Feb 24, 2005

Prelude to a Cook-Off: Part 1

I have a confession to make, dear reader. I’ve withheld information from you out of my own pride and fear of ridicule. The same day I awoke from dreams about the SoHB, I sent him an e-mail – a rambling, revealing, vulnerable message. I knew that I shouldn’t, but my thoughts spilled out of me. After a couple of days with no reply, I followed up with another e-mail simply stating, “Point taken. I understand. It’s too bad; I feel very badly for you. Wish you well.” He responded late that afternoon saying that I had jumped to conclusions, and he intended to respond to my e-mail. After a few more days had passed, I sent a message apologizing for jumping to conclusions – that it had occurred to me that 2 ½ days (now 6) was plenty of time for a person to say something, if he had anything to say. He didn’t reply.

Thursday night I sent out two e-mails: a silly one to all my friends, in which I included the SoHB for a change, and another for only the SoHB that was about a workshop series I thought would interest him. Friday morning he replied to the workshop notice with a ‘thank you’ and a little note about how he wished they were held on different days. Since he gave me an inch, I decided to try for a mile. I asked if he was ever going to respond to my original e-mail. He answered that it would nice if we could be friends; He just didn’t want to argue with me or anything like that. I replied with an e-mail that said I wasn’t looking to argue, but it may happen. I said that since I didn’t know his thoughts or feelings, I couldn’t predict what my reactions might be. I likewise couldn’t predict how he would react to my own thoughts, but that was the risk one took when something important was on the line. It was important to me, at least. I said that I hoped I would be worth risking an argument, if that’s what it came to, but that was up to him. I told him that I personally couldn’t carry on with a person as though there wasn’t an elephant in the room. I asked that since pretense made me uncomfortable, and confrontation made him uncomfortable, what were we going to do?

I stayed online while clipping coupons for a trip to the store, but the magical mail chime didn’t sound. I did my grocery shopping and returned to immediately check my messages. Nothing. It had been three hours since my last e-mail. I sent a final message of “Say something,” but believed he had already left work. There would be no response before seeing him. I was downtrodden.

Rachel* had invited me to happy hour, but I knew I couldn’t risk drinking in my current frame of mind. I desperately needed to talk to an understanding ear; I needed a shoulder to cry on. I needed someone who wasn’t overtired of the story and who wouldn’t shrink from my tears. I needed The Flirt.

I called him knowing the chance of his availability was slim. Miss Kentucky had to be coming in that night if she was going to the Chili Cook-Off. I was surprised he even answered the phone. After verifying that he had no plans for the evening (Miss Kentucky had conveniently missed her flight), I asked if I could come over to talk. He naturally wondered what I needed to talk about, but I was reluctant to discuss anything over the phone. I assured him that it wasn’t about us; I just needed to talk. He was reticent about letting me visit, but I felt a phone conversation was too impersonal. I wanted to know why I couldn’t come over. He tried excusing himself saying he might go out later, and I tried telling him I wouldn’t stay long. To my persistent inquiries over his reluctance, he eventually revealed that he didn’t trust himself. I argued that since we were both sober, I trusted us, and particularly myself, but he wasn't buying. Then, it was my turn to spill.

I told him that I needed to talk about the SoHB and me – that he had the most insight into our relationship. He had seen us through all stages and could sometimes surprise me with his observations. I confessed to recently sending e-mails to the SoHB and questioned why he wouldn’t even try to reconcile. I wanted to know why he was so willing to let everything go. Why wouldn’t he risk an argument if it could mean saving our friendship? I tried to remain within the confines of the last few weeks. I didn’t want to put him in the middle any more than I had to. He revealed that the SoHB hadn’t told him what happened, except to mention that he’d said something while drunk. My only response was to say that while accurate, it wasn’t the only thing to have caused this rift.

He didn’t offer any revealing insight, but then, I didn’t expect it. I just needed a supportive ear – someone to validate my hurt feelings. I finished our conversation and moved on to other things. As the evening deepened, I found myself becoming angry again. I re-read my account of events posted here, because reading it two days earlier had given me a new perspective. I saw how transparently I argued about being wronged, trying to prove my case when all along I could have made different choices, also. It helped, but only slightly. As I prepared for bed, I was plagued with thoughts of making biting comments to him, especially about his girlfriend since The Flirt told me she wasn’t coming. I couldn’t retrieve my thoughts from their vicious bend. I was angered that he ignored my last e-mail knowing we were bound to see each other the next day. I felt helpless. It felt as though I’d undone all my hard work preparing myself for this event. I sat on the side of my bathtub and prayed.

