Act II, In Which We Discover the Possibility of the Game Being Over Before It Has Been Played

I had about a second’s worth of flirtation this week.

Out of the blue, I had a message from a high school classmate asking if I were single. Jude is someone that I was hardly close to when we were teenagers; the extent of our acquaintance could be boiled down to a disagreement over the title of a certain Jethro Tull song and some French kissing during a slow dance at a winter formal. Since we graduated, I’ve had the only the slightest contact with him, the full extent of which has taken place since last November, so I was a bit perplexed by his cryptic email. When I questioned Jude’s reason for asking about my status, he said that he thought I was smart enough to fathom that he wanted to take me out.

I feel so conflicted about this situation. I am experiencing the strangest mixture of giddiness and fear; giddiness thanks to the compliment, fear because there are so many unknowns.

First, I know that this man is going through a divorce. So, is his asking me out a play to get some nookie? Or to test the waters and see if he’s still attractive? Would it be a ploy to make his soon-to-be ex-wife jealous?

Second, while his company is located on the east coast, he’s on assignment in California for the next five months, with occasional trips back on the weekends. Wouldn’t it be easier for him to find someone who’s local to take out?

I also wonder if I’m the only one he’s asked out? Or was he casting out a lot of nets to see what nibbled? And, like a paranoid, out of place teenager, there’s a little Piper Laurie voice in the back of my head that wonders if this is some kind of a game so he can have a laugh at my expense?

Well, I gave it some cursory thought, and what I determined is this: you can’t really get down to the bottom of things chatting online. So I sent an open ended message (“let me know if you’re coming to the Boston area for sure”), in the hopes that it would prompt a phone call in which I planned to accomplish two things: 1) try to figure out what his deal is and 2) to lay some ground rules, i.e. let’s get together as two old friends to catch up on the last 20 years and maybe lay the foundation for a better friendship than we had when we were kids.

But my message was sent on Wednesday and I haven’t heard another peep from him since then.

Now try to guess what I’m imagining. Things like he contacted the wrong girl. Or he got cold feet. Or he was on a three day bender during which time he sent the original series of emails establishing my singlehood and his desire for a date, and he sobered up enough on Thursday to rethink it. Or his writing that he wanted to ask me out was a joke that I misinterpreted due to the faceless nature of internet communication. Or someone hacked his account.

God, I feel like such a dweeb. Mainly because I let an innocent little comment to get to me. And it got to me, not just in that Jude’s comment fucked with my head, made me question everything about it, but in that I also let myself be flattered by it to the extent of daydreaming what would it have been like to meet up with him. I mean, I am, first and foremost, a woman, and a single one at that. Granted, most of my imaginings were heavy on the awkwardness of making small talk with someone I haven’t known for two decades, but still – I wasted time and brain power on envisioning it!

Please make note of the fact that the one question I didn’t ask myself was “why me?” I have a perfectly good idea why that is.

I have always been and will always be a good girlfriend. And when you read “girlfriend,” you should liken it to “guy friend,” only with better listening abilities. I think the basis for my reputation as a girlfriend is due to the fact that the majority of my interests would not exactly be classified as feminine. You’ve got an extra ticket for the Bruins game? Call me. You want to drink beer and smoke cigars at 10 am? Call me, please! There’s a 48-hour James Bond marathon on? I’m your gal. And I think men innately pick up on that – certainly it’s something that Jerry would have realized about me way back when. I have always had closer and more numerous male friends than female friends. I am someone guys can be comfortable around, someone guys can relate to on a particular level. I have discovered frequently in my life that I will be allowed into a “boys’ club” and as long as no one points out that I’m female (oh, let’s say by making a date with me for the prom or by accidentally brushing against my breast in mid-gesture), my presence is harmless and things stay pretty hunky-dory. In my time, I have been the drinking buddy, the collaborator, the mentor, the kindred spirit, and just one of the crew.

