Exes and Ohs

by Shallon Lester

  “Want me to come over tonight?” I wrote in an e-mail. “I’ll make you dinner and rub your ears.”

  Boys love having their ears rubbed, just like cocker spaniels.

  “Shallon,” began his terse reply, “I’ve told you again and again that I have a hole in my shoulder. Maybe this will help you understand why I can’t hang out with you right now.”

  Attached to the e-mail were five graphic, gory pictures of his surgery and incision site.

  That was the last straw. As schmoopy and wuvy-dovey as I can be, I can also turn into a shrieking harpy if you offend me.

  “Maybe this will help you understand?!” I fumed in my reply. “I’m trying to be nice and you respond to me with derision and sarcasm. Don’t talk to me again until you can speak to me like a gentleman!”

  Harrumph! I forwarded the exchange to all of my friends, who, in typical female yea-sayer fashion, gave me kudos for standing up for myself.

  “Good for you, Shall, what a friggin crybaby,” said Pfeiffer. “My brother had that surgery and played in his basketball game two days later. He’s fifteen.”

  I patted myself on the back and fully expected an apologetic e-mail or text from Wick.

  It never came. No call, text, e-mail—nothing. Not ever.

  “See,” said Klo, convinced she’d been right about our incompatibility all along. “This is what happens when you date by types. He was just too weird and preppy for you. You can’t keep changing for the guys you date.”

  But his Vineyard Vines ribbon belt had nothing to do with it. In fact, he wasn’t any different from the emo guys, the actors, the hippies, or the athletes. They were all capable of being immature, self-absorbed, and quick to give up. The same animals, just in different clothes. That’s how men are built, and we can either fight it or find ways to make it work to our advantage. I was too stubborn to do the latter and so I ended up alone.

  The whole affair made me realize that while people think my typecasting is a bad dating strategy, it really has more to do with exploring different sides of my own self than finding some archetypal guy. Maybe this was what my mom was trying to teach me all those years ago—that none of us is ever a single “type.” Maybe, instead of trying to “change” me, she was just trying to show me that there are a million different facets of my personality, so why stick with just one?

  Ideally, I wouldn’t rely on my boyfriends to unlock my different dimensions. But if I hadn’t been so determined to date a preppy, I never would’ve given Wick a try. Our relationship let me dust off those preppy parts of myself that I’d buried beneath years of flashy city life. Maybe next I’ll date a guy who teaches me to yodel, do taxidermy, or play the stock market. I always hope that I’m just one more boyfriend away from becoming my authentic self. I’m kind of like Scott Bakula in Quantum Leap, constantly switching identities, hoping that my next leap will be the leap home.

  Ice Cream, You Scream, We All Scream Because If I Deleted You from Facebook You Probably Wouldn’t Notice

  I’ve always thought that grocery stores should be organized according to emotion rather than type of food. True, there is often a diet or health food section, but things need to get a little more specific. In my store, there would be a revenge section, full of sharp, pointy, easily spoilable food, or things that are prone to rupturing in your coworker’s purse after she “accidentally” forwards your e-mail about snorting Adderall to your supervisor.

  There would be a corner full of foods aimed at impressing someone of the opposite sex—strawberries and champagne, items perfect for picnics, and anything conducive to oh-so-subtly showing off your exceptional sexual skills.

  And of course, there would be a heartbreak aisle, maybe two. Clearly, I have thought the most about this particular section and its cornerstone food: ice cream. Since the dawn of heartbreak, women have been using ice cream to mend their wounds and drown their sorrows, a sort of triage paste to patch up holes in the heart.

  Isn’t it time that ice cream makers realize this and start gearing flavors toward their true constituents? Why, in the throes of being dumped, would I want to reach for something called Chubby Hubby? That just seems cruel. How about getting a little bit more specialized? Perhaps …

  “Cat Lady”

  Tastes Like: Four hundred sleeping pills and a bottle of Popov vodka

  “Reruns of The Golden Girls”

  Tastes Like: Drool and smeared mascara on the body pillow you’ve been humping

  “He’s Probably Just Over on His Minutes, That’s All”

  Tastes Like: His T-shirt that you refuse to give back and making your friends text you just to make sure your phone’s working

  “His New Girlfriend Has Herpes. I Can Just Tell.”

