March 2008

… when I start telling people my ATM password and the merits of a number combination such as mine.


You think we can put things behind us and try to be friends?

I didn’t respond to the text.  But my first thought was, “Oh, the Internet is not going to be happy to hear this one.”

Couldn’t sleep last night because I kept replaying the same thought: I miss being loved.  Was a horrible thought to replay.  Makes me feel so anti-feminist.  As if I need someone to pull a Jerry Maguire and complete me.  But it’s not that at all; it’s not a matter of completion.  As much as I enjoy myself and my independence, I miss being a complement.  To share someone’s world –and to be someone’s world –and all the lovely extras associated with that. 

Around 2am, I took some Nyquil.  Four hours of contemplation was enough. 

On Saturday night, The Brother and I were drinking with some of my friends when I received a text from The Sister saying, “At [local bar], come drink with us, partying with [friend] and her younger brother, he is so hot!” I showed the text to The Brother; he laughed, rolled his eyes and moved on to the next topic of conversation.

Five minutes later, The Brother received a text that said, “at bar with your sister”.

The Brother and I simultaneously quirked our heads –the same way my puppy does when he thinks, but isn’t quite sure, someone said treat – and then grabbed our phones to respond to our respective texts. Both were sent with warning undertones (mine: “Sister, he’s just a baby” and his: “Watch out for my sister”) but, apparently, our diligent efforts were all for naught as the already-the-wiser friend’s younger brother sent my brother a return text saying, “Yeah, man, I know they are crazy”.

THEY? Like, plural?

“So he thinks both of your sisters are crazy? REAL NICE, BROTHER.”

“Oh get over it, Molly, calm down.”


“I don’t tell him stories.”


“Um, he’s met you before.”

“Ha. Hmm. Oh. Well, can you at least tell him that I am a little less crazy than Sister?”

“Sure. If you promise to turn down the crazy next time you meet my friends.”

As much as I love my brother, I couldn’t make any promises; the crazy does tend to come out at the most inconvenient times. He should realize this by now.

After Easter dinner, while drinking wine and picking at my dessert – and everyone else’s dessert – I was conversing with one of my cousins’ kids, the youngest, who was a gossip hot spring.

She was telling me about school and the stress from all things Kindergarten related: creative pressure during art, the physics of stacking blocks properly, the hierarchy and political strife stemmed from playing house. And show and tell! How to please the audience with something new and interesting to show and then tell. Her best item was when she shared gossip, gossip from the highly-evolved fifth-grade level, because one of her classmates’ sisters HAD DUMPED her cousin just yesterday. The class, she said, was outraged.  Her teacher, however, was a little upset at her dramatic finger-pointing.

She then asked if I had a boyfriend, which is always a fun question, and I said no and, because I had been drinking for a few hours, I added, “I have some issues but, dude, I am totally working on them, which is good because I really like cute boys and I don’t want to hate them all, ya know? Boys that smell good and make you laugh, really, is there anything in the world that is better? Life is complicated sometimes I guess.”

To which she, quite adorably, nodded with complete understanding and said, “There’s just so much pressure.”

Dude. I totally know.

Things that have made me crabby today:

1. I almost wrote irritable instead of “crabby” because a certain ex-boyfriend used to inform me that the word crabby was “so Midwest”. Fuck that. Crabby Crabby Crabby. Stop invading my thoughts.
2. A nooner appointment with the dentist
3. My life does not involve cooler noon-time activities. I miss college.
4. No cavities. How am I supposed to maintain sullen with good news?
5. Rush hour
6. Drivers who do not know the rules of rush hour yet insist on driving in rush hour. Get out of my way.
7. Minivans. And their inability to merge.
8. Finally found a house that I wanted to purchase yet I qualify for significantly less without my added wine bar income. Welcome to job search time. My least favorite activity in all the world.
9. Blister.
10. Migraine.
11. Took migraine medication which annoyed me as each pill costs $15 and MY INSURANCE SHOULD PAY FOR IT BUT DOES NOT
12. The woman wearing baby powder deodorant.

Things that made me a tad less crabby:

1. I didn’t shower this morning. Maybe I smell, don’t know, don’t care, SCREW THE MAN.
2. Friends in town from Chicago and Africa this weekend, can the drinking start now?
3. Lent is almost over. I need to purchase some happiness, dammit, hopefully in the form of new shoes.

