The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir
Page 9
I'd been bargaining with myself for too long. He wasn't waiting for me to get my writing career going and move to Los Angeles. That was my twisted fantasy. He was done.
Thanks for picking me up and showing me I can love again, but it's time for me to go. Sorry I hurt you. Now get over it.
I was only a bridge from where he was after his divorce to where he is now. Unfortunately for me, that bridge was made up of my heart and soul.
adrift soup
5 cups futility broth
1 lb. wandering thoughts
16 oz. can of diced emotional vacancy
2 tbsp feelings of loss
Preheat hollow container. Fill with seasoned futility.
Peel wandering thoughts and discard sense of purpose.
Add emotional vacancy.
Simmer in limbo. Stir pointlessly without any sense of direction.
Ladle over aimless dumplings and garnish with feelings of loss. Serve lukewarm.
Yield: Another penicillin project for the 'fridge.
Unlimited servings.
Nutritional Value: None.
No Guaranteed weight loss.
And you don't even give a shit.
the wish list
Tuesday, February 12
I started The List when I was nineteen. My friends always asked why I bothered keeping a list of everything I wanted in a guy.
Why? Because it made sense. And according to Bonita, my obsessive list-making also happened to fit my DSM IV profile.
My rationale was that if I determined ahead of time what I really wanted, and what was really important to me, then I'd have a better chance of actually finding it, and not wasting time and emotional energy dating Mr. Wrong.
It was my Obsessive Compulsive Girl's Guide to Dating.
Everyone who had ever heard about my list insisted I would never find a guy who had everything I wanted. Could that be why, at thirty-four, I was still single?
Over the years, I had added to the list, but never subtracted. As I learned more about what made me happy, I used it as a blueprint for my perfect mate.
Only by dating a few gazillion Mr. Wrongs, could I have come up with the list for what makes a man Mr. Right-For-Me.
THE LIST
Intelligent
Well read
Good sense of humor
Attractive
Politically similar
Spiritual, but not religious
Financially stable
College Educated
Ambitious/Goal oriented
Self-confident/Assertive
Socially competent
Good communicator
Physically fit/Active
Outdoorsy/Adventurous
Health conscious
Family oriented
Environmentally aware
Animal lover
Optimistic
Thoughtful/Generous
Attentive/Affectionate
Trusting/Trustworthy
Addiction free
Disease free
Kevin was the only guy I'd ever met who had everything. I pulled the original list out of my filing cabinet one day to show him. The page was old and yellowed. Changes in the maturity of my handwriting over the years sloped down the length of the page. Kevin laughed when I assured him that he was the perfect guy. Everything I ever wanted.
Now that he was gone, I didn't think anyone else existed who was better for me than he was—I mean is.
Am I doomed to settle?
zen & chocolate
Wednesday, February 13
Everything that has a beginning has an ending. Make
your peace with that and all will be well. –Buddha
The Complete Idiot's Book to Living Buddhistly. Zen Stuff for Totally Clueless Dummies. Seven hundred pages later, they both said the same thing and I just wasn't feeling “well” with it.
Somehow I don't think Buddha ever got dumped; otherwise, he'd know there's no such thing as peace the day before Valentine's Day when you're alone.
This is the last major holiday in the first Chinese year of The Break-Up. Kevin managed to hit every one of them in rapid succession: Halloween—no couples costumes, Thanksgiving—no lover to be thankful for, Christmas— no mate to sing Christmas carols and exchange presents with, New Year's Eve—no partner to celebrate with the beginning of another wonderful year. And now, Valentine's Day—with everyone walking hand-in-hand like they are about to board Noah's Fucking Ark.
I sat in the corner of the living room on Josh's videogame rocking chair, overdosing on Hershey's Kisses and feeling like a loser.
Buddha, I'm definitely not well with it.
I was sure that if I saw another pink and red, heart decoration, I'd kill something. On the phone today, Bonita said, “Congratulations, you're now officially out of the bargaining stage and into the anger stage.”
I can't believe Kevin was stupid enough to ruin such a good thing. It played over and over in my head like a loop. I pushed myself up from the foam rocker and gave it a sharp kick, turning it onto its side.
“What a moron!” I screamed to the empty house.
I snatched the bag of Kisses and thrust my hand inside, grabbing a handful.
“Don't you realize you're screwing up our destiny?” I threw the chocolates across the room like so many foil rocks.
Mind-boggling.
“How can you be so stupid? Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” I yelled.
I knelt to pick up one of the stray Kisses. Then I crawled across the floor picking up the others. I gathered my thoughts and the scattered chocolates.
This residual break-up crap was affecting my happiness. I compared every new guy I met to Kevin and they all came up lacking. I tried to move on, but how the hell was I supposed to do that when I had the best guy out there?
It's over for me.
I leaned against the wall and stretched out my legs with the candy in my lap.
