On how it’s gonna be.

The Final Episode: “How’s it gonna be//when you don’t know me//anymore.”

So, where did he and I go from there? For starters, he lied to me about dating her in spite of the face that I had also attended one of their first dates. He insisted over and over that he wasn’t dating anyone, and the flirtatious texts and behavior continued. I remember being in a poorly lit bar with him and other colleagues. I was sitting on a stool, sipping on a sweating bottle of lite beer, and he was standing before me in light colors, in shades of blue. He was emphatically insisting he was not dating anyone, stomping his foot against the dark carpet and smiling at me, almost like he knew that I knew I should know better. There was another time we were drinking together at a different bar (better lighting and better crowd). He said he had to get going and I asked him to stay. I asked him for just fifteen more minutes. He thought about it, but he ended up leaving, no matter how reluctantly. The next morning, he sent me a message that simply said, “Good morning! You suck.” He never explained what that meant exactly, but I knew. That went on for nearly a year.

I was traveling to Indiana to attend the wedding of one of my oldest friends. I was traveling with other friends, and it was a completely wonderful trip. The whole way there, I was texting with him as I usually did. It was the night of the rehearsal dinner, and I was waiting to meet friends. He had been unusually uncommunicative and I wondered why. Then I received a message from a mutual friend, telling me he was engaged and with his fiancee. She could see the ring. If we were really such great friends, why didn’t he tell me? I walked from the hotel to a liquor store. I bought a handle of vodka and a pack of Marlboro Reds. I sat and smoked and drank from the bottle until it was time for dinner. But at least I didn’t cry until I was alone in bed that night. When I confronted him, when I asked him why he didn’t tell me, he told me he was “a private guy.” But he was comfortable enough to tell me all about his past and his feelings? I bought it, though. I bought it hook, line, and sinker. And we stayed “friends.”

Then his fiancee told me she was pregnant. I smiled and congratulated them. I waited until they left, and then I drank until I threw up in the parking lot and my friend had to drive me home. I promised myself that was the end of it. But his hooks were so far in me that I lied to myself. I convinced myself we could really be friends.

But then I found out he was married. He had lied to me on multiple occasions, swearing that he wasn’t. He shoved his hand in my face to show there was no ring. But once I confronted him and he knew that I knew, he told me he only got married for a reason I won’t share here because it’d just be embarrassing and hurtful. He told me that to keep me stuck, to keep me right where I was, to keep me hanging on. Friends don’t do that; real friends wouldn’t need to do that.

So I finally told him we couldn’t be friends. I told him everything; how I felt and what I was thinking. I didn’t throw a drink in his face. I didn’t turn on my heel and storm off. I was trying to be honest and kind, but he told me I was being “dramatic” and “gay.”

We didn’t talk for three months. He didn’t even reach out on my birthday.

But he sent me a message exactly a week later. I answered because I’m an idiot. I answered because I still have intense feelings for him, though they range the gamut, to be sure. If I’m being honest, and if I’m serious about moving on, then I have to admit we were never friends. We cared about each other, definitely, but we were never friends. And we can never be friends because I can’t get over what was, or what almost was. I think he likes the attention and won’t let me leave, but that’s mostly bullshit because I didn’t really want to leave.

But I think I’m ready now. Thanks for reading. ❤

On not telling anybody anything.

Hey readers! What do you think of the updated site? I’ve included a homepage and designed myself a logo. I think it looks cleaner and more professional.

Episode Three: “Two can be undone by three / But it only takes one shot.”

