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Posts Tagged ‘break ups’

• No One Talks About Friendship Break-Ups

Posted in Buddies, tagged , , , on August 1, 2012 | 7 Comments »

There is a theory (propagated by Sex and the City) that says it takes approximately half the time one was in a relationship to get over said relationship. By that logic, I will be fully recovered in…three years. A strange claim coming from someone who has never been in a “serious relationship”? Allow me to explain.

I am in the midst of the most difficult break-up of my life. I was dumped by my best friend. The person whose shoulder I normally cry on is now the person causing the pain. No one talks about friendship break-ups. This leads me to believe they are rare. Sure, friendships fade, we lose touch. I don’t cry every time some one “unfriends” me on Facebook, chances are I don’t even notice. But when someone you love cuts you out of their life- someone who knows your secrets, dreams and fears-how can you not feel heartbroken?

Me and my ex-best friend during the good times- sophomore year at a “Fashion Faux Pas Party”

There is no inciting incident I can pinpoint. It didn’t end with a blow out- no cliché betrayal, no boyfriend-stealing. I was subjected to the slow fade: the anti-confrontation, the coward’s break-up. It’s left me hurt and confused- what went wrong? Was it me? Cosmopolitan magazine a source no one should trust says the number one reason people break up is because they fall out of love. Does this only apply to romantic relationships? I’m an only child, my concept of “loving someone like a sister” can never be exact. Where did the love go?

Cosmo (how much respect am I losing by referencing this rag?) says the number two reason people break up is cheating. Perhaps this is where our problem lies. (more…)

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• Finally, The Safa Finale (For Real)

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , on May 17, 2011 | 5 Comments »

[This is Part Nine, the last of The Safa Boy Series. Click for the Introduction,  Part One,  Part Two.  Part Three,  Part Four,  Part Five,  Part Six,  Part Seven, and  Part Eight]

Why haven’t I been blogging? I don’t like the way this saga ends. That’s my excuse. I may not like it, but I’m telling you any way.

Learning he had cheated on me, lied to me, and treated me like shit: that was all hard enough, but I’d handled it. In a way I am proud of no less. But then he told me that at the very moment I was reading about all these past indiscretions in his diary, he was meeting another girl for a date. That he had warned me he might be home late that night or even not at all (“If it’s too late I’ll crash with my friend”) because he planned on shagging her. I had already thrown his stuff out of my apartment. Told my best friends he was a shit-head. Already said “Fuck you”. All without shedding a tear.

So what was left? Throw a drink in his face, walk away, and never see him again. Sleep soundly that night knowing he was broke, forced to beg vague friends for a night on their couch or sleep on the streets. Flyer New York City with pictures of his face reading CHEATER! LIAR!!!!

Remember that episode of Sex and the City? Samantha is awesome when her boyfriend cheats on her. Drink in his face and the priceless line, “Dirty martini, dirty bastard.” But she eventually does take him back…

Unfortunately, that is not what I did.

I didn’t even besmirch his name on the internet. I’ve protected his identity completely.

Nope. Instead I stared at this boy I had gotten so close to in such a short amount of time and said “I don’t know you at all.”

That would have been fine if I’d said that and then walked away. But I didn’t. Instead I sat in 30 degree weather on a curb of the Riverside bike path and spent and hour hashing over things with a little sniveling 19 year-old who I didn’t know at all.

“You do know me!” He promised. “I’ve just been an asshole in New York.” He said, blaming my city. “People here are so heartless, for a while I really didn’t believe I was doing anything wrong. My friends made me think that too.” He paused. “But I know I was. I’m sorry.”

What did I do wrong? I asked. I couldn’t stop myself. “It wasn’t you. There was nothing you could have done. I was intent on being an asshole. I owned the world, I could do whatever without consequences. I’m sorry.” He’s fucking nineteen, I thought to myself. I hadn’t viewed him as a teenager, but looking at him now, I saw a lost little boy- scared and afraid. I let you live in my apartment I said, thinking aloud now, That’s what I did wrong. I’m too nice. “You did nothing wrong.” He reiterated. I let you use me for my apartment. I continued. That’s what I am to you- a bed for your body and a hole for your dick. You don’t give a shit about me. “That’s not true!” he sniffled. I looked over at him and saw tears welling in his eyes. To my dismay, I felt my own eyes begin to water. “You’re my best friend in New York!” Is this the way you treat your friends? I spat. “No. You’re the first. I swear.” Lucky me.

