed (and Wouldn’t Have It Any Other Way) Me. Then, once upon a week and a half ago, I was reintroduced to Single Me. It was quite an awkward reunion. We’d fallen out of touch, and discovered that we don’t have much in common anymore and we don’t even really enjoy one another's company. But since we’ll be roommates for the indeterminate future, there’s no other choice but to get along, right? 

Something tells me that it’s bound to be a love-hate relationship.