Fight or Flight

I finally responded to her. Since The Firefighter’s Quest for The Holy Grail, she, the object of their desire, has been sending me texts for happy-hours and dinners, taking on the tone of the I miss you! Your house was so fun! We need to hang out more! quality.

Which is complete bullshit.

So I have ignored them. If the tone was different, I might’ve considered a different reaction. Maybe. But, whatever, it’s bullshit, and my bullshit tolerance has been low lately.

When texts weren’t delivering her desired results, she sent an email last week, asking for my schedule to arrange a dinner, saying that she wanted to nail me to a date before hitting up the other two girls.

The other two girls, well, they are on my side. If anything, they are less willing to forgive her than I am, and however cliquey and high-school that may be, I find it touching. During my processing of the little incident, one of the girls had informed me, “Mols, she might control all the guys, but you’re the leader for the girls – you know that, right? You’re the one that ties us together; you’re the only one that all of us would be comfortable hanging out one-on-one.” Well, shit – that’s sweet to say, and no, I never thought about it quite like that. I then immediately started plotting ways to use my power for evil and shun her like a leper (kidding) (mostly).

I’ve been trying to disperse any sources of negative energy (how new-agey does that sound?), and if I were to continue to avoid, I knew the negativity would liger. So my response was short and sweet (she has yet to have the balls to call me, so I follow suit), saying that the next month at least was going to be really busy and I didn’t have any available time. To be clear: I’m not holding a grudge, I’ve just been enlightened as to her person, and I don’t feel the need to associate myself with that negativity, especially when I have other friends, amazing friends, who love me and are truly awesome to me.

My evasive too-busy-to-hang email received a reply (dammit): “Yeah I understand the busy schedule thing. It’s hard to make room for “free time”. I also get if you can’t plan for a girls night anytime in the next month. I would like to see YOU though, sometime. Even if just for lunch one day during the week. I feel like we were a bit disconnected last time I saw you and I didn’t like that. Let me know if you can squeeze me in.”

After careful consideration and in the interest of being up front and honest, I wrote back, with what most would call common sense, “The disconnect was because I was uncomfortable watching you move in on a guy I had slept with. My friends don’t do that. It’ll be fine, we’ll be ok, I just need some time.”

Was probably a bad idea; I’ll let you know if I receive a response.

 

Time

Four weeks ago he returned from Europe, and he was different. He no longer teased or indulged my penchant for asking questions. He’d snap at me. Although before he had promised pictures and stories and a souvenir bong as big as my head, since his return, he’s yet to show me a single photo or even share the names of his vagabond crew.

Three weeks ago he told me he loved me … and that sounds like a bigger deal than it actually is. The words were sent via text, and it’s just something he does sometimes, a text into the void, without the expectation of a response. I do the same – though not those words. Never those words. The closest I come is an I miss you and even that is rare. The point is that the words are never a big revelation; just a factual statement I accept without deep analysis.

Two weeks ago he asked me to visit. He was at a wedding in Chicago, with our college friends, and wanted to see me. He called me his best friend, said that whenever something good or bad happened, I was the first one he wanted to tell. He said that everyone at the wedding asked about me, told him he screwed up when he let me go (isn’t that a polite way to phrase it?). He said he wanted to see me … but if he had really wanted to see me, he would’ve called me before 1am when drunk.

One week ago we were still off, had yet to return to our normal rhythm. When we’re off, it’s easier for me – it creates distance, which I like. Much easier for me to dislike him, especially when around his two best friends who still give me the “you guys are totally going to get married, I just know it!” drill. We were off for a reason, and I knew what it was. The Bestest Friend warned me against asking.

Three days ago I asked. Well, that’s wrong, I didn’t ask, I told a mutual friend, told him that The Kid is seeing someone in NYC and that she went to Europe with him. My friend just looked at me, his eyes were the same quiet pity that I saw and too well remember from two years ago when I asked about her, and said, “You know I can’t tell you that.” I nodded, indifferently, and then excused myself to call a friend, one of my girls, and promptly broke down. I was, embarrassingly, a hysterical mess. She listened through the pain, the teeth chattering and body quaking and hell, even the vomiting. No tears though; never tears.

