St. Pat's
I got dumped on St. Patrick's Day this past year. Which is very much in the not cool realm of the spectrum, since I'm about as Irish as the day is long and now the day will have fairly negative connotations for me for at least the next few years. Although I do have a long, long history with some fairly bizarre St. Pat's Days. Including the year I got lost with two other safety patrols in Arlington Cemetary. And the year in Naples, Florida. And the year the guy I liked hooked up with my roommate, which eventually led to me losing approximately 50 pounds.
So, things weren't going so well anyway. The boyfriend had been making me cry a lot. Not about anything in particular. And not being overtly mean. But things were off and I was sad and it was all just...weird. I should have known ahead of time. Especially when I said to myself, "Self, he's treating you just like he treated his ex-girlfriend." I'm obviously a dunce.
He wanted me to go to a conference in the big city. I didn't really want to go, but he made a big stink over it, so I relented. A bunch of people I used to work with were going to be there--people he still worked with. This was the annual trip for "shrinking"--drinking, then shopping at the mall across the street from the conference. This usually involved getting kicked out of Max & Erma's due to public indecency. Not mine, thank God.
I go. And we hang. And things are still obviously weird. And we're in the car with a bunch of people, going to dinner and he's talking about going to a birthday party at the hall (God, yes, he is a member at a hall and what the hell was I THINKING, anyway?) and I ask if I can go.
He turns and gives me the stink-eye. "No."
We do not speak for the next two hours. Two hours of me drinking beer in silence. Of watching NCAA basketball. Silently gloating as his alma mater lost.
He drives me back to the hotel. There's a scene in the car. He tells me about the woman he met two months ago--TWO MONTHS AGO--with whom he really thinks he can make it work. If you had been watching the scene with subtitles, it would have gone like this:
"I met this woman I really think I can make it work with." I've met this chick who likes to drink as much as I do.
"I really didn't plan this." I got drunk and slept with her after the football game.
"I don't want the jewelry back. You should keep it. I bought it for you." I bought everything at Kohl's Fine Jewelry Department and they don't take returns and it isn't good enough to pawn.
"We've broken up before and gotten back together. Maybe we can make this work." I'd love to still see you while putting it to this other one, but only if you stop being so whiney and demanding.
"I need a cigarette." She doesn't care if I smoke pot, either.
So I cried my cries that night, and a couple nights after. But I never called him again. And haven't to this day. I find that really interesting, because we were together, off and on, for four or five years almost. And I could practice enough self-restraint and dignity to never ever call him.
I seem to have lost that dignity now, as evidenced by the times of phone calls listed on my cell-phone bill.
Note to self: No calls after midnight...
So, things weren't going so well anyway. The boyfriend had been making me cry a lot. Not about anything in particular. And not being overtly mean. But things were off and I was sad and it was all just...weird. I should have known ahead of time. Especially when I said to myself, "Self, he's treating you just like he treated his ex-girlfriend." I'm obviously a dunce.
He wanted me to go to a conference in the big city. I didn't really want to go, but he made a big stink over it, so I relented. A bunch of people I used to work with were going to be there--people he still worked with. This was the annual trip for "shrinking"--drinking, then shopping at the mall across the street from the conference. This usually involved getting kicked out of Max & Erma's due to public indecency. Not mine, thank God.
I go. And we hang. And things are still obviously weird. And we're in the car with a bunch of people, going to dinner and he's talking about going to a birthday party at the hall (God, yes, he is a member at a hall and what the hell was I THINKING, anyway?) and I ask if I can go.
He turns and gives me the stink-eye. "No."
We do not speak for the next two hours. Two hours of me drinking beer in silence. Of watching NCAA basketball. Silently gloating as his alma mater lost.
He drives me back to the hotel. There's a scene in the car. He tells me about the woman he met two months ago--TWO MONTHS AGO--with whom he really thinks he can make it work. If you had been watching the scene with subtitles, it would have gone like this:
"I met this woman I really think I can make it work with." I've met this chick who likes to drink as much as I do.
"I really didn't plan this." I got drunk and slept with her after the football game.
"I don't want the jewelry back. You should keep it. I bought it for you." I bought everything at Kohl's Fine Jewelry Department and they don't take returns and it isn't good enough to pawn.
"We've broken up before and gotten back together. Maybe we can make this work." I'd love to still see you while putting it to this other one, but only if you stop being so whiney and demanding.
"I need a cigarette." She doesn't care if I smoke pot, either.
So I cried my cries that night, and a couple nights after. But I never called him again. And haven't to this day. I find that really interesting, because we were together, off and on, for four or five years almost. And I could practice enough self-restraint and dignity to never ever call him.
I seem to have lost that dignity now, as evidenced by the times of phone calls listed on my cell-phone bill.
Note to self: No calls after midnight...
posted by Miss Head at
12:19 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home