As I prayed for guidance in handling the situation – in handling my anger – God whispered, “Humble yourself. When you humble yourself before your enemy, I can be your defense.”

Visions of David and Goliath, Job and his friends, My Lord before the Sanhedrin passed through my mind, all situations where victory was achieved through meekness. I knew I’d hit the wisdom jackpot with this one. There was no way to fail. The answer was very simple; my stumbling block was pride. Although opposed to renewing any romance throughout most of our relationship, I didn’t want him to stop longing for it. My pride kept me from speaking to him that first two weeks after he confessed to seeing this girl. My pride wouldn’t allow me to consider that he may have done the best he could. There was only one thing left to do – make an offering.

Whenever I feel my spirit is in abject poverty over a situation, I know that there is some flaw in my character which needs to be sacrificed – that must be purged by offering it to God. I go through a ritual of dimming the lights, covering my hair with a shawl, and kneeling before my couch, a chair or low stool, or my bed. (This particular night I added lit candles to the routine.) Then I pray an offertory prayer, giving over to God whatever weakness plagues me. So, I offered my pride to the Lord this night, asking that He replace it with a spirit of humility. I asked that He remind me to be humble as I faced the SoHB the next day.

I went to bed with my Bible, wanting to read by lamplight a passage from Job. I remembered studying it in college and being moved that God had Job make an offering for the friends who maligned him. I studied it in conjunction with Matthew 5:24, which comes from the Sermon on the Mount and says:


Leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.




I was in the midst of finding just the right verse in Job when my doorbell rang. I was startled; It was past 1 o’clock. Who could be ringing my doorbell at that hour? The only person who ever did that was the SoHB when stopping by after a drinking binge. Could it…? Surely not. There was only one occasion when someone other than the SoHB rang my doorbell like that, and it was strangers who obviously had the wrong house. I put on my robe and warily padded to the door. I moved as silently as possible in case I didn’t want to answer the door. I peered through the peephole, and there he was, smugly puffing a cigarette …

… The Flirt.

*** to be continued***

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

Feb 16, 2005

That Wretched Day

Rachel* and I decided to be each other’s Valentines this year, which required us to do something other than sit around the house in a pity party. Even though it was a Monday night and she had to be at work the next day, we decided to have a couple of drinks at Bojangle’s. While making arrangements, she mentioned that Big Red had asked what was up for the evening. (Last week, I sent out an e-mail to my single friends asking for Valentine’s Day ideas . No one responded, so I’d given up.) I begrudgingly called Big Red to invite him along, mentally axing my hopes for any ego-boosting attention at the bar. Then, I thought I might as well call Patch*, too. (If you’ve been following along for some time, Patch was the friend who hung out with us the night I walked out on the SoHB.)

Rachel was sitting at the bar when I arrived. She’d hoped for the cute, juggling bartender, but we had a personable female bartender instead. She brought each of us a red carnation saying that every woman should have a flower for Valentine’s Day. I was looking through Rachel’s cruise pictures when Big Red came in. Patch arrived much later. He asked if I had called The Flirt. Of course, I hadn’t, not after our last night at Bojangle’s, but I didn’t go into detail. I told Patch to call him if he wanted to, and he did. The Flirt must have been bored and lonely this night for he was there in a flash.

The five of us sat around the bar. We made several toasts to “F*** Valentine’s!” The mood was overall light and jovial peppered slightly with bitterness. I had my lingering issues over the SoHB. Rachel and I were both a little jaded over the treatment we’ve received from men we loved. Patch broke up with his live-in girlfriend only a couple of months ago. Big Red is always sarcastic and usually without a relationship or love interest. I suppose Rachel was his last big disappointment, but that was over a year ago. The Flirt … Well, maybe The Flirt was lonely for his Kentucky Booty-Call.

Conversation eventually turned to the upcoming Chili Cook-Off. We asked each other who was going, and it turned out all of us were. I wondered idly if Patch would go with the SoHB and his girlfriend. I felt that he knew the SoHB’s plans, nonetheless. It took several minutes to find the nerve to ask, but I finally did. And he confirmed that the SoHB is indeed going to the cook-off.

