New Beginnings

I grudgingly walked the sidewalk approaching the architect’s office. It was the finale of my freedom – the first day on a new job, which couldn’t have come at a better time. My mostly unused vacation/sick pay from the last job had kept me going briefly, along with an insurance claim for superficial hurricane damage and a little money saved up. After this year’s tax refund, I couldn’t foresee anything else fortuitously falling into my lap. The timing was perfect. I couldn’t help but feel some sadness over losing my carefree days at home, though – days of sunning on the deck, two hour lunches with the folks, and sleeping in ‘til 10. It was a six month sabbatical from stress and responsibility, but one must survive – and surviving means work.

My foot hit the top step of the office when I heard a rooster crow. It stopped me dead in my tracks. Was that real? Why would a rooster be here in the business district of downtown Mobile? It crowed again, apparently coming from the yard next door. I shook my head in disbelief. It’s just this sort of thing that often makes me feel as though I’m living a movie script rather than real life.

I had expected to be first, but The Boss was already there. He explained that the lawyer’s office next door had chickens, but he didn’t know why. We had a two-hour meeting where he talked in circles about job duties, requiring my intense concentration to decipher the simplest of instructions. This habit of his was the only part of the job that worried me. I looked forward to the day when I would feel comfortable enough to say, “Keep it simple, stupid.” Well … not in those words, of course.

The morning passed fairly quickly. I looked forward to a trip home for lunch – a brief return to my taste of freedom. Instead, I found my car battery dead from leaving the lights on. I deflated. No one was left at the office except me. I fortunately had an uneaten Whataburger Breakfast Taquito that would serve as a lunch meal, but without my noontime escape, everything seemed ruined. I wanted to cry.

While stuck at the office, I called the folks to report on my day. Dad offered to jump off my battery; He was coming downtown that afternoon anyway. After talking with him, I decided to check my home e-mail account. There was a message from Ally and one from my Sis, but nothing from the person I hoped to hear from.

A month after socializing with the SoHB and his girlfriend on Patch’s* birthday, I e-mailed him again. Nothing significant had changed. They were still together, and I hadn’t encountered either of them again. I still smarted from his abandonment of last summer, too. However, an article on forgiving the unrepentant moved me. I always knew I would eventually forgive the SoHB, for our bond was genuine and our mutual affection had to be bigger than his betrayal. But my desire to forgive was constantly thwarted by his denials and justifications. Looking to the doctrine from my own Christian upbringing, I reasoned that if we must repent to receive God’s forgiveness and be secured into eternal life, then how could I expect myself to forgive the unrepentant SoHB? But while reading that article, an illustration of God’s forgiveness leapt from the page and hit me in my core:

“When (Jesus) showed up after his resurrection behind (the disciples’) closed doors, he did not say to them, "How could you do this to me?" He merely said, "Peace be with you! As the Father has sent me, I am sending you" (John 20:21).”

They had abandoned Him in a much more tragic and hurtful way than the SoHB abandoned me, and yet He pointed no fingers nor demanded any remorse. I realized I had abused the doctrine of my faith. Forgiveness was given through the sacrifice of Christ. It’s done. The pure innocence of his blood must cover everyone’s failings or it would cover no one’s. The trick is that a person cannot reap the benefit of that forgiveness until they repent. I related this revelation to the situation with the SoHB and found that it held true. Even if I forgave him, a barrier would remain until he acknowledged his need for forgiveness. A renewed friendship with him would never reach its fullest potential unless he did. Knowing this … knowing that forgiving him would empower me as a positive force in our lives … gave me the strength to begin moving in that direction.

We shared several conversational e-mails concerning no topic of note. I might not have tried except that on every occasion when I sent a friendly, non-relationship related message, he faithfully and pleasantly replied – quite amazing considering how many former interactions ended with my hostility. I felt encouraged by his attitude in the e-mails, but discouraged by what I perceived as disinterest in sustaining a conversation or generating one himself. I eventually wanted to clarify his approach to our correspondence, asking him to tell me his ideal scenario for us at that point. Would we be friends? Or would he prefer to leave everything in the past, including me? His answer was uninspiring. While saying that it would be good to be friends, he qualified it by saying that he didn’t like having bad blood with anyone. He then asked for my ideal in return. I found his answer to be safe, keeping with his usual custom. I agreed to tell him my ideal, but not until he stopped playing word games and presented a less passive answer. It was no better than what a stranger might say, and told me nothing of what he wanted. He responded defensively and said that he guessed his answer was an indication of how neutral he felt about my question. He wanted things to be civil between us, as they had been for a while, and he would like it if our old group could get together sometime without tension or awkwardness between us. But, there was an important person in his life now, and she and I didn’t mix well. He wanted all the unpleasantness to go away and everyone to be happy. What he wanted from me was for me to find happiness and seize onto it.

