The Last of the Angry Man

It’s Thanksgiving morning. While my mother and I chat away, detailing the outcome of the three pies I’ve baked with her cross-country assistance and the preparations of my Weber grilled turkey, she asks me if I’ve heard from the Angry Man.

I ponder the question. “Well”, I respond, “it is Thanksgiving. That’s usually the time we break up”.

Actually, (and you will be surprised and amazed… and maybe a little doubtful), my relationship with the Angry Man ended over two months ago, a feat I justly rewarded myself with by purchasing a new hat to commemorate the occasion.

To put it delicately, The Angry Man is indeed, angry. Some might say even “Very Angry”.

I had been repeatedly told this, and during the thirty-second tirade that ended it, I thought about why I stuck it out with this man instead of listening to good friends’ advice. My lame excuse is that I secretly harbored a fantasy that he was soul mate to Henry Fonda’s character in “On Golden Pond” but instead of being the nasty curmudgeon to everyone but worshipping me, he was, in fact, the nasty curmudgeon to everyone, including me.

This is going to sound crazy, but he was probably the most stable man I had dated. After all, I always knew what I was going to get. And most of the time, I could handle his mood swings. Our banter became an old Nichols/May routine, so perfected and broken in, we could have registered a patent. However, routines take a lot of energy and getting yourself psyched up for repartee meant to pacify one person, but leaving the other a little worse for wear can get tiresome.

The end of the game, the straw that broke the camel’s back, was over Woody Allen’s, “Play it Again, Sam”. I had fond memories of watching it with my parents as a kid and TiVo'd it for another go around. But for some reason, I couldn't get into the predictable, dated jokes. Personally, watching substandard Woody movies really makes me yearn for the best of him and I wistfully thought of “Radio Days", "Broadway Danny Rose”, and "Stardust Memories” to name a few as I switched the channel. I brought this up to Angry, thinking he might offer some thoughtful insight to Woody, as he usually does, instead receiving a riotous lecture that went something like this:

“I can’t believe you would say something like that to me! That movie is one of my favorites! It’s about being single and relationships and dating! Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me that "Annie Hall" is terrible, oh and what about “Manhattan", that’s a crappy movie! I can hear it now! Jesus, what is wrong with you! You say things like this just to piss me off!”

And my stunned response went something like this: “FUCK OFF!”

It’s pretty impossible to slam a cell phone, but I tried my best.

Somehow this film marked road’s end of a three-year on again, off again relationship. The scale tipped, and the delicate balance that weighed bad behavior against charm, wit and devotion had become overloaded.

So, with grace, dignity and a calmness voice even I was suprised to discover, I called his bluff over a plate of roast beef hash at the Pacific Dining Car on 6th Street remembering something Maya Angelou said during one of her Oprah appearances, “When people show you who they are, believe them.” My efforts to influence or perhaps even inspire him to alter his negative outlook on life, people and current events went in like a porterhouse steak and came out, well, like the cubed hash sitting in front of me.

And the naked truth is, while we sat facing each other in those oversized leather club chairs, I realized that love was no longer on the chopping block. When emotions reach that finality, there is no going back. The slate has been wiped clean and the rooms that you kept open to this potentiality are resealed, as if they never existed.

It was fitting that this rant should arise just as we had concluded negotiations for a reconciliation, which would include long-term settlement. His few, wonderful qualities I had sought in a mate would be hard to give up, including the mostly unused apartment in Tudor City and my plans for a bi-costal lifestyle, but I quickly recalled a few similar gems, highlights of his three-year bluster fest and felt instant relief that I had once again, dodged a bullet.

I didn’t set out to become one of those people who continually return to something that doesn't work. I either have magnets in my genetic makeup or I'd conjured up a potential, and dangerously seductive fantasy life with Angry, causing a blurred reality. Most likely it was the challenge that in my cloak of womanhood, I possessed superhuman powers; powers that would quench his enraged soul and allow me the right combination to dismantle the chain that kept his core compassion locked up.

Thinking on that, it is fitting that Woody would seal the deal. Maybe it’s because he is symbolic of failed relationships and unrealistic hopes for ones doomed to begin with.

So here it is, Thursday evening. As I lie in bed counting my gratitude list, I mark that I’m thankful that the week started off on a quiet note, that the ritual of slamming phones, frustrated tears and drama is finally over.

It’s 7:45 PM. I’ve fed 16 people, baked three pies and cooked a turkey on the grill. And I no longer love The Angry Man.