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Member
Join Date: Jun 2007
Location: Southeastern USA
Gender: Female
Posts: 7
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All My Dates with Destiny
Prologue
In which inspiration strikes
I decided to break up with my boyfriend after reading a book I bought from a discount store. Who would have thought that spending one dollar and seven cents would have led me to where I am today . . .more importantly, who I am today?
There was nothing spectacular about this life-changing book. It was a coming of age story about a young woman who did everything she was supposed to in life–college, career, boyfriend, etc.–only to discover that she was having a nervous breakdown from the stress of maintaining the “perfect” life. The part that struck me was something a homeless woman said to Isabelle, the main character. She said that if she wanted to find true love, she had to be selective–not selected.
Reading the scene, a realization washed over me. I wasn’t happy because I was selected. It suddenly made sense. Of course I wasn’t happy. I didn’t pick the boy, he picked me. Up until that point I thought that he was The One. It is important to note that there was nothing inherently wrong with my boyfriend, Mr. Nurturing. We had been together for almost a year in a relatively painless arrangement. We got along, we talked, we laughed, we had sex. What was not to like?
As darling and seemingly flawless as he was, Mr. Nurturing had to go. Maybe it would make more sense if I explained what he was like. Average Joe comes to mind. That was part of the problem. There was love, affection, friendship . . . but no passion. I think I fell in love with the idea of having someone more than I fell in love with the actual person. What can I say? He made me feel beautiful and wanted, like I was the best thing that ever happened to him, the center of his universe. I never felt beautiful before Mr. Nurturing. He helped me learn how to love myself, to give myself more respect.
Which was how the “Mr. Nurturing” title came along. In an odd sort of way, this can all be indirectly blamed on him. If he hadn’t made me realize how great I was, how great I could be, maybe I would have been content to stay with him. Maybe we would have gotten married and maybe we would have been happy. But I had that itch, that curiosity to know what else was out there; alas, the cruel double-edged sword of fate dashed my vague dreams of a white dress and suburban house.
Any woman, any man for that fact, can testify that once doubts enter the picture, the relationship is doomed. There are only two things that can rescue a couple from the great and powerful question mark. One is a near death experience, the other is a humiliating experience that is so belittling to the victim that the victim becomes so grateful to have a partner that the question is no longer important. Other than that, a break-up is the best way to overcome the nagging question of, “I wonder what it would be like with . . . “
It was in this state of mind that I called Mr. Nurturing and asked him to meet me, we needed to have a talk.
Chapter 1
The Break-up
Mr. Nurturing took the break-up worse than I expected. Hell, I took the break-up worse than I expected. The whole time I repeated little phrases in my head from my parents.
“Remember, there are lots of choices,” came from my dad.
“You’ll feel sad, but then so happy,” came from my mom.
Neither of them ever warmed up to Mr. Nurturing, and despite their sympathetic gestures, I saw the glee hidden just beneath the surface of their grave faces. Surely, as soon as I left the house, my mom would call her mother with the “fabulous” news, and my dad would watch TV for three straight hours with a silly grin on his face.
This is the funny thing about parents. They love the heartbreaks in life, mostly because it’s their grand opportunity to flout their parenting skills, after all, every heartbreak inevitably stems from parental advice you didn’t take.
I was almost tempted to stay with Mr. Nurturing. I wanted to pat his head and say, “There, there . . . you don’t need a nasty bitch like me who dumps perfectly good men for no reason at all, you’ll find someone who can really love you for you.”
But I didn’t. I sat poker-faced in front of him and told him the truth. Well, something close to the truth. Alright, so I told him something that was a complete lie, but it was a humane lie. Who tells the truth during awkward moments anyway? I just wanted to spare his feelings, just a little.
I had called him that morning and asked him to meet me for coffee at our favorite little greasy diner, Pat’s Place. The setting was a bit on the tacky side, but somehow I thought it would be pleasantly reassuring. It was somewhere we had spent hours feeding each other pieces of pie (his favorite was strawberry, mine was coconut cream) and giggling over the other patrons.
That was the first mistake. The sentimental location is never a good plan. For a nice, clean break-up, there must be neutral territory, Switzerland, a setting that won’t interfere with feelings. Pat’s Place was a comfortable and overtly biased haven of cracked, red vinyl booths and coffee cup rings etched onto the fake wood surface of the tables. This was the place where Flo (I know, what are the chances?), the waitress, knew us by name and demanded a wedding invitation every time we came in. This was the place where Mr. Nurturing rubbed my back as I threw up in the bathroom, then carved our initials with a heart around them in the bathroom stall. Looking back, that incident seems cliche, but at the time, it was terribly romantic.
The smell of fried onions and the sound of plates hitting the counter in tune to Elvis songs still haunts my dreams.
