Amid all those Oh-My-Wonderful-Sainted-Beautiful-Mother posts today, I thought I’d throw something together for the rest of us, who give out of obligation, not love.
relationships
43 posts
This spill…was special.
I knew I was in trouble after I’d spent ten minutes crawling around on concrete in the 25 degree weather, in the icy breeze blowing off the lake, looking for a tooth that may, at one time, have been in my mouth, without success. The part of brain not in crisis mode and still well-acquainted with my Girl Scout training said, “Say, I understand you’re concerned about spitting out mouthfuls of blood but do you think you should still be on the ground in icy weather when you might be going into shock? I mean, don’t you think your dentist could just make you a new tooth, if need be?” This is the part of my brain that likes to sprawl on a ledge overseeing the panic neurons as it relaxes with a glass of Riesling.
There’s an old adage that says, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” But what about close friends who have relationships with people that you don’t like and—more importantly—don’t trust? It can put you in an undesirable position whether you consider them to be hostile to you directly or solely bad to, and for, your friend.
I had a much-beloved friend (I’ll call her Leila) who married a man after dating him for less than a year. Before her engagement she had asked me earnestly what I thought of her then-boyfriend (I’ll call him Robert). I decided to censor my intuitive assessment of him in favor of saying what I thought Leila wanted to hear. So I offered, “He seems like a really nice guy”, and neglected to add, “but he’s also got definite control-freak tendencies and he’s way too possessive of you.”
I’d watched Leila endure a bad breakup from a longtime lover not long before she met Robert. She seemed head over heels in love and I wanted her to enjoy happiness for a change. It was clear to me that Robert was her rebound relationship, but I felt that Leila needed positive reinforcement more than a reality check.
Fast-forward to three years after their elaborate fairytale wedding at a lush estate in the rolling verdant hills of California wine country. Leila spent several years discovering the depths of Robert’s petty, controlling ways. Nothing improved with couples therapy and Leila finally filed for divorce. Their convoluted disagreement was not only over pecuniary matters, but over far more poignant matters of the heart.
Since the couple had never had children Robert manipulated Leila the way that he knew would be most successful, he denied Leila visitation of their two dogs until she made financial concessions that she never would have agreed to otherwise. I sat with Leila numerous times over several months as she cried her heart out over missing her precious pups. There was never an appropriate time to say, even gently, “I told you so”; it would have added insult to injury and, to my regret, I hadn’t told her so to begin with.
In hindsight, I have often wondered if I did her a disservice by not revealing my honest assessment of Robert’s personality from the very beginning. Would it have made a difference in her decision to marry him? Would it have prevented her from drifting away from our friendship after her divorce? It’s impossible for me to say, but I do know that if I had to do it all over again, I would have definitely told Leila the truth of what I saw.
When friends choose friends who are more like enemies, what do you do?
Hi. Wow — I can’t believe I’m here. I never thought it would get this bad. But I’m here. I have to admit it.
My name is Eddie L, and I have a problem. I can’t turn away from Farmville. It calls to me. My herd of black sheep. The penguins I keep in a pen with my turkeys, even though I know that’s ecologically unsound. I ignore logic and believe I can grow both pomegranate and potato, even though they require opposite climates. I reap, reap, reap Nature’s digital bounty, even though I never rotate my crops and I know I am creating another Dust Bowl. I have abandoned logic!
So, I have come to you, Farmville Addicts Anonymous, for help.
Shall we begin?
I admit I am powerless over my addiction – that my life has become unmanageable
Like I said, my name is Eddie L., and I wish to acknowledge I am a Farmville Addict. I am powerless over the demon call of Farmville. I admit my life is unmanageable, because my life consists only of selling off my pen of pigs in Farmville.
I believe a power greater than myself can return me to sanity
Spock. It must be Spock. Spock was always the creature I turned to for guidance in this wacky world – before my motley collection of cows and horses and reindeer and ducks took over my life. I used to be a Classic Dork – not a Farm-obsessed freak. What would Spock, that pointy-eared lover of all that is orderly – say about Farmville? He would say it is not logical. I bow to you, Spock.