And maybe, if Jude gets his act together, I will discover that I have new roles to play, such as the sounding board, or the shoulder to cry on, or the old friend.

Or maybe what’s done is done and I’ll just come out feeling like a rube.

Act I, In Which Questions Are Raised And Truths Are Revealed

I once had a boyfriend who claimed he knew when I was feeling sad because I only listened to Eric Burdon and War when I was sad.

Perhaps it is because “Nights in White Satin” from Black Man’s Burdon was playing on the hi-fi on my way to work this morning, or perhaps it is just the erratic fluctuation of hormones due to being off birth control for half a week, but I have been an emotional train wreck all day. And all because of Buck.

The last time I saw him, he mentioned that he was thinking of leaving his job, moving elsewhere, and going back to school. His plans sounded pretty nebulous until we chatted online this morning about going out for oysters at the Union Oyster House; “I figure I should try them while I’m still here.” And that’s when it became obvious that mentally Buck has checked out of New England.

The thought that he wouldn’t be here felt like a knot tightening up in my stomach and I had a moment of panic. It’s hard to imagine not having Buck accessible within a couple of hours.

But then I remembered that for all of the “onlys” that Buck is to me, he is also the only one who can make me feel absolutely worthless.

Like 15 years ago when he broke up with me out of the clear blue sky and I felt like I was just going through the motions of living for a year. Like two months ago when he texted me to break our plans for dinner and a movie and it made me think about how I don’t have anything or anyone else to fall back on. Like two weeks ago when he told me that he has had a girlfriend for five years that he never told me about, and this evasion made me wonder if it was because of some vibe *I’ve* been putting across. Like how with everything being on Facebook these days, the fact that our common friends grant him a more intimate relationship than they allow me feels like a slap in the face. 

Granted, some of our distance is likely because for the last two years, he’s been focusing on the secret girlfriend to the detriment of our friendship, as people in relationships are notorious for doing. It makes me wonder when (or if) we’ll go back to camaraderie we had before. I’m starting to mistrust that how fantastic I feel when things are completely in synch with Buck eclipses all this feeling bad. I don’t want a half-hearted friendship and I don’t want to be jealous that his life has taken a different direction than mine.

I know that after flaunting my wish that he’ll remain in my life into perpetuity, I must sound like a complete hypocrite, but I’m going to put my reflections into writing, anyway…

I wonder if Buck’s decision to move away isn’t really a good thing. Perhaps, even 15 years after our affair, I am still emotionally involved with him, craving his approval and acceptance. Maybe the fact that he can affect me so strongly indicates that I am co-dependent. Maybe it’s time to accept that, because he hurt me so profoundly when I was so absolutely trusting of him, on some level I will never be able to be friends with Buck. But maybe if I am in the position of breaking up with him, ending the friendship, I will be able to achieve some emotional closure.

Maybe the work of hormones gone haywire, maybe the mysterious work of Mr. Burdon, maybe just a hard reality taking shape. Yet I have to put my own happiness at the forefront. Right now, all I feel is melancholy.

The Missing Link

When I was three or four, my grandparents took me to the local fair. While there, we had our photograph taken in one of those old time photo booths, dressed like a prairie farming family. I had an ankle-length, long sleeved pink calico dress and a straw hat with a full brim. I remember loving the outfit so much that I refused to take it off. Finally, the photographer convinced me to doff it by promising that he would mail it to me. I was very excited to think that not only would I get the dress and hat, but that I would get it as a package in the mail and I talked about it all the way home. I don’t remember how long I waited for the package to come before I realized that the photographer had lied.



The much-adored prairie outfit



Sometimes I get this same feeling when I think about love – the feeling that I am waiting for something that will never come.

In the movie Bass Ackwards, the main character, Linas, a sad sack who has overstayed his welcome on the floor of his friends’ computer room and whose main squeeze is shacked up with another man, drives across country in a Volkswagen bus and discovers himself along the way. In a poignant scene before making his trip, Linas is working on a llama farm, trying to feed the animals. He tells one of the llamas that he will give it the food if the llama shows him love. Linas even begs the llama to show him that it loves him. The llama just walks away.