Yesterday I told him goodbye. I said that we can’t talk anymore. That he needs to let me go because I am not healing.

I feel … empty.

 

Unsinkable

The cashier at the grocery store wants to set me up with her grandson. She doesn’t know his actual age (“in his thirties”) and he lives in Chicago (“Mol, it’s only an hour away!” –yes, by PLANE) but also, his last name is Brown. So when I marry Mr. Brown – because who are we kidding, I obviously will – my married name will be Molly Brown, as in the Unsinkable Molly Brown from the Titanic. Upon marriage, I think I will change my entire name to include the entire title: The Unsinkable Molly Brown from the Titanic. It’s catchy.

I didn’t think a last name could get worse than that of The Kid’s (his starts with an M and sounded HORRIBLE with my first name; think Molly Maguire, Molly Malone, Molly Mercer, etc.) but alas, I have found it. And since I can’t imagine a name that could feasibly sound even worse, we’re obviously meant to be.

I have his “computer numbers” (email address – bless her heart, the cashier is in her eighties) and am supposed to make the first move. The Brother thinks I should open with the bit about his last name because guys find it endearing and not at all scary when a girl tells tales about impending marriage and future plans. I think he’s right.

 

TFLN

If you don’t read textsfromlastnight.com, you totally should. Because it is awesome (even on those days where it makes me feel old). My Google Reader currently has a few saved, and I reread them and giggle – typically at inappropriate times like VIP teleconferences.

(501): he said i was chugging vodka in the parking lot, gave my # to a married man, started a food fight, and passed out at the bar. how could he NOT consider that a good first date???

(602): She made me go with her to get a pregnancy test since she’s missed a few birth control pills. She made me park in the “expectant mothers” spot at CVS and preceded to ask if it would be in the pest control section.

How many more hours until the weekend?

 

In case anyone doubted the excitement of my daily activities

I fell asleep last night eating cheesy popcorn in bed. The best part is that when I woke up at 4am, rolled over, I was delighted by my bed partner. OH hello delicious snackfood, a few handfuls? Don’t mind if I do. This is what my life has turned into.

 

“Do you want to? I totally think we should right now.”

When he asked me to make out, I don’t think the reaction he wanted from me was a wave to [another guy friend], who was sitting five feet away from us in the cramped living room. Not awkward.

“Hi Baby Cakes!” –even added the powerful one-two combination of chin-lift/eye-roll to the greeting.

“Hello, Molly.” His returning wave reeked with mocking enthusiasm. I love/hate that about him.

The guy has a fairly serious girlfriend, so I knew nothing was going to happen – all the same, my battered ego appreciated that at least someone liked the idea of making out with me.

In my sober state –I had been nominated as driver when they were already in shambles when I arrived at the bar a few hours earlier –I diplomatically asked the make-out dude if he thought that making out might be slightly uncomfortable, what with someone sitting so close to us. He contemplated this profoundly, as if he hadn’t thought that far ahead. He then posed another question.

“Molly, why are you single? You’re so cute; why are you single?”

I hate that question. There is no answer for that question. People who ask that question deserve a swift kick in the shins. Instead, I wryly said, “It’s my personality. It totally sucks.”

My humor was lost on him, but it made the other guy friend, who was slightly-less-drunk and chain smoking in a nearby old-man chair, complete with torn fabric and a broken recliner, give a chuckle and shake his head.

Left without making-out as a viable activity, he put my feet in his lap and tried to crack my toes. Most girls would get guys who, perhaps, would use the situation for a foot massage; I get ones who crack my toes. I win. Only two cracked, much to his annoyance.

The display was sardonically being observed, and I again heard laughter from the vicinity of the old-man chair.

His head eventually found way to my shoulder, in a beer-induced repose, and I started a nonchalant conversation with the other friend, as if I didn’t have someone attached to the underside of my chin. When my napping friend woke, twenty minutes later, alert and startled, he said, “OHMYGOD, I am TOTALLY hitting on you right now. IAMSOSORRY.”

