The Yelp
Page 11
I wondered when I would just let it all go and allow myself to learn that this was all a vicious cycle of insanity. People changed, or so I wanted to believe, because I myself had become a completely different person than I was back in the day with Him. Maybe it was just my way, and not everyone wanted to change for the better. I couldn’t press my path and my impression on Him, and I probably never would. But he still stuck there in my mind, and I wished that there was something I could say or do to make things otherwise. As he was out there somewhere in the city under the same fat moon hunting for new men and new conquests, I sat silently at a dinner table making an unintentionally perfumed mess and taking breaks from dinner to hide in the coat closet and cry.
It was just where I ended up. My friends had to have taken notice, for I kept returning to the table with my face like a puffer fish and my eyes swollen and red. They knew better than to say anything. We were all sick of talking about it. It had to just go away. As I curled up in a pile of coats on the floor of the closet, I tried my best to stifle the noises that were coming out of my body. I had to keep composed. I had to pull it together. I had to realize that it was just one bad day in the string of many good ones. He’d never go away completely, and surely there would be days when I couldn’t shake that old feeling.
I emerged from the closet and walked slowly over to the spread of food laid out over by the kitchen. Duncan told a joke, and everyone laughed. Sarah screamed her over-the-top yelp of jubilation. Miguel shoved cake in his mouth as Amanda put her arm around him.
Me? I went straight for the cheese. I pulled at the Morbier with my fingers. They were stained bright red from the roses, and I hadn’t even noticed that I looked like I had committed a violent crime.
Happy Taco Burrito
Categories: Tex-Mex, Mexican
Neighborhood: Greenwich Village
I had to look at it scientifically because if I chose to look at it any other way, I’d surely crumble. Steadfast in my way and certain of my choices, I grappled every day trying to wrap my head around whether or not the disintegration of my love life was because of lack of want or loss of need. Scientifically, I mused on the five steps of loss: denial/isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Science is science, and there is little contesting that. In practice, I just ate—everything I could get my hands on.
Isolation had not been a problem at all, and I whizzed right past that one like I’d been doing it my whole life. He was nowhere to be seen, so I just rolled around on the floor of my apartment listening to PJ Harvey and moaning like a wounded yak. The denial part was a little trickier, as I truly believed that there was no way that he would actually want to give up even after the world came to a crashing halt—I hadn’t wanted to, so why would he? I began to bargain, reasoning that if I went to the gym and ate a healthy diet of quinoa and feasted upon my longing, then I would have the body he found desirable and he’d have no need for others. This notion depressed me because all it reminded me of was the burgers we used to share at the Spotted Pig or the epic BBQ at Mighty Quinn’s we would gorge on. Moderation was never our forte.
This all had to cumulate in depression eventually, and by January, I was knee-deep. It was like swimming in molasses, and it clung to every fiber of my being. A life in slow motion, coupled with one of the most devastating winters I’d seen in all my fourteen years as a New Yorker, had its grip on me and didn’t want to let go. It was almost comical. I’d peek my head from under the covers some mornings to see snow falling (again) beyond my window … I’d just laugh. I’d stretch my arm out to his side of the bed, which was empty as usual, and feel for Him as if by some miracle he’d have snuck in in the middle of the night and crawled in with me. Mornings were the hardest, and I dwelled and I dwelled upon the possibility that he was waking up with someone else not a mile away on this cursed island. I’d look at the snow and grimace as if to say “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
My stomach hadn’t been the same since he left. I’d stopped eating altogether for a while, which only made my hunger that much more devastating when it got to the point that I could no longer live without food. So I ate everything in quantities so massive that the bags containing my delivered food contained enough cutlery to feed a family of six. Presumptuous bastards.
For a while, I tried to forget about the beautiful life I’d carved out with Him. I denied all of the decadent dinners at chic downtown hot spots and the romantic candlelit kisses in dark banquettes swathed in old leather. I denied holding his hand under tables of Manhattan’s finest and cursed the thought that he was probably out there still sipping champagne at Carbonne or slurping escargot at Pastis.
