I spent last weekend helping my recent ex-girlfriend T.A.B. move. My report card for the endeavor: “A.” The only detraction keeping it from an A-plus was for the email I sent Friday evening saying something that could’ve easily remained unspoken…that my help came with no strings attached and absolutely no expectations.
Otherwise, I was on my best behavior, no weirdness or awkward moments. No talking about “us,” no persuasion, no looks, no flirting, no touching*, no nothing. (*I accepted several hugs, pretending not to notice the tantalizing breast contact.) I helped, I stayed disengaged, I went with the flow, and I kept my big mouth shut. I was the good-natured, hard-working, soft-spoken stoic man who I believe is the best possible version of me. I am proud of myself even if nobody else noticed or cared.
I sacrificed my weekend rides, my Snap Fitness workouts, a billiards meetup, my writers group, a board-games & potluck meetup, a biking meetup, and an opportunity to see a musician friend perform, not to mention compromising my communications with LDP and Deezy, but I’m glad I did it and would do it again. It was challenging but cathartic. I grew, I processed, and I felt some closure.
On Saturday, T.A.B. was exhausted from being up all night packing, and stressed out by so many details like meeting the Dish Network guy at the new place, and taking one of her foreign-exchange students to his first high school soccer game. I just quietly worked with the 2 guys she hired to load and unload the big furniture. I also loaded and unloaded smaller furniture and boxes of stuff with assistance from the older kids, while also keeping my eye on the four-year-old. And I drove the U-Haul truck back and forth.
One thing that got to me a little early in the moving process was when I was carrying some dresser drawers from T.A.B.’s bedroom, I noted a rather large selection of condoms of different brands than we had used. Having them clearly visible like that wasn’t very discreet, (especially with the children helping out,) or maybe I was meant to see this…impossible to know with her whole leaving-things-unspoken M.O. While it is possible these condoms are from before my time, I think is is far more likely she has moved on. Just kind of curious what she did with “our” unused condoms. Used them up already? When she broke up with me, I obviously didn’t ask for them back, nor did she volunteer to return them, in line with her premise that it was merely “taking a break.” But T.A.B. is a very passionate woman with a strong sex drive, and really doesn’t seem the type to take a break from passion. My impression was that she was taking a break from me. A permanent one. For reasons she didn’t care to share. I think the whole taking-a-break ploy is just her own technique of ending relationships and moving on with a minimum of fuss or drama. I generally would prefer openness, cold hard truths, and tangible closure, but I have to admit she knows what she’s doing; her unspoken and undefined break-up with me was the most painless I’ve ever gone through. Anyhow, this condom observation was a minor confirmation for me where things stood with us, and actually helped me keep my game-face on and increase my resolve not to make a fool of myself.
When the major work was done, the workers paid, and the truck returned, I assumed my work was done as well, and I would be scooting so she could get some sleep, but she surprised me by having me stay late to re-assemble furniture, install appliances, and cook dinner for the family. This included trips together to Menards for a new dryer cord and to Cub for a few cooking supplies. The Cub excursion was a flashback to our romantic forays when we were dating and picking out fun stuff to cook together for candle-lit dinners and breakfasts-in-bed. This time, I was in detachment mode, leaving the shopping to her, while I wandered around the store with the 4-year-old looking at Beanie Babies and coloring books. Perhaps T.A.B. felt nostalgic as well, soliciting my input on a few things, like the bread for making garlic toast. I merely shrugged and commented that she knew best what the kids liked, but in the end she selected the expensive New French Bakery cibatta bread she remembered I like. Yeah, the garlic toast was exquisite, and everybody applauded and appreciated my spaghetti and meatballs dinner, but frankly it wasn’t up to my usual standards, ’cause I couldn’t find the right cookware or spices and had to improvise. It didn’t help either that T.A.B. slapped a lid on my sauce to prevent more stovetop spatter…the secret to my spaghetti sauce is making a mess and letting it thicken a little. Plus I was chagrined to learn I couldn’t use any diced tomatoes due to a picky eater. There is no way my meal measured up, because T.A.B.’s ex-husband was a master chef, and she is a very talented cook in her own right, but I don’t care…I had already failed my audition for this family. LOL.
