Saturday, December 30, 2006

The Return of the Cowboy Roadie Metrosexual

I’m wrapping up my relationship with the Angry Man, typing away at Kaldi beside David LeBarron. Two former performance artists who I’ve dubbed “the Loud Sisters” are comparing notes on sleeping socks and Christmas gifts they expect to receive from their boyfriends. Mingus plays in the background. My coffee cup is full. All is well in the world. The little pink razor phone vibrates and I look down at the number. The (805) area code throws me. Who do I know in Santa Barbara? I debate answering it.

And then it dawns on me. It’s him. Almost two years since we met; a cool month after my first break-up with the Angry Man and the start of my first year out of the full time world. Weighing my options, I could let it go to voice mail and then delete the message. But more likely, I would let it go to voice mail and then listen to the message, save it, listen again and agonize whether or not to call him back.

I read somewhere that there are no mistakes, and it’s a good sentiment to keep in mind when I question my decisions.

I flip up the phone and answer in my professional voice. I hear him, almost a whisper, “Hey it’s me”. Which begs an intimacy that I struggle to keep in check. I take a long pause as if I’m trying to place the voice to name and pretend to stumble into a salutation that went sort of like: “Oh, wow. Hi”. I’m thinking, “I look great in these jeans”, meaning: “My life is awesome without you”.

I listen to him on the other end, somewhere between gigs with the Pop Star he’s teching for, asking about my writing, where I was, what the garden looked like, whether I was happy. And the truth is, things couldn't be better. What he doesn’t tell me, and truly, there’s no need because I know but it would be nice in a sort of adult kind of way, is that he’s married to his ex-fiancée, a 27 year old I imagine to be slim, blond and pregnant.

He strategically lets in little possessive pronouns like “We have a farm”. “We have three horses”. But then quickly adds, “…I haven’t been home in six months”. I don’t pursue it. Didn’t ask because I honestly, I really wanted to go there, but I’m trying something new: taking contrary action. I keep it light, signing off in a record five minutes, checking the minute counter on my phone just to be sure.

I saunter back into the coffee shop and plop down in David’s lap. “Guess who that was?” I coyly ask and he answers in one beat followed by “unhappy in his marriage so he’s checking in on you?” We giggle together like little girls. There is nothing quite as satisfying as Schadenfreude. Not the most spiritual approach, but hey, I am human.

And although I thought this exchange would be a minor barb, it turned out to be a prick, a hostile splinter I try to remove before infection sets in. The disclaimer on Schadenfreude is that it doesn’t last long. It takes about four weeks for the invader to work its way out. I wonder why, after all of this time, this man has the same effect on me.

My mind churns the milk and out comes butter, a smooth concoction I’ve created in which the C/R/M plays leading man in a most glamorous life, ski-bunny sexpot wife in tow, strumming his Alvarez guitar in front of a stone fireplace with the Sisters Mountains as fantastic back plate. Am I missing anything or does anyone want to add some sparkle to this fantasy?

I can rationalize that he’s crazy, can’t do a crossword, doesn’t like bacon, the Boss or Bob Dylan. And what about the whopper, a blinking neon sign beaming in my brain: “He’s Married! He's Married! He's Married!”

A few weeks ago, the NYT printed an article in the Style section by a woman who couldn’t shake a man out of her life, so she became a stalker. It was interesting, and I was thankful I never resorted to that. In fact, after the devastating news that he was reunited with his one true love, I could barely leave my bed. That and the fact that he lived almost 1000 miles away. Stalking was definitely not going to be a problem, but he wasn't one to be easily shed off.

Since the article offered no insights to the whys of attraction, I pored through the journals I kept over that year, and it’s a good thing that I’ve hung onto them. They remind me that I was supremely doubtful of this soft-spoken guitar playing monster truck driving sexy in his Levis boy/man. But as I read on, “He reached into the space between my rib cage and grabbed hold of my spine, shaking me to the core”.

For five weeks, I was his number one priority until a Thursday, when something switched in his head; something I imagine went like this: “Wellllll, she has called me three times, (referring to the ex), maybe I’ll give her a second chance. And on the way down to Long Beach, I can break up with Kat. That is a great idea.”

He seemed to have forgotten that just the day before we had purchased tickets for an upcoming trip together. And the Calvin & Hobbes books he had sent me along with the lilac candles and the Christmas card that said, “The greatest gift I got this year was the peace of heart you gave me”. Or the millions of text messages and emails that heralded sentiments like "When I'm with you, it feels like home".

I can imagine him, bombing down the 5 Freeway, spending the 12-hour drive repeatedly rehearsing what he was going to say. It seemed true enough because when I opened the door, he basically marched in the house, sat down on the sofa told me that she had called three times, and on the third he picked up the phone.

Then he asked me if I wanted him to leave.

If I wasn't so shocked, (and had a little gumption), I would have said "Yes" and slammed the door on his ass as he walked out, but instead, I was the one who left the house.

Not to worry - I’ve managed to separate the severed arm that hung onto my spinal cord and I’ve come to realized that some people are so manipulative and sick that they don’t fathom their behavior to be a whirlwind of destruction, hoping that the wreckage they’ve left behind will be cleaned up by someone else.

A friend of mine says these types of people have the ability to shine a klieg light of illumination on you and when you’re left in the dark, it’s really dark. And cold. It’s hard not to be attracted to that megawatt attention. It fulfills the hope that someone will saturate the corners that you can’t reach within yourself.

As I digest all of this, I click a link to an article a friend has sent me from Health Day Magazine entitled “Love is the Drug”. It seems that I have a predisposition. Now, it could be an unhealthy penchant for drama or it is no more than a bad chemical reaction. “Nothing a bit of methadone can’t cure,” he quips.

Well, thank God. At least I can self-medicate without whipping up a world of chaos sure to envelop myself, the C/R/M and the chick he’s married to. But perhaps, deep down, it is the drama that draws me in. Knowing that I have the power to part the curtains and share the stage with someone I imagine to have a much better life than me.

I suppose maturity is realizing that you are the starring role, sans the minor characters, and it is either going to be Oscar worthy or nominated for a Raspberry.

On the other hand, I leave you with Lynda Barry’s definition:

“Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke.”

Shameless Crushes...

find life experiences and swallow them whole.
travel.
meet many people.
go down some dead ends and explore dark alleys.
try everything.
exhaust yourself in the glorious pursuit of life.
-lawrence k. fish

Yoga For Peace

read much and often

Cleopatra: A Life
Travels with Charley: In Search of America
Never Let Me Go
The Angel's game
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
Bel-Ami
Dreaming in French: A Novel
The Post-Birthday World
A Passage to India
The Time Traveler's wife
To Kill a Mockingbird
The Catcher in the Rye
One Hundred Years of Solitude
The Kite Runner
Eat, Pray, Love
Slaughterhouse-Five
Les Misérables
The Lovely Bones
1984
Memoirs of a Geisha


read much and often»