Why I No Longer Actively Pursue Relationships
I met the future Ex a little over a year ago. A general education require threw us together; otherwise, we probably never would have met. Okay, maybe we would have, but it’s somewhat unlikely. She’s a music major; I’m a film major. We don’t really mix well, or at all, even though I used to be a music major.
Like most women, I was immediately attracted to her because she was intelligent, articulate, and witty. Also, she was hot. Really, really hot. Absolutely stunning. Beautiful to the degree that one could successfully argue that I was extremely lucky to be dating someone so attractive, it will never happen again, and I was foolish to give her up so easily.
I’d be the one making that argument, by the way.
Being antisocial, or “shy” as Lucy insists, I spent the first several weeks of class being my usual, non-participatory self, casually making pathetic moon eyes at The Ex. Like most women, she didn’t seem to notice or acknowledge my existence. As usual, I didn’t take any great effort in making sure she was aware of me. I forced myself into the mindset that relationships were a waste of time; too much effort expended for something that doesn’t mean much in the end. That’s antisocial, right? Not shy?
One day, I got to class early, and I was waiting for the elevator when The Ex, a guitar strapped to her back, showed up. We exchanged mild pleasantries, but that was it. It was nice to know that she actually recognized me from the class. She got off on a lower floor for some reason.
We didn’t say another word to each other that day, but when I sat and read on one of the benches on the 10th floor, I put something together in my head. I had noticed that, every Tuesday (the class was Tuesdays and Thursdays), she showed up extremely early with a guitar. On Thursday, she was generally late and guitar-less. I put two and seven together and realized that she was most likely taking guitar lessons, or at least doing something with the guitar before class, but the important thing was that she was there early.
I thought, if I started showing up early on a regular basis every Tuesday, I’d end up running into her, and I could strike up a conversation with her about the guitar. I’ve played since seventh grade, and I know a whole assload about a lot of music genres, so I figured I could at least fake my way into creating a meaningful dialogue with her.
So, the following Tuesday, I arrived extremely early, sat on a bench near our classroom, and read while I waited for her. She showed up, smiled at me as she walked briskly past me to the vending machines, and normally that would have been the end of said chance encounter. However, I was feeling extremely audacious (that’s a synonym for “stupid,” right?), so I decided to very subtly approach and engage her in conversation.
She had gotten a 7-Up from the vending machine and drank it as she stared mindlessly at a bulletin board listing various apartments for rent, movies to screen, and/or bands to join.
I happened to randomly see an advertisement for a band I liked, who were apparently performing locally in a few weeks.
“Oh, wow,” I said, trying — and failing — to sound very cool. “I should go catch that show.”
“Yeah,” she said apathetically. Strike one.
“So,” I tried again, “you play guitar.”
“Yeah,” she said, her tone brightening slightly, but not much. Ball one.
“Yeah, I play, too,” I said.
“Actually, I just started taking lessons. I’m not very good.” Strike two.
“I’ve been playing since sixth grade,” I explained, trying not to sound braggardly but failing. Foul-tip. One ball, two strikes.
“You must be good, then,” The Ex said, arching one eyebrow.
“I guess,” I said smoothly, redeeming myself for the unnecessary bragging earlier.
“Cool,” she said, returning to her former apathy. If I didn’t think I was good after playing for eight years, her tone indicated, I was not worth her time. This is the craft of the music-business major. She was scoping my talent, and when I denied having much, she immediately became disinterested.
I decided to go out on a limb. I really had nothing else to lose. My awkward, failed attempt at flirting was getting me nowhere, and she doesn’t like lovable losers like me. She likes men of action, I decided, so she’d respect me for asking even if she turns me down.
“Wanna have dinner with me tonight?” I spat out abruptly. Oh, Jesus, tonight? Why did I specify a time frame? She’s never gonna —
“Why?” she asked, genuinely baffled. Possibly a foul, possibly a home-run. The refs are arguing it out with the first-base coach and the left-fielder. This could be a game-losing play.
“Uh…” I explained. “I have a class after this. In the evening. And I usually, you know, go to dinner in between. Since I’m down here. And usually I’m alone, but I like you, so I thought maybe, I dunno, if you want, you could just eat with me. To keep me company or whatever.”
Wow. That was awful.
“Sure,” she said, half-grinning. I’d get used to that amused look of hers. I’m apparently pretty amusing, even when I’m serious, and especially when I’m yelling. I’ve inherited from my dad a gene that causes me to become completely incoherent and illogical when I get angry, and I’ve inherited from this area a 1930s-gangster-like vocal affectation whenever I get mad. No human can take me seriously when I’m angry, which just makes me madder.
But I digress…
Long story short, we had dinner, we sort of hit it off, and she agreed to have dinner with me again the following week. It became a semi-regular routine, and although it was more friendly in nature than “dating,” it was what the French call “the beginning.”
Things progressed rapidly, though. The class was winding down, and I thought — as is the case with most Columbia commuters at the end of the semester — that we’d stop seeing each other by the end of the semester. Not because we don’t like each other enough to maintain a friendship. It’s just a gradual thing. People get busy, and when you don’t even share a class in common, the gradual grinds to a halt.