Demographic reality check. I was in my mid-thirties, which meant that shopping for guys in my dating pool was like sorting through the remainders on the clearance table at Walmart: they were either hideous looking, they didn't fit, or they were damaged.
Never married.
Teenage son.
No plans for additional birthing.
I mentally pie-charted my options: At least 85% of single guys in their thirties would rather not date a woman who already has a child. At least 99% of single guys in their thirties wanted to get married and have children of their own. I absently divided the chocolates into rows along the length of my legs to build a 3-D graph.
My math got a little fuzzy here, but that might leave an odd 1% of single guys who would even be remotely interested in signing up for the mentor-manning of a teenage boy and then D.I.N.K.ing toward happily-ever-after, which leaves me with the divorced guy option that usually comes complete with phone calls about alimony payments and a brood of small children more than five years away from empty-nesting.
I wasn't exactly ready to sign up for that.
That's it. I know it. I'm doomed. Doomed to live alone in a dilapidated old house, reading romance books, wearing chenille sweaters, and feeding forty stray dogs. Okay, so it's a slight tweak to the old spinster cliché, but I can't wear wool sweaters—much too itchy. And I'm not really a cat person.
Thanks, Kevin. I hope you have a Happy Fucking Valentine's Day too.
bitter shake
3 cubes of iced contempt
1 cup sour cynicism
1/2 cup fresh resentment
1 tsp. sarcasm
Crush cubes of contempt harshly until edges are sharp.
Add cynicism and resentment. Puree until attitude is completely irritated and snippy.
Top with shaved sarcasm.
Serve in chilled, empty vessel shaped like a broken heart.
Yield: Ratty mood.
Unlimited servings.
Nutritional Value: None.
No Guaranteed weight loss.
; You're in maintenance phase now.
girlfriend in a box
Sunday, February 17
I brushed a lock of hair from my face with the back of my hand. Up to my ass in cardboard boxes and packing paper, I sorted through the contents of the garage. I packed Kevin's PGA books neatly into a box, labeled the side, and taped it closed.
It's past time to move on.
I separated the boxes; his on the left wall of the garage, mine on the right.
Josh opened the walkthrough door leading into the house and peered into the garage. “I thought I heard noises. What are you doing?”
“I'm packing up the rest of Kevin's stuff, so it's ready for him whenever he comes to get it.”
Josh leaned against the doorframe and looked at me. “You should throw it all away.” His tone was a blend of bitterness and hostility.
“I can't do that. It wouldn't be right to—”
“Yeah, whatever.” Josh rolled his body off the doorframe and closed the door.
I thought about following him inside, but decided against pushing the confrontation. We both felt it: the house had become nothing more than Kevin's overpriced storage unit.
When I turned back to the task, I came across a worn, heavy box in the back corner of the garage. It was sealed and labeled Marriage in a Box in Kevin's handwriting. His tangible memories of ten years with Joanne.
I stood staring at the box.
Then I reached for a new cardboard box and taped the bottom closed. The creased flaps of the top formed a gaping mouth. I pulled a sheet of packing paper into my hand and wadded it into a ball. One piece at a time, I filled the empty box.
The tape skipped on the roll as I pulled it across the final closing seam. At the end, the serrated edge of the roller bit through the sticky ribbon.
I pulled the cap off a Sharpie pen. The black marker squeaked out each letter as I scrawled Girlfriend in a Box on the side.
Now Kevin can have two boxes.
part two
the
dating
pool
hello mrs. robinson!
Saturday, March 9
I grew up in Fontana: home of the Kaiser Steel Mill, the Ku Klux Klan, the Hells Angels motorcycle gang, and the Valley Boulevard trailer parks—a place very much like where Deliverance was filmed. Not exactly an enchanted forest brimming with charming princes.
In high school, my best friend, Chelle teased me about dating a freshman when I was a senior. I always went for the younger guys. There was just something about the sexiness of a baby face and the sense of fun that attracted me. Or maybe it was the fact that they were too young to be on parole yet.
As a gag gift for my eighteenth birthday, Chelle bought a license plate frame for my convertible '74 Volkswagen Thing that read: Want Some Candy, Little Boy?
I finally had to remove it. The playful message attracted too many men in pickup trucks making vulgar V-fingered hand gestures with their sloppy tongues poking through.
But enough with the skip down banjo road.
I wouldn't have brought it up, but tonight I met this really cute young guy at the club.
Totally adorable. Tousled blonde hair that fell over one eye. And he was tall, so tall he could've used the top of my head for a place to set his beer. Just looking at him conjured up visions of my very own Statue of David—built to scale.
When I first saw him, he stood in a group of four guys gathered around the pool table, drinking beer and sneaking peeks at the private dance area. Of course, I couldn't let that go on without saying something.
