Your Karma Ran Over My Dogma

And then a few weeks later, after much crying and wailing and gnashing of teeth and drama of the highest caliber, I moved in with Kate and Liz, the absentee roommate with the fabulous closetful of clothes to borrow, and by the way, I’d come to realize, fabulous hair.

Lars had had a change of heart toward the end.

And by that I mean, when I’d started to waiver and think maybe I was overreacting, I reminded myself that he never once asked me to reconsider moving out or more importantly, moving on. And then he did, sort of.

One day as I picked over things in the closet that I may or may not want to salvage from my unsalvageable life, he told me he was wondering if we should not go through with moving away from each other. Would I reconsider?

“I signed a lease,” I’d lied. I would live with Kate and the ghost roommate for months before setting pen to paper on a lease. But for reasons I'll never be able to explain, I couldn't just say, "No effin' way, asshole." I had to make it an impossibility that was beyond my control.

And then moving weekend came. I had loads of stuff still to move. From my Dad’s house, from our apartment, and even some new things that I’d bought. Like a bed. I called a U-Haul rental place and rented a truck big enough for it all, yet manageable enough for me to drive.

Lars, in a rare gesture of good will, offered to drive me into the heinous slum neighborhood to the rental place so I would not have to leave my car there to be stripped and sold for parts.

I signed the rental agreement, declined the insurance and picked up a few boxes for good measure. Lars and I headed for our apartment one last time.

And while tooling down the street toward an overpass and a dicey little right hand turn under the elevated train tracks, Lars slowed to let a pedestrian pass, I slammed on the brakes abruptly, and as karma would have it, slammed into the back of his brand spanking new car.

Such are the thanks that you get when you only decide to be a nice guy at the bitter end when you see your life walking out the door and getting into a U-Haul.

Lars hopped out of the car…and I say “hopped” because he was hopping mad. Hopping, Rodney-Dangerfield-wild-eyed, hair flying mad. I sat in the truck and cried. Not only because I’d had my first ever accident and it was with my ex-fiance, but also because not once, as Lars hopped around flailing his arms and stomping his big hobbit feet and gesticulating like a mad man as he surveyed the (minimal) damage to his stupid new car, did he even glance in my direction in a way that questioned whether or not I’d been harmed in any way.

Truth be told, in that moment I’d bumped my chin but bruised my heart. I was right to be leaving. That had become patently clear.