In J.D. Salinger’s classic novel Catcher in the Rye, the main character Holden Caulfield offers a final piece of advice: “Don’t tell anybody anything.” There’s more to it than that, but it’s that first bit that applies to what I learned from this whole situation. I don’t tell anybody anything anymore (these vignettes aside, obviously) because when you let people in, they can tell you certain things that affect your judgment. And once you let people in, everything changes – for better or for worse. For the purposes of this episode, I need to give everyone fake names or else it gets too confusing:

  • Me = Hermione (obviously)
  • The Worst Thing Who Ever Happened to Me = Ron
  • The Woman Who Came Between Us = Lavender
  • The Guy Who Came Between Us = Cormac

Cormac was another guy who was interested in me while I was falling helplessly and hopelessly in love with the worst thing who ever happened to me, now referred to as Ron. Cormac was friends with Ron; he occasionally worked in the building and they seemed to hang out a lot, especially during the spring. Cormac asked Ron about me. Ron later told me that he didn’t know what to say at first. We were texting about it, and I saw him type, then stop…then type, then stop. Clearly, he drafted some responses, but decided against those for various and indiscernible reasons, but then he told me that Cormac needed to pass the “Big Brother Test.” Big Brother? Like I was his little sister? That killed me. Had I been relegated to the friend zone so easily, so quickly?

But then I thought about it. People don’t drunkenly try to kiss their little sisters. Or unbutton their shirts. Or text until 2 am about anything and everything. And then Ron sent: “Even though I’m way cooler.” Cooler than who? Than Cormac? What did he want from me? So I thought I’d use Cormac to make Ron jealous, to force him to admit he had feelings for me. I texted Cormac and hung out with them a couple of times. Then, emboldened by the alcohol flooding his system, Cormac asked me on a date over the phone. He was with Ron and some others at the time, so I felt pressured to say yes. I couldn’t turn him down when he was surrounded by older, male friends. And what was the harm in one date? But right after I accepted, the phone was passed to Ron, who demanded to know what I was doing. Like an idiot, I played it like I was too cool to care. I should have told him. I should have told him everything. But I was scared of rejection. I was scared of my own feelings. He called me drunk later that night and we talked until nearly three in the morning and still, I didn’t say anything.

Cormac and Ron were hanging out and they were both texting me. Cormac knew I was answering messages from Ron while ignoring his and still, nobody said anything real to anyone.

Simultaneously, Ron was fielding interest from another woman; we’ll call her Lavender. I can’t say much other than she has quite the dramatic and tragic tale of woe herself. But he told me he wasn’t interested in her. He even blew her off to come hang out with me. He talked to me about her. He promised me that if he was ever interested in anyone that I’d be the first to know. But Lavender’s father was close to Ron, and helped sort of fling the two of them together. She was older and more experienced, so I guess she was assertive and not as much of a chickenshit as I am. She let him know she was interested while I tried to act indifferent. So when he told me he was looking for his future wife, I didn’t say anything. If Ron wasn’t going to be honest, than neither was I. I thought I was following his lead.

At the end of it, Cormac and me and Ron and Lavender all ended up on a double date. I sat next to Cormac, who was obnoxiously drunk by the time arrived, and across from Ron. He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t talk to me. I did my best to be my usual, happy-go-lucky, entertaining self. Back in the nearly empty parking lot, I sat and screamed in my car. I sobbed the whole way home. This wasn’t where I wanted to be. Why didn’t I say anything? Ron gave me an opportunity that night, when he texted me to ask if I got home safe. I should have unloaded, told him what a shit I thought he was because he swore they weren’t dating and there I was on their first date. I should have told him I made a mistake. I should have told him so many goddamn things. But it was more important, apparently, for me to be cool. I told him I got home safe and that was it. Using Cormac to try and make Ron jealous was stupid and narcissistic and in the end, I guess I got exactly what I deserved.

The second part of Holden Caulfield’s final statement from the novel Catcher in the Rye says, “If you do, you start missing everybody.” And that’s true. Because I miss him. But I miss him as he was, and we can’t go back.

On “A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.”

From Chuck Palahniuk’s novel Fight Club.

So it’s like the fifth week of being quarantined and it’s only getting more difficult. I’m blessed to have a home and steady income, and I’m not sick and my family is happy and healthy, so it’s a shitty thing to complain about being bored and lonely; aren’t we all? To pass the time, I’ve been reading a lot and I’ve also started re-watching CBS’s 1994 miniseries “Stephen King’s The Stand.” I watched the second episode yesterday morning and had the sudden urge to tell everyone I know to watch it because it totally explains what we’re going through right now (not totally…that’s me being dramatic). This is NOT a new idea; King has apologized for us all feeling like we’re living in one of his novels. Still, I feel like Randy in the movie “Scream,” when he’s freaking out in the middle of Blockbuster and imploring everyone to watch horror movies so they could be better able to survive the slasher attacking Woodsboro. Only I’m alone, in my living room, urging everyone to read The Stand.