“Did you read the whole diary?” He asked. No, I could barely stomach what did I read. “Where is it?” He asked. I threw it in your bag which is waiting for you with my concierge. He looked disappointed. “I want you to read it. I want you to see that I’m not like this. I’ve never done this to any one before.” No thanks. I replied sarcastically. “There’s a list on the last page, did you see that?” No. ”It’s two lists, actually. One is of great people I’ve met on this trip, true friends, there are only 8 people on that list. The other is girls I’ve slept with.” I winced. He was so young he kept a laundry list of shags in his diary. “You’re the only one on both lists.”

I said all I wanted was to feel special. There he was, clearly trying to tell me I was special. I couldn’t have felt more like shit.

I finally got up and left. We parted in the middle of Times Square. The next day I wondered about where he had spent the night and tried not to care. I even tried to call him once, but his pre-paid phone had run out of money. Four days later, he was out of my country, out of my life. It took me much longer to get him out of my head. To wrap my head around how and why someone could have done that to me.

What did I do wrong? I picked the wrong man. Boy. When I did it, did I know I was picking the wrong one? Yep. Did I care? Nope. If I could take it all back, would I? No actually, I wouldn’t. Experience is invaluable. I needed an all caps WRONG GUY to break my series of wrong/Wrong/wrongish/kinda-wrong/not-exactly-wrong-but-definitely-not-right guys. The chance I pick the right guy next time has skyrocketed. Three years in New York, countless dates, no successful relationships, but no true heart break.

I’ve still got hope.

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• No Puppy Love

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , on March 24, 2011 | 7 Comments »

[This is Part Seven of The Safa Boy Series: click for Introduction,  Part One,  Part Two, Part Three,  Part Four,  Part Five, and  Part Six]

It is well documented that, when living on the tiny island Manhattan, the chances of running into a former lover are high on the scale of 1 to inevitable. These odds increase exponentially when you look like shit (Source: Sex and the City, Season 2: Episode 1. See video below). It’s true in my EX-perience (too much?). Even if I never actually run into the ex, I hallucinate his form on the crowded city streets, in a crowded bar, on the subway.

(Skip to 0:30 to get right to what I’m talking about & ignore the Russian? subtitles.)

Not this time. I am on my way to Times Square to see my former lover for the last time. If you’ve ever wished the person who fucked you over would just leave the country, be jealous: I’m living out that fantasy. Safa is leaving the country in 4 days. I will never suffer the horror of running into him with a new girlfriend. There is no chance a moment of weakness will bring him back into my bed again. It’s an impossibility. He will never see me looking like shit because this is the last time we will see each other and I just spent 20 extra minutes making sure I look good.

It is a well documented fact: when someone makes you feel like shit and you must see him again, it is imperative to instead look like the shit. I contemplated wearing high-heeled boots that make my already killer legs look serial and bring me to a height of 6′: if I stand up straight and he slouches (as he does), we’ll see eye to eye. But I plan on biking over and biking in heels is idiotic. Changing shoes after I lock my bike? Trying way too hard. Instead I opted for flat boots and a blue dress with a t-shirt neckline that hugs my curves in a subtle “Remember what I look like naked? (You’re never going to see that again!)” way. Did I put too much thought into this? Almost certainly. Did he even notice my clothes? Almost certainly no. Did I feel less like shit because I took the time to put on eyeliner? Yes. And that’s all that matters.

