October 2008


I participated in NaBloPoMo last year and really enjoyed it. Last year, I had the time. I am sucking at writing/posting lately (oh, you haven’t noticed? Three posts in one month? Oh yeah, it’s because you’ve all left from sheer boredom and the inactivity of this site). Anyway, I think I need something to kick my ass because I actually really enjoy the writing/posting thing … when I have the time. So … I guess what I am saying … peer pressure … Is anyone else jumping on the NaBloPoMo bandwagon and think I should, too?

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I told him that I was done.

Over twenty-four hours later when he was trying to provoke the playing of a Scrabble word, my text finally received a response: “I don’t even know what that means.”

Done is not code; it’s a pretty clear –almost universal –word, in my opinion. Yet he must have understood as he didn’t ask for further clarification. He only stated, possibly in defense, “You only want me as a noodle anyway.”

These noodley-boys were a perpetual subject of interest for him, constantly under scrutinty, as if a sub-human population with slightly different molecular structure which caused their odd collective behavior. He investigated them like science project with the ever-eager interest of a eight-year-old, constantly questioning. “Tell me what happens with you sleep at their house!” (“I sleep on the couch and when they aren’t too drunk, they remember to find me a pillow.”) Or “When you go out to dinner, how do they know it’s not a date?” (“Because we split the bill and talk about our respective dating prospects.”).

But since I had already told him that I was done, I responded, “No, you weren’t one. My noodles I keep at arms length. I don’t invite them over to cuddle.” A clarification which I had never explicitly said, yet one that was stated infinite times with examples. We had covered, without a doubt, how I treat my noodles. And the non-noodles, well, he never gave me a chance to illustrate; he was busy being unavailable.

He said that he had never seen me that assertive before – that I never say my direct thought. I said that he’s the one playing the games; I only play defense. The conversation ended then, as I had homework, but he said that he’d talk to me later on.

He didn’t. Not that I secretly hoped he would. Because I’m done … and the relieving part about being done is that I don’t have to do anything. The unrelieving part is that I don’t even know if it could have been something; he intrigued me but I don’t know if that would have been enough. I don’t know what I really thought about him and what bothers me most is that I always like to know. Knowing gives me resolution and only then I can stop thinking about it. But I’m done, so I guess that even includes being done thinking.

I apologize for the filler post, but life has been hectic and I haven’t had a decent chunk of time to write … but life has pretty much remained the same as always. So I guess that’s the good news of it: you haven’t missed anything. But, as you can tell from this post, The Realtor is still around and still inconsistent. We’ve been talking more often, particularly before bed, and I’m not getting the vibe that he’s playing me as well as others. He told me once that I scare him … because I have substance and he’s not used to that. I think he’s out of his element.

“[When your parents were in town a few weeks ago] what the hell were you thinking calling me from the car?”

“I was talking about the beautiful and incredibly smart, funny girl that I had a crush on obviously…”

“Ha, nice try. Do you really talk to your parents about your ladies? I like to keep mine in the dark as often as possible.”

“My parents are always curious, they hated [model/dancer ex-girlfriend] because she was a bitch and was very confrontational about dumb shit, so they want to know if I’m making good or bad decisions. Can you please play a scrabble word? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”

“No, I am not even halfway done with this paper and you’d be like if you give a mouse a cookie.”

“Happy?”

“He’s gonna want a glass of milk and if he has a glass of milk he’s going to want a napkin.”

“If you play a scrabble word I’m not gonna want to make out with you if that’s what you’re getting at …”

“What if it’s a good word?”

“Well, then maybe I will want to make out but whatever, it won’t be. Please. Fucking please. It’s been so long. I promise you’ll only have to play one.”

“Seriously? It’s been like a day. Do you have the best word ever?”

“I have a blank tile and I freak out when I don’t know what the blank is gonna be, it messes with my ocd … so please do this for me … as my friend … as my cute friend with an amazing personality that I have a crush on friend? … God I’m hilarious.”

“Did you find that amusing? Get that out of your system?”

“Nope. Not yet.”

“Ok, I will play a word … if you tell me what your parents think of me. Not that they’ve ever met me or anything but still.”

“No, because you just made it very clear that I make you uncomfortable and if I tell you the convo you’ll be uncomfortable, so it’s a non issue.”

“Dude. Tell me and then I will feign ignorance. Why would the retelling of the convo make me uncomfortable?”

“Because then I’ll have to admit that I have a crush on you … maybe.”

“Ok, leave that part out just tell me what your parents said.”

“That you sound like just the type of girl that I should pursue. And that I must really think you’re cool. Because I apparently made a face when I was talking to you. And my mom got all creepy. I’m done now, not saying anything else.”

“Ok, yeah, ha, I don’t think I want to hear anything else – that’s my tolerance level right there.”

“Did you play a word yet?”

“I am trying; my letters suck. What did you do when your mom got creepy?”

“I said something to make her uncomfortable, so she dropped it.”

“Like what?”

“I said: ‘you’re right mom, it was love at first sight, but it’s unrequited so I’m just fucking as many strippers as possible to get over it’.”

“… Noodle, that does not sound appropriate.”

“Did you go?”

“No.”

“FUCK, make your move.”

“Ok, two options: one strategic, one that could make you smile.”

“I am already smiling; I always go for strategic.”

I might have a new crush. My violet-eyed bartender. Am still deciding. We’re buds – but I like that he smiles in anticipation before he hears my stories and that he told me he was going to teach me to snowboard this winter and that he teases me about our readiness for the newlywed game from our inane time-wasting conversations.

