Hearing this comment gave me a pang (I won't say where) because it made me think. Why did Laura leave me? Did she really walk out because she had met the "handsome" man of her dreams or because she was bored of me?
I sat down to make list of the things I thought I had done well as a husband and ended up staring blankly at the empty screen in Word so long that I'm going to have to go see an eye doctor.
I think I limited myself to being around the house and hoping everything was going smoothly, following the routine set by the inertia of I-got-the-girl and now-everything's-set. But, well, they say you always end up blaming yourself for these things, and I don't know if I'm piling more blame on myself with this exercise or shedding some of it. The truth is that right now I don't hate Laura. Maybe she even did a good thing in leaving me.
What a stupid thought!
I was happy with her. In my way. Or did I think I was happy? Was there really a reason for what happened? Why didn't we talk about it at the time? Or maybe we did talk about it and I wasn't paying attention? I didn't see it coming. I simply didn't see it. If I'm guilty of something, let it be that I'm guilty of having a vision impairment.
I'm going to have to stop writing in this diary. There are people who come to speak to me and I don't listen to them. It's as if I'm absent, but I can't help it: My mind is somewhere else. I'm realizing how much time has gone by since I last saw Laura, since I looked her in the face, and it seems impossible. Yes, it's true that we each were working a million hours a day and when we briefly saw each other at night we weren't always interested in talking or sometimes even in making love and now all those lost hours, those lost minutes, those lost opportunities seem like a waste, as if Brazil's national soccer team had come to visit me to play a quick game and I stayed glued to the sofa watching Big Brother. Now, my time is up.
I think I'm depressed. Before, I couldn't imagine what that was like. It's seeing yourself and not seeing yourself, looking at yourself and not seeing a future. More reasons to go to the eye doctor. I see myself in a few years (if too many go by, that's bad; if it's too soon, that's worse) not having found anyone, putting ad after ad in the newspaper. First in local newspapers, then national ones, and then when I hit rock bottom, in the international press. It'll read something like, Good-looking man (55 years old) seeks woman for a stable relationship (or whatever comes of it), and it'll lie about my age, or I see myself bored, feeding the pigeons in the park, I see myself in the mirror and I see one hundred years of solitude.
You have to be very careful with what you have and what you lose because there are things that you can never get back, like love.
Published by Felix at 5:29 p.m. * Post a comment
Tuesday, May 22
Paco
My small non-carnivorous plant has died. I'm ignoring the reason why. Thinking about it isn't going to help me get over it. I'm bad.
I didn't think that living alone would be so traumatic, so I evaluated all my options and bought a cat to keep me company.
I found it online. I bought it from a very charming guy in the city of Elche who gave me a fantastic price. The delivery service is going to bring it to me tomorrow afternoon, although I prefer not to think about what kind of packaging they're sending it in. (I'm depressed: Lately, I always focus on the negative.) The cat is named Paco and the guy from eBay says it's very affectionate and very smart. That's what I need: affection. But the bit about being smart isn't so bad either. Maybe if I feel up to it, we'll end up playing chess.
Yes, I know that cats don't play chess, but if we sit on each side of an electronic chess board (which I would play alone or against myself) I can pretend. I'll put on a little jazz to drown out the racket from the Mercedes 300 (which has dodged half a dozen bottles of my best wine at this point) and I'll finally create that relaxed, warm and friendly atmosphere that I need.
What more could you ask for?
Published by Felix at 12:37 a.m. * Post a comment
Wednesday, May 23
P day (P for party)
I'm sick of this apartment. After a week of insomnia, I thought that last night I was going to be able to sleep, but just before midnight, people (who were surely vampires) began to arrive at the apartment next door and started to party like something out of Saturday Night Fever.
They even woke up my new cat Paco, but being a new resident myself and ignorant of the manners and customs of the building, I didn't dare go bang on my neighbors' door with a dispute that I would probably lose and that would probably come back to bite me later, so I endured and searched for a way to pass the time, first doing some exercise to the rhythm of the music, then later trying to sleep with ear plugs in my ears and blankets over my head.
This morning, I woke up sweating and half suffocated.
But that wasn't the worst of it. As I left for work and waited for the elevator, yawning with my mouth open wider than a hippopotamus when it wants to appear on the Discovery Channel, I heard the slide of the bolt on the apartment next door. I thought: I'm going to meet my neighbors. All in all, a party next door (if they invite you) isn't such a nuisance.
I smoothed my suit and readjusted my tie. I imagined that at any moment some guy who I could become friends or at least good neighbors with would come out. Or why not? Maybe a stunning girl, a student or a professional masseuse, young, who I could flirt with every time she invited me to one of her parties.
So, as the elevator doors closed again, the world around me crumbled when I saw an elderly woman who was no less than 140 years old come out of the apartment carrying a shopping bag. She greeted me and got in the elevator. I was so stupefied that I didn't move, and she went down by herself in the elevator.
There was no room for doubt. Hers is the only apartment on that side of the hallway. The music from last night couldn't have come from any other place. With that thought, the smile on my face vanished and my tie wrinkled.