I am making a decision to turn my life over to a higher power
I am all yours, Spock.
I will make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself
The only question here is what character flaw led me down the path into Farmville, a delightful place with a no-place-like-home farmhouse and a well-cared for chicken coop of happy hens. Why do I so desire to grow apple trees, yet have no desire to dirty my hands or actually sweat?
I must admit to a higher power, myself, and another human the exact nature of my wrongs
Spock, there is no doubt. I have behaved terribly. If I can say that to Spock, I can say it myself. I am doing so here. I would like to confess my sins to my wife, but I don’t remember what she looks like. Perhaps if I leave the Man-Room, where the computer is kept, I can find some wedding pictures to refresh my memory.
I must be ready to ask a higher power to remove these defects of character.
I am ready for my Mind Meld, Mr. Spock.
I must make a list of all those I have harmed, and be willing to make amends to them. I must make said amends
First off, there is the wife. I understand she lives, still, somewhere in this home. I’ve been told, via text message, that she wears earplugs all day long to block out the sound of Farmville music, which grates upon her very soul. Darling, the music will stop. And I will take you out! Perhaps to a — those places where they sell already cooked food for human consumption? I can’t remember what they’re called.
I also wish to make amends to your cat, Eleanor Roosevelt Rigby. I’ve been so obsessed with faux animals that I forgot we have a real living furry creature here at home! How exotic! I think it’s the poo. The Farmville animals don’t poo. Eleanor does. I don’t like poo. But I will learn to live with it. Poo is the price of love.
I will continue to examine my shortcomings and admit when I’m wrong.
Honey, you are always right. Always.
I will seek through meditation the peace and guidance that comes from a higher power
Spock, I beg of you to not abandon me. Perhaps Captain Jean-Luc Picard can offer some guidance. Please, make it so.
Having had a Dork Awakening through these dozen steps, I will spread the word to other addicts, and tell them there is help.
Spock will help you, too. Or perhaps your Spock are the Golden Girls. Hello Kitty? Or Curious George. It matters not. Take off the overalls. Turn away from Farmville. There are real, living creatures out there. You may be married to one of them! There is hope.
My name is Eddie L, and I am powerless over the lure of Farmville.
Reality. It hit my mother like a punch in the gut. Reality. Freedom’s ugly, selfish, ankle biting cousin. She slammed the door on my father and the past but, when she greeted her new found freedom, it let her down. Freedom meant taking care of a 3 year old by herself. It meant working full time, finding a place to live, hiring a lawyer, and paying him. All in a country that was not her own with a language that was hard to master.
Freedom was overwhelming, sometimes miserable, often exhausting. My mother struggled, I know she did. I remember a lot of tears, followed by yelling, followed by sleep. My father just made everything worse by fighting her every step of the way.
Before we get to the juicy, albeit crazy, details, I need to explain something to you about my mother. She spends the majority of her life on a moral high horse. She will argue a point into the ground and would prefer to always come out smelling like a rose. She cannot stand, what she perceives to be, any injustice aimed at anyone she knows, let alone her own judgement.
Enter the private detective. The pit bull lawyer my mother found through a friend suggested she needed “evidence” to strengthen her case. He knew the salacious information regarding the mistress would only be bolstered by photographic evidence and first hand testimony. So, the train wreck that was my parents divorce, began.
I’ll be honest, I don’t remember much. I remember it was cold and snowing and somewhere around Christmas time. I have a vague recollection of the doorbell ringing at an ungodly hour, my mother bundling me up like the Michelin Man and strapping me into my car seat in someone else’s car. The private detective’s car.
We were going for a ride! To Switzerland. Yup, Switzerland. Which, from Germany in the winter of 1973, was no small feat. My father had decided that spending the holidays with his girlfriend and her daughter in the snow sounded downright cozy. And my mother, well, she saw this as the perfect opportunity for evidence gathering.
So, off we went, the three of us in the cold, with cameras in hand and a thirst for revenge in our hearts. It turned out, however, to be much more difficult than first anticipated. We were exposed by a friend and my dad moved his whole party to a different chalet. This, unfortunately, did not come to anyone’s attention until we’d spent an entire night staking out an empty cabin.