Another way to pass the time is writing and thinking. The latter, unfortunately leads to overthinking, which then leads to crying and mourning the past. But I think it’s mostly good. One day, I’ll be numb.

Episode Two: “A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.”

One of the best books I’ve ever read is Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. And one of the best scenes from the novel is when the narrator comes upon Tyler Durden on the beach. Tyler has built a statue from driftwood. The narrator can’t tell what it is at first. He explains, “I asked if Tyler was an artist. Tyler shrugged…What Tyler had created was the shadow of a giant hand. . . he said how at exactly four-thirty the hand was perfect. The giant shadow hand was perfect for one minute, and for one perfect minute Tyler sat in the palm of a perfection he’d created himself. One minute was enough, Tyler said, a person had to work hard for it, but a minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.”

The beauty and tragedy of my moment of perfection is that it’s come and gone.

To be fair, we had two perfect moments. One was during an all-day drinking event on a sunny day in March. That day was the most attracted to him I’ve ever been. The place was crowded and being that we had been drinking for hours, I was mostly stumbling and having trouble keeping up. He told me he didn’t want to lose me. He was leading me through the crowd at the one bar, holding hands as he stretched out his arms behind him. Then he brought them around so that I hugged him from behind and it took all the self-control my drunk ass could muster not to bury my face in his hoodie and breathe deep.

We kept drinking. Day turned to night. We ended up at another bar. The thumping bass boomed incessantly, sounding more like war drums than anything else. Everything was vibrating, everything was shaking almost imperceptibly, and I used that as an excuse to hang onto his muscular forearm and steady myself. I put my ear close to his beautiful, smooth mouth to try and decipher the slurred nonsense that tumbled out. He sloppily smashed his lips against my cheek. It was over before I was even sure it had happened and both of us stood there looking at one another stupidly. Everything was bumping and booming and loud and hot and close and he drunkenly smiled at me. At that moment, I knew that if I were to push close against him and grab him and hold him and decimate his mouth with mine, he would yield and he would succumb. That is an unfamiliar and dangerous amount of power and I resisted. It would mean something cheap and tawdry. I wasn’t as drunk as he was, and I was worried that if it went as far as it possibly could, we’d have different feelings in the cold light of the next morning. It would have meant so much more to me than it would have to him. It wouldn’t be what I really wanted.

Instead, I touched his face and escaped to the ladies’ room. Later, when it was time to go pass out, I walked him home.

I’m an idiot, though. That wasn’t enough of a green light for me to tell him how wonderful I thought he was, how all I wanted was to be with him. Naturally, our next moment of perfection also passed me by. It was a few weeks later, and I was out with colleagues, staying overnight at a beautiful hotel for some weekend-long conference. The first night was pretty laid back, so we all went to bar just cross the street. I texted him, practically begging him to come down.

And he did.

The bar was closing and we needed to go somewhere else, and I invited him to my shared hotel room on the condition that he bring playing cards. He smiled but rolled his eyes, saying there was no way he’d find playing cards and that he was tired. Again, I begged him. He shook his head and said goodnight.

Back at the hotel room, I was commiserating with my roommates about the missed opportunity when there were three, loud knocks on the door. They were serious sounding knocks, reminiscent of the way a cop bangs against door. One roommate hurried to the bathroom. The other tried to hide in the mess of pillows and coverings on the bed. That left me to open the door. I tried to calm myself, rehearsing what to say to the authority figure who’d probably been summoned because we were being too loud. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and opened the door.

No one was there.

I stepped out and looked to the right. There was still no one there.

