Diary of an Ugly, Recently Divorced Man
Page 5
And without stimuli, for me it was not much of anything at all.
I promised I'd call her, but the truth is she left my libido through the floor. It's not that I have a type, it's not that I like women with a lot of chest (more than two breasts would creep me out), but as my friend Ricardo says, a girlfriend without tits is only a good friend.
Published by Felix at 12:33 a.m. * Post a comment
Thursday, June 14
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...
I can't sleep. I spent the whole day running away from Lolo. I ran away from Lolo all the way home. All day running from him, from his promises and from his plans. I don't want to sleep around anymore. I have no interest in his friends. I have no interest in Lolo, or the gym or this diary.
Dammit, I'm going to go buy some sleeping pills and hopefully tomorrow I'll wake up in another year.
Published by Felix at 12:41 a.m. * Post a comment
Friday, June 15
In Lolo's shadow III: The return of the king
I just got back from the most frustrating date of my life. Actually, the last seven days have been the most frustrating week of my life. Never, ever in my life, on no occasion whatsoever have I managed to go out with three women in the same week and fool around with all three, a 100 percent success rate, and never, ever in my life have I stuck my foot in it so many times in a row.
Yes, in the end I gave up and I listened to Lolo. And yes, his friends are that promiscuous (foolproof, he called them), but I've discovered that my issue is I have a knack for bad luck.
What happened this time? I should go to bed and bury my head in a pillow for a few hours to see if I can forget, but I'm going to try to exorcise these demons by writing them down in this damn diary, which is starting to read more like Dante's hellish torment than the journal of a single man with options.
She was easy. According to my friend's instructions, the only thing I had to do was listen to her and say I understand every now and then. That should have been a wonder weapon, but it all went wrong.
The poor girl's boyfriend had just broken up with her (actually, he left her a year and a half ago, but she still hadn't gotten over it), and she had an emotional disorder that required an urgent treatment of affection in single dosages. Being more desperate than confident I think, I threw myself into the conquest, offering my best advice, hugs and words of encouragement. You're a fantastic woman, and I find it strange that you're single, I told her, or, Your ex had to be crazy to leave someone like you,, and it was all as smooth as silk, or should I say, it was as smooth as Fernando Alonso's race car, because I hadn't even finished my first speech when she starting feeling me up.
Of course, all the while she didn't stop talking about her heartbreak, didn't stop complaining about being lonely. At first, it was kind of hot, but later I realized that there were three of us in bed (even if her ex was only there in spirit) and things started to fizzle out, just like two nights ago when that enormous pit bull was staring at me, and I began to feel uncomfortable hearing about how much she loved her ex, how she gave him everything he ever asked for, how and when he asked for it, what she did for him and how, and more than that her loneliness left me tied up in knots down below and I started to see her as this obsessive little monster who wasn't going to let me escape from there.
I ran away, naturally, and I don't think I had even zipped up my fly by the time I stepped into her elevator, but the thing is in those final moments I had not only felt sorrier for her ex than for her, but I was also starting to like him more.
Published by Felix at 12:26 a.m. * Post a comment
Sunday, June 17
Spiritual exercises
Tomorrow is Monday, and I have everything ready. It's going to be a peaceful week. It's Sunday, midnight, and I can assure you my Week of Sex has come to an end. My patience for Lolo has also come to an end. This is going to be my week of reflection. I'm going to start being me again. No more of this going out with women who I don't know and therefore don't interest me. I'll meet someone eventually (I'm being positive) as time goes on (I'm looking at my watch), and maybe we'll click, we'll have a connection (I'm being too positive, or rather optimistic), and maybe we'll fall in love or at least feel something (I'm being too optimistic, or rather enthusiastic), or we'll simply enter into a relationship that's stable, solid (or not) and constructive.
I spent the weekend at home watching movies and meditating. Between Shwartzenager films (I've never known how to spell his name... It has ten consonants and four vowels, for God's sake!), anyway, between films I had time to meditate, and those spiritual exercises led me to discover an inner me that wants to settle down and live life, play the cards he's been dealt, and that's how it is.
Tomorrow, I'm going to ignore Lolo and his plans (just you wait and see the week it’ll turn out to be!), I'm going to put an end to this business and I'm going to focus on work. I'm not going to go to the gym, just in case, and I'm going to buy myself a rowing machine online, something that I'm sure I'll forget all about.
And now I'm going to take another Valium and I'm going to go to bed.
Published by Felix at 11:49 p.m. * Post a comment
Wednesday, June 20
Psychologists and Argentinian psychologists
At the beginning of all this—I'm talking about when my life first tripped over itself and tumbled all the way down the stairs into the dustiest basement I've ever seen—I thought that I was going to require the help of a psychologist, that the advice from my friends and the scoldings from my mother (who has stopped calling me ever since I told her that I'd changed my number and gave her my barber's number instead) weren't going to be enough.