In hindsight, I don’t think Magnum PI was really up to the job, but he was all my mom could afford. Finally, on night three, paydirt! From what my mom tells me, things were seen, pictures were taken, words were exchanged and police were called. The three of us beat a hasty retreat and escaped across the border without being caught. I guess the Swiss do not look favorably upon spying through people’s windows and photographing the action. Who knew?
Fast forward several months. We settled into a new apartment, my mom found a job and someone to take care of me. She purchased her first car (a Citroen Deux Chevaux) and made a few friends. But, the divorce was still looming large. There was the matter of alimony and child support as well as custody arrangements. The custody thing turned out to be the easiest to deal with as my father was not really equipped to raise a child, nor did he have any desire to do so.
The money was a different story. My parents fought tooth and nail. To this day, with all the evidence gathered and presented, I am still baffled by the outcome. The judge presented my mom with a whopping $200/month child support and no alimony. She was devastated. You see, my father had made quite a name for himself in the commercial photography business thanks, in no small part, to his mistress/rep. Money was not an issue for him, except that he hated to part with it.
So, after all the craziness and sleepless nights, my mother’s moral high horse was put out to pasture, at least temporarily. Her new reality was survival mode and she dove in head first. You see, no one would ever convince my mom that she’d made a mistake, that she was not capable of doing this on her own and being successful.
She was determined to turn the chaos into calm.
Then, one day, when I was nine, my mother made a decision that would alter our lives forever…..
So this one time I got dumped for Jesus.
Not exactly in a sexy way. Well, I guess it’s possible that this guy was fucking some Latin dude named Jesus, but I find that to be somewhat unlikely—I have totally awesome gaydar! He was cute, funny, and made a shit ton of money. I have never been a very good gold-digger, as I tend to gravitate toward men who think a bed frame is an unnecessary expense and who appear to subsist entirely on ramen noodles and PBR. It did seem, though, that it might be nice for once to not have to be the one buying the Chipotle. Maybe even go to a movie! You know, in a theater! All you really need to know about me can be summed up thusly: I am seduced by the promise of stale popcorn and box springs.
As you might guess, two months later, this gentleman began to perform the Fade Out®. The Fade Out is a trademarked move used primarily by men between the ages of 14 and 60. When employing the Fade Out, the man either slowly reduces the frequency of phone calls, text messages, and Facebook “likes” or, in extreme circumstances, ceases all of these activities immediately until the female on the receiving end does one of three things:
1) Remembers something she maybe once heard about him not being that into her, stops calling, and moves on with her life.
2) Continues to call and text unawares until giving up after one month to several years later and moving on with her life.
3) Becomes increasingly obsessive in correlation to the decreasing frequency of phone calls and text messages, until one night she finds digging through his garbage and peering through his windows, since obviously he must be dead or at the very least stuck under something very heavy because it just DOES NOT MAKE SENSE THAT HE WOULD NOT CALL ME BACK AND OH MY GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME I AM GOING TO DIE ALONE. Sob!
Actually, I lied. There is really only one response that women have to the Fade Out. It’s number 3.
So, dude pulled a Fade Out. I should really not have been surprised by this. This was a man who paid for his Lexus, house and apartment (yes, I’m a whore for popcorn and real estate) working in mergers and acquisitions for a very large healthcare company. One so large, in fact, that it was my healthcare company. Basically, this is the guy who lived solely buy out smaller insurers so that his company could get a bigger market share, driving out competition and doubtlessly contributing directly to exorbitant cost of the $11,000 tonsillectomy that I had soon after we broke up. The one I could have gotten for $20 from a back-alley doctor in Tijuana. I mean, I could have probably done it myself with a pair of scissors, a stapler, and a very large bottle of vodka, but when it comes to my healthcare, I’m all, “Jesus, take the wheel,” you know?
Oh, right, Jesus. So a few weeks after he starts pulling the Fade Out, I gave in and called him (see #3 above). And he answered! My heart fluttered.