I rankled at his patronizing signoff, and experienced the usual hurt and anger that he should feel nothing towards me when we had been so important to each other. It took a day for me to calm down enough to form a civil response. I started by offering my interpretation of his words – that he never thinks about it anymore and doesn’t care what happens, except that things remain pleasant since we have the same circle of friends. That he doesn’t care to restore our comradery or mutual respect based on their merit alone, and that there is no aspect of our former friendship that holds enough value for him to dream of regaining it. I expressed dismay and pity for him if that was truly the limit of his imagination and old investment in our friendship. I then told him that my ideal was to reestablish comradery through regular e-mails and chats, perhaps an occasional phone call. Eventually, I might be able to enjoy his company one-on-one over coffee or lunch. However, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to phone him or invite him to social occasions. I also didn’t wish to be his drinking buddy again, ever. I told him that I had no problem being around him or her at the invitation of our friends. I couldn’t resist getting in a little dig, though, by saying that I thought Patch’s birthday went very well and asking why we didn’t mix well. I knew he wasn’t referring to only me.

Looking over my reply a day later, I knew he wouldn’t respond. The tone was too confrontational, even if it was veiled. I’d been reading books on communication … books like How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie and Mars and Venus on a Date by Dr. John Gray – not to mention all the episodes of Nanny 911 I’ve watched. Basically, I learned that to get anyone to do what you want, you don’t push. No one wants to feel pushed into anything. Make them think it’s their idea, and make them believe they can’t fail. That’s the secret. Reading those books also revealed how much I contributed to my own downfall. I had pushed him away, first by removing myself to avoid being hurt, and then by attacking him on every turn with allegations of coldness and betrayal. Why would he want someone like that back in his life? Not when I’m behaving that way … not when I make myself so untouchable. After several days I wrote again asking if I might know why he never responded – asking if it was a matter of being uninspired or offended. He answered with an apology and the excuse that he had been thinking about my e-mail when work deadlines pressed upon him. (We correspond through his work account.) Introspection took him a long time, he said, but he was open to discussing another casual topic I’d brought up.

That occurred the week before my first day at work. I told him of my job offer, and later that I’d decided to accept it. I never brought up the “ideals” e-mail again, nor did he. Now, my first day on the job, I hoped he would think of me and ask about my day. I chastised myself that I knew better than to expect anything from him. It’s done. Over. Everything between us – friendship, fond feelings, mutual interest – it’s all gone for him. There is nothing for him to work or hope for, and therefore, nothing for me. How could I have been so foolish as to think I might mean anything to him after all this time?

The afternoon stretched out before me. I had expected the stresses of a first day to onset a headache, but everything flowed pretty easily. Still, my sunken mood never lifted. First my dead battery and then the disappointment of knowing there were no well-wishes from the SoHB cast a shadow over everything. I wanted to get home where I could cry freely.

Walking through my front door, Gert met me with all the enthusiasm a little schnauzer can display. She’d become so accustomed to having me constantly home, the day must have been a little traumatic for her. Talk about feelings of abandonment, poor thing! I managed to let her outside before she scratched up my legs and went about the regular homecoming routine, all the while working to convince myself there was no reason for eagerly checking the e-mail. There would be nothing from him, so I’d better not hope for it.

But there it was, the first item in my mailbox,

“So have you started the new job? How's that going?”

I stared in relieved disbelief. He remembered it was my first day. He went on to detail a little about the trials of his day. He had reached out to me, finally, by generating a message. All of my anxiety melted. This might work after all. Maybe we can be friends.

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

Mind Games: The Showdown

It was Patch’s birthday, and I don’t like overlooking my friends’ birthdays. Most of us don’t exchange gifts, but we always celebrate. I hadn’t heard from anyone yet, so I called Patch to ask if there were any plans for the evening. He seemed awkward on the phone, ambiguously stating there had been some talk of going out – maybe to Picklefish later that night. It was nearly 7 o’clock, and he was just leaving work. Although I wondered, I didn’t ask whether the SoHB and his girlfriend were going. I knew the SoHB would. He probably generated the talk of going out. If it were only him, I could handle it, no problem. I had proven that at the Chili Cook-off. I wasn’t so sure about seeing him and her together – watching them touch or gaze lovingly at each other. Could I handle that?

I told Patch to call when there were definite plans. Then, I sat around the house … waiting. Pathetic, isn’t it? When it turned 9 o’clock, I felt certain I had been snubbed. I didn’t want to appear desperate by calling again, but decided I would, claiming that I needed to know the plans, if there were any, because I hadn’t eaten yet. Another hour passed. I was talking with my sister, telling her how disappointed I was, when my cell phone rang. It was Patch; They were going to Faubacher’s. I groaned – not my favorite place. He said that everyone had met up and couldn’t decide whether to eat, so when that place closed and kicked them out, they decided to really start the night at Faubacher’s. (I didn’t point out that closing down one place meant the night had already started.) I don’t recall whether I asked or if he simply volunteered the names of who was there.

“Big Red, The Flirt, Wide-Eyed, the SoHB and his girlfriend, Michelle.”

“Oh? Is that the SoHB’s little whore’s name? Michelle?” I asked for spite.

“Uh … That’s something you’ll have to answer within yourself,” he hesitatingly replied.

I told him I wasn’t sure about coming out since I still hadn’t eaten anything and probably should before drinking. I said that I would call if I wouldn't be joining them.

After talking with him, I had to make a decision. I felt genuinely torn for several minutes. Did I want to remain safely guarded from their relationship, or did I want to expose myself and, hopefully, my strength to them?

I remembered my dad’s voice saying, “The SoHB isn’t grinding you into the ground. This is Kwirki grinding you into the ground.”

I heard The Flirt’s voice saying, “I just remember that the point things got better for me (after a breakup with his fiancée years earlier) was when I got mad – when I said, ‘F---- it. You don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.’”