This sentiment is an old friend.

A couple of months ago, I made plans with Buck, only to have him cancel on me by text message just a couple of hours after finalizing our date. We hadn’t seen each other in two years and I was looking forward not only to catching up with him, but to having someplace to be, something to do, and someone to spend time with. When he canceled, I was devastated. I hadn’t felt outright rejected in a long time. And of course it was Buck that was the only one who could reduce my self esteem to nothing.

The next morning as I walked, I pondered the situation and I realized how utterly alone I often feel under the surface. I think I put on a good show for people; I keep myself busy with work or projects, and even if I don’t have plans, I find something unusual to do so that friends looking in from the outside will focus on the interesting stuff I get up to and they won’t see how isolated I actually feel most of the time. I put on this show because I don’t want to appear pathetic or desperate, and I don’t want to be anyone’s charity case.

Being an only child, I am accustomed to being alone. But being alone is different than being lonely. Every so often, I feel solitary and empty to my core. I have the sensation of loneliness being so painful that it uncontrollably bubbles out of me, turning me into the living embodiment of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.” In these times, what I really want to feel is that I have someone to love me, need me, and soothe me. Like Linas and the llamas, I always hope that my cat Athena will sense my need and offer some feline affection to fill the void, but she has never been very perceptive of my emotions.

What I long for is a sure thing, something – someone- constant in my life. I imagine that my married friends wake up feeling confident in their place in the world, assured that even if they don’t have plans with other people, they have each other to fall back on. What a lot less work it must be, to know that you intrinsically have someone else around without having to contrive things to do so you aren’t alone. 

My friends always say something to the effect of, “awww, Cat, there’s someone out there for you” or “I’m sure you’ll find the right guy soon enough.” But are they just saying it so I won’t wallow in my loneliness, or is it something they truly believe?

For my part, I liken the search for a partner to looking at a lovely country lane, twisting through the trees and rising up into the afternoon sun. Viewing it, I am flooded with images from Country Time Lemonade commercials. It seems as though when I reach the summit of the hill, I will descend directly into a world populated with tire swings and barefoot boys climbing apple trees and bicycle baskets filled with wildflowers. The possibility of being able to sink effortlessly into that world is both exciting and comforting at the same time. But when I actually reach the hilltop and I’m able to see the other side, I’m faced with a high noon parking lot that’s shared by a strip mall and an airport. The marketing is great, but the reality is more than disappointing.

And this is why I say I feel like I’m waiting for something that will never get here. The image in my head of what love should be always has a dream-like quality, like a picnic next to a Maxfield Parrish-hued lake. I’ve found that reality is too frequently an overcooked hamburger eaten in front of the television with the slight odor of dirty socks in the background. When that wistful anticipation of Mr. Right or Mr. Good Enough starts to materialize in my thoughts, I feel compelled to rationalize him away.

What I need to remember is that nothing good lasts as long as a Country Time commercial would suggest. Even on the best of days, there’s a lot of mediocrity. Our memories string together the good moments, the seconds of optimism, and those instants that are truly extraordinary. I figure love works the same way. Most of the time, being in love is probably quite mundane, but we romanticize the moments that are a little more than average so that we remember them as something phenomenal, an instant that lasted for what seemed like hours, something that transcended this mortal plane. I suppose this bliss is out there for everyone, as long as they find the right llama and offer it the right treat.

Feast or Famine

It seems an unwritten, but predictable rule of single life that the dance card is always completely full or utterly, mortifyingly empty. The last two weeks have been an interesting mix of the two.