I sat on my couch in my underwear and ate Happy Taco Burrito.
I can’t say that it was good, because taste and enjoyment had no longer become priorities. I was solely eating to survive. And because it filled the hole. I can’t say that it was bad because everything tasted like mulch, and I wasn’t even sure if I still had the ability to enjoy things. All I knew was that there was a lot of it—and if I couldn’t have quality, then I would settle for quantity. If only I had the audacity like he did to feel this way about men.
Tacos and nachos and burritos, oh my! I decimated them at such speed that I felt like the hotdog-eating king of Coney, Kobayashi, whose claim to fame was his iron stomach and his gaping jaw. I, too, had become a speed eater to keep up with Him and his eating habits that he must have developed as a result of his time in the military. Salsa spattered the table like a Jackson Pollack painting, and a ball of napkins formed at my side about six inches deep.
Much like anything in my life, metaphor was never thinly veiled. It engorged me and hurt my stomach. I felt bloated and sick and violently ill from the piles of junk food that I took in to fill the void. I began craving the healthy meals he used to cook for me. I started to pine for a time where I would no longer sit there alone, in my room, looking the mess I really was. I rose from the pile of take-out wreckage and surveyed my dirty hole of a bedroom. I was disgusted by myself.
Step one: Put on pants.
Step two: Make my bed.
Step three: Get on with the rest of my life. Eat a salad for dinner. Move on. Make myself a better man so that I could find a better man. I knew in my heart of hearts that I could never treat myself to another junk food romance. I had the heart of a vegan, the passion of a carnivore, and the mind of one of those trendy, gluten-free chicks.
Sweet Revenge
Categories: Desserts, Wine Bars
Neighborhood: West Village
I was never a morning person until I met Him. It had a lot to do with the way he would bolt out of bed in the morning like an excited child on Christmas. I would happily roll around in bed all morning long, drifting in and out of sleep, but he always had an urge to seize the day. There was too much world out there to see, too much to do, and nothing would get done if we just lazed around. I just wanted to lay there and hold Him, but he wanted to get up and do all of the things, almost as if to say that life was too short, and if we didn’t do the things then, we’d never have the chance again. Looking back, I’m glad we took mornings together. Life really is too short, and relationships are even shorter.
My West Village life with Him was a magical one. One of my many fond memories of Him was a breakfast we had together at Sweet Revenge. Even the most romantic breakfasts—those that the rest of the world would swoon at and revel in—were almost starting to become mundane. If something was so perfect all of the time, then it eventually would become commonplace. We take these things for granted when they are gone, and at the time, my red velvet waffle was perhaps a bit too dry and the juice was too pulpy. Looking back, I’d kill to relive it again.
It’s easy to long for all those romantic and intimate mornings, but I had to force myself to remember the sordid truths. I remembered how I finally put a pin in our chance of ever finding a path of forgiveness: sweet revenge. It changed so quickly, and it made my head spin to think that we co
uld go so far from waffles and kisses to revenge and pure, unadulterated spite.
After he left me, there used to be a small part of me that truly believed he’d eventually realize he had made a mistake. I don’t know why I thought this; he had clearly moved on. He had found a new boyfriend within a matter of weeks, one who was much more successful and attractive than I. He had great teeth. I knew this because I had researched him like a creepy stalker. I had to tell myself that this was okay because it was something that everyone does when left by The One. I felt dirty as I cyberstalked them, and I felt no better than Him who made his entire livelihood off of being a pixelated, idealized version of himself. I was becoming my worst nightmare: I was becoming Him. Although I had once thought that was what I had wanted, it now felt dirty and wrong. I’d said it before and I would say it again: be careful what you wish for. Yet I continued to let my bitterness take me over.
