Even if I were the one who attracted him—I’m trying hard to be responsible and not blame myself here—why would I attract two cheaters in two months? Granted, I had Ron for a long time, but he cheats on me, I go out with Tac and then he cheats on me. Maybe I’m contagious? I decide I’m going to have to do some serious self-exploration on this idea. If I am supposed to take responsibility for my life, and the situations in it, I will have to admit that I attract cheaters. It’s like some kind of epidemic, a curse or an awful plague. Way worse than hairballs.
I set the book down, let Herman in—who is now pawing the sliding glass door as if he can dig through it—and go into my office. Herman rushes ahead of me, hops onto my desk and knocks three folders onto the floor. I check my email and see one from Tac.
Isn’t this weekend over yet?
“Dear Nala, I must say I was rather disappointed you didn’t meet me last night. Are you okay, or just having second thoughts? Warmly, Tac.”
My first instinct is to vomit on my keyboard.
Then, after careful consideration, I realize that he is feeling as rejected as I am. My inner demon is laughing loudly and calling him names. The other me, though, the one that’s supposed to be more spiritual and enlightened, she is just a little sad. I decide I honestly do not have the energy or good enough intentions to respond. Instead, I work on my law of attraction post.
“We create our lives through our thoughts and feelings. The things we think about most in life tend to be the things we attract. Thus, if you think about your boyfriend cheating on you getting fired from a job repeatedly enough, with emotion, then you will likely manifest that very thing. The mind is a tricky thing that we must learn to manage, mostly through observation and a committed meditation practice. The key to understanding the law of attraction (a topic we shall continue to cover in this blog) is that even the circumstances we find displeasing are ones we have caused ourselves. This is not about blame. This is instead, about taking responsibility for our lives. The good news about doing so is that we’re now empowered to create better lives, give up men forever, and put our energy and attention on the things we wish to create...”
I am happy with what I have so far, and then an email notification comes across my work email that I apparently left open last night.
Crap.
There’s an explanation point, which by definition merely means “important,” but in real estate, it tends to mean “emergency.” I feel my depression thicken. I see the email is from my new seller, Brad Ryan, and begin to feel a bit of relief. I mean, I haven’t had the listing long enough to get into too much trouble, right?
Uh oh.
“Melissa, what time today did you say you were putting on the lockbox today? I guess I need weekend time-ranges as some agent just pounded on my door and woke me up. BR”
While I realize I should have asked him if the being gone from sun-up ‘til dark included weekends, I also realize I need to go out there and put the dang lockbox on because he didn’t have an extra key when I wrote up the listing. But even more, I am interested that he signed his message, “BR.” Initials seem cold to me and I’m very fragile right now. Do I really have to go face the world? Especially a client who signs off with a couple of capitol letters?
I email him back and say I can be out there in about thirty minutes if that’s okay. He must have been waiting because before I can even look up my second horoscope, he’s responded with a curt, short, “yes.” Man, this guy sure isn’t one for small talk.
Herman jumps on my lap and meows loudly in my face. I feel like he’s reminding me about the hairball cat food I promised I would get him, so I pull myself up and go get my shoes. I am still wearing my ratty sweats. This is no way to go to a client’s house. I wonder if I could just get BR to leave the key under the mat and go rope a cow or something until I’m gone. I throw on some better sweats, run a comb through my hair and even wipe the raccoon rings from under my eyes. Damn waterproof mascara leaves plenty to be desired, I can tell you that.
I start up the car and hear Tony Robbin’s loud, husky voice trying to cheer me up. I got to give him credit for trying, but today he’s talking more about my blueprint and how I need to change my subconscious beliefs in order to have a better life. I wonder if Tony knows about the law of attraction.
Fortunately, there’s little traffic and I am at Cowboy BR’s house in no time. I feel he’s not very friendly by the way he is standing outside waiting for me. He looks mad, and honestly I don’t know how much more I can take.
“Sorry you got woke up,” I tell him, fumbling with my lockbox and just wanting to get out of there as soon as humanly possible.