Even snails must have a more exciting social life than mine.
Published by Felix at 10:30 a.m. * Post a comment
Friday, May 25
Hitting rock bottom
My cat left. He couldn't even put up with me for two days. He probably preferred to move to a different apartment with other guy cats or girl cats—only he knows—than endure an embittered man like me. The truth is that without a plant and without a cat, I feel more alone than ever.
I've lost weight and my suits fit me worse than normal. Soon, I'll be a shell of my former self, twenty pounds lighter like Christian Bale in The Machinist, with insomnia too (because why not?), cleaning the grout between the floor tiles with a toothbrush at one thirty in the morning.
All in all, there are worse things. I've also lost the motivation to go to work, which I used to always wake up with. This could be why my productivity has fallen: I've been told off more than once by my boss, who before only had words of praise for me, but I don't care too much about it. I've also lost the ability to listen and focus.
At times I draw a blank, sitting at my desk, staring at the computer screen, miles away, my mind stuck in some place in time and space, and hours pass and I haven't lifted a finger, or I go to call my friends who I hardly ever see and tell them everything that's wrong (as if they care), detailing how difficult everything is for me, how badly Laura treated me, and how much she must be missing me, when the truth is my friends aren't interested at all in listening to me and she's happy and paired off while I'm more alone than ever. My boss apparently is letting these lapses slide, overlooking my useless presence and diverting my work to other colleagues with more fortunate love lives, but this morning he tossed back in my face everything I've been neglecting over these last few weeks.
This morning, with convincing arguments and his usual sickly sweet voice, he unleashed a rant so long that it was like a speech by Fidel Castro. Afterward, I fled. I sought refuge next to the coffeemaker, where I found the usual crowd: Juan Carlos exaggerating about his latest fishing tournament; Joaquin trying to explain the s
wing that clinched him a double bogey against his brother-in-law; Lolo making jokes about everything he was hearing; and Manolo from Seville putting on a poker face that continually said, I don't know what I'm doing here with these morons.
They must have seen it written on my face, so I had to tell them the little that I had understood of my boss's little speech. They laughed, but then like good friends supported me. If I were you, I'd shoot myself. If Valdivia has a grudge against you... That's support. I made a funny face and poured myself a coffee. Then Lolo, showing off his usual empathy and understanding of human behavior, declared, What you need is to get laid. A deathly silence followed. No one wanted to go near that topic, I suppose, but Lolo insisted. You're still obsessing over Laura and it's about time you freed yourself. But, of course, where is a guy of my circumstances going to meet a girl to go out with? They all looked at me as if I were a baby nestling. What is the first and principle thing a person desires, Lolo whispered at me, and Manolo from Seville responded to him with something like, You sound like the psychopath from "Silence of the Lambs.” I knew he was a movie buff, but I didn't get it. We'll start with the office. This building is full of twenty-three-year-olds with a lot of pent up loneliness and sexual frustration... Lolo, as always, the philosopher.
But I think I'm going to listen to him.
Because I spent the rest of the morning and afternoon with my hands resting on the keyboard, projects half drawn up, observing every woman who passed by as if I had never seen her before. Afterward, I went home, crunching the numbers on lips and hair as if my life depended on it.
Published by Felix at 12:14 a.m. * Post a comment
Monday, May 28
Women can smell it part 2: I've lost my charm
Today, I woke up with a different mindset. Lolo's advice had been bouncing around my head all night. It's true that I barely slept, but all the same I got out of bed with an optimism that I thought had disappeared. Today, more than just going to work, I went hunting. I did a little bit of morning exercise, showered and put on my suit. I walked into the building like I owned the place.
Afterward, things took a turn for the worse.
I grabbed Lolo's list, which included all of the single, divorced and married but presumably wanton women who surpass the threshold level (the level after which you can't help but stare at a girl when they walk by), and I spent the whole damn morning fluttering around the office from girl to girl.
Lolo's list is not that great. I discarded one divorced woman who's over the hill with (pardon my language) sagging breasts and another single woman with short hair and shoulders wider than mine who often walks past my office dragging her feet like a dockworker. I notice things like that.
The worst part? Ah, yes, the worst part. Remember, dear diary, those women who seemed to smell my misfortune the minute it hit? Well, good, because I don't know where they went. It doesn't happen anymore. No female colleague tells me in the middle of a conversation about numbers and ratios, I know how hard it must be for you or You can count on me for anything. No one volunteers to help me because you've always struck me as a really sensitive guy, but I had no idea you were suffering like this. I've gone from being a defenseless and "sensitive" guy to just another divorcée who's unexciting to the rest of the (feminine) world. The novelty has worn off, the interest has died.
I returned to my office and buried the list in a stack of reports.
I must have been in a state of shock for a few hours because suddenly I heard a women's pleasant voice, as if from another world, asking me, Not eating lunch today? I opened my eyes and was confronted with the girl from the mailroom, smiling like usual, a bunch of papers in her hand. I must have said something silly that I can't recall because she laughed. Afterward, I went home without even bothering to think of an excuse.