When I looked to the right, he was leaning against the wall, twirling a deck of playing cards in his hand, smiling slightly. All the blood rushed to my face and I laughed out loud; there was nowhere else for my joy to escape to. It was like something out of a movie. It was the personification of every romantic fantasy I’d ever had. He came in and we played Kings for a couple of hours until he had to go, quiet suddenly.

And then it was all over.

On “poetry”-perfect beginnings.

“The moment I fell in love with you was a moment I’d been waiting my whole life for.”

Episode One: Poetry-Perfect Beginning

I know I’ve used this line before (and probably for a very similar reason; I really am a one-trick pony), but T.S. Eliot famously wrote that April is the cruelest month. I can’t be sure because I haven’t read his poem in forever, but I’m fairly certain that Eliot is referring to the false promise of Spring because not everything comes back from the dead the way nature does.

So what better time to pick at fresh scabs of lost love?

To be fair, I really should have known better. The first time I ever mentioned him in my journal was significant for three reasons:

  1. Only people I really and truly care about get mentioned in my journal. And if a name appears more than once? Consider me obsessed.
  2. It was right after a personal tragedy that fell just short of cataclysmic … for him (and it could be a novel in its own right). So he was all wounded and vulnerable and brooding and NEEDED to be saved … NOT. Personally, I think that’s the worst rationalization women use for engaging in and/or tolerating selfish, manipulative behavior. And I am SO fucking guilty of it, I’ll never get these hands clean.
  3. I fucking told myself it was a bad idea. I KNEW I’d get hurt. On January 12, 2014, I wrote:
I know I’m a stupid fool. I know I’m building him up in my mind into something impossible to make him unattainable so I stay safe. He’s completely out of my league on SO many levels. I’m an idiot [...] I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s fun to have a crush, but this is going to hurt. I have a bad feeling ….

I vividly remember that moment I knew I was a goner. It was one of those nights that come out of nowhere, where pure, unadulterated happiness blindsides you so that by the time you realize you’ve been hit, it’s passed you by and all you are is bruised and sore.

Given the nature of my career, most of my colleagues are older women. And given the time in my life, all my colleagues were my friends. I’d gone to college away from home and all my childhood friends had gotten the hell out of dodge, so my social circle was a product of circumstance and I was only partially looking forward to spending a Friday night in the basement of an older, female coworker’s house. Lots of coworkers were going though, and what the hell else was I going to do? Armed with low expectations and a six-pack of some lite beer, I walked down the basement stairs, already planning my exit in my head.

The basement was fully finished. It was bright and cozy, everything seemingly washed in a warm, welcoming shade of yellow. It was carpeted. There was a bar, some exercise equipment, and a pool table. There were some couches, arranged around a low coffee table. And familiar, friendly faces of coworkers were scattered about the basement – sitting youthfully on the carpet and lounging on the couches, playing pool, perched on the exercise equipment, and leaning against the bar.

I decided to make my way to the bar, the most logical place to properly unload my six-pack.

And there he was behind the bar, wearing blue.

I had to do a double-take. I thought it was a girls only type of thing but there he was and he was so handsome. Granted I could have thought that because gentlemen were in short supply, but I still find him incredibly handsome, even after all he did to me (which is definitely a problem). I’d only hung out with him once or twice before this, and we hadn’t spent much time talking with each other or anything.

But that night, with him in blue behind the bar, was different. We were witty, we were flirty, and we were the warm center of the universe that everyone gathered around. Well, at least that’s what it felt like.

On the bar was a bowl of those awful, chalky hearts with corny messages that become popular around Valentine’s Day. Given that it was early January, either the candy hearts were nearly a year old and brought out as a last-minute snack, or the hostess had purchased them early. But that seemed unlikely. So as they were inedible, I spent the night filling the hood of his blue jacket with them whenever he was talking to someone else. He would sigh in frustration and tell me to stop, but he loved it.

Later, someone spilled something on the carpet behind the bar. I was on my hands and knees, trying to clean it up to be remembered as a good guest who would keep getting invited places. To someone in front of the bar, they saw him standing and smiling, and then they saw my legs poking out the side. I reveled in the innuendo.