The alcohol had already begun dampening my mood. Hearing my fears confirmed took it down another notch. Then, Patch said something that sent me sliding. I cannot remember the context of his story. I can only remember him saying something about being at The Flirt’s house one night hanging out with The Flirt, the SoHB, and Michelle. Michelle? Who’s Michelle? I don’t know any Michelle?

But, of course, I didn’t ask. I knew very well who Michelle was.

She has a name now. She had to have a name, but I didn’t want to know it. I don’t want her to be real, although logically knowing she is real enough. I guess it’s rather like naming an animal. On farms, they don’t name the animals that will be slaughtered. They can’t risk an emotional investment, and must avoid humanizing them. Likewise, I don’t want her to have a name. I don’t want to validate her existence.

I also didn’t like hearing her mentioned so casually. I didn’t like the image of her hanging out with my friends, accepted now as a natural part of the SoHB’s world. It used to be natural as air to say “the SoHB and Kwirk.” We were like a package deal, even as friends. Whenever one of us wasn’t present, everyone asked the other’s whereabouts. Now, it’s apparently him and Michelle. They’ve adopted her. They deign to enjoy her company. No, it doesn’t make me angry, although it makes me jealous. I’m aware that I can’t expect them to ostracize the girl for my sake, but it makes me feel … replaced.

The militant non-smoker, Patch, asked if I would trade seats with him because of the offensively smoking stranger he was next to. Rachel and I laughed at his gall because we didn‘t like smoke either. I suggested he could get The Flirt, our only smoker, to trade seats with him, which he did. This put The Flirt right next to me. (The irony is not lost on me. I didn’t want to sit next to the smoker, so I suggest he trade seats with a smoker. Brilliant.) I didn’t know what to do, what to say. All I could think of was the last night I’d seen him – the night he lied to me about Miss Kentucky Booty-Call – the night I later expressed my anger in a way that was not only unflattering, but malicious – the night I shamed myself so badly, I won’t even speak of it here. Although he acted normally towards me, there would be no small talk until I could set things right.

I brought up the last evening at Bojangle’s, asking why he lied to me. He didn’t understand, so I explained how he referred to his relationship with Miss Kentucky differently between Rachel and me. He pointed out that he had not lied to either of us. She is more into the relationship than he is.

"Well, is she your girlfriend or not?” I asked.

“We talk on the phone. We see each other when we can, so yes, I guess you could call her my girlfriend.”

“I felt that you downplayed your relationship with her because you wanted to keep me available,” I said.

“See, now, you know what you’re doing? You’re being a typical woman – overanalyzing everything.”

“What? No, there’s no analysis to it. That was the impression I got that night! When you called her your girlfriend to Rachel, but avoided saying anything like that to me, if felt as if you were concealing if from me.”

“I didn’t think of it that way. I told her the truth. I told you the truth.”

“But you see how I could get the wrong idea, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. I just wish everyone would leave me alone about it. I like her. She likes me. There’s not much more to it. Everyone wants to know what we are, and it’s nobody’s business.”

“But it’s personal to me, Flirt! You think I care whether or not she’s your girlfriend? I don’t care, but I ask because I need to know my boundaries with you. It‘s all about intentions. Do you intend to try having a relationship with her?”

Pause. “Yes,” he says decisively.

“Then, that’s what it’s all about, and that’s all I need to know.”

Then it was confession time. I begrudgingly admitted to my act of aggression against him. He expressed shock. He had blamed someone else entirely – nameless, faceless strangers, actually. He had no idea it was me. I offered my most abject apology, and hoped he would allow me to make it up to him.

“I hope you were drunk when you did that,” he said.

“Oh, yes. I would never have done that sober. I don’t remember making a conscious decision to do it even now, just a vague memory as though I’m watching myself. I went to tell you how angry I was, but you wouldn’t answer. Not being able to shout at you made me feel so helpless, I guess, that the next thing I know… And I had to tell you it was me. I don‘t want to be like the SoHB. I want to be accountable for what I‘ve done.”

He graciously accepted my apology saying I didn’t need to make reparations, but I know that I do. You don’t knowingly hurt someone without expecting to be held accountable. No real man or woman would expect otherwise.