  Tastes Like: Valtrex and Wet Seal lip gloss

  “Stalking Is Such an Ugly Word”

  Tastes Like: A long-lens telescope and the bushes behind his house

  “Googling Robert Pattinson”

  Tastes Like: Salty tears, black nail polish, and Hot Topic snap-on fangs

  “Told My Friends I Didn’t Call Him but I Lied”

  Tastes Like: Wine in a box and an overly rehearsed voice mail message that conveys “breezy!” not “stuffed to the gills with Lexapro!”

  “In Bed at Ten P.M. on a Friday”

  Tastes Like: Three-day-old Chinese food and a purifying mud mask (this one comes in a commemorative waffle cone)

  “I’m So Alone”

  Tastes Like: Mouth-kissing the dog

  Miss Conduct

  To the naked eye, my high school years were spent competing in some kind of Suck-up of the Decade competition. I was heavy into student council all four years, did two French exchange programs, and was on winter formal and prom court. I wore pastel ribbons in my hair and dressed up for every Spirit Day. But unlike the other kids overly concerned with impressing colleges, I never played a sport. At least not through my school.

  I had always tried to avoid playing sports with people my own age. This is not because I enjoy the wisdom and guidance of older athletes, no no. It’s because I’m at best a terrible athlete and at worst a serious health hazard to myself and those around me. Take hockey, for example, the sport I enjoy the most, despite my glaring lack of natural ability. The only thing I’m really good at is fighting, drawing penalties, and thinking up clever jeers to holler at the opposing team. The actual “hockey” part of the game? Not really my strong suit.

  I had the good sense to realize this early on in my athletic career and wisely avoided playing on my high school’s hockey team, which had an actual Canadian on it.

  So, instead, I skated myself (just barely) over to an extracurricular women’s team, the Chicks with Sticks, at the local hockey rink. It took me years to understand why my guy friends sniggered when I told them our team name.

  I told people that the Sticks allowed me to play more aggressively and rebelliously than those pansy-ass “conformists” who played for the University High squad.

  Yes, I played with women, actual grown-ups with husbands and children. They were patient with a newbie like me. At least I thought so at the time.

  In hindsight, they were horribly patronizing and smug, but I was fourteen and was used to being talked to that way by adults. I thought it was just a grown-ups thing, like high-waisted jeans or uncoolness.

  I played for about six years until college binge-drinking took priority, then pretty much forgot all about hockey until I moved to Manhattan and dated a French-Canadian, an avid player and spectator.

  “John!” I’d yell in exasperation after one of his tirades on why so-and-so needed to work on his power-play goal percentage. “I don’t care. No one cares, this is America.”

  But the truth was, I just wouldn’t admit to myself how much I missed playing. Ironically, I might never have picked my stick up again if he hadn’t broken up with me. And what a breakup it was!

  John was the first guy I dated in the city and he had always been a hateful boyfriend. H
e was still getting over his ex—with whom he eventually reconciled—and took out all of his angst on me. He once told me, “I would rather see you very, very upset than for me to be inconvenienced in any way.”

  Yeah, a real prince. But I loved him. He was smart and sexy and could growl like Wolverine as he pressed me up against a wall.

  Still, we fought constantly, and I begged him to just let me break it off. I’d hang up on him, delete his number, only to have him suck me back in again with bouquets of flowers and empty promises. He would apologize and blame work stress for our fights, but I never believed him. In his opinion, I wasn’t good enough for him, a belief he barely bothered to conceal.

  After all, he’d gone to University of Manitoba law school—“It’s the Harvard of Canada, Shallon”—and I was just a waitress living in a closet-sized room in SoHo. He couldn’t keep the derision out of his voice when he asked me about my writing ambitions, and the masochistic part of me liked it. I already felt like a loser, and having someone verbally confirm it was sickly satisfying.