I still clearly felt the sting of being disregarded for a phone call when all of them met. That was how I started getting mad. But it wasn’t the kind of anger I had pictured from that conversation with The Flirt, for I had spent months being angry at the SoHB – enraged even to the point of cutting off contact. No, this anger was a kind of indignance that he should affect my life – indignance that friends would consider leaving me out because of him. Once that crossed my mind, there was no backing out of it.

I freshened my make-up, wanting to look fantastic, but not as though I tried too hard. No eyeshadow or heavy eyeliner. I wore my hair loose, as usual. My attire was a favorite pair of hip-hugger “skinny” jeans and a lightweight, beige sweater which wasn’t too snug, low-cut, or revealed my belly. My black boots with the chunky high heels and a striped cardigan finished off the ensemble. I was satisfied that my mirrored image revealed a casual, confident and sexy woman. I was ready for battle.

I left around 10:40pm with some reservations yet. What was I setting myself up for? It could go horribly wrong. Was it worth the risk for a friend’s birthday, especially one who nearly left me out? Erring on the side of caution would mean staying home. My foot trembled on the gas peddle, but I didn’t stop. I had to know what would happen, and I had to assert myself back into my rightful place with my friends.

A large group was leaving Faubacher’s as I drove into the parking lot. Seeing The Flirt’s baseball cap over the top of their heads confirmed that it was my group. The girl who walked briskly in front was unfamiliar to me, but with a slightly closer look, I knew it was her. I always felt that if we accidentally met somewhere she would recognize me first, for on that single, previous occasion, there was nothing memorable about her. I was pleased to have my first impression verified. She was as plain as I remembered. Our eyes locked briefly as I lowered my window to ask someone what was happening. If looks could kill, I would not be telling this story.

Patch informed me that the group was driven out by karaoke night. They were relocating to the considerably more sedate Bubble Lounge down the street. I arrived first since I never left my car. I warily watched for The SoHB and girlfriend as I waited outside, hoping the others would arrive first so I wouldn’t have to socialize with the happy couple. Fortunately, Big Red and Wide-Eyed came next; then The Flirt and Patch.

After the rest of us went inside, staked out a corner, and a couple went to the bar for drinks, I began wondering if they had forfeited the night. I could just imagine the conversation they must be having. I wondered if she was upset. I could imagine him gently urging her to continue the night, reasoning that I would naturally want to be there for Patch’s birthday. Surely she could put up with me for Patch’s birthday. They entered several minutes later. I was then able to get a better look at her. She was a busty girl in a low-cut, v-neck sweater and blue jeans, with shoulder length hair dyed overly dark. Just as I noted how much shorter I thought she would be, The Flirt teased her about her height (an obvious running gag), to which she cried, “And I’m wearing three-inch heels!”

Ah. That explained it.

I excused myself to go to the bar. My resolution was to drink no more than two beers. I wanted to make an appearance, get under someone’s skin a little, and get out. I needed to remain in control. On an empty stomach, I knew I couldn’t handle much alcohol.

While everyone settled into the cozy seating area (those two at the diagonal corner from me), the group talked idly about the new troubles at my old company. Everyone except his girlfriend worked or formerly worked there. In the midst of the gripe session, Patch stated, “You know that place is bad. Just look at Kwirki. She’s only been away from there a few months, and she already looks 10 years younger.”

I could have kissed him.

At that statement, the SoHB finally made introductions. He started with Wide-Eyed, whom she had apparently never met, and then moved to me.

“It’s great to put a name with the face, Michelle. Good to meet you,” I said as sweetly as I could. Everyone went silent. She politely greeted me in return, but her jaw was set firm. She wasn’t at all happy to meet me. This night could be fun.

I felt disinclined to engage either the SoHB or her in conversation, but I could tolerate her better than him. She, after all, hadn’t done anything to me. While hoping to remain civil, I gave myself full permission to dislike them both. I spoke with Patch on one side of me and Wide-Eyed on the other to avoid talking to them. I asked Big Red a little about his poker conquests, since he’d insisted on buying my first drink. All the while I observed this “girlfriend,” developing an impression – wondering what he could see in her to make him sacrifice me – knowing that she was bound to wonder about me, as well.

They didn’t sit touching, as I had expected. I remembered he always rested his foot or knee against mine when we dated, always wanting to touch – to be connected to me in some way. He involved himself in conversation with Big Red on his left while she chatted vivaciously with The Flirt on her right. I was dismayed and a little overwhelmed to notice how outgoing and bubbly she was. My only impression of her had come from the night I poured a drink on the SoHB. From a distance she had seemed very reserved. I expected her to be shy, even mousy. Here she was, effervescently filling our little corner with a lilting, teasing voice, perfectly at ease in the setting. She displayed the persona I believed to be my advantage. I expected my own vivaciousness to overwhelm her, but she trumped me. She even began to appear cute. She playfully slapped The Flirt’s knee when he teased her, enthralling him when he was supposed to be my secret weapon. She obviously wanted to be the center of attention.

During the course of conversation, she made a few insignificant remarks which were clearly intended to call attention to her and the SoHB’s status as a couple. She threw out a ‘we’ here and there; patted his knee maybe once. Eventually, I overheard part of a story she was telling The Flirt which sounded vaguely familiar. Then, I thought I heard her mention a familiar name.