Now, I know that I was right, but I'm not ready for that kind of psychological help. I've been asking around and everyone "knows" someone who has gone to a psychologist. Well, I've gathered as much between my coworkers' jokes (Better drink the decaffeinated coffee) and advice on avoiding emotional therapy (Remember what Woody Allen says and make love to the person you love the most: yourself).
The worst advice was from one of the economists: I'm going to give you the number of a psychologist who really helped a female friend of mine with similar problems. He's Argentinian. I don't know why that made me wary. Ever since reading clubs here started selling books by Argentinian therapist Jorge Bucay to women, it seems that a psychology degree matters less than having a passport. My therapist is a doctor of psychology and so on and so forth. Almost never. Oh my goodness, mine is Argentinian and you wouldn't believe his accent. And I picture myself lying on the sofa with my feet up, staring at the big toe on my right foot as if the sock was going to give way and my toe was going to appear (does that seem like an obsessive-paranoid fixation or something like that?) and the guy, excuse me, the Argentinian psychologist, hissing at me in his accent, speaking vaguely...and it turns my stomach. Listen, it's not that Argentinians rub me the wrong way, it's just that I'm not ready and I'm going to try to take care of this myself.
(Note to self: Stop by the pharmacy. Valium bottle empty).
Published by Felix at 12:12 a.m. * Post a comment
Friday, June 22
Living la vida loca
I haven't met up with anyone for a few days, as I'm avoiding Lolo and my friends, who are still trying to help me.
Well, what I mean by that is I've met up with friends, people from work who I don't trust enough to open up to or guys I haven't seen since my school days, and just like back then, I've devoted myself to what I used to call "living my life." What’s happened is that given my state of mind since Laura left me, given that my body is less and less in shape (I have to go back to the gym to work out, not to pick up women) and given that I'm not used to it anymore, nightlife just isn't for me.
Yesterday, I went out with people who I hadn't seen for years, friends from high school who I used to get drunk with underage, and when one of them called me I took advantage of the fact to try to feel young again, young for just o
ne night.
Actually, I met up with them for dinner, but they had other plans. They took me to a tasting. What used to be street parties for students are now called tastings. Beer tastings, an excuse to drink too much or meet girls whose defenses have been lowered by alcohol, but after my experiences with girls, I didn't feel like drinking. Especially since these tastings are for students, I was feeling out of place at my age, not only because I'm thirty-something years old, but also because my friends are professors.
Even so, before going home we had to separate two of them from some girls in their last year of a journalism degree who had offered to interview them in depth.
Today, I felt like firing up the computer and organizing my thoughts. I don't have the peace of mind to make plans, but I've decided to take a different approach, because I know that I'd have to go round and round to fix this and it's better that I just accept that I'll never again welcome a woman into my life seriously.
Published by Felix at 12:28 a.m. * Post a comment
Monday, June 25
Black Monday
Insomnia once again.
It's five in the morning and I can't sleep. But I don't feel like getting out of bed. Dawn has not yet broken on this black, hopeless Monday, and the week that awaits me promises to be depressing. I don't feel like doing anything or seeing anyone. Luckily, it's only one week. Afterward, I'll go on vacation, far away from the human contact of my coworkers, far away from everyone, because I seem to have lost all my friends. It's weird. It's the first time in many years that I don't have plans on the table to travel around Europe or relax in some spa with...yes, with Laura by my side. It's weird. But I have to disconnect, chase away certain ghosts and unburden my muscles from the tension of certain obsessions. Afterward, I'll see.
Shit, it's not daytime yet.
Published by Felix at 5:18 a.m. * Post a comment
Tuesday, June 26
The bald man
While driving home from work in the car, I heard a song on the radio that shattered the little emotional stability I had left.
To get straight to the point, dear blog (you're the only one who listens to me), it was one of those coincidences that happen in life. I was tired, with my spirits and defenses low, I suppose, and the radio began to spew out that song: The bald man, the bald man, the bald man, la-la-la. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and I don't know if it was the light on the highway, but I noticed my hairline was receding at the temples, marking where the bangs I sported in that photo of my first communion started and ended, and my world fell apart.
When I got home, I went straight to the bathroom and examined myself in the mirror. Under the fluorescent lights, it didn't look so bad, so I calmed down and undressed to take a nice shower.
The apartment I'm renting has one of those hydro massage columns with lots of buttons, lots of lights and a radio built in. I turned on the water, tuned the radio and got in. An uninspiring song was playing, and I entertained myself getting lost in my own thoughts, wasting loads of shampoo, when suddenly the announcer out of left field made an absurd comment about at what age men start to go bald and at what age grey hair influences our behavior. Is thirty-five the threshold of old age? A shiver ran down my spine. I'm not usually prone to statistical fears, but I tore out of the shower, toweling off the shampoo suds still on my body. I wiped away the fog on the mirror as much as I could, stuck my nose up against the glass and pulled my hair back, looking for evidence along my hairline that indicated I had crossed over the threshold of old age. I made a promise to myself: If I ever think that I've begun to go bald, I'll shave my head to hide it, like many do, pretending that it's a matter of style.