Rachel then grabbed my arm and insisted that I talk to her. She was lonely sitting in the middle of our fivesome, as those of us on the ends had paired off in conversation. Someone decided we should move to a table, and so we did.

The night moved swiftly then. A band had started playing late. The boys were enthralled with a basketball game on the big screen. I zoned out several times, lost in my thoughts about the SoHB and a girl now named. Rachel got a little attention from a couple of men, and I caught the eye of one, but he never came round to speak. Patch left. Then The Flirt received a call from Miss Kentucky, and he soon left. Big Red, Rachel and I decided to all go to Chili Cook-Off together, which makes me feel a little better than if I only had Rachel, great as she is. We parted ways, and I came home and cried. Reality can be so cruel.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

Feb 15, 2005

Soul Searching

Up. Down. Up again. Down again. For several days following the dreams I was on an emotional roller coaster. There was no doubt that the dreams were an expression of inner turmoil bubbling to the surface, my suppressed anger being a common theme in both. There had to be a reason for this surfacing now, and I had no doubt as to its source. The Chili Cook-Off approaches, an annual event that is a tradition among my circle of friends. In fact, Jeri’s* husband, Michael*, participates in the competition most years. After months of not seeing or speaking to the SoHB, I’m afraid that seeing him there is inevitable, and he will probably be with her.

Seeing him again, even with her, isn’t something I frequently fret about. I’ve recognized the possibility of running into him on several occasions. The solution to finding myself at the same bar or event has always been simple. I would ignore him and keep my distance. The dilemma of this situation is how to keep my distance without ignoring any mutual friends who may be with him. This was basically the scenario of both dreams – having to silently endure his presence while in the company of mutual friends. It had been a source of anxiety since I first arranged to buy Cook-Off tickets from Michael, only the dreams made me face it.

I spent most of the first day after the dreams in a blue mood. I missed him. I missed our comradery. I missed being able to speak with him without having hurt feelings. I missed “us.” I spent most of the day, though, trying to imagine what I might do or say if forced to encounter him and his girlfriend. Would I ignore them completely? Would I introduce myself to her? Would I ask her to repeat her name or use some other subtle manipulation to reveal that he has never mentioned it? Would I smile at him in effort to prove that I’m happy without him? Or would I ignore him completely to indicate his irrelevance?

Circles. My mind ran in circles, finding no solution. While preparing for bed, I asked God for help. I was instantly reminded of advice I recently gave another blogger dealing with an entirely different situation. Back in college, while suffering a devastating struggle with depression, it became necessary for me to face several professors and ask for undeserved second chances. With depression, courage isn’t in ready supply. I found it in an image – the image of God literally holding my hand as I met with them, like a father going with his child to meet the principal. I knew that with God there, I needn’t worry over saying exactly the right thing to argue for myself. He would argue in their hearts for me, and if any should refuse me (only one did), it was because He wished it for my sake. I thanked God for bringing this memory to my attention and immediately applied it to my image of meeting the SoHB at Chili Cook-Off.

It didn’t work.

Sitting on the edge of my bathtub, I went back to Him. “For some reason, that doesn’t comfort me. At the time it helped, I needed encouragement to speak for myself. I needed courage. This time, I’m afraid of saying too much – afraid of letting my anger run away with me. This time I need to be calmed, not goaded.” Inside, a voice asked, “Okay. So what if instead of a father holding your hand, this time I’m a young man hanging on your shoulders? What if I go with you as a boyfriend – your Best Boyfriend?”

The picture filled my mind. With absolute serenity I greet a group of friends which includes the SoHB and his girlfriend. I smile at them all, even the SoHB. I feel absolutely secure because no matter what he took from me, I regained it all and more in the young man standing behind me smiling down at them all – The Best Boyfriend for whom a girl could ask.

Even as I expressed gratitude for this help, the picture changed. Suddenly my mind filled with images from my recent past – memories of shame and regret. There I am, indulging my anger or loneliness, looking absolutely horrible to my own eyes. There He is, my Best Boyfriend, standing by and pleading with me, “Please, don’t. Don’t do this, Kwirk. You’re better than this. Don’t. Let’s just go home.” I’m aware of his presence and of his pleas, but I don’t hear him through the glory of impetuousness. I see Him silently drive me home and lie beside me. He holds my hand as I fall asleep, oblivious to his loving regard.