  But still, I tried to make our relationship work. I thought maybe if I became more like him, he’d see that I was in fact his equal. So I adopted a faint yet unmistakable Canadian accent, which, incidentally, I still have.

  I’ve always absorbed accents very easily. My friend Grier says it’s because I’m very empathetic. I think it’s because I have a shaky core of self-esteem and will gladly shape-shift into someone else to avoid exposing my true personality.

  I worked diligently to turn words like “sorry” and “about” into “soary” and “aboat,” and added an awkward “eh” to every sentence.

  “Why are you doing that?” he’d ask testily through narrowed eyes. “Are you trying to talk like me?”

  “Soary, bud, don’t know what you’re talkin’ aboat, eh. Open a can of pop!”

  I sounded like I’d had a stroke. But maybe it worked, because five months into our relationship, we finally found some peace.

  I decided to take advantage of his good mood. We were out for dinner one night when I told him my mom was coming to visit and that I’d really like him to meet her. He shifted uneasily in his seat but agreed. Feeling cozy and happy, I asked about his recent trip to Montreal for a hockey tournament with twenty of his buddies.

  “Oh man, it was awesome!” he laughed. “We all pretended to be the men’s Olympic figure-skating team and everyone believed it! We ran into this bachelorette party and this one chick totally ate it up. She was pretty ugly though. Jeez, I can’t believe I slept with her.”

  “Wait, what?”

  He shrugged lamely, not a shred of remorse touching his chiseled face. “Yeah. Oops.”

  I burst into tears and ran out of the restaurant and into the winter night. I balled up my fists and vowed revenge. He had taken away the one thing I loved most: him. So I wanted to rob him of the only thing he seemed to cherish: hockey. Within a few weeks I had shipped my equipment from a storage locker back home in L.A. out to New York and registered for a team at Chelsea Piers, the same sports complex where he played.

  Even after months of dating, he had never invited me to one of his games, despite the fact that he claimed to be one of the best players in Manhattan. He must have figured, correctly, that I would be either bored or so impressed that I’d fall even more in love with him. Neither of which he wanted to deal with.

  “Chelsea Piers is where I go to get away from stuff,” he’d grumble whenever I’d make the insane request to watch him play.

  “Stuff like … me?”

  He would look at me stone-faced for a few seconds, debating just how cruel he should be.

  “NoShallonofcoursenot,” he’d sigh in one uninterested breath, and head out the door with his hockey bag.

  Yes, vengeance would be mine. Chelsea Piers was his home away from home, and I was about to invade. There was just one flaw in my plan: I really sucked at hockey. If I didn’t get better, and quick, the only thing I would prove to him was that I was as unsteady on the ice as I was in a relationship.

  So I poured all of my money into lessons, trainers, and more lessons. But then something amazing happened: the more I played, the less I cared about running into John. I felt more like my authentic self than I had in years.

  Gradually, I did get better. My slapshot improved, and I acquired the ability to hit and cross-check girls with waning remorse.

  As I got more and more into the game, I became determined to play for the Brooklyn Blades, an all-women team as vicious and fearsome as their name would suggest. Somehow, I made the team, and our captain strongly encouraged all of us to try out for the Empire State Games. In the grand scheme of competitive hockey, being an ESG champ ranks somewhere just above getting a customer service award from Best Buy, but still, I wanted in.

  I signed up for the tryouts, which were being held at a random rink in Harlem, but I was so nervous I made the cab turn around twice. Finally, I called my coach for support, and he shamed me into going ahead with it.

  “Look, at the very worst, it’s more ice time, right?”

  Clearly, he didn’t know how ridiculously mean women could be about these things. Well, about lots of things, really. Like how I force my mom to lie about her age because it will in turn make me seem younger.

  Sure, my game had improved, but I still didn’t feel ready to be on an actual competition team.

  First things first; I told myself as I walked into the locker room, just try to make friends.

  I was flooded with relief when I recognized a girl from my Chelsea Piers league and gradually become comfortable enough to strike up conversations with other girls as we piled on our pads.