I was becoming spiteful and jealous. I was filling with rage and deceit. I wanted to make Him hurt the way that he had hurt me, even though eye for an eye was never something I thought I would stoop to. I had made a promise to Him that I would never hurt Him, but as if possessed by my jealousy, I began to let that promise seem futile and dull. Just like he had promised that he would try to change for me, now I was breaking my promise. It was something I thought I would never do.
It would have been easy to play the victim and say that the downfall of our romance was completely his fault. Looking back, I realized that I was just as guilty as he. I was a scumbag, and I wanted blood as payback for the heart that he turned rogue. Even as he was courting his new love, he incessantly came calling to me. He showed up at my door after midnight and showed up drunkenly at my work trying to kiss me. All the while there was another man who he crawled into bed with at night that was not me. It broke my heart and filled me with an unexplainable rage.
I went down the rabbit hole and plotted sweet revenge. I penned his new lover a long and detailed letter about all that had transpired between Him and I. I spilled it all: the lies, the cheating, the emotional abuse, the late night visits to my door, and his sick online obsessions. It was the lowest thing I had ever done, and I hated myself for stooping to that level. I should have known that our moment in the sun was over, but for some reason I couldn’t stop myself from making sure that I was ending it with my own hands.
Revenge is not sweet. It is ugly and sad. I don’t know what I was thinking—to try and break his heart like he had broken mine? I was just a wounded and damaged person. Perhaps a little crazy, definitely a lot angry. In the end, it did nothing to help either of us. I didn’t feel better, and he didn’t want me back. I had broken my promise, and I was just as bad as he was.
I should have taken the high road. I should have just forgiven Him and let Him find love anew. It broke my heart even more to know that I had the capability of hurting the person I had once loved more than anything in my life. I knew that I had ruined the chance of ever eating waffles with Him ever again, and sweet revenge had soiled my good name, which used to be an agent of true love.
I wished that our story had never taken such an ugly turn, and I was filled with remorse for the way with which I had handled it all. Hopefully, I had learned my lesson that revenge is not sweet. It is lonely and sad and does nothing for anyone in the end. Nobody wins, and there was never to be waffles or smiles or beautiful breakfasts ever again.
Bethesda Terrace
Categories: Parks, Landmarks & Historical Buildings
At times, the future seemed like a daunting and unsure thing. Like the time we waited in line at the Central Park Boathouse to board our own private rowboat to take out on the lake. From our preemptive picnic bounty, I took a slice of soppressatta and fed it to Him.
“Meat snack,” he said with a smile as he happily chewed.
“That’s what I’ll call you,” I said. “You’re my meat snack.” It wasn’t dirty; it was cute. He was a delicious little morsel that satiated my hunger for indulgence.
“Do you think we’ll be together for a long time?” he asked. We’d not really spoken of the future before then.
“I do,” I said without missing a beat. “You’re my best friend. And I can’t imagine being happy without you.”
Truth be told, I believed every word as it fell from my mouth. I believed that I would keep Him and go through the motions with Him and let Him become part of my life for better or for worse. That’s back when I believed I could really handle everything that entailed.
As spring began to poke its head out from the icy grasp of winter, I knew that in a matter of weeks I would return to the Boathouse and Bethesda Fountain and all of those other places that were the physical embodiment of everything I held sacred. I had done it every year, and there was not a place in all of New York City (or the world, for that matter) that made me happier. The lake was where I felt most like my genuine self, and as I floated along the turtle-dotted water I could paint a picture of what the best day of my life could look like. It involved cured meats and sunshine and Him.
When I took Him to the lake for the first time, I insisted on rowing. I always did. Never one to settle for less than the most grandiose of spectacles, this was where I found my true calling. Within the picturesque diorama of park life, floating beneath the backdrop of all the expensive real estate of the West Side, I felt the weight of the City melt away. It was like my body had become one big sigh, and I escaped my neurosis-ridden head for a moment and just floated. He tossed his head over the side of the boat and let his jaw hang slack, just taking in all of the sun. I took my phone from out of my pocket and put on Courtney Love, and as I placed it beneath the seat of the rowboat, the sound reverberated off the sides from all around.