I see him from across the street, long (we’re talking maybe 2 minutes) before he sees me. I immediately notice two things: First, he does not have a bouquet of (preferably tulips but I’d settle for anything beyond carnations) flowers in his hand. The boy has a father and an older brother but he missed the “You fuck up with a girl, you bring her flowers” lesson? He’s clearly just ignoring it. Idiot. Second, he looks like shit. His eyes look scared, even from across the street. He’s pacing with nervous energy. The scruff on his chin that I playfully stroked before our first kiss now gives him a “I’m a homeless bum who can’t keep my dick in my pants” aura. Gross. This is the same guy who I thought was so adorable mere hours ago? Funny how fast things change.

On second thought, maybe it’s a Brad Pitt aura…now I know how Jen feels!

I cross the street. Our eyes meet. I glare at him and give him a vague acknowledgement with my hand. “Hi,” he says meekly. He looks like the proverbial puppy who shit on the rug. Tail between his legs, looking at me with sad puppy-dog eyes, searching for the smiling, bubbly girl he knows. But she’s gone. In her place is a woman scorned, the furies of hell burning behind her charcoal lined eyes. She has no patience for puppies. She’s as happy as anyone to cuddle one, admiring its huge blue eyes and soft fur. But the minute it starts yapping or whining she becomes annoyed. A piss on the rug and Puppy is a pest, not a pet.

Like the whimpering puppy reeling from his master shouting “Bad dog!” he looks pathetic. He can’t clean up his shit. He doesn’t know what to say to me. I break the awkward silence, We’re going somewhere you can take your pants off, I say. Remember (click for a refresher), I let him borrow my 100% merino wool long johns that morning. At $70 a pair, they are the most expensive pants I own and my immediate priority is to get them back. “Ok.” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.” I roll my eyes. That’s all you have to say? “I’m sorry”? I start walking toward the nearest Starbucks. He trails behind me. Fuck this puppy shit! I was angry when I arrived and I’m only getting more so. Where’s the promised groveling? Where’s anything but sad puppy-dog whimpering “I’m sorry”?

In the silence between us hovers hate and hurt, I can’t stand it any more so I bust out banal small talk. So how’s your friend? I ask, but it sounds more like, “Fuck you, you stupid shit.” He pauses before he says, “Fine.” Did you tell him why you had to leave? flies out of my mouth dripping with “Do you realize how much you fucked this up? Will you tell your friends what an idiot you are?” He doesn’t answer. We reach Starbucks and I shove him in the bathroom line. We wait in line, one seething, one sad, both in silence.

We leave Starbucks. My pants have been returned, he no longer has anything belonging to me except some flakes of vomit on his jeans lying in his suitcase with my concierge. “I’m sorry.” he repeats. I have nothing more to say to him. “Can we talk?” He begs. Finally! I’ve been waiting for you to say more than 2 fucking words to me! Yes, we can talk. I’ve been waiting for you to talk. I can’t sit still or I’ll explode with anger. The last thing I want is to be marked “Crazy Bitch”, a moniker men love to place on women. I prefer calm and cold as hell, the flames staying behind my eyes. A walk and talk. We’ll go down along the river.

And so we begin The Closure Talk, the Grand Finale; me with a pathetic hope that he will say something, anything that will make me feel less like shit, him with further secrets and lies to reveal.

[To continue The Safa Boy Series, click for Part Eight]

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• Break It Down (Now)

Posted in Holidays & Celebrations, Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , on November 25, 2009 | Leave a Comment »

[This is the Part Four of the Trader Joe's Guy Series: click for Part One and Part Two and Part Three]

Last Halloween, my first in NYC, was spent all by myself. As alone as one can be surrounded by thousands of strangers, I had no friends to go out with. Which is why I was even more excited than usual for Halloween this year.

My roommates and I plan to go down to the village, combine forces of all our individual friends, and have a great night of watching the Halloween Parade, drinking, not being sick, and dancing in the streets. I am pumped.  Talking to my Trader Joe’s Crush about Halloween I learn he has no plans for the evening… and he asks if he can “tag along” with me and my friends…While I was very much looking forward to a night with just friends, I know how lonely Halloween alone is. I make the compromise: Well after the parade we’re planning to go do 21-year-old things, so be warned: we’ll probably ditch you. But yeah, you’re welcome to join for the parade!