And then informed me that he was sorry he hadn’t called. He had been busy at church because he had Found the Lord®. This is a less-used but also trademarked move in which a man claims that Jesus has become his One and Only while in fact he is fucking another redhead. Guy had a thing for gingers, apparently. I know this because I saw it on Facebook, and the Book of Faces never lies.
C’est la vie, I guess. He wasn’t a good, ahem, fit anyway. (Zing!)
I don’t pretend to know why men love this Fade Out technique. I don’t really know a lot about men, despite having three brothers. Like, why do men always need to scratch their balls? What could possibly make them so itchy? Do they have mites or fleas or something? And why do they believe that putting Gold Bond down their boxers is the Best Thing Ever? If I did try to hazard a guess, I would venture that the appeal of the Fade Out probably has something (okay, everything) to do with it being the path of least resistance. You meet a girl, like the girl, sex the girl up, and things are fine but then one night you find her steaming open your mail or drafting Save the Dates two weeks after you met and you figure that perhaps this is not meant to be. Easier than having some kind of talk is just gradually ignoring phone calls and text messages, hoping that the problem will resolve itself.
Men (and women): this is a shitty way to end things. It is also selfish. Okay, sometimes I have done this, too. But that is because I am a selfish person and probably a hypocrite. Be ye not like me.
Now, friends, I do not dare say that this is the worst way to break up with someone. I’m sure you all have been on the receiving end of worse break-up speeches and actions. Even more, I would not be surprised if you all have done some terrible breaking-upping things yourselves. So go ahead, tell me all about it…
Earlier this week, I was at a divey piano bar, and we were all having a good time. Until they showed up. A gaggle of girls/women. From Westchester. With their boyfriends. Everyone was drunk, and one girl was wearing a tiara (of course). They spent the time being obnoxious, loud, requesting Total Eclipse of the Heart, and then Grease when informed that this was a show-tunes bar. These are the types of women who have watched too much Sex and the City and usually have or crave their own Stanford Blatch to their Carrie Bradshaw. These women dread the phrase fag hag, because it tends to carry the association of being overweight, classless, possibly promiscuous, losers who don’t have anything better to do then hang out with their gay friends and discuss baby names for when they both hit 35, single, and their marriage compact kicks in.
No, these women will proudly let you know that they are NOT losers, and that their Bump-It™ and Prada bag informs you that they are a different breed of girl. There’s always some sort of stupid name they come up with whenever some drunken idiot comes up with “Hey, aren’t you Mikey’s fag hag?” “No, I’m not! I have a boyfriend! I’m wearing a tube dress and a tiara cause it’s my birthday!! I’m a fruit fly/fairy princess!!” Yet, I’ve noticed something missing about these women when push comes to shove. An inner strength that I found in every woman I’ve known who’s worn the badge “fag hag.”
In college, I knew two women who were loud and proud to be fag hags. One of them had the most active sex life I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen a lot. Low self esteem has its perks). One of her specialties was to go out and find a big hulking red-neck and first introduce him to her gay friends, then the gay clubs she hung out with, and rock his world with things he never thought he’d allow himself to do/have done to him (we’ll just leave it at that). The other one I knew was one of the sweetest humans I’ve ever met. She always had a smile on her face, and a kind word. She’s the type that will grow up to be Sharon Gless on Queer as Folk. And that’s a good thing, folks.
Later on, I meet a young woman at a music conservatory who knew how to treat her gay friends. She was pretty, just out of the armed forces, and studying musical theater. She abhorred these bridge and tunnel bitches that come into the city and try and instigate Straight Night at Splash. As she put it, “As a straight girl at a gay club, you’re like the puppy someone walks in the park; you’re there for conversation starters and not to be the center of attention.” I might not completely agree, but I do appreciate that she was willing to recognize that she wasn’t in “straight world” and therefore, tiaras and annoyingly drunk behavior weren’t cute, nor were they wanted. As a gay man, I barely like that in guys that I’m interested in, so when Miss Jersey Ego shows up, it’s just insufferable.