Seriously, though, my fondness for her family was something I failed to take into account when I was bracing myself for this weekend. Being a shallow man, I was so fixated on lost romance, I failed to see the big picture, and was caught off-guard by a another kind of love, my affection for her children. T.A.B. broke up with me, but the kids didn’t; they had no say in the matter. It is widely acknowledged I am the only T.A.B. beau that the 13-yr-old has ever liked or approved of. She has terrorized all other suitors, and even scared a few off. The two foreign exchange students quickly warmed to me, as well. The precocious 4-yr-old is crazy about me, and insisted in riding in the truck with me on every trip. When I helped tuck her in Saturday night, she asked if I would be there when she woke up. Sigh. I made it through the weekend by hardening my heart a little and acknowledging I would probably never see any of them again. I made the Showtime Network’s sociopathic Dexter my role model; detached, disengaged, disconnected. Unfazed and unaffected by human emotion. The only problem is I’m no Dexter, and I’m crying as I write this.
Late Saturday night, after washing the dishes, taking out the trash, and cleaning up in the kitchen, I was carrying my shoes as I slipped past T.A.B. dozing on the couch, and I was halfway out the side-door back towards my own dysfunctional life when she stirred back awake and came to the door. Another nice hug, and the millionth “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” She has a ton of friends, but I’m the only one that came through for her. I had expected to be a small cog among a gang of helpers, but I was it. An army of one.
And she mentioned Sunday. (?) Catching me off-guard. Even though all the furniture and necessities were moved, there is still a bunch of non-essential stuff left at the old house that doesn’t have to be moved for another month. She gave me the impression she would be moving that stuff a carload at a time over the coming weeks. I had originally volunteered my truck and utility trailer for the primary move, but this was rendered unneccessary by the renting of the U-Haul truck. She had asked about me using about the truck and trailer Sunday evening to help her pick up a dinette set she was purchasing off Craigslist, but on Saturday she informed me finances forced her to bail on the dinette set, so I just assumed there would be no Sunday activity. Apparently, I assumed wrong, and she was ambitious to keep moving stuff over the weekend.
And she handed me a stack of linen she had mentioned earlier. She bought it for the exchange-student’s beds, washed it, discovered it was the wrong size, couldn’t return it, but knew it fit my bed. I took a whiff; clean and fresh smelling. Here’s the thing…same color and fabric as the linen on her bed. And even though the scent was only fabric softener, it’s also the same scent I associate with her bed. Do women go through special secret training on how to torment men? I must decide if I am going to rewash this linen, or put it on my bed as-is some night I may want to reminisce, or wallow, as the case may be.
I had spent some money on various souvenirs she asked me to collect during my travels for the exchange students. However she didn’t even glance at the stuff I collected, (I just left it on top of the fridge,) nor offer to reimburse me, so I guess the value of the bed linen offsets that. But it’s not like I’m keeping score, or anything.
Home alone late Saturday night, facing a bout of insomnia despite my exhaustion, I reflected on my day (and started on this post.) If I wasn’t on the wagon, it is one of those times I’d pound a few stiff drinks, blur everything out and numb myself to sleep. Yeah, I miss my vanilla-flavored vodka. But why anesthesize myself when I can marvel at my surprising mettle, soberly examine my flaws, and continue to confront my insecurities.
So, Sunday after some communication snafus, (it’s a break-up and not a taking-a-break if they remove your phone number from their contact list!) I show up at the old house expecting to find her packing and organizing stuff, and nobody is there. So, I take advantage of a neighbor’s unsecured Wi-Fi, and check her most recent email…says running over to the old house for a couple of things, but spending the day at the new house. “..feel free to come by if you’d like.” I must have just missed her. But I am confused as hell about what the plan is supposed to be. So I drop the trailer at the old house and go over to the new house. And when I get there, she confirms she has no interest after all in going back to the old house and moving more stuff. And I’m wondering to myself, “then why the heck did you have me come over? You broke up with me, but do you now want me to hang out? For old time’s sake?” It’s these kinds of mixed messages that drive me crazy and get me all emotionally twisted up. So, I’m kind of standing around trying to figure out what’s going on and what I’m supposed to do, when she announces a shopping trip to Target and invites me along. But with all the kids, it’s too many people for her car, and I have to drive separately. Of course, the 4-year-old, bless her little heart, once again insists on riding with me.