While on vacation, I was the one to bring it up. Via text, of course. I asked if he would want to drive two hours and buy me dinner. He considered it.

“Do you really think that’s the best idea?”

OF COURSE NOT. Of course it’s a bad idea. A LOUSY idea. No freaking way, in no one’s sane mind, would anyone EVER suggest that us having dinner would be the RIGHT choice. An implication would be LAUGHABLE. And why did I suggest it? Because, duh, do I EVER make the right choice? The healthy choice? OF COURSE NOT. That would be too easy. I like life complicated. Keeps me on my toes.

I have no idea what I expected to accomplish in a dinner. Nothing constructive. But I guess I just wanted to see him – it’s almost been a full year since we were in the same location. Just wanted to look at him, see the progression of gray hair and see if his eyes still changed when we talked. And, maybe, have good news for The Bestest Friend if he got fat. I was going to have to see him some time in life, might as well be when I was in bikini shape and sporting a hot tan; better than at a college friend’s wedding where we would awkwardly introduce our dates.

He considered it. He even gave me Thursday as the potential day. He tried to convince me to drive the two hours to him so we could “have more time and [I could] even stay on the couch if that’s[my] preference.” I turned him down. I didn’t want the potentially REALLY bad opportunity; I only wanted to look at him. Honestly.

We had a few phone calls over the week’s course. The area , the weather, the water … shit, even the grocery store chain … it all reminded me of him. Made me remember and think entirely too much. The down time, especially in that area, made me miss him is all. The calls were different for us; we didn’t fight; we didn’t flirt; I wasn’t passive aggressive or throw any low blows; we talked and it was nice.

“I have a lot of character flaws.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“For the first time in my life, I am acknowledging them.”

“Acknowledge them? Would you like help identifying them? I still loved you with them, but I could make you a list.”

“I know. But … but I guess I am not ignoring them anymore. For the first time, I am trying to be a better person. I am trying to lessen the self loathing.”



“Can I tell you something and then we never talk about it again?”

“Will I like hearing it?”


“Ok, then I want to be able to talk about it again.”

“Sorry. Won’t tell you then.”

“Fine. What is it?”

“I miss you.”

I tried to convey that he didn’t miss me, he was just lonely. He misses having someone. Anyone. The Kid has not been alone for longer than two months, bouncing between flings and steady relationships, since middle school. He probably strung me along for longer than needed, as space filler, until he found a replacement. I’m the opposite. I lean toward hermit. My time is precious and I’d rather be happy alone than chance unhappy with someone unworthy. Or maybe I am lazy and have a fear of rejection. Whatever.

“Kid, I think that’s why you struggle with the self-loathing so much. You don’t enjoy being with yourself – you’ve never had to.”

“I don’t have the right to miss you.”

“No. You don’t.”

“I had what people spend their entire life searching for. And I fucked it up.”

“Yeah. You did.”

The last time I cried over him, something broke. The last remaining heartstring maybe. And I know I’ve implied it before, but now, I think I actually mean it. We talk sometimes –more than I would admit– and I miss him as a friend, but I don’t think I miss him as a boyfriend. He treated me poorly. He lied; he cheated; he didn’t go out of his way to make me feel special. He easily replaced me, and she meant something to him, as much as I like to tell myself otherwise. I sometimes wonder how much I meant to him, and how much was just habit. He never paid attention to my habits and fuck, even Work Boyfriend, after only a few months and our deep relationship consisting of sex-in-the-freezer jokes, knew the little things like my favorite cocktails and how I take my coffee. For a boyfriend, I have higher standards than those The Kid set. I’ll still talk to him, over AIM, where we will have polite small talk and he will never ask me a single question, but I won’t yearn (barfy word) for him. Because I think I almost believe myself when I say he’s not my someone.

“It’s probably better if we don’t meet for dinner. It will set me back.”

“Excuse me? Kid, how is it about you?”

“I am trying to be ok with lonely.”

“You listened to me?”

“Always do.”

I think I am finally listening to me, too. And I might be ok with lonely. I still think about him, in some way, everyday, sometimes as a passing thought and sometimes more. But the tears are done. Finally. For now (not promising against breakdowns in the future). That does not mean that when we do meet, awkwardly, you best believe I won’t have an amazingly hot date. Because I will. Even if I have to rent one. Just because this turned out for the better doesn’t mean I am not neurotic or going to be a bigger person about it. I’ve grown not matured.

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