My roommate Miranda and I dress up as Gay Cheerleaders for Halloween. Uh What? Miranda’s co-worker was dying to have someone, anyone wear her old cheerleading outfit so that she could tell her mother that yes there is actually a reason for having a bag of things she hasn’t used in 10+ years taking up storage space. When asked if she “wanted to be a cheerleader for Halloween?” Miranda showed mild interest and was immediately handed a green and gold duffle bag filled with 2 full outfits (home and visitor apparently), a track jacket, pom poms, and palpable **team spirit**. She came home that day, showed me her loot, we may or may not have played dress up in a way that would rival 5 year olds, and we knew on Halloween we were wearing these costumes.

To simply be cheerleaders seemed too boring, too easy. Zombie Cheerleaders? Vampire Cheerleaders? Too predictable. Too much makeup. Having just watched the cult classic But I’m a Cheerleader we decide to be Gay Cheerleaders. No, it didn’t exactly make sense, (I  wish I was as creative with costumes as my cousin,) but we had fun accessorizing excessively with rainbows, glitters, writing GO GAY! on our arms, coming up with political cheers GO GO FIGHT FIGHT WE DESERVE MARRIAGE RIGHTS! and worrying we’d offend actual gays (we so didn’t, quite the opposite actually.)

It was surprisingly warm Halloween evening, as we head down to Greenwich Village for a pre-parade drink. The Halloween Parade is a Thing To Do in NY. It’s composed of anyone who shows up at the proper location at the proper time properly costumed. The best thing about Halloween, when you’re at a place in life where it is not socially acceptable to peak in the homes of people who then give you candy, is people watching. Thus this parade is perfect.

Our mini “parade” headed to the parade includes two Gay Cheerleaders (duh), Audrey Hepburn, Alex from A Clockwork Orange, a Hick, a Chef, a Vampire, and Eloise. Later we are joined by a Zombie, an Asian Tourist, a Toilet, and a Plunger. Such a contrast to the loneliness of last year. Our crew is all assembled save my Trader Joe’s Crush who is coming from Brooklyn (and has an annoying habit of being habitually 30+ minutes late). Before he arrives, before we get to the parade, before the night’s really begun the humidity gets the better of the night and it starts to rain.

For 22 years, I’ve been severely spoiled by Halloween weather. Growing up, I never had to make an umbrella part of my costume. Nor had said costume fall apart due to sogginess. So I know I can’t complain too much when our parade plans are spoiled. It’s not much of a set back as we planned to explore area bars after the parade anyway. The rain just speeds that up. Except now I’ll have a 20-year-old in tow, a 20-year-old I was counting on ditching when the “PERSONS UNDER 21 NOT ADMITTED” portion of the evening began. Well, that plan is now down the toilet (and I don’t mean my friend dressed up as one).

When my 20-year-old finally shows up he’s outfitted as a Nerd. Now let me give anyone who’s ever considered this costume a hint: if ”Nerd” hits close too home (really, in any vicinity of home) to your actual personality, you may want to re-think your choice. Now Trader Joe’s Crush isn’t really a nerd, but tonight I honestly can’t tell if he’s getting too into the spirit of his costume or just being awkward around me and my friends.  I think it’s the former but I’m not sure. What I do become sure of, after a series of awkward silences I make no attempt to fill: It’s not working; I can’t do it any more. I spend the rest of the night madly conflicted between having an awesome time with my friends and knowing I have to break up with my boy.

I can’t break up with him tonight, on Halloween (can I? “No. You can’t,” my friends assure me). Then his 21st birthday falls mere days after Halloween….and I’m stuck the rest of the week, knowing it’s over but unable to end it.

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• Break It Up (Into Beats)

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , on November 19, 2009 | 1 Comment »

[This is Part Three of the Trader Joe's Guy Series: click for Part One and Part Two and Part Four]

When I first met you, I had doubts. You’re homeless, you’re an actor. I was afraid the age difference would be a problem. But I couldn’t dismiss you just on that, I had to actually get to know you. And I’m so glad I did because you’re truly one of the sweetest, kindest people I’ve met. Ever. But.. we’re at really different places in our lives. Which is a grossly cliché thing to say, but it’s true. I’m not feeling what I need to feel to be in a relationship with someone.