He had somewhat of a reputation which coworkers with good intentions kept reminding me of. I didn’t care; he was attractive and he was fun to hang out with and it was all so harmless. He got my number from someone and the texting started. We were almost in constant contact with each other. It was addictive and wonderful. We’d stay at bars until the lights came on, still smiling though we were blinking and nearly blinded by the sudden brightness. He’d blow my hair to get my attention. He’d encourage me to unbutton a few more buttons on my blouse. He’d offer to dance with me when no one else would, but he didn’t really want to, so he’d talk me out of it by the time we got the dance floor, distracting me with shots. He’d let me wear his scarf when it was cold. He rescued me from the women’s restroom when I had too much to drink and was puking my brains out. He held my hair back. Unfazed, he threw me over his shoulder and got me to a car like some knight in shining armor. I thought that’d be the end of it, especially since I vomited on his expensive shirt and shoes, but he met me out the next night. He paid for drinks and an entire dinner with like six of us. He was charming and magnificent and I had never been happier.

But we worked together. And we hung out with coworkers. Suddenly, everyone had an opinion about us spending so much time together. People were actually calling me to warn me to stay away. I was told he was a user and abuser, that once he got what he wanted from me, that would be it. I was told the name of every woman he’d been with, real or rumored. I was told he was just being friendly with me to get a more beautiful coworker – and truth be told, that one fucked me up more than anything else. I let that idea sink its fangs into my psyche and suck it dry of self-confidence. It made me suspicious of him and I misinterpreted so many conversations. I’m ashamed, looking back.

He read my favorite novel and could talk to me about it for hours. The connection with him was unlike anything I’d ever had before. He told me the truth about himself (as much as a man can) and invited me to do the same. I didn’t, because I was scared and stupid and listened to some bad advice from jealous women.

We had one perfect night. And I’ll happily relive it next week. Xoxo ❤   

On discovering The Worst Thing Who Ever Happened To Me.

My last blog post was all about finding my passion for writing again and making writing more of a priority. Consider this post me diving head first into being a writer.

It’s been said that all good writers write what they know. And during this period quarantine during this coronavirus pandemic, I’ve been bingewatching “Sex and the City” to pass the time. Right now, there’s something really appealing about the simplicity and style of it all. I’ve slowed down the bingeing though, and very recently, I’ve decided to try to only watch one episode a day, to make it last through this indefinite period of social distancing. The episode I watched the other day had my favorite scene of the series (so far, I should add; I have between ten and fifteen episodes left).

Carrie Bradshaw, elegant and graceful heroine, goes to San Francisco as part of her book tour. Her book, it should be mentioned, is a collection of articles from her newspaper column, and those articles are just anecdotes and observations from her dating life. A lot of the anecdotes and observations revolve around Mr. Big, charming and complex leading man who hurt her terribly time and time again, but Carrie just can’t help herself when it comes to Big.

Do you see why I felt compelled to watch?

Anyway, the San Francisco stop on her book tour is not AT ALL what Carrie hoped for and at probably her lowest moment (pimple on her cheek and no one interested in what she had to say through her writing), Big shows up. He was at her reading the whole time and stood to ask a question: if the Mr. Big character was based on a real person. How fucking suave; it reminds me of  particular moment with a particular man from my past (who irritatingly reappears in my present).

Later, they’re in Carrie’s hotel room and all she wants is sex, but all Big wants is to talk about what she wrote. He actually read her book cover to cover and realized how badly he’d hurt her.

So that’s my new fantasy: the man who ruined me for all other men to come reads my book and becomes determined to talk it out with me. And maybe it ends in sex, but whatever. I don’t think that’s the point – or the only point.

Does this mean I’m ready to write about him? Intentionally, I mean, because everything I write is really about him anyway. But even if I’m ready, does that mean I should? Would everybody know if I tried writing about him on this blog? And by “everybody,” I mean the seven fucking people who read it.

Shit – I think I’m actually getting excited about this. That has to be a good sign, right?

So stay tuned for my first installment next week: episode one of The Worst Thing Who Ever Happened to Me.