  And I use the term “girls” loosely. They were built like brick houses. Or bulldogs. Or bulldog-shaped brick houses. Even worse, they had all been playing for at least fourteen years. I have barely been feeding myself for fourteen years.

  I would not use the word “awesome” to describe my performance. I seemed to trip on every divot in the ice, and at one point a simple skating drill sent me flying into the boards. Then, while twitchily sipping water to calm my nerves, I spilled it all over the ice and slipped again in the ensuing puddle.

  I realized that chatting with all the girls in the locker room had been a terrible mistake. Thanks to me and my big mouth they all knew I played for two different teams, so I couldn’t even lie and say this was my first time on the ice. Or maybe that I was recovering from polio and hadn’t yet learned to rework my legs. My last resort was to pretend I didn’t speak English and wander away, but that was out too.

  But as bad as the drills were, it was nothing compared to the total athletic carnage that was the scrimmage. Actual game play is usually my strong suit—I have good “hockey sense” and instincts when it comes to the game, I just can’t execute it. And no matter how large my opponent is, I always knock them down. Always. I’m deceptively dense and have very rarely felt guilt of any kind, so I have no problem clotheslining a bitch.

  Unfortunately, these other girls were so fast, I just pawed around uselessly as they sidestepped me altogether. I ended up lurching back and forth in front of the goal I was ineptly trying to help defend, much to the ire of the Chevy-sized net-minder, Bianca. As poorly as I was doing, she wasn’t faring much better. Easy shots slipped in without her even noticing.

  Soon she started wheezing at me to pass here, shoot there, blah blah blah. I hissed over my shoulder for her to be quiet.

  “Well I can’t see with you dancing like a fairy in my line of sight!” she hollered back. “Do you even know what you’re supposed to be doing?”

  I turned around and glared at her, real steely-like. Suddenly all of my old high school fears and all of my John-related insecurities leapt back to life. Yes, Bianca, I knew exactly what I should have been doing—but I just couldn’t. I should’ve been brave enough to leave John at the first signs of emotional abuse, but I wasn’t. I should have had a job more respectable than waitressing, but I didn’t.

>   In times of crisis, it’s suicide or homicide. Fight or flight. I wished desperately that the ice would open up and pull me into a gaping black sea. But the only abyss before me was my own cavernous failure.

  So I decided to fight. Not in the Disney-movie sense where I would cowboy up and dazzle everyone on the ice with some unknown reserve of skill and prowess. No, no. I fought using my weapon of choice: hideously inappropriate insults.

  “You can’t see because you’re too damn fat to move around the net. I could put a fucking refrigerator in your place and stop more shots!”

  Incensed, she stood up on her piggy legs and pulled off her mask.

  “A refrigerator?!” she screeched.

  “Ohhh, I got your attention now, eh? Too bad I’m not the puck!”

  For a split second, I thought she was going to burst into flames with fury. Instead, she whacked her stick on the ice then pointed it at me like a gun.

  “Shut your ass up, Lester,” she sneered. “You suck at hockey.”

  The words hit me like a blade to the throat and I gasped. I want more than anything to be good at hockey, but I’m not. The crushing reality hit me: I’m an asthmatic little geek who is better suited to writing a story about sports than actually playing them. I felt tears sting my eyes and mustered up my courage to throw one final arrow her way.

  “You know what, honey? At the end of the day, I’m pretty. You might win at hockey, but being hot wins at life!”

  Needless to say, I didn’t make the team, nor any friends. I crawled home, utterly defeated, and thought about what a loser I was; I was never going to be better than John at hockey. Not ever.

  “You don’t have to be,” said my friend Christine, scoffing; she had talked me down off all of my John-related cliffs of insanity. “It’d irk him enough just to know you play at all! He thinks he’s copyrighted this sport, but all you have to do is inject yourself into it and he’ll lose his mind. Can you run into him somehow at the rink? Looking incredibly hot, of course, maybe act like you’re dating a professional player?”