We became a big, floating spectacle amidst the other boats full of kids and tourists, and I felt not at all strange to be the proud captain of the SS Homo, gallantly sailing the low seas with shirtless man-candy in tow and Hole screeching the angst of my troubled youth. I’d never felt like I could get away with this kind of absurdity with any of my former boyfriends. Him? He just looked at me with puppy-dog eyes and a big goofy smile and said to me, “You’re so cool. I’ve never been with someone so cool in my life.”
It was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me. I’d always wanted to be “cool,” whatever that meant. Cool as in casual. Casually whatever I wanted to be. Cool as in the fact that he wouldn’t judge me for liking chick rock or my dirty Converse sneakers that had holes worn in the soles or the fact that my hair was a mess (in a non-contrived way).
“I’d marry you,” he said casually as he squinted at me. He just lay there on his back taking in all the sun and being rowed around like Cleopatra down the Nile. At this remark, I nearly capsized the boat. I quickly changed the subject.
All of this talk about the future made my head spin. I was on a boat, eating cured meats, with my best friend, listening to Courtney Love, and he thought I was cool enough to marry. I remember thinking to myself, Yes. This is the best day of my entire life. I’ve never, ever been happier than I am in this very moment. It could be like this always. This could really be happening.
Cut to a few months later, and I was left to wonder how it had come so far in such a short amount of time. It was as if my relationship with Him had been linked to the seasons—we bloomed in spring, thrived in summer, and by fall began to wither and … well … fall.
I wanted to pick a fight with Mother Nature. I wanted to grab her by the hair and smash her face into a pile of the dirtiest gutter snow. The whole thing just seemed unfair, even though it was just a fact of life that summer couldn’t last forever. It’s such a messed up notion that when we’re in the midst of July, sweating buckets and soaking our tank tops, we say how much we miss the winter and being cozy by the fire. Then comes the icy hell of January and we lament the fact that we can’t be on a park bench drinking iced coffee.
That day on the lake was perfect. I didn’t miss the winter, and I didn’t mind the summer. I had Ne
w York in the palm of my hand, and I sat on the water with the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. My best friend. My co-pilot. My boyfriend. Him.
Boat season was returning soon. I wondered if I’d return to the boats.
Chapter Seven
MY NEW YORK LOVE STORY WAS SMATTERED with undeniable nostalgia. It was full-bodied like a Barolo and as rich as ossobuco. It was also as sour as spoiled milk and as embarrassing as a drunken McDonalds binge—the kind you wake up to the next morning and cringe when you see all of the wrappers and debris you’d decimated in your stupor. Sometimes it was elegant and beautiful, and sometimes I wished it would just go away. I was sick because of it.
While floating around like a zombie in a squinty-eyed Lexapro haze, I attempted to zone out. I kept my eyes on the ground as I walked the streets, mainly only to work and back, as to not catch sight of any of those memory-triggering bombs. I was afraid to leave the house unless I absolutely had to, mostly for fear of seeing Him on the street, but truthfully for fear of not seeing Him.
I became very good at pushing it all out of my mind and relishing in sweet denial—most of the time, of course. But sometimes I would stumble upon little artifacts of our courtship that I had purposely hidden away from myself. I’d not wanted to get rid of them because I feared that I would forget all that they had meant to me; I intentionally hid them from myself to spare me the occasional sting they would cause, which pierced even the strongest of antidepressant armor. It was utterly confusing. I had to remember to force myself to forget, and I also had to forget how to remember Him.
My laptop was like a shipwreck burial ground, deep in the pitch-black depths of the Bermuda Triangle. I’d blocked out all incoming messages from Him on my email and hidden all traces of Him on Facebook. I’d cleared my browser history and promised myself to never return to Yelp again. Even so, there were times when fragments of Him showed up in ways that would catch me off guard.