As I crawled into bed that night, I asked Him, “Why? Why are you still here when I ignored and neglected you? What do you see in me when I’ve been so ugly?”

“Because that wasn’t the real you. And because I knew you’d come through it and see me again eventually. I knew I could count on you to notice me again one day.”

In the darkness I couldn’t see Him lying beside me, but this time I felt Him holding my hand. It was the most peaceful rest I’ve had in a while.

The following day began with the same sense of peace, but I was wary. How many times have I considered myself free from him, the grief lessened, only to encounter some reminder which plunged me back in? I decided I should be kinder with myself. Crying … grieving … isn’t weakness. It’s simply part of loss, and my sense of loss may continue for a while yet. Grief deserves no deadline. I often wanted to cry over the next couple of days, but rarely found myself in moments convenient for it. When I did, it felt purer, without anger and blame, and I felt more cleansed by it. But my wariness over trusting the peace was well founded. I was periodically tempted to long for the relationship we shared before the betrayal and idealize our closeness. It was then that a somewhat repressed memory returned to me.

After the SoHB flirted right in front of me with the second girl in whom he was interested last year (this after setting my mind at ease that she was only a friend and had a boyfriend besides), I informed him of his insensitivity. When he refused to acknowledge my feelings, I declared that I needed to distance myself. He resisted, but eventually acquiesced. The agreement was that we could still hang around the same friends in the same places, but we would no longer depend upon each other when making plans. I had to end my social life revolving around him. The first test came that weekend.

A co-worker visiting from another office wanted to have dinner with friends before leaving. It felt strange arranging my evening without ever speaking to the SoHB. Upon arrival I chose to sit at the opposite end of the table from where he was. Conversation rarely required us to interact, but whenever he passed behind me in order to smoke at the bar, he squeezed my shoulder. I resented it. I didn’t want him touching me. His inappropriate affection while dismissing my feelings was part of the problem. When the dinner finished and most were ready to leave, The Flirt, the SoHB, and the guy who would become my guitar friend decided they wanted to continue the night at Faubacher’s. All begged me to join them, but I resisted. I didn’t need to socialize so closely with the SoHB. I resisted even as I went to my car, but the temptation was too strong.

At Faubacher’s I wound up sitting in the booth beside the SoHB. He became flirtatious as his intoxication rose. Eventually his knee pressed against mine, and I pulled away. Later, it would be his thigh or his arm. I retreated repeatedly until I was pressed into the corner. He became upset. Why couldn’t he touch me? Was he so hideous? I expressed disgust that he was disregarding my need for distance. All of us paid our bills. I made a dash for it when he returned our checks to the bar. He came after me demanding to know what was wrong with me. We argued outside my car. We argued after I opened the door and sat in my car. It became too chilly for comfort, so I told him to get in. We argued as we both sat practically on top of each other in my driver’s seat. We argued until nearly daybreak. I no longer remember anything specifically said, but the gist of it all was that he didn’t believe us right for each other despite our mutual feelings while I tried reasoning through his doubts. There was no clear resolution, but because I did get an admission of his feelings for me, my demands for distance fell apart.

This memory reminded me that his insensitivity began long before his betrayal. It proved his disregard for feelings I had openly and clearly expressed was ongoing, and not only a recent infraction. It forced me to recognize how little is really lost. And since I was never able to make him hear me, the loss is really his. Whenever I recalled this memory, my contentment was restored. I simply don't need someone like that in my life.

But still, how will I handle seeing him?

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

Feb 2, 2005

Troubling Dreams

I wish he would just go away.

I dreamed of him all night. I dreamed he brought me to his home, and I crawled into his bed to pass out after a harrowing night in the weather. Funny, though. It was like I didn’t realize where I was or whose bed I was in. When I came to, I could overhear him talking with Rachel* in the living room. I tried eavesdropping, but the television was too loud to make out most of it. I could tell Rachel was asking about his girlfriend, drilling for information as she always does. I heard him say something about her going out to put a final end to things with some guy. That was all I could make out. Then Miranda* was in the room with me while I tried getting myself together. Rachel and the SoHB joined us while I made up the bed. I silently stewed. Having him near made me angry. There was so much I wanted to say, but I couldn’t imagine any of it having the effect on him I wanted. So, I communicated my anger through my rigid features and terse silence. Then, I woke up.