Yes, he was. And it was awkward and unsuccessful and totally inappropriate, given his circumstances, but it was also amusing and harmless – and at least I didn’t have to finish the week like it started –feeling unwanted and pathetic and the fool. It’s a good friend who takes that role for me.

 

Labor Day Recap

I have learned the secret of life –and its name is three-day-benders-of-pizza-and-beer. You’re welcome.

 

Some Fun News

My boss yesterday, while convincing me to accept her counteroffer instead of the new position: “Molly, not only can you work from home when you want, but during your school’s winter break, you can use my office if you’d like.”

Thirty-below-zero temperatures or a month in LA?

Sold.

 

Commiserating

“I lost four guys in their quest for The Holy Grail.”

She named the guys; I remembered them and how much she adored them, despite their infatuation for another. Four was a tricky number to beat – there were only five girls in the clique, but the guy count was closer to ten –especially when all four of them gave the same break-up reason: “I have feelings for another.” The other two girls lost at least two each. My one was relatively nothing; granted, everyone else’s losses were all ten years ago.

“Do you think she knew? Knew what they were to you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Molls, she definitely knew. I spent my entire high-school life wishing I could be her.”

We were shopping, me and my friend who, fittingly, is a doctorate student for psychology. It was her wedding at which he and I hooked up last year.

I asked if we could hate her, if only for today, to which she laughingly agreed.

She listened to my rants and contributed her own problems to assure that her life, too, was far from perfect. She’s a really good friend.

“Molls, I could see them dating. I could see her wanting something more.”

I could, too. “They are both fun people, it’ll probably work out well. Can I avoid? I don’t want to be around that, and feel awkward and pretend it doesn’t bother me. Or worse, what if I get looks of pity? If he brought any other girl around, it wouldn’t bother me … but because it’s her, it does. Unhealed wound, I guess. And I never wanted to be more with him, he never got me on the level I needed, not like some, but I liked that he and I were close, I liked what we had. It was special to me, and I treasured it, ya know? And now it’s gone.”

“I always liked you two together. Since high school, I’ve liked the two of you.”

“But I didn’t want to be with him.”

“No, but I liked the two of you together even as friends. You complement each other well – you’re different enough that it works. If they date, it won’t last, you know.”

“It might.”

“She needs … to be special. That attention, that spotlight. A life with him would be too ordinary. Not that she won’t try it first.”

“I don’t have the right to be upset, with either of them. I have no claim, never wanted claim, never asked for it.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s still a shitty situation.”

I went on to tell a story, one from Costa Rica*, which was one of my favorite memories of the trip. Since I occasionally obsess and overanalyze, I am re-examining that story, as well as others, wondering if he and I ever had something or if I was always just the runner-up.

“Molls, you have to remember that those memories wouldn’t exist without you – she would’ve played them differently. That’s a you story. She never would’ve done that. You’re not replaceable.”

Her intuitive words were lost on my pity party, my pouting. “The loss of him hurts more than of her –we were better friends –and I hate it. I’m going to miss him.”

“I know, love. It sucks.”

As we walked into a new store, the salesman greeted us, asking if we were looking for anything in particular today. To break our conversation, I responded, “Anything that can make us superficially happy.” His answering discomfort made her smile and, as intended, drop the subject.

*Maybe I’ll tell it tomorrow. As a heads-up, it’s kinda pukey.

 

The Holy Grail

Typically, when I try to explain the high-school hierarchy, people have difficulty understanding that this select group of guys has retained their everlasting adoration. The cynics call bullshit, thinking that after all these years they would have matured or grown out of it. The cynics would be wrong.

She’s The Holy Grail. The priceless charm worth countless amounts of time/energy in desperation to capture. The Holy Grail doesn’t change to not be The Holy Grail, but holds the position eternally. The guys will always want her – even if she has shown no interest in them for the past ten years. When she finally wants him, perhaps after knowing that another one in the group has gotten close enough to him to take international trips, she will get him. No sane male participant would reject such an esteemed prize. It’s the law of the land. As is any and all casualties are justified in the quest for The Holy Grail.