“Who is this?” I suddenly interjected into the conversation.

“Oh, it’s this friend of ours named Harry*, who blah-blah-dee-blah-blah…”

“Yeah, I know Harry,” I stated, but she was too busy talking over me to hear. I laughed under my breath. She felt so threatened she had to assert their coupleness in even the mention of a friend's name. She needed to feel connected to a part of the SoHB’s life untouched by me. As I have played mental games with myself in attempt to devalue her role in his life, she has done the same with me. I remembered how he said my name often came up back when they had been together a couple of months. I remembered thinking how she must dislike that, but tolerates it in hope that it will pass. He had done the same when we dated – mentioning the ex-girlfriend more frequently than was comfortable and avoiding certain places in order to avoid her. The real tip off was avoiding certain places to avoid the memory of her. I remembered how he claimed to be over her, but I knew differently. It was a refreshing, empowering perspective.

The night wore on, and I took my turn teasing The Flirt and Patch. When those two entered a debate over the social consciousness of smoking, I distracted myself by talking sports with Wide-Eyed. But when Michelle, a smoker like The Flirt and the SoHB, entered the debate, I became interested. While she was thoroughly distracted by the discussion, I caught the SoHB’s eye and threw him the most withering “go to hell” look I could manage. He looked away. I just wanted him to know that despite my pleasantness this night, I was no more okay with their relationship than ever. My attention returned to the debate.

“Do you eat meat, Patch?” Michelle was asking for, maybe, the third time. “Do you drive a car?”

It was two against one. Patch was clearly frustrated, so I took up his defense.

“He’s saying that by smoking, you not only risk your own health, but anyone around you who wasn’t given the choice.”

“But everyone does something that puts their health at risk. You put your health at risk if you eat meat … if you drink alcohol,” she said.

I decided to get a little mean. “The SoHB is going to die of liver disease. He could die of lung cancer, actually. But if he dies of liver disease, it is because he chose to risk his own body by overindulging. Unless he drives drunk, he isn’t endangering anyone else,” I said goading for a reaction, but neither became defensive or batted an eye. I didn’t expect the SoHB would, but she didn’t dismiss me or jump to his defense. That made me think two things: 1) She’s noticed his alcohol abuse. 2) He’s told her how bluntly I’ve spoken with him about it. Maybe both aren’t true, but one must be.

“What about driving a car?” she asked. “The pollution from driving a car is harmful to everyone. That pollutes the air more than smoking does.”

“There is a worthwhile benefit to driving a car,” I argued. “It transports us from place to place, helping us function in daily living. Smoking is the only vice which carries no natural benefit. Eating meat or drinking alcohol can, if practiced in moderation, be beneficial to the body. They aren’t necessarily bad things.”

“What about scotch?” she asked. “Scotch doesn’t benefit the body,” she laughed.

“Well, I don’t know about scotch. I don’t drink scotch,” I chuckled; I was done. She had resorted to being silly. There is no reward in persuing an argument once someone stoops to that level.

In a moment, she returned to debating Patch, giving more of the same tired arguments. As she leaned forward to engage him, her bosom threatened to overflow her neckline. I suppressed an urge to call her attention to it. Her formerly daunting perkiness had also become irksomely overdone. A person can only take so much of that before it wears on one. That combined with her lack of any challenging arguments left me extremely unimpressed. I often looked at the SoHB hoping to catch his eye. I wanted to signal towards her and mouth at him, “Are you kidding me?” but he wouldn’t look my way.

I returned to giving Wide-Eyed a little attention. He truly was the odd man out, being a little shy … the newest and youngest of our group. I kept my eye on Michelle and the debate between Patch and The Flirt, although I no longer listened. I noticed that she dropped back from the conversation and sat solemnly. She still leaned over her crossed legs, but her eyes were downcast. I noted her body language – left leg over right, away from the SoHB – left elbow crossed over her knee with a cigarette dangling from the hand, pulling her upper body away from him as well. He was turned in conversation toward Big Red. Upon noticing her downcast appearance, he reached out to rub her lower back. I remembered him doing that to me, but seeing it wasn’t distressing. It was a shallow offer of comfort. She tilted her head slightly at that gesture, but didn’t turn. He didn’t even pause his conversation with Big Red. Her countenance remained downcast. I realized for the first time that her perkiness had been an act – a show for my benefit. She had hoped to disguise her insecurity with him. It became irksome because she was trying too hard. I looked momentarily away and caught the eye of a guy at the bar – the same one who smiled at me when I bought my last drink – and I smiled broadly in return. Yeah … I didn’t need the SoHB’s attention.

When I turned back to the group, I noticed Michelle touching the SoHB’s arm to get his attention, and read her lips as she asked, “Are you okay?” I presumed the situation of being around me had prompted her question, for he appeared perfectly fine and to still be enjoying conversation with Big Red. It amused me. Did she not want him to be okay? For if he wasn’t, even if it was because of me, it would mean that he needed her, wouldn’t it? And there was probably nothing she needed more in that moment than for him to need her. That must have been why it satisfied me to see him nod and turn back to Big Red. Watching her insecurity with him reveal itself gave me a thrill.