• I forewent the Burke’s Fourth of July barbecue and pool party to hang out in Boston with Buck. Full.
• The next day when Nancy texted me an invitation to come over in the afternoon, I felt obligated to go. No sooner had I arrived than Tzi Tzi called to ask me to a Spinner’s game for the same night. Full.
• I made plans with Criostoir to walk the Freedom Trail over the weekend, but he canceled on me, so I spent half of a beautiful weekend locked up reading, the other half driving across the state of New Hampshire on a desperate antique hunt, and the entire weekend alone. Empty.
• To make it up to me, Criostoir took me for a motorcycle ride one evening and the following night I attended an impromptu welcome home party for Nancy, who had spent a week in Canada. Because I don’t usually have a lot going on during the week, this was so full that I didn’t have time to watch the movies that were due back to the library on these same days.
• El Jefe invited me to go to a winery in Maine for Tzi Tzi’s birthday, but I was scheduled to work. What a bummer to be full!
• Looking into this weekend, the Burkes have asked me over for swimming, Amelia and Mark want me to meet up with them for dinner and a movie, and my next door neighbor has threatened to track me down to catch up on the newest crime drama. And to top it all off, my mother is begging me to visit. This is feeling depressingly overfull.

What’s a girl to do?

I remember all too well the feeling of being stranded in Lowell without anything to do or anyone to do it with after my long-distance relationship deteriorated last year and The Dude no longer wanted my company on the weekends. And that is why I am not complaining now. Over the years, I have been fortunate to have friends who have taken good care of me during my single patches, who have sustained me body and soul, and who have included me in their lives. Thanks to them, I have often enjoyed myself so fully that I don’t miss being part of a couple.

I sometimes wonder if it’s a conspiracy. Did these disparate people get together and decide to distract me from my melancholy by keeping me unusually busy? I know that’s unlikely. What it really means is that I have a lot of people in my life that care for me, and I suppose that is also a testament to the type of person that I am. Even now, being fairly new to the community, I have a network of friends who are willing to adopt me for an evening or for a holiday or for a weekend - my own safety net crew. Despite feeling overwhelmed (and occasionally underwhelmed) by the requests for my time, how can I not feel gratitude for having those people in my life?

Bucking the Yoke

 “An old friend never can be found, and nature has provided that he cannot easily be lost.”

– Samuel Johnson

Let me tell you about Buck. I have known him since I was a sophomore in college, where we forged a deep friendship that everyone predicted would grow into something more. Despite denying the possibility, we became involved during the summer after my junior year. Buck is the only man for whom I have ever fallen head-over-heels, the only one with whom I allowed myself to be absolutely vulnerable, the only one I was completely unabashed about loving, and the only man to whom I have ever been able to see myself married. That is, up until he dumped me: swiftly, frigidly, without any prior notice. Buck is the only one who has ever broken my heart.

I was a wreck for a good year after the breakup, what even I would term a “psycho ex-girlfriend.” But through it all, Buck maintained that he wanted to stay friends because he had always remained friends with his other exes. I clearly remember the night that I decided I was just too tired of it all, too tired of the drama, too tired of what he had made me become, and too tired of hearing about all those immature things he was experiencing that I had already gone through. That night, as we talked on the phone, and he complained about the lack of direction in his life and how he was considering moving back across the country to live with his parents, I said, “Buck, go with God,” giving him permission to leave, actually wishing that he would. He did.

We didn’t speak for the next 5 years...

Until he tracked me down and insinuated himself into my life little by little. By this time, I was very guarded when it came to Buck. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know anything about him, or if I even wanted to know him. Yet he persisted. He slowly urged me away from the defensive until we eventually overcame the awkwardness and renewed our friendship. Regularly since then he has told me that I am one of his closest friends.

For a couple of years before I moved to Lowell, we talked on the phone every week. During the final summer in my home state, Buck hired me to do a special project for his employer, so we visited with each other weekly. Then, after I moved to Massachusetts, and he was only an hour away, we met up a few times for dinner or to explore Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. I’m not sure what happened, but until Monday, I haven’t seen Buck for the last two years.