Published by Felix at 12:35 a.m. * Post a comment
Tuesday, May 29
Trial and error
I've made up my mind...I can't take being alone anymore!
Yes, because I woke up frustrated with my brow furrowed and the feeling that my world was falling apart, I rushed to the office, flipped a coin and approached a girl from IT, a short redhead, not so good-looking (you've got to start somewhere), but charming, sexy, really young with a great body, and launched into a fuzzy explanation of some problem I was having with my laptop.
So we ended up in my office, her rummaging around my files and me devouring her with my eyes, my hands shaking and my tongue refusing to form the words of an invitation I had prepared all night, one of those stupid lines that men say but don't work, because when it comes to love (or whatever you want to call it) it only works if She wants it to.
Then, with her splendid juvenile anatomy, she got up from my chair, moved so close to me that I could feel the heat from her chest on mine, driving me crazy, and I thought, now's your chance, but still silent, I let instinct take over and I hugged her, maybe (I'm not sure) with the intention of giving her one of those kisses from the movies that turn girls into devoted admirers, and I put one of my hands smack on her butt and she put one of hers smack on my face with all the force she could muster.
I'm still in pain and now more frustrated than when I woke up. I'm going to forget about it. I'm lousy at picking up women. But this isn't the worst of it. The worst is now I can rest assured that if I ever have a computer problem...there will be no fix.
Published by Felix at 12:23 a.m. * Post a comment
Wednesday, May 30
The man from Chinatown
I just got back from the Chinese place. I have to stop eating dinner there. I confess that before I enjoyed it. After working ten hours with a lunch break to eat some laminated junk from the company cafeteria or, in the best case scenario, something cold from the bistro across the street, I liked going to the Chinese place below my apartment and ordering an egg roll, fried rice and a Szechwan dish called Ants Climbing a Tree.
But now it has become a habit, and we all know that routine can ruin even the greatest of passions.
Yes, I confess. Since I moved to the new apartment, except for the occasional sandwich and a bottle of wine by myself on the sofa, I've eaten at the Chinese place downstairs every single night. For me, the illuminated Chinese characters, with their spectacular translation, Imperial Palace, are like one of those tacky signs that hang by the front door of houses in the movies that read, Home, sweet home.
I always go at the same time, and the Chinese woman who attends to the tables, all niceness and courtesy, greets me by name. I always say the same thing, Good evening, Antoinette, because I can never remember strange names, then she nods three times and guides me to the same table nestled in a hidden corner. She doesn’t ask me Same table? or even The usual? anymore. She knows all too well that I'm going to ask for the same table and order an egg roll, Ants Climbing a Tree and a Chinese beer.
I actually don't have anything against routines, but today I realized that I can't keep eating at the Chinese place every night for a few reasons. First, because as I sat down I noticed how a diet of egg rolls, rice and Szechuan noodles is making my pants tighter. Second, because I'm never at home except to sleep, and it's about time I do something, open up the boxes and put things away in the cupboard or hang some art (I would have to buy it first) so that it feels lived in. (I could also try out the kitchen...) Third, because I'm running the risk of the Chinese place becoming my second home after the office. (I'm not kidding: Last night, the cook, who I think is Antoinette's mother, asked me to give her the shirt I was wearing so she could sew up a button that had come loose.)
Tonight, I ate for the last time in the Imperial Palace. I've decided to give my apartment a try, fill it with my things, change a lightbulb every once in a while, buy a painting and hang it up, cook, invite a friend over to dinner. I don't want to take the chance of bringing some girl home and her asking me, When do you plan to move in? No, I want it to feel like home.
When Laura left me, I stayed in the streets. I've spent ag
es eating in the streets, living in the streets. It's time I make something of myself (I'm not quite sure if that expression works here) and make my apartment a home.
Published by Felix at 12:24 a.m. * Post a comment
Thursday, May 31
Like that chef on TV
Well, tonight I abandoned my routine. I came home early, before it got dark. Even though my feet dragged me toward the Chinese place, I walked right on by Imperial Palace without going in, and now I'm eating burned spaghetti in front of the computer. It's not my fault. Someone told me that spaghetti was easy to make, but forgot to mention that it can burn. It was supposed to be accompanied by a French omelet, but it seems I don't have a knack for foreign food, so I had to settle for pasta.
I'm going to stop writing for a minute. I'm going to lie down for a bit and look for an antacid.
Hi again. I've been searching recipes on Google using words like "easy," "man," "single," and "fast," but the majority of the results it gives me are pages for single men, places to go on a date or meet desperate people, or simply pages with adult content (to put it mildly).
Finally, I found the website of a TV chef. I won’t name names to avoid giving him free publicity, but after searching and searching, I discovered that there's also a cooking channel on satellite TV. I turned on the television and was blown away. A whole world of flavors opened up before my very eyes. Everything looked so easy that I scrambled to make a grocery list. However, I didn't want to wait until tomorrow. I looted what little there was from the fridge and improvised, just like the great chefs of world cuisine do. I ran into some problems. Does anyone really know how much a dash of salt is?
Diary of an Ugly, Recently Divorced Man Page 3