The Flirt left us, and I became a little concerned about the group whittling away, leaving me in an awkward situation. I had exceeded my two beer limit by one, and considered having another. However, The SoHB is always the last man standing, and I couldn’t allow myself to be stuck alone with him and Michelle while I nursed a final beer.

Big Red complained about the music, so the SoHB handed Michelle a bill to use at the jukebox. I observed her shape while her back was turned. She was small waisted, contradictory to how her bustline made her look. She had no butt whatsoever. After a minute, the SoHB joined her at the jukebox. I knew this was their chance to talk in semi-privacy – his chance to give the attention he had denied her earlier. Their arms entwined around each other’s waists. I remember thinking that she could have his affection, for his affection was cheap.

After the SoHB bought Patch another beer, he chose to sit in The Flirt’s old seat – next to Patch and directly across from me. There was a brief conversation about various bands and the upcoming Jazzfest in New Orleans. He showed clear intoxication, making his telltale face of one squinted eye while the other glares widely at you – an exaggerated expression meant to be humorous. I knew I would soon leave. He would be no good the rest of the night, and she could have him. It was always during these moments when I was vulnerable to him – when he could be his most open and loving, only to forget it in the morning. He and Michelle sat facing each other – him lightly holding her hand. I didn’t want to appear upset by their tête-à-tête, so I waited until they no longer touched before announcing my departure. Big Red protested which caught the SoHB’s attention. His sotted senses had been too absorbed to hear the reason, so Big Red explained that I was leaving.

“What!?? … No!!” exclaimed the SoHB, but quickly piped down; Don’t know why.

I said my last goodbye to Patch, wishing him one more happy birthday. I had to walk past the supposedly happy couple on my way out, so I made a point of stopping to tell Michelle goodbye and say it was nice meeting her. She did not look at me – merely tilted her head upward with closed eyes – as she returned the courtesy in her most gracious voice. I didn’t say anything to the SoHB, and walked out without looking back. I drove home elated. It was one in the morning, but I called my sister just to tell the story.

I have not had the pleasure of their company since that day, although I do look forward to seeing them again … that is, if she puts up with his neglect long enough. There was one subsequent opportunity; I showed up, but they didn’t. I’ve wondered if she thought I was gearing up to steal him from her. Such effort would be a waste of time, but, as I said at the beginning of that evening, I refuse to let him hinder my life anymore.

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

Mind Games: The Battle Within

On Monday following the Chili Cook-off – following those lingering glances and the wistful farewell – I still had not received any messages from the SoHB. It was disheartening; I was exasperated. I wrote a final message stating that I had approached him many times with a desire to make amends, but he was clearly disinterested in healing our rift. I asserted that I believed he would regret this decision, but trying to make him want what I want was futile. I said that I surrendered and wished him the best. Of course, there was no response. The next day I completely undermined myself by forwarding an article to him about the death of Hunter S. Thompson, since a favorite movie of his is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

While enduring the agony of awaiting an unlikely response, I was forced into new soul searching ... beginning with his soul. My mind churned in circles trying to make sense of his inconsistent behavior … trying to reason how he could look at me so longingly at Haley’s while doing nothing to reconcile. It made me dizzy. I put an end to it by making a list. Other than the obvious but unsatisfactory “he won’t reconcile because he doesn’t care” reason, what could make him keep his distance? I decided to list all the things I know about him – things I know from experience and not fear – that are irrespective of our circumstances.

• The SoHB avoids all risk.
  
• The SoHB avoids any and all conflict.
  
• The SoHB is immeasurably insecure.
  
• The SoHB has an immature attitude towards relationships.

I added these qualities together like a formula and concluded that he is a man who has conditioned himself to take risks in only a few compulsory circumstances in order to function, but who can otherwise be depended upon to always choose the path of least resistance. (And this particular man has to liquor up for most of those risks.)

So, what does this mean to me? Well, it could mean things like:

• If he had feelings for me, he wouldn’t act on them out of fear of looking foolish when I rejected him a second time. (You can use this looking back a year, six months, or two weeks.)
  
• If he longed to reconcile, he still wouldn’t risk being verbally “beaten up”’ in an argument. He wouldn’t risk being proven wrong or getting himself hurt.
  
• If he still has feelings for me, he would fear revealing too much presuming rejection.
  
• If he felt bad about anything that he did, he wouldn’t admit fault to avoid succumbing to more feelings of worthlessness.
  
• If he still has feelings for me, he won’t put them on the line for fear that things are beyond repair.
  
• If he still has feelings for me, he won’t pursue me because he believes relationships should fall in your lap and never be a struggle. And he won’t sacrifice the sure thing, no matter how rewarding something else might be.

Next came the “If/Then” statements:

• If these statements are true, then I wasn’t just thrown away.
  
• If these statements are true, then I have tried everything within reason to reach him.
  
• If these statements are true, then he is a child – incapable of sustaining and nurturing a relationship.
  
• If these statements are true, then the value I placed on tender moments wasn’t one-sided; He’s simply too afraid of admitting their value.
  
• If these statements are true, then I am capable of hurting him.
  
• If these statements are true, then I am not forgotten.
  
• If these statements are true, then he’s probably afraid of me – more afraid of me than I am of him.
  
• If these statements are true, then I don’t have a monopoly on being weak and vulnerable.