“So, which one of you boys is planning to bust open the piggy bank and spring for a private dance? Because I know you didn't come in here for the cheap beer.” I posed against the pool table in a way that put my bare abs and legs on display.
The short, stocky guy patted the front pockets of his jeans and lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I'm tapped out,” he said.
I looked at the others.
The two guys holding the pool cues simultaneously pointed at each other. “He will,” they said in unison.
This was going nowhere.
The tall blonde dug his right hand into the depths of his front pocket and pulled out a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill. “This is all I have,” he said.
Young guys were rarely worth the effort to spend working them for a private dance. But if I felt playful and the night wasn't too busy, I'd flirt for a little while. It never failed; the next time they came in, they always bought at least one dance from me, and then they were hooked.
“Okay, big spender, what's your story?” I asked.
His name was Garrett. And he was a freshman running back for the Florida State University Seminoles. Unfortunately, he blew out his knee at practice, so he didn't know if he'd to be able to play again.
We had an easy conversation and there was obvious chemistry. I'm sure it didn't hurt that I couldn't stop picturing him naked.
Hotel room. Horizontal rodeo.
The get-to-know-you conversation progressed. He asked my age and I told him thirty-five.
True, I had a little less than three months until my birthday, but I tried to get used to it, so I wouldn't freak out when it actually arrived.
“Wow!” Garrett looked completely surprised, but he quickly changed his expression, trying to recover. “You don't look that old, I mean, not that that's old or anything.”
“So how old are you?” I plied him with my sexiest smile.
“Can you keep a secret?” Garrett pulled his driver's license out of his wallet and handed it to me.
“1985!” He was born the year I graduated from high school. “That makes you…” I dusted off my mental subtraction flashcards.
“Eighteen,” he said.
“How the hell did you get in here?” I looked at the beer bottle in his hand. I figured he was a bit younger—maybe twenty-five, but my brain hadn't managed to do the math.
“I'm six-seven. Nobody ever cards me.”
I could almost hear the ratchet of the handcuffs, feel the scarlet letter P stamped on my forehead, and see the gavel slamming down, declaring me a pedophile and a menace to the virtue of extremely tall prepubescent boys.
For a minute, I still considered the rodeo option—there was something to be said about the fantasy of green-breaking a young colt…
My conscience adopted a falsetto voice and scolded me like Garrett's mother would for even thinking about molesting her little boy. I guess it's a good thing I'm not a high school English teacher or I'd be on the eleven o'clock news.
In the end, I went home alone and masturbated. Junior was only in my head, but he did a good job anyway.
for love or money?
Wednesday, March 20
Is it a bad thing that my dating pool is a strip club? And does that mean I'm swimming in the shallow end?
Some women swear against dating men they meet at work. For me, it's like a buffet. Where else could I find so many eligible guys all in one place? And it certainly cut out the awkward conversation that always came up when it was time to tell a guy I was interested in dating that I worked part-time as a topless dancer. That little bit of useless trivia had a tendency to send them packing. If the revelation of my single motherhood didn't already do it, the combination was usually relationship suicide.
Although it was the goal of some girls I worked with, finding a sugar daddy wasn't my nature. Put me in a room full of rich men and one poor guy—and I'd fall in love with the poor guy every time. It had always been that way. In finishing school, I must've missed Gold-Digging 101. Actually, to the discerning reader, I'm sure it's pretty obvious I missed finishing school completely.
So, I met a guy. Yes, another one at the club. But this one was visiting from Texas. He made me laugh when he told me stories from his childhood on “the spread” he called it. He grew up playing polo. Then he let slip that his family had more money than God and a vacation house in the Cayman Islands.
His gaze was direct.
“I want to take care of you,” he said.
Now that sounded tempting. I'd never been faced with it as a serious offer, so I wasn't sure how to respond.
“I'll have to think about it,” I said.
I couldn't even fathom what it would be like to have someone else take over. No worries. No financial concerns. I could finally focus on my writing and maybe even take a vacation.
Just the thought of reclining on a beach in the Caribbean, reading a dog-eared bestseller, with Josh swimming in the turquoise ocean, while back home a maid cleaned my obscenely large house—pinch me. It sounded like a dream.
But then there was the moral dilemma: could I look at myself in the mirror every morning, knowing I got together with this guy just for security and luxury?
Women do it every day…
I know I'm in justification mode, but look at that busty blonde with the IQ of a pencil. She ended up with her own reality show and a big weight-loss endorsement deal. All that, and she started out as a stripper. Now, tell me again she really married that old geezer for his big, juicy wiener. Um…highly doubt it.
I thought I deserved a little luxury in my life. I'd like to be able to give Josh that kind of life; he deserved it too.
I don't know if I could do it though. What about love? And Prince Charming? The white horse? The sunset and happily-ever-after?
Can you get all that if you sell out?