It was a good time to wake up, I thought. Still morning, not too late, but the dream had me so unsettled I didn’t get out of bed. Next thing I know, I’m dreaming again.

This time I’m out with Rachel. We’re in an unfamiliar town looking for a place to hang out. The Flirt joins us, but when he does, so does the SoHB. Again, I try to keep my mouth shut. We move from one bar to another, trying to find a comfortable atmosphere. Nothing is just right. And all along, I’m waiting. Waiting to get settled in one place where the conversation will flow … waiting for him to slip up so I can release my pent up rage. Then, I woke up.

I let the dog out before getting into the shower. I contemplate the dreams while soaking my hair. I remember stories about people dreaming of a particular person, later learning that something terrible had occurred to the object of their dreams. I wonder if his drinking might have caught up with him. Could he have gotten himself killed in a drunk driving accident? If that happened, what would I do?

I imagine myself wanting to attend his wake. First, I try finding out when his girlfriend won’t be there. Then, I realize how silly that is. She would probably be there the whole time. Besides, I would definitely want to attend the funeral, where there would be no avoiding her. I imagine myself walking through the parlor doors. His sister rushes to greet me, and we offer each other sympathy. I make an effort to not look at his girlfriend. His sister asks if I want to go by the casket, and walks with me, her arm encircling my waist. I look down at him, but it’s as though he’s a stranger. I want to cry over him, but there are no tears. Besides, he left me long, long ago. I can feel the resentful stare of his girlfriend. I probably shouldn’t be there, but how could I stay away? I loved him with all my heart. I imagine being overcome during the funeral service, when the finality of it always strikes. I run from the back row and out of the chapel. I imagine our friends stand with me at the graveside, offering comfort to me instead of her. I sense her resentment. I feel it is because of insecurity over her importance in his life. I sense it, but I don’t care. Through it all, I never speak to her. After the funeral, I offer her simply a wish that we could have been friends. If things had been handled fairly … if he had been fair with both of us, we might have been friends. I offer her no explanation. I don’t speak ill of him, but I don’t avoid the truth, either.

I make myself stop thinking about it. How foolish! Nothing has happened to him. I couldn’t be so lucky.

I finish my shower and let the dog back in. I manage to avoid thinking about him while fixing my face. Once finished, I move to the living room and sit on the couch. Then, I realize how badly I need to cry, and so I do. I cry over how much I still love him, and how helplessly I still want to show it. I guess that is the seat of my anger. I love him, which should be a wonderful, positive feeling for someone, but he tied my hands at being able to express it just when I was ready to do so. Is this constant rage that I feel a result of pent up hate or of pent up love? I resent having to keep my distance. I resent having offered something so beautiful only to be rejected out of hand as though it were nothing. I resent not being given a chance, despite the strong feelings he had for me. And I know things have changed. I know life is different for us both now, most especially for him in that aspect of his life where I once belonged. I still think of him and wonder what could have been, but his thoughts of love are centered on another person entirely. There‘s no room for me. The resilience of my feelings for him convince me to hope for his silent devotion, but my own feelings cannot be regarded as evidence of his. I initially hoped that pangs of conscience would cause him to regret dismissing me for superficial reasons. I then hoped that a misunderstanding had caused him to act contrary to his feelings, and all could be set right again. Now, I find myself hoping that the effects of time have disillusioned him with his relationship, and he may long for the comradery we once shared.

In my mind, I know it is hopeless. He does not wish for me in the least, for if he did, he would be here. But my heart clings to hope, no matter how small or irrational. I can’t convince it otherwise.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

Feb 1, 2005

Validation in a Gas Grill

For the first time in over 15 years I went to see a Mardi Gras parade. Most my friends weren’t available, as usual, but Rachel*, my trusty partner in crime, rallied for a Thursday night outing. We cut down Dauphin St. to avoid the crazy Government Blvd. traffic and were amazed with the available parking on the street. Then, we stopped in at Hero’s for a bite to eat before walking down to Conception St. for the parade. It all timed out perfectly. I was amazed with the light crowd in the area. My last memory of Mardi Gras was one of being jostled, squished and stepped on by greedy little cretins diving after throws. I never was a mosh pit sort of gal, so this episode turned me off of Mardi Gras for years. The crowd was no more than two deep in most places where Rachel and I took our spots. I really just wanted to see the floats, so I caught a few beads, stuffed a few moonpies in my pockets, and I was happy. When it had all passed, we walked down Dauphin St. looking for a bar to hang out in.