I felt more powerful after this exercise. I didn’t consider every conclusion to reveal absolute truth, but it humanized him and his behavior in my mind, forcing me to acknowledge that his personal weakness – his tragic flaw – caused the inconsistencies. He’s a master of self-destruction, so why wouldn’t he shoot himself in the foot where I‘m concerned? It was tempting to imagine how I might use this knowledge to gain a new foothold in his life and win back his affection, but I knew this wasn’t something I ultimately wanted.

A day after making my list I received a casual reply to my e-mail about Hunter S. Thompson. The tone of his message was conversational, implying a desire to correspond, contingent upon never mentioning the trauma of our broken relationship, of course. It appeared my conclusions were correct. I was encouraged by his e-mail, but didn’t respond. I decided to keep my distance as I had originally resolved.

It helped that during this time I had a lunch with Ally* where I regaled her with the story of our estrangement. She expressed shock and disgust in all the appropriate places, and agreed with my assertion that by his choices one can see the SoHB doesn’t want a real relationship. Despite saying he wants a soul mate, his actions contradict that desire. My storytelling probably overstepped the bounds of politeness. I later realized that it was the only full disclosure conversation I’d had with anyone familiar with both the SoHB and me except for Rachel*. I had desperately needed that release, and walked away feeling much better. Not only did I get things off my chest (playing a little PR, too, as I hoped she would share my tale with Jeri*), but it was a nice start to a new friendship.

Later in the week, I had another encouraging conversation with my parents, especially Dad. He made a spontaneous, comforting remark, saying, “The SoHB has a problem, and he will make any girl miserable that ends up with him.” This was something I knew except when self-doubt and self-pity interfered. I always hid the excessive drinking from my conservative Baptist parents, so his opinion was based on the SoHB’s inability to handle his fears. He agreed that the SoHB was afraid of me – afraid of being “beaten up” in an argument – afraid that he couldn’t measure up to my accomplishments. I left their house feeling much lighter. It was early evening on Friday – Patch’s birthday. I had wrestled all day with the choice of joining him in birthday plans, knowing they were bound to include the SoHB and probably his girlfriend. I feared how I might handle the situation, but also felt an urge to test myself. How strong was I? and regarding my new theories about him – my old theories about him and her – how close was I to the bull’s eye?

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

Chili Cook-Off: The Anticlimax

I awoke early on the morning of Chili Cook-Off looking forward to the day. I even beat Rachel’s* wake up call, calling her instead. While getting ready, I listened to my self-made Over It CD, containing songs like “You’re No Good,” “Respect,” and “No More Drama.” I was rocking out to “You Better Be Good to Me” when Rachel arrived. I opened the door to find her rocking out on my stoop. Big Red soon showed up and we headed out to the cook-off.

We arrived as it opened, so I wasn’t worried about running into the SoHB immediately. There was no way he would be there that early. We visited Michael’s* booth first, then trolled around. There were surprisingly few impressive chilies. Most were too exotic to even taste like chili. As the day wore on, I became watchful for the SoHB. Jeri* arrived with her baby girl, but the SoHB wasn’t with her. In our phone conversation the previous night, The Flirt revealed that he planned on coming with the SoHB, but he arrived alone. When our group milled around a drinks stand near the gate, I couldn’t help scouring the incoming crowd for his face.

While we stood in that spot, my guitar friend and his new girlfriend found us. My pride being a bit wounded that he had a new girl, silly as that is, I hadn’t looked forward to seeing him, either. At least with the SoHB coming solo, and The Flirt’s girl getting stuck in Kentucky, it should be the only ego deflator of the day. We laughed as they recounted the steps he’d gone through to find us. My cell phone wasn’t working, so he had to call all over to get Rachel’s cell number, and he did all this from home because he refuses to get a cell phone himself. While telling their story, the new girl referred to my guitar friend as “honey.” I believe I literally cocked my head. “Honey” is an endearment seldom heard among unmarried couples or those who haven’t been together a while, at least. My guitar friend and I dated for as long as they’ve been together. I never thought to use any endearment with him, much less that one. It just seemed odd. Then, as we talked about the chilies we’d tried, including one containing alligator meat, we mentioned how that booth slapped us with stickers saying, “Tastes like chicken!” The guitar friend’s girl pipes up with, “Before chicken, what did they compare food to?” The entire group paused.

“Did she really just use that lame joke as her introduction?” I thought.

I looked over to my guitar friend wondering what he saw in this person. They seemed like such a mismatched pair. I looked back at her and took in her appearance. She was buxom; He must like that. In a group conversation wedged between our breakup and his meeting this girl, he confessed to liking large breasts. But her figure was a little heavy while my guitar friend is a slender man. I couldn’t see her eyes behind sunglasses, but she didn’t seem pretty. I looked back to my guitar friend wondering what he saw in her. She was friendly, but I couldn’t see any special appeal. Later, when Rachel and I walked by, she had her glasses off. Seeing her eyes didn’t change my impression. Rachel shortly said, “You know, she’s a cute girl, but she’s nowhere near as pretty as you.”

My thoughts were saying, “Cute?! She isn’t even cute. That’s being kind!” But, instead I said, “Thanks.” I was trying to keep the ‘humble yourself” attitude – on the outside, at least.