On the flip side, I spent a few months being one of those folks who stop you on the street going “Hi!!! Do you have a minute for gay rights?” (we can talk about that later) Numerous times I stopped a young (or a youngly dressed woman), often carrying an armful of bags. I would proceed to get an earful about how they supported their gay friends (with whom they were having lunch with this weekend, even!!). And they vote for gay friendly politicians! (only, like, every 4 years, when it’s a choice between the Anti-Christ and a hard place) But, as I could see, they were broke (since they just spent WAY too much money on shoes) and they’d love to help, and couldn’t they volunteer or something? (do you have a law degree? No, well, we don’t really need any envelope stuffers, thank you.)
The girl I used to sublet from was one of these girls. Drowning in credit card debt (thus she was trying to sublet her studio apartment for double what she was paying), thought her Snooki hair poof was the shit, wore a hounds tooth patterned coat, dated a total jerk, thought I was super awesome for being gay, but quickly turned into disgust as it turned out that I wasn’t the type to fawn over her. Things got ugly VERY fast. And then she got hit by a car while out on tour, but that’s neither here nor there.
For a long time, I wanted to be liked by these girls (of course, I also wanted to be liked by a hot rich, hung 35 year old millionaire with light chest hair and a . . . I’m sorry, I’ll be in my bunk.). I thought it would mean that I had achieved some sort of level of social acceptance, like I finally took off the glasses and braids and put on a cute slinky dress to find that people really liked me. Only it took me a while to find out that when Josh finally asked me out to the Non-Denominational Winter Dance, that he was just using me for free publicity. While plenty of folks might be nice to that person’s face, at best, we’re all just waiting for her to end up as a Real Housewife, only without people being interested.
So, here’s to the fag hags, the girls who are a gay man’s true friend. The ones who will be there when you’re drunk and high, and can’t find your pants.
There’s an old joke in the gay community:
What does a lesbian bring on a third date?
A moving van.
Despite never having been party to anything involving ladyparts, I found myself this past June, if there is a kernel of truth in this joke, in a very lesbianic situation. The difference being that the moving van I rolled up in to my third date with Boyfriend was one that would take me some 3,400 miles and an ocean away from him to London. Mind you, he wasn’t boyfriend at the time, and we had an agreement to live our own lives after I moved away (I mean, it had only been 3 dates to that point), but as time went by we realized, even across the miles, that we wanted to be together, even if we were apart. Ten years of dating in New York City and I meet the love of my life 30 days before I leave. Fuck you, irony.
People always ask me: Isn’t it hard? Once I’ve reigned in my desire to throttle them while screaming “OF COURSE IT IS, YOU HALFWIT! DO YOU THINK BEING 3,000 MILES AWAY FROM THE MAN I LOVE IS FUN?!” I tend to reply “We make it work.”
And we do. Modern technology has made life for the long distance couple much easier, and we take full advantage of every possible tool available to us.
These things make it easier, not easy, which is an important distinction. If you’re going to be wading into a long distance relationship, there’s one thing you have to ask yourself before committing to long periods of emotional and sexual frustration, spending your days wishing your significant other was there, holding your own hand at the movies and trying to coordinate phone calls across time zones: Would I rather have this person, thousands of miles away, knowing that they’re really the one for me and that I’m willing to face some really difficult stuff to have them, or would I rather look for someone who I can see every day and touch whenever I need/want.
If you can honestly say that you’d rather hear “I Love You” from this guy/gal over a long distance line than look for something else that lives in your major metropolitan area, then you’d best read on and familiarize yourself with your Long Distance Love Toolkit, Crosby, Stills & Nash be damned.