I arrived first and sat in an empty corner booth, dreading the moment he walked through the door. Rain pelted against the window that I rested my head against, adding to the headache that had lingered since I made the decision to end it with Mr. Nurturing.
Staring out the slightly fogged up window, I kept on telling myself that this was for the best. My throat constricted and tears pricked my eyes every time I thought about not being with him anymore. The only thing that kept me going was the notion of freedom that swirled around in the back of my mind. But how could I be doing this to him?
“Hey gorgeous . . .”
He had slipped in while I was drifting off. Oh God, he looked so cute and familiar in the sweater I gave him last Christmas. Little strands of hair were plastered to his forehead from the rain. He smelled faintly of Old Spice and Altoids.
“Hey you, wet outside, huh?” Stalling, I knew I was stalling.
“Eh, it could be worse.”
He had no idea it was about to get worse.
“So what’s up sweetie? You want to tweak the wedding invitation list again? Are you hating Marcy this week?”
It was a joke between us, the wedding list.
“Uh, no, nothing like that.”
“Are you okay, did something happen? You look a little flushed.”
“Okay, here’s the thing. I’m not sure how to say this, but lately, I’ve been thinking . . . I’ve been wanting something different.”
The pained look in his eyes told me he understood. The trembling of his mouth told me he would ignore it.
“Anna, what are you saying?”
“I need this right now.”
“I need you . . .” his voice cracked and he stared down at the table for a moment before continuing.
“Do you know how much you mean to me? I want to marry you. What’s this about?”
“This is so hard for me. I’ve just been feeling like I want to be alone. I feel like I don’t want the pressure of a serious relationship. I’m just confused about what I want, and it isn’t fair to you.”
“But . . . you said you loved me . . . you were never going to leave me . . .”
And this was the moment that I was supposed to tell the truth and say that I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could find someone better. Instead, the big, fat lie came out in a time of desperation.
“I think I might be bisexual.”
“Anna, this isn’t Friends. I’m not Ross, and you’re not a lesbian.”
“I really and honestly don’t know what I am right now. All I know is that I need time.”
His voice strained with pain and anger, he whispered hoarsely, “Anna, you don’t understand what you’re doing to me. The thought of you with . . .please . . . I can make you happy, I know I can. You’re happy with me. You always told me you were happy. Please . . .”
By this time, I was torn between laughing my head off and blowing my head off. I couldn’t believe I just told him I might be a lesbian, that definitely wasn’t part of the plan. I couldn’t believe I was ending the best relationship I ever had. All this over some crackpot idea in some crackpot book. Unbelievable. It wasn’t even a good book!
His shaking hand pulled me back into reality. He stroked my cheek, and I lost it. It was the hand that did it. The solemn power in the way it moved, big and graceful. The nails neatly trimmed, slight callous on the right side of his left middle finger from too many hours of drawing. A hangnail next to his thumb. It was so real, so human. When I imagined breaking up with him, he was an imaginary character who was holding me back from reaching my full potential. This man in front of me was made of flesh and blood, and I just wounded him.
My tears splashed on the table, forming two tidy, little puddles. I named them Lake Sorrow and Lake Regrets. I nudged the corner of my napkin into Lake Sorrow and watched the white paper become bloated with the remnants of my relationship. The curled up paper that was my straw wrapper went into Lake Regrets, and wisdom filled me.
“I love you. I’m sure that part of me will always love you. It’s just that I think I’m not in love with you anymore. If you love me, you’ll see that I need this,” I looked into his eyes for emphasis. “When I walked in here, I had every intention of just making a clean break, ending everything. But I can’t do that.”
His sudden burst of anger startled me.
“Fuck you! You’re breaking my fucking heart, and now you’re telling me you’re not sure? You can’t drag my feelings around. It’s all or nothing. Let me know.”
And with that, he stood abruptly and almost knocked over Flo, who was hovering near our table. With a backward glance at me, he pushed out the door and disappeared into the rain.
The change in his disposition left me feeling dazed. Of all the possible scenarios I imagined, an angry one was not one of them. I had never seen that kind of passion in him. But then again, I had never broken his heart before. I knew what I had to do.
I mumbled an apology to Flo, who glared at me and said, “You bad girl, you ruined him!”
Feeling like a dog that’s been kicked one too many times, I left Pat’s and walked steadily through the cold sheets of rain to the payphone across the street. I slipped a couple of quarters into the slot and dialed a number from memory.
Five rings, then a cheerful, familiar voice telling me I should leave a message with my name, number, and a brief message at the sound of the tone. My heart hammering in my chest, I waited for the brief, piercing tone.
“Nothing,” was all I said. I hung up and shut the door on Mr. Nurturing.
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