mollyelizabeth

So I am a little overemotional today.  A little. 

Ok, maybe a lot. 

I started crying at my desk today for no reason more than I just miss The Kid.  Again.  And the silent tears wouldn’t stop, they still, two hours later, keep rollin’ on down. 

I was never a crier, goddammit.  He always cried more than I did.  I don’t cry. 

I was the strong one.  Not the pathetic one.

I still feel so betrayed.   And his contradictions do not make it easier.  In last week’s conversation, he said, “I am still in love with you” and this last one, two minutes ago, he lectured about how unhealthy I am to hold on to something.  I am not holding on, I am mourning.  There’s a difference. 

I am starting to believe that maybe our entire relationship was a lie.  All six years of it.  The words exchanged and the hopes promised were all just lies. 

And I know I deserve better, I know he is not worth it.  At all.  He made his choice and it wasn’t me –regardless of his myriad of platitudes, he found someone else.  And actions are really the only things that matter.

I’ll find someone better. 

But I don’t think I believe in love anymore.  And I hate that that’s who I have turned into.

On Sunday, The Family went to see The Lion King at Minneapolis’ Orpheum Theater.  The show was amazing –worth my ticket price at the opening song.  I found myself dorkily smiling throughout the familiar dialogue and lyrics, and the spontaneous and unexpected joy reminded me of how I used to smile and enjoy life often … before I became depressed and issues-ridden.

We grew up being taken to plays but had not gone in a long time –in truth, we had not been together in the same room together for a long time.  Having the five family members packed into the car was something I don’t remember happening for at least the past ten years –of course that meant I had to sit bitch, those little punks.

And it’s not like we don’t get along.  We do.  Wonderfully.  We are all just busy with our own lives.

The parents are very different from each other –right-brain grade-school teacher vs. left-brain software engineer.  I like to think I have some mixture of each of them in my system.  They’ve been happily married for over thirty years, so I have no doubt a marriage can work well even with fairly little in common. Which is very positive since I am rarely attracted to those similar to myself –why would I need him around if I am capable filling the same role?

I have an older sister and a younger brother.  I am the (lost and forgotten, abused and neglected, et cetera) middle child.  My parents had three children under three years of age for three days, at which time The Sister turned four, which is still close in age but sounds less cool to say.  I think The Mom secretly revels for those three days in August when she can sequentially list the ages of her children.

Growing up, I liked the closeness of our ages. Since we all went through the same stages at close to the same time, I never felt alone or completely misunderstood –I had two comrades for consultation, whether that be homework, prom, or parent manipulation.  Having our respective high-school class sized at over 600 kids helped, as there were plenty of people to date/hate without encroaching on someone elses’ territory.

We’re a little abnormal in our lack of familiar complications.  I would even go so far as to say we’re slightly boring.  We also have a golden retriever and dinner is promptly served every night at 6:00. 

After the show, we, as a family, went to dinner.  I love drinking and partying with the siblings, but as a family?  In my hometown?  It surprised me –I expected to be annoyed or embarrassed that someone might see me enjoying these people.  I had a great time, loved the being with The Family –but decided best to keep the dosage minimal, because the family time also reminds me how appreciative I am that I am busy with my own life.  And I’d rather OD on something I’d wouldn’t regret from the subsequent aversion … like peach schnapps. 

My loser-iety embarrasses even myself sometimes. 

I didn’t dress up, or even go out, for Halloween.  I did, however, get drunk.  Do I at least get partial cool points for that?  Halloween used to involve rioting, now it involves movies. Gag. Blah.

The friends that wanted me out with them were the guy friends (The Kid’s ex-roommates) from college and when I hang out with them, I miss him, so I figured I would just not put myself in that position.  Instead I was a loser.  But a loser watching a movie and sharing a bottle of wine.  Ok, two bottles.  But I didn’t call him.  Not on Friday, not on Saturday … but on Sunday?  I called to say congratulations.  He screened my call, I left a voicemail.  And then I stayed up half the night reorganizing my closet and sorting through clothes trying to not think about how much that hurt.  At least Goodwill comes out the winner –if Goodwill, you know, likes really ugly, dusty stuff from six years ago.  Which I think it does.

I do not have a costume.  Yet.  I don’t want to be a slut, but I don’t want to be completely dorky and un-cute.  Middle ground is rarely found between these two in the land of Halloween costumes, and therein lies the conundrum.  Ideas, anyone?

Oh, Internet, please don’t judge.

He called last night.  The Kid From Boston.  He called and I answered and we talked.  Scratch that, it wasn’t talking –it was flirting.  Shameless flirting.

And I hate that he can still made me laugh. 