Nope. Didn’t want to go in Haley’s. I hate Haley’s. Never really liked it, but I didn’t reveal to Rachel that my chief reason for hating it now is because the SoHB loves it. It’s one of his favorites. I bet his picture hangs on a wall somewhere in there.

After ducking into Red’s for a while, we walked several blocks to The Bicycle Shop. While it was packed with people, Rachel and I were content sitting by ourselves on a bench. The beer made us chatty, not that we needed any help. We talked about men, as usual. Perhaps inspired by my casualness in mentioning the SoHB, Rachel felt comfortable revealing a newly learned tidbit. She still works with the SoHB at my old company. A while back he approached her to ask about the Christmas gift from his girlfriend. She had given him a gas grill.

My jaw dropped, and I exclaimed, “What a sucker!” But Rachel had more to tell.

“That’s a pretty expensive gift, isn’t it?” he asked her.

He didn’t disclose what his gift to her was, but Rachel felt the phrasing of his question implied that it wasn’t nearly as nice. I declared to be certain that it wasn’t. He typically gives cheap gifts, even by conservative standards. He once gave me a book for my birthday … a used book. He’d bought it used. I burned that book about a month ago.

My mood after this conversation slipped into a funk. Her gift to him seemed extravagant, but it indicated a sense of security … a sense of comfort with him that was disturbing to acknowledge. I thought the news would haunt me all night, but I was surprised by how quickly I recovered. His girlfriend is in the stage I predicted, making a wasted effort to be good to him. Six months hasn’t been long enough for her to comprehend how hopeless he is. She still foolishly believes he could be her “happily ever after.”

It didn’t hurt that I also had a guy try to pick me up. That always lifts the spirits, no matter how disinterested I am.

Later that night, as I lay peacefully in my bed, a thought hit me with a jolt. Something about the gift had seemed out of place to me, but I attributed that feeling to its cost. It wasn’t until the whole episode had nearly left my mind that I recognized its true source. A gas grill was an inappropriate gift for the SoHB because of who he is. I know nothing of their relationship. Since every relationship develops at its own pace, it may not have been inappropriately costly for them. But there are things I know about the SoHB … things that do not change … certainly have not changed in six months.

He doesn’t cook.

Not at all.

He’s completely intimidated by it. I once gave him a cook book when he expressed an interest in learning a few basics … one of those cooking out of a can and speaking to you like you’re an idiot cookbooks. It was too much for him to handle. And he doesn’t entertain. The most entertaining he ever does is having a few buddies over to watch a television program or a DVD. He even acted a little resentful when Jeri* and her husband visited him weekly to watch a program they couldn’t get on satellite dish. He doesn’t cook. He doesn’t entertain. He has no desire to do either. What a freakin’ stupid gift! What a freakin’ stupid, EXPENSIVE gift!! After six months together, the girl doesn’t know him any better than to buy him THAT for Christmas? My hand flew over my mouth as I gasped in delight. I laughed to myself. I slept with a smile.

I felt like a new person the next day. I felt free. Everything I ever wanted to hear about their relationship was learned through that one simple gift. That gas grill represents how hard she’s working at being a good girlfriend. It represents her investment in him. It represents what she wants to be in his life … what I once wanted to be. It also represents how far she is missing the mark. I knew he hadn’t changed, wouldn’t change … doomed to repeat the failures of his past … doomed to drive her away. He is the same old SoHB, locked in his same old self-deceptions, trying to find his sense of worth in a relationship. She’s locked in a futile endeavor of being enough for him. I’ve been looking at this all wrong. I wasn’t rejected because I was inadequate, and I’m not still single because I am inferior. I’m looking for more than just security or validation in a partner. I’ve turned down several requests for my phone number, so I haven’t lacked attention. But I know what I want and what I deserve, and now that I’m free from him … free from his neglect, his lack of respect, his presumption, his taking me for granted … I’m free to find someone worthy of all the love and attention I poured into him. I’m free to be happy.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.