We saw a few acquaintances, also. Cheapskate and Brian*, friends of Michael, were there. They were ignorant of my dismissal at my company, so I had to explain that. We also saw Ally*, who had recently moved back to Mobile from Birmingham. The first thing Ally said to me after ‘Hello’ was, “Where’s the SoHB?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea,” I said as casually as possible. After a moment, I added, “We’re not speaking anymore, you know.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”

“Long story,” I replied.

“Y’all were dating, weren’t you?”

“Well, no; Not really.”

“I heard he was dating a new girl.”

“Yeah. That has to do with it, but it’s a long story.”

I told her about pouring a drink on him, although I didn’t tell her details. She thought that was great. She said she’d always wanted to have the nerve to do that.

Our group was split as the Chili Cook-Off wound down. Rachel and I were on our own with Ally. We asked her to join us afterward, but she had other obligations. Someone called Rachel letting her know everyone had moved down to Haley’s. As soon as I heard ‘Haley’s,’ I knew that ‘everyone’ included the SoHB.

Rachel walked ahead of me into the bar, so she saw him before me. “The SoHB’s here,” she said in effort to forewarn me, but I knew.

He sat at the bar between The Flirt and an unknown woman. I didn’t think it was his girlfriend, but I couldn’t see her face. I had avoided alcohol all day, and was still apprehensive about drinking during such a ticklish situation, but decided I could take it easy.

Rachel and I sat at the bar staying on the fringes of the group, never moving near the middle where the SoHB was. The woman standing by him wasn’t his girlfriend, and she soon disappeared. I sensed his gaze long before allowing myself to look at him. Our eyes met and held. I offered a sad smile before looking away. This happened a few more times throughout the afternoon, his expression always sad. That was comforting.

I heard him laughing and speaking jovially with The Flirt who sat between us while I feigned indifference. I was dismayed by his laughter – by his enjoyment of the moment, but I knew he had to watch my joviality without participating as well. I hoped it made him long for me. I hoped that he was reminded of how he enjoyed my company.

Cheapskate was there and sat next to me. He yelled a smartass response to the SoHB as part of ongoing banter. I responded for Cheapskate’s ears only with something sarcastic. He looked at me, and I explained that the SoHB and I weren’t speaking anymore. He wanted to know what happened. I tried passing it off again as a long story, but he pressed for information. He asked if it had to do with his new girlfriend. I admitted that it did, saying that I’d tried talking to him about things, but he wouldn’t really talk to me about it.

“But, he’s weird,” Cheapskate stated.

I acknowledged the truth of that. I told him that we weren’t dating (There seemed to be some ambiguity in his mind as well.), but that didn’t stop him from sleeping over at my house on several occasions – and that the last occasion was even after he’d started seeing this girl.

“That is weird,” he responded.

Then, when I said something about this happening six months ago, he expressed confusion. He thought the SoHB started seeing this girl a year ago. I realized he mistakenly believed she was the same person the SoHB brought to my New Year’s Eve part a year ago. I was forced to run down the timeline of our relationship, beginning with how we dated for eight months before I broke up with him. I explained my reason for breaking up then was because I felt neglected. As an example, I told him about how the SoHB never called me his girlfriend, and after eight months as a couple, still has never referred to me as an ex-girlfriend.

“But, he’s weird,” Cheapskate repeated. I laughed. “Did you sleep with him?” he asked.

“No.”

“That’s why.”

“I don’t believe in it outside of marriage,” I clarified.

“I know – I know – You’re a good girl,” he said gently.

I found it oddly gratifying that he attributed my never being labeled a ‘girlfriend’ to our lack of a sexual relationship. I once threw that accusation at the SoHB during one of our early fights six months ago. He denied my allegation, saying we had simply never reached the point of being girlfriend/boyfriend. I want to take people at their word, especially people who have earned my trust, but I don’t think I ever fully believed him.

While I was trying to straighten out the sequence of events for Cheapskate, Big Red announced we were leaving. He was my ride, so I had to cut the story short. Cheapskate said he wanted to hear the rest, but there wasn’t time. I enjoyed having a sympathetic ear; Rachel enjoyed flirting with Brian, so we promised to return shortly since I didn’t live far away.

While walking out of Haley’s, Big Red stopped to go back for some reason. While waiting for him, I looked back and saw the SoHB standing alone and facing me from across the room, apparently watching me leave. I raised my hand as a silent goodbye. He raised his in return. Other than a few lingering glances, it was the only communication we shared all afternoon. I turned and walked out.

Rachel and I drove back to Haley’s after pit-stopping at my house. I looked forward to finishing my conversation with Cheapskate, but Haley’s was nearly deserted. We crossed the street to see if the guys went to Hero’s for food, and there they were. The SoHB stood at their table retrieving Cheapskate’s contact info. Once finished, he quickly left without looking at me.

Cheapskate asked where we left off in our story as soon as I sat. We reminded each other of the point where I stopped, but it wasn’t a conversation for the whole table. His attention span was impaired by alcohol, anyway. I thought there would be plenty of time to return to it later in the evening, but with there being only four of us, personal conversation wasn’t happening.

After Hero’s, the night ended up being a big bore. Cheapskate returned to his usual obnoxious, drunk personality. He pestered Rachel silly, and I hadn’t drunk enough to be amused. Dauphin St. didn’t provide any entertainment, so Rachel and I called it a night and were home by 10:30.