I have lines again? Yep. A monologue in fact, from my one night only performance of a little theatrical piece called “The First Time I Ever Initiated a Breakup Myself.”

Deliberate, premeditated, perhaps painstakingly planned: I imagine most breakups of this “it’s just not working” sort sound scripted, peppered with vague to blatant clichés. (We’re not a good fit. We want different things. It’s not you, I think you’re great.)

“Uh…last time I checked, you went on half a date with him,” I see you thinking, “Why all the drama? Actresses.“

If only it were that simple (she says, dramatically). Let me catch you up.

Two roads converged on a New  York night and I? I took the one less traveled by.  Yep, I gave my 20 Year Old, Actor, Trader Joe’s Crush a chance. I realized I couldn’t write him off without actually getting to know him- beyond the labels- first. And so that first date we did go bowling. Turned our backs on The Gutter’s nostalgic charm and vintage prices in favor of a typical animated screens, dozens of lanes, non-carding, bowling alley. And had a lot of fun. And I solidly kicked his ass all three games. Which he didn’t seem to hold against me because at the end of the date he made plans to see me again. And I was pleased. He’s my crush after all.

This continued for the next several weeks. A movie here, a meal there, a few long romantic strolls. I met some of his friends. (Surprisingly a huge confidence boost. I never met any of Cute Theatre Boy or Central Park Guy’s friends- truth be told they didn’t have many. Trader Joe’s Crush’s friends showered me with complements. I was called pretty, stunning, witty, adorable, and told I had awesome dimples. All by men who were obviously not trying to get in my pants. Ha, I was “approved”, fun date.) My roommates gave their blessing (“He seems cute, goofy, and super sweet. I like him.”)

We’d only been on a handful of dates when I got terribly sick. Your cliché New York guy (hell, any cliché guy) would respond to such sickness along these lines: “I’m so sorry you’re feeling like shit, but um.. we haven’t dated enough for me to want to see you like that, so…give me a call when you feel better?” Not Trader Joe’s Crush. He took care of me, brought over soup and movies, told me stories- filling my silence when I couldn’t talk, kissed my possibly infectious lips, and cuddled with me when I couldn’t sleep. It was without a doubt the nicest thing a guy has ever done for me. Top 5 nicest things anyone (who’s not my parent) has ever done for me.

Seems like I have a pattern, doesn’t it? Some traumatic health issue befalls me in the early stages of a romance and accelerates the relationship to a place where it really isn’t ready to go yet (I’m talking about my Cute Theatre Boy episode, of course). Was I thinking this? No. This is pure hindsight. I was thinking how nice it was to have a distraction from the intense pain in my throat. Was I thinking about what it must mean that he was being so nice to me? No. I was thinking how safe it feels to have someone share your bed when you are bedridden.

They say in relationships, timing is everything. They are right.

Before I got anywhere near better, he was gone. On vacation to visit family in the sorta-South for 2.5 weeks. Which confines all communication to the phone, very hard when your throat is so inflamed you can’t talk. Every phone call is basically the same on my end, a slow progression: mmhm ouch, still can’t talk;  it’s getting a little better; well my voice still sounds like shit; yeah, still hurts but not too bad?; Yay, I can talk! While he is all talk of Home this, My-Mom’s-New-Kitty’s-So-Cute that, Brothers! Sisters! Nephews! Childhood Friends!

I got to know him a little better in these 2.5 weeks apart. No visa versa. I got to know his entire family knew about me. Got to know that he really missed me and wanted me to know that. Began to suspect we were not on the same page. Didn’t know,  but strongly suspected. Until he came back. Then I knew. Knew he was much more into everything than I was. Realized I didn’t like that. Knew that when I had missed him it was for all the wrong reasons. Began to suspect the end was swift approaching and I would be the one to end it. Didn’t know, but suspected.