My love for this site is unparalleled, save maybe my love for their intern. I need to get me an intern.

“So he called again today.”

“Didn’t he just call you three days ago?”

“Yeah, but he wanted to ask me about my day.”

“Like, just because he was curious?  What guy does that.”

“I know.  And then get this: he asked about my test.”

“Because you included it as part of your day and he asked the follow-up how’d it go?”

“Logical assumption — and he would’ve totally gotten points for follow-up questions, but no.  I never mentioned it.  He remembered it from the conversation three days ago.”

“SHUT.  UP.  So he was paying attention three days ago?  And then remembered to call?  Was he drunk and wanting to get laid?”

“No … I think he was just being nice?  I don’t know, this is like nothing I’ve encountered before, he might be an alien. I just don’t know what to do with this.  We might need to stop seeing each other.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

1. Beer in bed with The Sister
2. Beer in bed while watching The Hills and mocking creepy Spencer
3. My boyfriend Jon Stewart
4. The jar of peanut butter kept in my car’s cupholder
5. Flirting via text
6. My new polka-dot rain boots.  Because those are practical.
7. Drunk dials (receiving, not giving) — and no, I have not grown out of them. 
8. Flirtations with IT guy on the phone.  In my mind, he’s attractive. 
9. Weight loss from depression/heartbreak
10. Naps that last longer than three hours.

*Update: 11.  Tall boots with skirts. 

The Wine Bar, my moonlighting gig, employs three young men from Mexico, and since I took four years of French and one semester of Italian –because heaven forbid I take the path that is beneficial and practical in the real world –the language barrier is somewhat problematic. 

The Sous Chef has the highest comprehension of English, and, probably not coincidentally, the one with whom I am closest.  Not that we’re that close –our interactions usually consist of tripping each other.  Mature, no?  He likes to drink beer and play the game, with his girlfriends young in age and numerous in quantity.  As I have never met a player whom I trust, I usually just fall blindly, I am always surprised when this one knows the heart so well. 

I had a minor breakdown on Saturday, the uninvited and disabling tears came right before my work shift. The previous evening I went to the bar with friends, thinking friends were exactly what I needed, but, unfortunately, the friends that were adamant of my attendance were The Kid From Boston’s college roommates.  Without his contribution and presence, the dynamic was … off, and I felt it completely. 

When I arrived at The Wine Bar, twenty minutes late, my swollen and red eyes reminiscent of those derived from the college days’ copious amounts of pot, my boss gave the half-laugh, “Whats wrong with you?” Thankfully, everyone else left me alone.

Except The Sous Chef.

He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder and asked if I, amiga, was ok.

I said I missed the asshole from Boston even after all this time.  And today was just a bad day. 

He quietly looked at me, not with pity that I was unable to get over someone but with compassion. 

“I think that you feel something … big.  And that is special  Not many people feel something big.

“You need to learn that no one is more special than yourself.  You don’t work tomorrow?  That is muy mal because you need to stay busy always.  Maybe if you find someone new it will help, but I don’t know, right now, it is trouble.”  He then started to laugh.  Big Trouble. 

Which were some of the most comforting words I have heard.  He didn’t try to fix it, he didn’t offer his story of heartbreak, he just validated the relationship.  We did have something big.  Something special.  And it’s going to hurt and be big trouble because of that.  Since that conversation, I have been breathing easier, the pressure has lessened.  I can continue to work on getting over him, but I don’t need to rush it.  Because special takes time.

This weekend, I became a sports fan. 

My motivations were not noble.  My new-found sports enthusiasm was not related to any affinity with Cleveland but rather an animosity I am still harvesting with Boston.  I am a petty individual. 

When I would (gross, apparently, we were this couple) question the quantity of The Kid’s love, he would say he loved me more than the Red Sox.  I would laugh and assure him that it was ok, I could be second on the list.  Usually, he’d still give me the number one spot; other times, to make me smile and roll my eyes, we’d tie. 

Like any born-and-bred Bostonian, he breathes baseball. 

My college summers always contained a mid-season visit to MA when Red-Sox Nation was in full, uproarious swing.  The emphasis on baseball continually astounded me, whether that be the old men carrying around the AM radios that broadcast, loudly and with static, the day game or his Nana debating the merits and statistics of Coco Crisp.  My ethnocentric Midwestern roots always found charm in the cultural difference; even now, I have to stifle a patronizing so cute. 

My apologizes to his Nana and the old men outfitted in shorts, tall socks, and an AM radio …  but I wanted them to lose so badly.

God hates me.  Not only did they win, but they won by a lot.  Both games.  God, I am sure, was highly amused. 

I hate sports.

“Usually the only way to get over someone is to be under someone.”