But, finally, here we were, together again, just as comfortable as slipping on an old pair of jeans. Because of everything we’ve been through together, because of everything we’ve known about each other and meant to each other, it is reassuring to have someone who knows my quirks and who doesn’t pass judgment, and vice versa. For instance, when I showed up wearing a tropically-hued madras blazer. Or when Buck admitted to owning the complete Hall and Oates collection, including all of their solo albums.

It’s also heartening to have a friend that has similar interests. Buck is my only friend who has the same broad and eclectic interest in music that I do, the only one with an advanced degree like me, the only one with whom I can talk on an intellectual level for any extended amount of time and never notice the ticking of the clock, the only other person I know who doesn’t like chicken. He is the only friend who will willingly and eagerly accompany me for Indian food, the one who instinctively understands “The Record” exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art, and the only one who has a bigger predetermined monthly spending allowance for music than I do. And while I am wary of marriage for fear of ending up like my parents, Buck is wary because he doesn’t believe any relationship will equal the precedent set by his own parents.

You may wonder why Buck and I don’t rekindle our collegiate romance, because even to me, he seems like a pretty good match... he likes jazz, he’s comfortable in cemeteries, and while I think he may be lacking in the Kerouac department, I have no doubt that he would make an effort were I to ask him. For many many years I carried a torch for him, going so far as to joke with him that he “had ruined me for any other man.” 

The truth is, as I discovered the summer that we worked together, and in the words of Buck’s favorite musician B.B. King, the thrill is gone. While I am not physically attracted to Buck any longer, I very selfishly want to preserve the singular mental synchronicity that I have with him. And I vehemently pray that Samuel Johnson is right… and that he will always be in my life.

Like a Carrot on a Stick...

Maybe I’m jinxed.

What’s that old saying about unlucky in love? Yeah, that would be me, without the cards. The last thing I want is to be maudlin, but I recently realized that on more than one occasion, I’ve had boyfriends throw marriage in my face during the break-up. The most devastating line was, “If I weren’t gay, I’d marry you in a second.” The most recent one was, “I’m not sure if I should marry you or let you go.” Guess which one he chose.

What is it about me that marriage is a carrot that is dangled only when a relationship is over?

In my last relationship, I thought I did the right thing. After our first year together, I went on a week-long business trip and while I was gone, I asked my partner to consider whether he felt as though we had a future together. As I explained to him, I was in my late 20s and I was beginning to feel as though I would eventually want to have a family, so if he wasn’t going to be the one, well, time was a-wasting and I needed to start looking around. I came back from my trip and he indicated that he was on board. The second year, I went on another business trip and asked him to consider the same question. Two months later he asked me to move in with him. Five and a half years after that, I was the bass in a catch-and-release tournament.

I’ve said before that I’m glad I haven’t compromised my standards and I still maintain that. So what is it about being married that holds such an allure? I suppose it’s the feeling of being singled out as special, that someone prizes me above everyone else. Not only being treasured, but that I have been specifically selected me from a pool of millions, indicating that what I have to offer is more unique, more desirable, and more precious than what anyone else has.

So imagine the kind of self doubt that creeps in as the years pass and I am no closer to connubial bliss…

I’m sure some of you scoff and say there’s no such thing as a happy marriage. I say any situation is what you make of it. Relationships are work, just work of a different kind, and in my favor, that INTP in me is famous for throwing herself into her work.

Yes, I realize that I wrote something very similar to this a mere two weeks ago, and you may be asking, “is this horse dead, yet?” But it’s not the only idea that has had a revival. To demonstrate how certain thoughts keep coming around, here is a little piece of wisdom from Marilyn vos Savant that I stumbled across, “Everybody loves an accent. If you’ve been unlucky in love, consider pulling up stakes and moving to another country. Then you’ll be the one with a neat foreign accent.”

Another country? I fear flying, so maybe not. But another region? I’ll happily continue to deliberate.