Just then, I saw it: a small collection of grey hairs peeking out from among the black jungle that had been my youthful mop top (though I've always had brown hair). And the announcer making comments out of left field about age and men. It's impossible like this to get over trauma.
Yes, I have trauma. Brand new.
Until a few weeks ago, I was an executive with a good bonus, a good car and a good-looking wife who was the envy of my colleagues, but that was until a few weeks ago.
And until tonight at 9:17, I was a young man with many hours spent at the gym and good clothes (though poorly ironed) in the closet, but that was until tonight at 9:17, the moment when that damn song came on the radio.
I dried off and got dressed in a rush (in the elevator I was still putting my socks on in front of my bewildered neighbor, the old party woman), only to burst into the 24-hour convenience store and ask with more urgency than shame for hair dye. Those places are surprising because they always have what you wouldn't expect anyone to buy late at night. And what you need the most.
I'm going to summarize the adventure that followed because there are intimate details about a man's life that he can't even tell his diary, but I'll note in my defense while pointing an accusatory finger at the damn manufacturers that the directions are not clear, that not all customers have long hair or certain beauty tools in their house, that there isn't a single website online (this is definitely surprising) about how to dye a man's hair...
Later, calmer and apparently younger, I decided to stay up until the early hours of the morning watching television because I didn't dare blow dry the damn dye or stick my head out the window because the wind wasn't drying but freezing. I'm confident that I've screwed up, that tomorrow when I arrive at the office everyone will notice that not only are my ears tinted, but that yesterday I was young and today I've taken a step toward the loneliest of old ages.
Published by Felix at 2:08 a.m. * Post a comment
Wednesday, June 27
The dark side
I started eating dinner at the Imperial Palace again. Antoinette missed me, but I didn't go back for the nostalgia, no. I spent the whole day wandering from one place to another.
I got to work early, avoiding the elevators at rush hour, but I couldn't avoid the conspicuous stares that my jet black hair, proof of all my deficiencies as a painter and hair stylist, attracted. I left at ten, claiming that I had a terrible headache. Deep down, the problem was really in my head and I was probably giving myself the headache thinking about how to make the dye job disappear...
First, I spent the morning drifting around the park, until I made friends with an actual drifter, who originally elicited my sympathy, but then my anger when I realized that he had gotten out of me a little company, two sandwiches, three beers, some bar food and fifty euros to buy a snack later accompanied by his pigeons.
In the afternoon, being a little less fearful of society, I got lost in the shopping mall, looking at things that I didn't need and not bothering to buy them only because I was too embarrassed to approach the store clerks with my hair, so handsome and so glossy.
Finally, I ate dinner at the Imperial Palace. There it's all kindness, and Antoinette and her family never speak a single word of reproach (not even when someone has done to their hair what I've done), and this treatment made me feel good for the first time all day.
Now, I've been showering since seven thirty and this damn color won't wash out. I've never had black hair, and this goes beyond the pale (what a bad joke). I'm overwhelmed. My hair is so dark I look like the Spanish singer El Fary. I've made up an excuse to not go to work tomorrow, and I'm thinking I'll order food online. As of now, I've already ordered two crates of Ribera del Duero wine, but I don't know how long I can hide out at home.
Published by Felix at 12:20 a.m. * Post a comment
Thursday, June 28
The other
This morning, the day broke happier and most radiant than ever. The sun shone in the sky and came in through the window, illuminating my skin with natural color. This made me feel good, but since I had already sent off my excuse for not going into work with my recently dyed hair, I ate breakfast quietly and then left to take a stroll around the city. With a little luck, I thought, I might run into my friend the drifter.
But everything in
this life has a dark side, even the brightest of days.
I had thought that my life was getting back on track after those days of throwing myself casually into the arms of strange women, looking for solace in their charms, but this afternoon as I left a restaurant, I found myself with what's his name, the cause of all of my misfortunes.
And honestly, I don't understand how Laura left me for him.
I was walking through downtown, searching for a store that sells shirts that need little to no ironing, when I saw Milagros, my ex's best friend. My curiosity piqued when I saw her walk hurriedly into a bar that Laura and I used to go to, so I snuck in right behind her. My preferred stool at the bar was occupied, so I sat down at a nearby table. The waiters were slow to serve me, so I let my gaze wander around the establishment. It's one of those fake Irish pubs that have multiplied throughout the city. It's actually a nice place, where Laura and I often stopped because they make a good cup of coffee (Irish, of course).
All of a sudden, I saw Milagros appear from the hallway that leads to the bathrooms; we locked eyes and she quickly disappeared. I had no doubt that she was hiding. Some primitive instinct deep inside took over, my level of adrenaline shot up 1,200 percent, and I began to view everything with suspicion. Then, I saw it. Draped on one of the bar stools was a red jacket by designer Adolfo Dominguez, just like the one I gave Laura for her birthday. Coincidence? All of my doubts evaporated when I made out a handbag that matched the jacket, a Tous bag that my ex had paid half of her retirement for.