Being antisocial, this is the life for me! However, I didn’t want to lose The Ex at the semester’s end, so I did something very brash. After what would have probably been our final dinner together, I said, “I’m going to ditch my class and walk you home.”
“You shouldn’t do that,” The Ex responded.
“I know,” I said.
“You realize I live 30 blocks away, don’t you?” she asked. “I usually take a cab.”
“I could use the exercise,” I said.
“You sure could,” she said. Zing. “I’m taking a cab, though. I’ll meet you there.”
How romantic.
“Come on,” I pleaded, “walk with me. We can talk more, assuming I don’t collapse.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
Huh. That was easy.
So, we walked to her apartment, and she was not exaggerating about the 30 blocks (actually, she was underestimating) and continued our conversation about all that pop-culture bullshit we both enjoyed so much. I feigned love for bands I only casually like, and she did the same, and we talked about movies. She was much less interested in the movies, but pretended to be excited because she knew that was my thing.
We stood on the front stoop of her apartment, which was actually just an old house that had been transmogrified into two one-bedroom apartments.
“Well,” I said, “I’m probably going to go to class now. I guess.”
“You really didn’t have to walk me home, you know,” she said.
“Yeah, well, we were having a good conversation,” I said. We weren’t, really. It was a trivial conversation in the restaurant, and it was still trivial while we walked home.
“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “Well, I’ll see you—”
That’s when the brashness took over, and I slid my arms around her waist and rammed my tongue down her throat. She resisted for a second, but apparently my tongue has wily powers, because she softened almost immediately and her tongue took evasive action.
I’ve spent several years training in classical voice, so I have pretty good breath control. I thought it would impress her if I could shove my tongue down her throat and maintain my ability to examine each of her fillings without being the first person to come up for air. I’m not sure if it impressed her or not, but she was the one who leaned back and ended our kiss.
“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”
Not really the ecstatic response I was expecting, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as my last kiss, which went approximately like this:
Me: (kissy-face)
Her: What the hell are you doing?
Me: I thought you wanted me to.
Her: I have a boyfriend!
Me: Be that as it may—
Her: (smacks me on face)
“Can I call you tomorrow?” I asked The Ex.
“Um,” she agreed.
“Nevermind,” I said, pulling out of the embrace so I could stare down at my shoes like an idiot. “I’m sorry. I should…I’ll just go now.”
“No, it’s not that,” she said. “I just…I wasn’t really expecting that.”
“I know. I should really get to class,” I said.
“Give me a call,” she said. “It’s cool.”
“Oh,” I said, internally breathing the heaviest sigh of relief in the history of relief-sighs. “Yeah, okay.”
She smiled awkwardly.
“I guess I’m going to go now,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said, and I perked up at that.
“Yeah,” I said.
I left at that point, hopped on the train (The Ex doesn’t take public transportation — it frightens her), and made it for the last hour of my shitty class.
I did call her the following day. We spent the night together, and although nothing particularly juicy happened, we did make out a lot.
After that point, it seemed that we were somewhat unofficially dating. We started spending the vast majority of our time together, and she attempted to ingratiate me upon her circle of idiot friends. It was a nice, if utterly failed, gesture.
Basically, for the next few months, I followed her around like a lost puppy. I’m not really a take-charge guy, and she actually thought of interesting things to do. Were it left up to me, we would have spent every night hanging around her apartment, watching Buffy reruns. I didn’t mind letting her completely dominate the relationship.
Believe it or not, I was her trophy guy. She’d introduce me at certain functions as if I were some sort of god of humanity, and she was very lucky to be with me. This was a somewhat confusing confidence booster. Apparently, I clean up well enough to vaguely resemble a human male, and I suppose I’m smart and witty when I’m supposed to talk. That’s the way she felt, anyway.
Throughout the course of the relationship, I didn’t really feel used, necessarily. It’s hard to explain my feelings. I guess I felt like I was unnecessary. She just sort of had me around so she could say, “Look at my boyfriend.” She’d store me in the closet and trot me out when I required an introduction, not unlike Viki from Small Wonder.
Not that I minded, really. It made many social functions mildly uncomfortable, despite her attempts to put me at ease. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this reading my blog, but I’m sort of neurotic and paranoid. It’s a chore putting me at ease, and if The Ex has one fault that probably ensured the demise of the relationship before it even started, she wasn’t really up to that task.
I’m not saying, really, that she had to, or that she’s a failure as a person or a girlfriend because she couldn’t. I’m just saying that, after awhile, it would have been hard to deal with going out all the time and being put into awkward social positions. And, for me, any social position that involves talking to humans, especially when I don’t know them, is pretty awkward.
So, let’s flash-forward to the fall of aught-two. We’d spent a nice summer together, we went back to school, and that’s when I really started staying over at her apartment. She lived in Wicker Park, and I live in the suburbs, so it just made life easier for me. And for her, too, I guess. Heh-heh-heh.