“Yeah, me too, I had a late night.” He is not smiling and I feel tension as I take the key from his hand.
I think Brad Ryan sees my expression and either feels sorry for me or is afraid I may have a nervous breakdown right there in his driveway, so he softens up a bit and says, “You okay?”
I tell him yes and then start to cry. He looks baffled, like maybe he’s gone and hired himself a real loony to list his house. I do not want to lose the listing so I think as fast as I can.
“I’m sorry, my cat died,” I tell him, knowing I will go to hell for all my lies.
He looks at me for a minute without saying anything. Now I’m not always right about reading people, but I’m pretty sure he’s wondering why in the heck anyone would even have a cat as a pet. I think about his big dog.
“Well, I’m sure sorry about that. I didn’t mean to snap,” he says. I swear if he had a cowboy hat on, he would tip it right now.
“It’s okay.” I give a brave smile, stick the key in the lockbox and excuse myself to go to the side of the house in search of the gas meter to put it on.
Brad Ryan doesn’t say much of anything else, just kind of nods and looks at the ground. I tell him the sign should be in the yard on Monday and I’ll change the MLS to say: “Call first on weekends,” and I will drop off disclosures Tuesday afternoon. He says fine and tells me to leave them on the kitchen table. I leave Brad Ryan standing in his driveway as I drive off to get my dead cat some hairball food.
It is a gloomy day, but I decide I should go to the afternoon yoga class. After all, what else have I got going on? I am pleased to see Dawn is teaching. She’s soft and spiritual and never bossy. I’m pretty sure if I had the Mean Yoga teacher today, I would break down into a puddle of bad poses. I think Dawn can tell my energy is low because she’s giving me a lot of attention. As I fumble into my forward bend with all the grace of a falling stump, she pats my back. I want to tell her about my dead cat, but then realize Herman is just fine and quite likely, still enjoying the new food I just poured him.
Dawn leads us through the regular poses but suggests we go through our flow in our own time. I like this. I notice my back is still a bit sore and so I cheat a little on my plank pose, but Dawn does not seem to mind at all. In fact, she smiles at me as I plop onto my belly, just like we’re not supposed to do.
After what feels like a very nice practice, Dawn tells us to assume the Corpse pose, and I am glad I came today. As she tells us to close our eyes, she tells us to check our auras.
I can check my aura?
According to Dawn, we all have an aura that surrounds our body. She calls it our “energetic body,” but I’m pretty sure it’s somehow attached to our physical body. She says that this aura is actually visible to some people and that with focus and a calm mind, most of us can see, or at least sense, other people’s auras. I am wondering if Dawn sees my aura is a little cloudy today and her words are for me.
I feel the slightest bit of hope about this aura business. By the time I get my chakras all cleaned up and my aura in tip-top shape, I ought to be as good as new in no time. I figure just these two things will have me attracting much better situations. Dawn wraps it up by telling us the answer to everything is in our daily meditation practice.
I sigh because I know I’m screwed.
After
yoga, I’m feeling like maybe I can survive the Tac Tsunami. When I get into the front seat, I check my texts and see this from him:
“Not sure what was wrong last night, but how about I come over tonight?”
While it’s clearly apparent that he has no idea why he can’t come over for a rumble tonight, I am again deflated by his lack of integrity. I think about how soft his lips were and then suddenly realize he’s probably rubbed them on a thousand different mouths. I spit on the passenger’s seat. On accident, of course. I pull out of the yoga parking lot and do something I haven’t done in a very long time. Go through a drive-thru and order the biggest cheeseburger on the menu. And if that’s not bad enough, I add a vanilla shake. It goes way better with vodka than Oreo-flavored ones.
Back at home, Herman is sleeping and I say a small prayer asking for forgiveness about saying he was dead. That was very bad of me. I pull up my horoscope and read this:
“The moon is in your fifth house this month, meaning you can expect happy surprises, but beware, your third house is in Leo.”