1) Skype: Reliable online chat and video chat between free Skype account holders, now also available on iPhones and other smartphones. Using Skype only allows you to chat for free with other Skype users who are online, and allows you to make calls to any phone number from your computer or using the app at rates dependent on where you’re calling. Using it on a smartphone will tear through your data, but you can’t beat Skype for online video chatting for when you need to see your honey’s face, stare at each other longingly, or have a little cyberscrump. Skype also allows you to purchase a US phone number which will ring to your computer/app no matter where you are in the world. Buying a Skype number has, however, pretty much been rendered obsolete by the free service offered by:
2) TextFree: Textfree, while not the most reliable app in the world (the “Sorry, our servers are down” message has made me curse at my phone in public on many occasions), is still a Godsend. The app assigns you a free dedicated US phone number that uses your data network to transmit text. So instead of each of us paying 25 to 50 cents per text, you can text all day long for free. Happily, in November, Textfree added voice service – anyone in the US can call your Textfree number as though they were calling a US mobile. It will eat through your data as quickly as Skype – so try to get to on a wireless network before taking the calls – but I found that calls on my Textfree number are easier to pick up (Textfree takes about 8 seconds to pick up; Skype takes about 20, and by then you’ve likely missed the call) and are of great quality. Calling out will cost you, but I don’t know how much, because I make all outgoing calls with:
3) 1899: 1899 is an indispensable service for anyone in Europe calling the States. I didn’t realize until I moved how much Sorkin-esque walk and talk made up my days, and being able to do it for 1p per minute while power-mincing around London is so much more time-efficient than waiting until I’m home every night. You register with the service and calls from your registered landline or mobile numbers are 1p per minute to any number in the States (cost of calls to other countries varies). This particularly useful for when there’s an emergency or a need to talk immediately and you can’t wait to get home to your computer or landline. This will use your mobile minutes (but saves your precious data) so be sure your plan has enough to account for your international calling.
4) Apple’s iMovie: This is a handy way to see each other in spite of time zone issues. When Boyfriend and I know we’re not going to get a chance to Skype (or when we just want to be overly sweet), we’ll make short iMovies and email them to each other. A lot of the time he’ll make one for me before he goes to bed, so it’s waiting for me when I wake up, and I volley one to him before I leave for work, so he wakes up to me. This can be done in total from an iPhone 4 as well, which is great for mid-day messaging. It’s a nice alternative to email, and it’s equally good for being a little dirty when you want.
5) YouTube: A nice way to make emails a bit more interesting. Google “Long Distance Love Songs” and send a video along with any given email. I recommend starting with Snow Patrol’s “Set the Fire to the Third Bar”. You’re welcome.
6) Hand-Written Love Letters: All this technology is great, but old school romanticism is the stuff that melts me like a Cadbury Creme Egg in a cast iron skillet. Emails and videos can’t hold a candle to finding a hand-written love letter waiting for you after a long day. And it doesn’t have to just be letters – for extra adorableness (seriously, I fucking love this man), Boyfriend takes and prints photos of Hearts he sees graffiti’d around New York and writes love letters on the back of them, like personalized postcards. *Swoon*
More important than how you’re able to keep in touch with your Sweetie is setting some guidelines to keep you both from going insane. Obviously these will be different for each couple, but here are the rules Boyfriend and I have to make sure we both keep our heads on straight:
Never part without having plans for the next time you will see each other. This not only gives you something to look forward to, but removes the uncertainty that can destroy a long distance relationship. Setting a maximum for time apart (we don’t go longer than 8 weeks, no matter what) helps as well, though may not be realistic depending on your finances and the cost of getting to each other.
Have a Long Term Plan. No one can carry on like this forever. As much as I love him, I couldn’t see myself living 3,000 miles away from him forever and being happy with that. The “with” is the most important part of “Spending your life with someone”. Even if it’s a few years off, talk about where and when you will ultimately be together. It will remove some of the futility you might start to feel creeping in.
Get Comfortable With ______ Sex. Phone, Cyber, text, video… you name it, you’ll soon be engaging in it. When you’re monogamous and the object of your affection is far away, getting off with each other means taking to the spoken word, the webcam, the digital cam… essentially utilizing any and all of the tools above to get dirty with each other. AT&T’s now-defunct instruction to “Reach out and Touch Someone” will take on new meaning. Embrace it. It only feels weird the first few times.
Talk to Each Other About Your Frustrations. You’re in it together. You’re both going to get upset. You’re both going to be tempted. You’re both going to question it. Be honest. Be supportive. Talking about your frustrations will help you find a way to deal with them together. This includes airing your jealousy and insecurity – passive aggressive behaviour and jealousy are relationship killers when can read each other’s moods in person; when you’re separated by distance they lead to resentment, infidelity and misery.