At Target, I wandered off on my own for a bit, picking out some milk, eggs, and butter I needed for my own larder. But mostly, I was still trying to figure out what I was supposed to do. I chalked up her mixed messages to simple exhaustion and changing her mind about her plans. I conclude I was “accidently” invited over, was somewhere I didn’t belong, and should figure out a way to make a graceful exit. But everytime I started to rehearse how to do that, my eyes began to well up, and I was embarrassed to realize I wouldn’t be able to pull off that move. Yeah, it’s a well-known fact I have a real problem with good-byes. Separation anxiety or something. Good thing I had my sunglasses on, wandering around Target, in minor emotional distress. It really sucks being me. It really sucks not being a real man. Eventually a revelation came to me – I didn’t want to leave!!! I didn’t have to leave! I didn’t have to do the right thing or make some grand gesture. Even if I wasn’t where I belonged, I was actually invited, and I could just go ahead and hang out, go with the flow, see what happens, and worry about the goodbyes later. A weight was lifted off my shoulders, and a smile was back on my face just in time for the family search party that tracked down wayward Bobby.
Back at her house, I was just hanging out with the 4-year-old, watching a little Nascar on TV, while the exchange students were studiously engaged in their homework, and T.A.B. and the 13-year-old were redecorating the upstairs bathroom. I laughed and admired the result, a complete “Hello Kitty” theme replete with pink lighting.
T.A.B. surprised me by saying she wanted to sneak out without the kids and go back to the old house for more stuff. Our first alone time together of the weekend. Did she have anything else in mind? Doing it on bare hardwood floors? Bent over the old over-sized beanbag chair left in the basement? Typical Bobby would’ve made some kind of pass to find out, but the cool-as-a-cucumber Bobby of this weekend, shooting for that “A” on his report card, didn’t even blink. He just pretended he wasn’t alone in an empty house with his young and pretty former lover. Instead, he visualized his 2000-mile-away hot little California Dream Girl in her skimpy powder blue mini-dress, hard nipples bumping the soft fabric, calling out to be caressed…this fantasy distraction helped keep Bobby pretty cool and remote. (Even if third-person-speak isn’t so cool!) Gave T.A.B. a page from her own playbook, nothing spoken; let her guess what I’m thinking, let her make the first move. She didn’t blink either, nobody made a move and nothing happened. Did she even notice my decorum? Did I let her down? Did I miss an opportunity? Probably not on all counts. But even if by some fluke I did blow it, I earned my stupid “A!”
Without dialog, all my thinking about T.A.B. and “us” is pure speculation. Just my imagination at work, and who knows how close to reality that may be. In review, my imagination now sees where there was once a cozy little fire is now an abandoned campsite, embers died out, ashes disbursed by wind and rain, and weeds beginning to sprout.
Writing this post has allowed me to make a couple of observations I may have otherwise missed, and helped me understand why this relationship may have been doomed to fail from the start…she’s attracted to bad boys, and I’m simply too nice. Seriously, I mean, look at it…
- Of all the men in her life, why am I the only helper to show up? Because all the rest are self-centered jerks. Bad boys.
- Of all the men in she has dated, why am I the only one the children like? Because all the rest are jerks. Bad boys.
- Even her ex-husband turned out to be a jerk, and the kids can hardly stand to see him on his custody days. Another bad boy.
I was really “right” for T.A.B., we were compatible, and we really clicked, but as I learned in a college marketing class, perception is reality. If T.A.B. didn’t feel I’m right for her, then facts don’t matter, I can’t be right for her. L.D.P. has suggested I read “Smart Women, Foolish Choices” not only to better understand why some women push away us nice guys in favor of “bad boys,” but also to understand my importance as a father to my own daughters, the premise being that something missing from father-daughter relationships is what somehow causes women to make poor choices later in life. Whatever the case, I don’t think T.A.B. will ever look back in regret and think of me as the nice one she let get away. And this post is about as much looking back at her as I’m ever going to do, either. I’m moving on.
But I digress…We loaded up the truck and the trailer, with one decent load salvaging some productivity out of what was otherwise a do-nothing day. I was happy to work hard, be useful, and get something done.
After unloading, T.A.B. provided dinner in the form of delivered sandwiches from Milio’s. We watched the end of a movie on TV, and after T.A.B. dozed off, I whispered a quick goodbye to the kids, grabbed my shoes, and was once again slipping out the door, when just as she had the night before, T.A.B. stirs awake, and surprises me with new plans. The dinette set is being held for her until she gets paid, and she asks if I would help her pick it up on Weds evening.
So, there’s one last tiny encounter to weather, and then it will be goodbye forever. Or will it? This is serial drivel, the reader will have check back in again on the life of Bobby Toxic to find out what ever may happen next.
October 22, 2009
Amelia
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