I know nothing about houses, except the ones I sell or live in, and while my surprises haven’t been exactly happy this weekend, I certainly know what Leo is and I want nothing to do with it. I should have paid better attention to the fact that Leos are egotistical and, at least one Leo I know named Tac, cannot be trusted. I turn on my computer and decide I will answer him from Nala.
“Dear Tac, please forgive me for not showing up for our coffee date. My intuition told me that you had other plans and I felt that would not be right of me. As you will see in my post this week, I am a very big fan of the law of attraction, and thus, work hard to keep my aura clean.”
POW!
Now that “POW!” actually took all of my energy, especially now that I’m burping up cheeseburger and ice-cream-flavored vodka, but I am momentarily enjoying lapses now and then. I realize that while Nala’s response to him was classic in all ways that he will never understand, it is more important than ever that he never know about my double-identity. I mean, just think of how he could throw it in my face for all of ever. It would be way worse than Pearl Harbor. Not only that, but I just know that lousy little Leo would say he knew the whole time and just wanted to see how far I would take it. Boy, would I be the idiot then. No, I have to absolutely make sure he never figures it out, ever. And to think, at one time I toyed with the idea of telling him the truth! I thought it would be some really fun and entertaining pillow talk.
I look at my cell phone. Last night, I told him, “Drop Dead.” Hmmm. What good reason could I have had? Also, what can I say now? Clearly I won’t see him tonight, or ever, but let’s face facts. I have to see the back of his dumb head every day at work and if I’m to maintain my successful spiritual blog, which I have every intention of doing, then I have to keep my roles completely separate.
I inhale deeply and wonder why I didn’t get fries. I text back,
“Sorry Tac, I’m seeing someone.”
It feels momentarily satisfying to tell him I can’t see him. Like the ball is in my court now. However, I know the ‘court’ is only a figment of my imagination. I wonder if he knows that, too. I mean, with Nala, he has no court at all, but with me, Melissa, he’s the one that dumped our date and broke my heart. Or ego. Who knows? I’m surprised that he gets right back to me.
“I’m coming over.”
Oh no!
I am instantly in a panic. I have already put my most ratty sweats back on, sweated off the remainder of my so-called waterproof mascara, and consumed my weight in fast food. Of course, the main thing is that I hate his guts and don’t ever want to see him again, but still, I find myself running to the bathroom to change and put lipstick on.
I am hopeless.
I decide I will not answer the door. Because, what would I say to him anyway? I certainly can’t say the truth, and yet here he has the nerve to think he deserves it. He’s the one who’s a big fat liar. My truth indiscretions, well, they each have a reason...a purpose. His, on the other hand, are all about being a player. A womanizer without a conscience. How on Earth could my aura have attracted that?
After I brush my hair and make sure I don’t have cheeseburger breath, I text him back, telling him I really don’t feel like any company tonight. He does not respond, but within ten minutes, I hear a knock at the door.
I find it interesting that men always seem to want what they can’t have. Here on Friday night, I was ready and waiting for him, even putting that pricey perfume on all my good chakras, but he threw me away like a wet rag. For what? A coffee meet-up with a woman he’s never met before. Tonight I tell him I’m not interested in seeing him and he’s rushing over like I just threw the tastiest bone in front of his face. Men are crazy.
“I said I don’t feel like company,” I say, not having to fake my bad mood at all.
“Can I least come in for a minute?” He seems sweet, almost sincere, but I remind myself of all the facts.
“Only for a minute. I have a date.”
“You just said you didn’t feel like any company tonight.”
“Oh,” I quickly look away like maybe I’m checking the clock, “I wanted to take a nap first.”
I hope that didn’t make me sound old.
“Whatever,” he says, clearly not convinced, “but can you please explain what I did to make you tell me to drop dead?”
“Well, you stood me up.”
“I did not stand you up. I told you, I had a client.”
I squeeze my toes and remind my mouth which side it’s on.
“It doesn’t matter, I was trying to tell you I met someone else.”
“When?”
Now this question surprises me. Why does he want to know when? What could that possibly have to do with anything at all?