Enjoy Your Time Together. We are not allowed to fight when we’re in the same city. We have limited time together, so we enjoy every second. No arguing. If one of us is angry, we put it out there immediately and calmly deal with it. Don’t waste your precious time together with bullshit. Have as much sex as possible, hold hands as much as possible, appreciate that the person you’re sitting with has worked as hard as you at this and must really love you to put up with the same obstacles that you have.
Good luck to my fellow long distance lovers out there (particularly our newly-minted long distance Crasstalk couple). And if anyone asks you “Isn’t that hard?” I hope this helps you be able to truthfully respond “We make it work.”
Rejection is a bitch. A big one. She’s one of those friends you try to keep at arm’s distance because you know she can’t be trusted. But she still has access to all the hot parties and coolest people, so you allow yourself to go along for the ride. Sometimes, you let your guard down and convince yourself she’s “not so bad.” But she’ll always betray you in the end.
Rejection is a drama queen. If things aren’t about her, she’ll make them about her. And when she’s not getting the attention she thinks she deserves, boy does she let you have it. And when Rejection lashes out at you, duck for cover! She’ll always go for the jugular and ensure that you are made to feel as shitty as she wants you to feel.
You are always a little uneasy about the information you share with Rejection. From petty embarrassments to deeper insecurities, you never know when the information you provide will be thrown back in your face. She swears that your secrets are safe with her, but you’ve heard her talk about other people so many times that you are always on edge. Somehow she manages to get the goods anyway. She’s great at prying for information.
Rejection has one hell of a jealous streak. She’s that friend who, when you come home from summer camp, always wants to know everything about the people you met and connected with there. She’ll trash them so thoroughly and repeatedly that you’ll start to believe her. That really cool kid that you had a great time with, but who lives on the other side of the country? When rejection is done messing with your head, you’ll be convinced he was a bully and user who only hung out with you because of the copious amounts of Pop Rocks in all of your care packages.
Rejection lies. A lot! She’ll tell you that someone said you were fat, unattractive, not successful enough, super annoying and that you smell like cheese. Even if the other person simply said they thought the jeggings you wore on Friday made your ass look lumpy.
Unfortunately, Rejections is also a family friend that you grew up with and have known your whole life. You may successfully avoid her for years. But the threat of running into her at a family party or seeing a Facebook update is always present. When she does reenter your life, it’s always like a hurricane. Only someone who knows you as well as she does can get under your skin like that.
In other words, Rejection is an inevitable presence in your life. As such, she’s sort of useful. Sure, you may want to bash your head against a wall for weeks after running into her. But once you’ve calmed down and put things in context, some of Rejection’s lessons can be useful.
It’s useless to stay mad at her. That’s sort of what the ol’ drama queen wants anyway. The best way to handle it is to take a breath, think it through and then move on. After all…
Salome Valentine:
In the wake of thatgirl’s reading my post here entitled “In Praise Of Older Men,” she and I got into a lengthy discussion regarding the dynamic of our mutual attraction to men significantly older than ourselves. Our conversation soon came around to the topic of having affairs or relationships with involved or married men. We decided to co-author this somewhat revealing first-person piece based on each of our own experiences.
While I have always said to myself that I would never get involved with a married man (and I never have), my now long-term boyfriend was involved with another woman when we met. He and I both managed to assiduously avoid our undeniable attraction for each other for four months. But it was certainly a “resistance is futile” situation of tremendous mutual lust for both of us, and his relationship with his girlfriend ended very soon after he and I got together. (I was single when he and I met.)
I have heard it said many times that it’s “not as bad” to have a sexual liaison with a man who is merely involved and not married, because marriage is a deliberate, lifetime commitment, and there are often also children caught in the emotional crossfire. I understand this rationale, but honestly, I think there’s a fundamental breach of personal integrity involved regardless. Granted, it’s of a comparatively different degree, but I felt guilty for what I had done nonetheless. Many years later, it’s now a moot point.