It sounds dramatic, but the rules were established in high school – the birthplace of drama. It doesn’t make it any less true.

I’m not delusional in knowing what she is. I was delusional in knowing who he is. I thought he and I were close, and even though she is still The Holy Grail, he and I had something where we would always maintain that easy, chill thing that made us us.

I, in company with the cynics, would be wrong.

###

The Firefighter was conflicted during the party. He needed to downplay our history to assure capture of The Grail, so he avoided me and gave extra attention to her. Not the behavior I receive when it’s a just-me-and-him-casual-hang-out thing. I avoided eye contact with both of them. She played oblivious, as if we were all so happy together and there was no back-story with any of us. My two friends who knew my internalizing kept shooting me sympathy looks, so then I started avoided eye contact with them, too.

Left me no where to look but the bottom of my glass (that statement sounds like a country song), which is misleading, considering I stayed relatively sober throughout the party, having the constant nausea act as an inhibitor.

Eventually, late in the evening, the party was down to four: him, her, me and my brother. While playing cards and finally catching up to the others’ heavy drinking, I turned into Chatty McFuckingMagoo while she sat there, poised and collected. Quite uncouth, on my part, but then I was insecure and anxious and overcompensating and really had no idea what to do, so I just talktalktalked like some fucking idiot. “Brother, did you know [golden retriever] died a year ago yesterday?” “I love these lemon bars! Lemon is amazing!”

Molly, get it together and shut the fuck up.

The talking was my coping mechanism. Had to play strong somehow.

We fell asleep in my living room, he on one end of the sectional, her on the other. I fell asleep on the chair, as we were still talking slightly. Or more likely, probably me talking while he was all, “fucking hell, I wonder when Molly is going to stop talking and leave us alone.” I finally did sleep.

I woke up three hours later, at five am, alone in the room.

Their shoes were still at my front door.

I found them in the basement, on the 4’x4’ floor space, spooning.

I tried to sleep after that but couldn’t. So I started my day. Was cleaning the kitchen when he left at 8am; I gave a weak half-hug with all eye contact avoided, and I went upstairs before she left 45 minutes later.

It hurts. A lot more than I want it to.

 

His invite read: “On Sunday, come to my party at Molly’s house!”

On Saturday morning when I asked him to come over early on Sunday, he was skeptical and asked why, questioning my motives. I said that since it was his party that he was throwing, at my house, it might be awkward to make extensive small talk with people I didn’t know. I didn’t mind the party at my house, I really didn’t, I was the one to offer it as a venue; I like having people over. But I minded his sudden attitude change; it was distant with a tint of entitlement. The skepticism threw me – was spending twenty minutes alone with me worth any suspicion?

My family had a family reunion this past weekend – one that I joined on Saturday morning in order to attend Friday’s wedding. The reunion was amazing, I love my family, and they had packed up the leftovers for party food, leaving one less task for party-prepping and more time for floor scrubbing and other random jobs around the house before guests showed.

During my cleaning episode, I remembered that I needed ice, so I called The Firefighter to ask to pick some up. On his side of the phone the background was loud, and he was distracted. I could hear a female voice, laughing flirtatiously, at his statements.

Finally, annoyed at the call, I asked what he was doing.

“At the bar. With [newly-single high-school friend*]. Ice? Yeah, cool. And hey, did you know liquor stores are closed in Minnesota on Sundays?”

Yes. I did. Was something that I had told him twice when I cautioned against a Sunday party. I also figured he wasn’t into details, so I bought two cases of beer earlier in the week. Party planning for his party.

I ended the phone call quickly because I could feel my stomach plummeting, and I wanted to avoid the foreboding reality. I knew then exactly how the evening would progress.

He and she showed up ten minutes after the scheduled start time. Buzzed and carefree. They had spent the past four hours together at the bar and now were ready to continue the party – only this time, at my house, with my booze.

*That’s a dumb name, but I don’t care enough to change it. I’ll change it later.