Then came Halloween.

(to be continued. It’s taking me forever to finish this entry! But it wont be 2 weeks again, promise!)

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• Oh Boy(s), Oh Online Dating

Posted in Single and Fabulous, tagged , , , , on October 19, 2009 | 3 Comments »

I know what it’s been like. For weeks you were on the edge of your seat, dying to find out what was going on between me and Cute Theatre Boy. After my last words on the subject, really, how could you not have been? After months of no updates, you gave up, accepted you would never find what happened between me and this new-york-cliche-defying non-asshole.  Perhaps you thought, it certainly fits a cliche, that I was so head over heals that I became one of those girls who abandons everything (including her blog?) for her beau.

No, let me assure you that is not the case. Our relationship happened to be one of those that peaks in an emergency room. The entire debacle- head injury, ER, fainting, and recovery- occurred when we’d been involved for just a little over a month. It brought the two of us together insanely fast, and then stood still. We never got closer to each other after it, and not for lack of trying.  I had a lot of fun with him but in his words (and I agree) it was “good not great.” “We weren’t a good fit” as a couple. He broke up with me when I was least expecting it, I cried, then got over it. Now he’s easily the best friend I have made since moving here. We’ve gotten close as friends, we’re a much better “fit” as friends, everything’s just worked out for the best (ha, cliche!)! My only disappointment in the whole thing is, alas, it’s not much of story!

Following Cute Theatre Boy I decided no more actors. Sure, it’s nice when he understands the stress of Hell Week, obscure references, and why the direction in a play we saw together sucked. However on the whole, the actor-on-actor thing adds an element of judgement and competition which I am point blank not fond of. Ok then…uh…where does one meet non-actors? In Central Park? Fail. On the Subway? No. On the street? Never. In bars? Hahaha yeah right. So what’s a girl living in NYC to do?

In the interest of pursuing the cliche, and sheer curiosity, I set up a profile on a (free) online dating website.

I know, I can’t really believe I did it either. With my biting wit and professional headshots that make me look, as one auditioner awesomely put it, “stunning” (as they’d better- I paid my awesome photographer a pretty penny so that would be the reaction), I had no shortage of responses. A few of them seemed possibly worth meeting. And why not? I don’t have many friends here, kidnapping someone in a public place seems extremely difficult; maybe I’d get a free meal, and a good story. Well, I didn’t really get any stories worth mentioning. Nothing Blog-worthy. Instead I did meet interesting people, even made a friend or two (and yeah, got a couple free meals- hey when  money’s tight, free food is not to be undervalued).

I learned most of these guys are pretty normal. Some a little shy, some hate the phone, some might be on the boring side, but they aren’t the creepy perverts stereotype suggests. (I don’t know why this comes as a surprise- I’m pretty normal at worst, super cool at best, and not desperate or socially retarded by any stretch.) They mostly look like their pictures (except the bald one, and your heart must go out to baldies under 30) and almost everyone I met was quite sweet, a few even had a lot going for them.

Despite all this, I’ve found I have a stigma against online dating that I just can’t shake. Something that just doesn’t feel right, that “this is not how it’s done” or at least not how I want to do it. The perfect guy for me (ha, what a statement) could easily be floating in some cyberspace profile somewhere, waiting for me to click the right link. I won’t deny that’s completely possible. But I know, at the very least, I would never get over our answer to the question inevitably asked of all couples, “So where did you guys meet?” “Online” is the absolute most unappealing answer I can think of. I don’t like it.

So I’ve decided to cease the virtual and focus solely on reality (she says, typing in her online, virtual medium…). And for starters, I have a crush! He works at Trader Joe’s. I haven’t had a real crush since Cute Theatre Boy, so it is a smidge exciting. I’ve decided the next time I need groceries I’m going to ask him out, face to face. How’s that for reality? Asking a boy out is something I have extremely limited (read: I’ve done it once!) experience in so this will be no small feat. I’ve mastered the first date, it’s time to become proactive in making them happen for myself.

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