He’s also a player, borderline alcoholic, and has a girlfriend (albeit one that he told me is convenient and near-end), as par for the course. Hence the still deciding.

But I like being buddies. And if anything, a non-threatening crush is always a nice distraction.

I need an intervention from someone rational. Someone to tell me that financially we’re in a recession and I have a mortgage payment and tuition and furniture bills; during this time, please remind me that I do not have extra time and my time-management skills are definitely lacking if I think I can fit in more to my chaotic schedule. Most of all, someone needs to tell me that this is most definitely NOT the best time to start planning possible trips for the spring, despite the (relatively) cheap airfare and the persuasive travel buddy in Baby Cakes.

I need a better argument than, “Molly, you cannot afford it.” Something that will actually convince me.

“I hate what I am going back to.”

“I know but only about six months left there.”

“I just feel like I have run my life into the ground.”

“You can always get your life back up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do. I bet almost all the important things can be fixed.”

“Not all of them.”

“You don’t know that. The things worth it enough I bet can.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Then you don’t want it enough.”

“I suck.”

“You’re only mostly retarded. Want to come over and watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall with me?”

“I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather do.”

… Later:

“I miss you.”

“I know, Kid, I miss you too. We were happy together at some point, right?”

“Very.”

“We had a lot of bullshit going on though.”

“We were kids.”

“I still feel like a kid sometimes. I have no idea what I am doing.”

“Me neither.”

“Your boys need to step it up.” (The Red Sox were tied in the 9th.)

“I miss you like a lot.”

“I’m not all that great.”

“Yes you are” … and here’s where I fell asleep and stopped responding … “you really really are.” And then, “If you ever think of a solution, let me know.”

Lastly, his text at 5am when he was awake to catch his flight, “You have no idea how much I wish I was sleeping next to you right now.”

As I am slowly gaining a handle on my life and am starting to regain those feelings that made me me – feelings of independence, competency at work, educated –I am more and more often regaining another feeling. One of an altogether unsettling nature.

I miss The Kid.

In college, when I was me –not the depressed mess I turned into after college—and he was him –again, the real him, not whom he turned into – we were happy. And I know that I have preprogrammed all of you to hate him immensely –and I do appreciate your loyalty –but at least believe that at one point in our lives, we were really good together. It’s kind of the reason why we lasted for six years.

As I am no longer participating in Mission: Living Happily to Spite The Kid and as I let go of that underlying negativity that shadowed me for so long, I can now acknowledge how he used to complement who I was. And whom I am turning into again. (Albeit older and oh so much, wiser.)

I am trying to convince myself that I miss having a someone on the good days – anyone — to share my mood and laughter and all those accompanying nauseatingly happy moments. But I never think of my current prospects. Out of nowhere, I will always think of The Kid and how much I wish he could join my day. How much I wish I could revert back to college, walk the five blocks to his black-hole of a college house, walk past his stoner roommates watching Family Guy, find him studying in his room, and climb onto his lap to exuberantly tell the most trivial details of my day, while he would patiently listen, amused not at my stories but at my animation.

I am hoping it’s just a phase.

It didn’t help that he was visiting our alma mater this past weekend. Having him four hours away was … distracting.

I had received invitations to join the reunion weekend. Baby Cakes was particularly persistent.

“Please come this weekend?”

“Just because I got you and Sweets in the divorce, doesn’t mean I will interfere on his visitation rights.”

“And now? Have you reconsidered about coming now?”

“… Two minutes later? No, I am still staying here. He is allowed his two weekends a year with you, you know this. I get you the rest of the time. And you know that we can’t be in the same city at the same time else the universe will explode. What are you thinking?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of like mixing exact equal parts of regular lemonade and pink lemonade.”

“Dude. No, it is nothing like that. I don’t even know what that means.”

“It’s exactly like that. You’re being dumb.”

Aware of my distraction, The Bestest Friend vocalized full-support to pull a crazy, if I wanted to, saying that we could drive the four hours and “keep a distance” – as if that justified the actions and that’s all that we would do. She was mostly kidding, knowing that I would never agree to the road trip, but as Bestest Friends are obligated to do, she needed to voice the option … just in case. Besides, the “keeping a distance” would not go well; if she and I had but one cocktail, we would be the least subtle spies in the history of stalking missions, finding ourselves HILARIOUS while we’d hide in the corner of the bar, overlooking our prey and more than likely throwing ice cubes in their general direction. Not prone to discovery in the least. And it would have been hilarious … a truly awesome expedition … if it was someone else’s life. For my life? My crazy functionality is best kept at a minimum.

The Kid and I did discuss my participation of the weekend, with his opinion being, “It’s not that I don’t want to see you, because I really do, it’s just that you would completely overwhelm the weekend.” Which is true. A drunken weekend with beer/friends/football is not the most ideal of situations for any first-time-seeing-the-ex-again situation.

And yet, without any intention of entertaining the idea, I still thought about it … and him.

As he was on my mind, I was on his. The first night he texted, “So this is what fun is.” Which hurt my heart a bit. I don’t wish him misery –ok, yes, for a while I TOTALLY wanted him miserable—but not lately, and not the kind that he’s experienced with all things Law-School related – the culture, the people, the classes. I hate that he has had so much unhappiness during this course of his life that he needed a stupid undergrad reunion weekend to remember fun.

We talked each day that he was in town. Partially because the town is reminiscent of our relationship but partially because he was happier there. His tone was even different. He was the one that I loved in college. He was happy. And flirty. And him again. It’s so rare that I see him and that side.

And with me turning back into me, the blow of talking to him still has me a bit winded.

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