I don’t know what to think of the way the SoHB looked at me. I could easily read more into it than the remorse of a lost friend. The looks seemed to communicate longing and sorrow, or were those feeling only reflected from my own gaze? Could I have mistaken pity for longing? Or, if that was all he felt, would there be any evidence of it in his eyes? But if the longing I perceived there was real, why wasn’t it strong enough to draw him to me? I wish it had.


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

Prelude to a Cook-Off: Part 2

I was taken aback by The Flirt’s appearance on my doorstep. Knowing what he wanted, I slowly unlatched the door and opened it a crack.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He smirked down at me, puffing away. “I was in the neighborhood, saw your light was still on, so I decided to stop by to see what you were doing.”

He had been Downtown drinking with friends. I regarded him wryly. “I was in bed – about to go to sleep.”

“Going to sleep ...”

“Yeah.” There was no doubt as to what was on his mind. “You came by for a booty call, huh?”

“No,” he said. “Sure, I hoped, but I just came by to see how you were.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about things, and I’ve decided that … I’m a real idiot.”

He chuckled, “We’re all idiots.”

I smiled and looked down. “Yeah, well that’s okay for you, but I’m supposed to be better than all you peons.”

“Oh, really,” he laughed.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to be perfect.”

He continued smirking at me as he finished his cigarette. I continued eyeing him warily.

“I’ll pick that up later,” he said as he flicked the butt into the yard. I nodded while making a mental note of where it landed. I would be the one picking it up. “Well, are you going to make me leave or let me come in?”

I hesitated, knowing his intentions, but felt secure in my own sober resolve. I let him in. He immediately went to the restroom. I curled up on the couch to finish searching for that verse in Job. When he eventually joined me at the other end of the couch, I set it aside and explained what I was doing. I told him how foolish I felt … how proud I’d been. He nodded as though he understood. He said he didn’t know how it might have helped him if he’d had someone to talk to years ago. I reached over to lightly grasp the fingers of his resting outstretched hand. He looked as if he could fall asleep where he sat.

“Do you really not want to …,” he asked.

I laid my cheek against the couch as I looked at him and said, “No, I really don’t.”

“I’ll probably be glad that you didn’t.”

I smiled. “Do you want to sleep in the guest room?”

“Well, it’s better than the couch.”

I followed him to make certain he didn’t need anything, and then returned to my own bed. I laid there thinking about him lying so close in that other room. Fortunately, it was across the house, so we couldn’t hear each other. I felt the lure of going to him, but was resolved to stay. I would soon fall asleep and all would be okay. I relaxed, pleased with myself for resisting temptation.

Then I heard footsteps coming through my kitchen. His silhouette soon appeared at my bedroom door. I silently chastised myself for leaving it open like an invitation, while also feeling thrilled by his boldness. I didn’t move or speak. Fully clothed, he laid down beside me on top of the covers. I regarded him with amusement. He even still wore his baseball cap. I laughed at him, removing it and throwing it across the room. We didn’t speak. Gert lay between us like a shield.

“I guess I should leave,” he said. I knew that he should, but didn’t want him to. I moved closer, putting Gert on the other side of me. If a dog can be nonplussed, I think she was.

I moved to the crook of his shoulder, pulling his other arm around my waist. He used this opportunity to try groping me, but I kept his hand away, holding it securely against my side. I can’t remember any words we spoke. Eventually, he moved to kiss me, and I wanted to be kissed. The recesses of my mind imagined the appropriateness of the situation, given that I would face the SoHB the next day. My ego needed the boost.

We embraced and kissed deeper. I wondered if I would be able to maintain my boundaries. I knew, but didn’t wish to admit, that I couldn’t. I allowed him liberties, but I wished to prevent carrying it as far as before. He broke through my resistance with gentle pleas and persistence. I allowed things to progress to the same point they had last time. It was more than I wanted, but I still felt secure. But, as always, he pushed for more. My feeling of security evaporated. I told him I was uncomfortable. He tried pleading through my fears with words of, “Trust me. I wouldn’t do that to you,” but didn’t back off. Eventually he made a move I couldn’t tolerate, presuming I would go along despite my history of protests against it. I quickly pulled away, putting an end to our tryst.

“That’s it,” I said. “I’m done.”

“That’s it? Just like that?” he asked.

“Yup.” I pulled the cover over me and laid there a minute. Then, I laid my head on his stomach, looking into his half-closed eyes as I said, “You just don’t get it, Flirt.”

“No, I don’t,” he replied.

I paused as I weighed my words. “I want more … I mean, in general.”

He nodded. “Well, we all want more,” he said.

I briefly tried explaining why what he wanted wasn’t acceptable. I don’t know if he fully heard me. Within a couple of minutes his breathing changed to that of sleep. I thought to sleep myself, but was too uncomfortable lying there with him like that. I woke him to make him right himself. Next thing I knew, he was preparing to leave. I told him he didn’t have to leave; I wasn’t kicking him out. He said he knew, but was going to go. I didn’t know what to say to him. He seemed in a funk. I didn’t know if I said something to bruise his ego, if he felt guilt toward his Kentucky girl, or if he was simply disappointed with my ending things so abruptly. Several minutes after he left, I thought to call and check on what bothered him, but decided against it. I didn’t need to be in everyone’s face knowing everything they’re thinking all the time. I went back to bed with Gert and slept like the dead.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.