I’ll never forget meeting my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend for the first time, soon after they separated. He had gone by to pick up a few things he’d left at her place, and I’d gone along for the ride, as we had plans together later on in that general direction. Naively, I had assumed that if I stayed in the car, there would be no drama. As my boyfriend exited the car and walked towards her house, I saw his ex leaving her house, walking as if to meet him halfway. As she handed him the last of the toiletries he’d left at her place, she took a long hard look at me sitting in the car and admonished him, “How could you? She’s young enough to be your daughter.” (It sounds like something out of a Lifetime movie script, but it really happened. I felt about two feet tall at the time.)
As someone who has been cheated on before, I can say that I should have known better than to pursue someone who was involved with someone else. Certainly, I would make better choices now than I did when I was in my twenties. But, I have no lasting regret, because my relationship has been very enduring, enjoyable and worthwhile. Both my boyfriend and I have lived and learned from our past mistakes. What I wonder is why we – people in general, not just women – are so drawn to others who are seemingly unattainable. I’m sure there are mental health professionals all over the world who are still pondering that moral, ethical and highly individual enigma.
thatgirl:
I don’t think most people set out to form liaisons with unattainable/ unavailable people—at least not consciously. There’s more than one kind of unavailable, as well. The married or otherwise committed sort of unavailable is fairly easy to spot. They’re the guys who list “discreet” as their status via online dating sites; they’re the ones you meet over cocktails, and describe their marriages as “unhappy”, or they’ll insist that the divorce is all done but for the signatures on papers.
The other kind of unavailable was touched upon by MissLinda last week in her “IRL” dating post: people who are either emotionally incapable of an adult relationship, or those who, unknowingly, give off the “Not interested” vibe. This story is about the former kind.
A late spring in Rome saw me fall for a man 30 years my senior. Giovanni was world-wise and patient—a hand holder and door opener, which was so unlike the guys I was used to meeting in my early 20s. He had time for four-hour dinner dates, second bottles of wine, and bedtime phone calls from wherever he was traveling, in whatever time zone. It was an immediately enveloping and fiery liaison. Flowers and air tickets would appear at my building, and I’d drop everything, including my work to meet him, anywhere.
Months of excitement gave way to exhaustion, and the reality that I couldn’t keep up a developing career, and a love affair of international intrigue. I longed for a consistent sleep, more than a week or so in the same time zone, and time with friends. With Giovanni’s assurance that his business required the globetrotting, I ended it. Not one to take “no” for an answer, his invitations continued, unabated, until my overflowing voicemail box told him not to expect a response.
A business meeting months later brought us back together, if only for one more torturous afternoon of him begging me to come back. He almost tempted me, but I was resolute that I’d have my life on my terms. A flight awaited that would take me to a trade show, where a new love interest said he’d meet me over the weekend. I was walking down the jetway when an unfamiliar number came up on my phone. I answered it, only to meet my ex-lover’s wife. Who knew he had one stashed far away, on the North Shore of Chicago?
She scolded me for getting involved with someone so much older, telling me that I had my whole life in front of me. And besides, she added, he was a notorious philanderer, and would only wind up cheating on me. “Perhaps he is,” I replied, “but he’s your problem now!” and I promptly hung up. Giovanni spent the next 48 hours filling my voicemail box, begging me to return…and to never again talk to his wife.
This was a bit before we started Googleing people or otherwise checking the background of potential paramours. Considering all the time I’d spent with him, Giovanni’s intact marriage did come as a surprise. I did feel for his wife, who’d clearly been down this road with him prior. I chalked it up to my youth, and being drunk on the adventure, but I made it a point to avoid obligated men going forward—to the degree that anyone could.
Now I’m trying to help a girlfriend wean herself off the allure of her married lover. Part of me feels that her self-esteem prevents her from seeking something that’s better for everyone in the equation. Unfortunately, lover-man is happy to hang on, as long as she’s willing. She’s smart, funny, and over 40. I’m refraining from comparing her to Carrie Bradshaw… but perhaps that’s her story to tell.
“The Other Woman” – Ray Parker, Jr.