“Recently.”
“Before or after?”
“Before or after what?” I am honestly perplexed by what he’s asking, and then it dawns on me. Before or after we played house.
“That’s a foolish question, don’t you think?” I say this, but secretly, I’m thinking it’s a very good question. In fact, one I might have asked myself if the roles were reserved.
“Can you answer it?”
“After.” I say, wondering if that was the best option.
Tac looks down and shakes his head. For a brief moment I feel sorry for him and want to hug him, but then my smart-self, the one committed to not attracting liars and cheaters, kicks me hard in the root chakra and makes me say, “I’m really sorry, Tac...still friends?” I offer a meek smile and am secretly dying inside.
“Yeah, sure,” he says. “See you at the office.”
He does not kiss me, or hug me or smile, as he turns around and softly walks out my door.
My birthday is tomorrow and the most exciting things I have to look forward to are lunch with my mom and dropping disclosures off at Brad Ryan’s house. At the office, Tac is sitting at his desk, apparently on the phone. He could be faking it, as I have at least a hundred times when he’s walked in. He doesn’t move a muscle as I pass by. I consider the thought that had I overlooked his obsession with the mystery blogger (aka me), I might actually have a date for my big birthday, but clearly I failed to calculate this into my decision to announce I was seeing someone else.
Becky swings by the desk and starts whistling Happy Birthday. I look up and smile at her. Becky always knows just what to do to cheer me up. I honestly have no energy or enthusiasm. I’ve heard this happens when you reach a certain age. I can’t even go to yoga; that’s how deflated I feel. I spend a good hour putting disclosures together. This is normally something I can do while filing my nails, watching a funny cat video, and talking on the phone. However, today feels different, and I think part of me is waiting for Tac to at least acknowledge me. I long for it to go back to when I hated him much more than I do right now.
Happy Birthday to me. I am singing this softly as I wake up and feel sorry for myself. Herman is at the foot o
f the bed and seems to have no interest in singing along. My mother must be worried about me because she sent a text last night, changing our lunch plans to a dinner date. I do not want to go on a dinner date with my mother and her boyfriend Dr. Bill, but she said there were gifts involved, so what could I say?
I go ahead and put extra makeup on, a cute teal-colored skirt and black boots. I may be older now, but I am still quite fashionable. I brought Brad Ryan’s disclosures home with me so I can swing by on the way to the office. That way, I know he won’t be there and I can just use the key in the lockbox and be in and out. After our weekend discussion, I’m hoping I don’t have to see him ‘til we close on his deal. Or never.
Once I add some eyeliner, I realize I am the slightest bit excited about my birthday. I mean, Becky remembered, and now that I’m having dinner with my mother instead of lunch, well that leaves my daytime lunch-slot completely free. Maybe Becky brought me a smoothie or something. She’s good like that. I grab my file, tell Herman to cough out his hairballs, and head to the Cowboy’s house for my drop-off.
At first, I don’t really see it. I mean, Brad Ryan told me to leave the disclosures on the table, so of course I whip right through the hallway entrance and head toward the kitchen. There’s a cage on the table and the smallest white fuzzy thing inside it. It’s a kitten. The kitten looks at me and meows. This is when I see the piece of paper on top of the cage. It says:
“Sorry about your cat, BR”
Oh my.
I look at the kitten, then the note, and then the disclosures. This is not exactly what I planned. I don’t need a kitten; I don’t even know what to do with a kitten. Herman was a teenage orphan when I adopted him. This kitty is the size of Herman’s hairballs. Why would Brad Ryan get me a cat? I’m guessing because he felt bad for being snappy when my cat that didn’t die, fake-died. Crap. I look around for a pen, thinking what I should say. I seriously just want to leave the little fuzz ball here and tell him thank you, but I’m not ready for another cat yet. Please feed it to your monster dog. Just then, the monster dog shows up at the sliding glass door and starts to bark. The little kitten runs in the corner of the small cage and looks like he has no way out.
More Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Love & More Lies Page 9