I had more clothes at her place than at my house, I had bought doubles of all my toiletries to keep at her apartment, and most of my DVDs, CDs, and other shit of that ilk were all over there. We shopped together, we ate together, and so on and so forth. It wasn’t long before she came up with this suggestion: “I think you should move in.”
“What?” I asked.
“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” The Ex said. “You practically live here as it is. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to not have to go home all the time when you need stuff? And you quit your job, so it’s not like you have to keep going back for that, which I figured was the only reason why you were even still living at home. And it’s not like I’d make you pay rent — it’d be like it is now, except more of your crap will be here and you wouldn’t have to go home.”
“Hrm,” I replied. “Let me think about it.”
Meanwhile, my brain had exploded. Sure, it would’ve been easier, and it was an innocent enough suggestion, but a word kept flashing in front of my eyes in bright neon: COMMITMENT. No matter how innocent it seems, no matter how convenient it is, moving in with a girlfriend is a fairly big commitment, and I wasn’t sure it was one I was prepared to make.
Sure, things were nice, and they would have been nicer if I had all my shit at her apartment, instead of spread out between two residences. And it would have been nicer to have to commute for 20 minutes instead of 100. And it would have been nicer to be, as my dad so eloquently puts it, shacking up with someone more vital than a loose fist.
For all the niceness, though, things were going a little bit fast. They had been from day one, which maybe was my fault. I made a bold move, I took us to that first step, and while all the subsequent steps had been spearheaded by The Ex, they were immediately approved by me. Too fast for me or not, I’m pretty hard up, so I am not going to turn a woman down. Hear that, ladies?
I expressed most of my fears, somewhat hostilely, to the group of acquaintances I was currently associating with. I needed to vent, and they were there. So, I vented, and they listened. And one of them told The Ex.
I had no idea she had been told anything, but apparently one of those goons took it upon himself to let The Ex know how I feel, so maybe she’d back off a little.
Like every other Tuesday, I got out of my Fiction Writing class at 5:20, and I was expecting The Ex to be waiting for me with open arms so we could watch the second Buffy episode and eat dinner.
I got up to her apartment, opened the door, and she stood in the kitchen (the front door is right off the kitchen), eyes fixed on the door. Scowling.
This was not good.
“Hi,” I said, timidly entering the apartment. I shut the door behind me and tossed my backpack on the floor. “What’s wrong? You look sort of up—”
I hadn’t noticed until right then that her arms were behind her back. This was an unusual stance for her. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her with arms behind the back.
I figured out why soon enough. She raised her right arm. In it was a porcelain dinner plate, which she immediately hurled in the general vicinity of my head. I have slow reflexes, so I didn’t duck or anything until long afterward. Fortunately, her aim is about as good as my reflexes, so she overshot it and the plate exploded over my head. I grabbed my neck to prevent any shards of dinnerware from lodging in one of my many important blood vessels.
I assessed the situation succinctly: “What the fuck?” I noticed she had her arm behind her back again, which led me to believe she also had more dinner plates.
“You don’t want to move in with me?” she asked levelly. This was eerie. The levelness in her voice did not match the rage in her eyes. It was like being in the eye of a storm.
“I didn’t say that,” I said. “I just need to think for—”
“Chris says differently,” she said.
“Chris is an idiot! You’ll listen to him before you listen to me?”
“In this case, yes,” she said. “You seemed hesitant from the start.”
“Of course I’m hesitant,” I said. “This isn’t exactly like buying a new lamp.” This was sort of a dig, since the previous weekend I had introduced her to the magic of Ikea, and she spent approximately three decades trying to choose the lamp that would best reflect her personality. She ended up getting one that vaguely resembled a frog. I never figured out why.
“Oh, fuck you!” she said.
“I think I should leave now,” I decided.
All The Ex said was, “Yes.”
The truth was, while plate-at-head-throwing was a bit extreme, our relationship had been overwhelming tumultuous, probably because we’re both crazy. It seems like it was pretty normal, overall. We had fights about normal, stupid shit. They just happened to be insane, over-the-top shouting matches about normal, stupid shit that doesn’t really mean anything. But I wouldn’t complain about it because, for one thing, I like fighting, and for another, the good times (and there were many more good times than bad) were so much better than the shitty times and the fights and so on. Its goodness nullified anything negative about the relationship.
If I could relive the entire relationship again, including the evening of painful plate-wielding, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Of course, as Austin Powers says, that train has sailed.
After that night, she calmed down a bit. We met, had dinner, and she officially dumped me. I officially tried to convince her to still see me, but she said something that still stings: “I can’t deal with you.” I guess it doesn’t really seem that cold, there in print, but man, in the context and in the tone in which she said it, it was just harsh.
We tried to reconcile again a little later, and went out once, but in the end she simply decided to shout at me for several minutes before I hung up on her.
She never called back.
Posted by Stan on August 28, 2003 10:29 PM | Permalink | Print-Friendly | Fumbling Attempts at Relationships | Digg It
Post a Comment
Powered by Ajax Comments