Desperate and Digging

And incredulously, she texted back. Like a completely self-absorbed nincompoop.

And then later, sent another text, following up on all the other texts, because evidently, it was of enormous global importance for me to answer her questions, and she was not going to let me not answer.

She had very cleverly designed a question that would - if I answered it honestly and directly - satisfy her craving for information about other things.  Confirmation of her assumptions and deductions from the vast amount of factoids that she amassed from Facebook.

Her question was an invitation.  It was an invitation to join her on a short trip. One that as described would be hard to decline. Unless I had other plans. And she had ideas about what those plans specifically involved from a time commitment on my part. So very clever is she.

But I am more clever.

I cheerfully replied, when I'd left for home that day, that while the plan sounded so yummy and fun and I'd hate to miss it, unfortunately I had plans - in fact, I was committed right on through the weekend and into the next week. 

But she was not shaken off.

She had an idea that I had plans for Friday that were of interest to her. She said, "Not even Friday? I thought you'd said you were available on Friday. Not even for a drink?"

I had never ever said such a thing. She just wanted me to tell her what I'd be doing instead. 

Thank God I had my wits about me. 

"No. Not even Friday." 

The nerve of her. To even think that she was smarter than me. I may have been played when I did not know this was sport. But now that I know there is a game to be won, she can just retire her jersey.  No effing way I'm giving her even a shred of intel to use for her own nefarious purposes.

The trouble was, she'd been using other people as her moles and they were seeking information all over the network, and perhaps less suspicious people were giving up the tapes.  She had all her puppets with their strings up. 

But I left it at that until that night. 

When she tried once more to engage me in conversation.  Very unwise.

Katie, Bar the Door

She became an electronic, long distance stalker.

An opportunistic, self-serving, pain in the ass, actually.

I almost did half expect to come home and find one of the precious cats boiling in a pot a la Fatal Attraction.  Of course she'd have been an easy perpetrator to hunt down. The cats would have not gone down with out a fight. Someone would have lost an eye. At least.  And the trail of blood would lead straight to her smartphone.

So every-so-often little messages "to cheer me" became more frequent. And subtly more intrusive. More inquiring.  Asked for more detail. 

And before long we were right back where we'd been before I told her I was going to spend a little more time off the grid. 

I'd post something sweet that Hil said and she'd write an elaborate comment.

She'd message me thinly veiled reminders of the years of friendship between us. A beloved friend called to mind by a stranger who resembled him was supposed to spark a conversation about him. (It did not) A picture of someone close to her that she'd lost was intended to pull hard on my heartstrings - but I kindly and politely commented and did not gush or engage in a discussion.  Pictures of us a chubby, happy, beer-swilling co-eds were intended to pull me back into the fold. I let other people do the commenting and refrained. 

She was exhausting.

I am usually pretty good at figuring out what motivates people to act the way they do, but figuring out what her agenda might be was like solving a mystery.  I couldn't tell if it was Professor Plum in the Conservatory with the candlestick or Gilligan and the Skipper by the Lagoon with a a lovely bunch of coconuts.

And one day I reached my breaking point.

As I stood in a large conference room with dozens of colleagues - some of which knew me well enough to know my level of professionalism, others still needing me to prove myself - and made a 30 minute presentation based on the work my work group had performed as a team for the earlier part of the day, my phone sat on the table, well outside of my reach, basically bouncing up and down with activity.

Emails.

Texts.

Facebook messages.

Notes on my wall.

Beep. Buzz. Jingle. Honk.

Over and over and over again until I casually walked toward it while fielding an audience question, and casually turned it off without losing eye contact with the person asking the question.

I wanted to scream. But I finished our presentation without actually doing so.

And when we broke for 10 minutes just afterward, I sent a flippant text to her.

I AM IN A FUCKING MEETING. JESUS!

Cause You Gotta Have Friends

So she was on to me. I had not shown my hand intentionally, but she had a near criminal mind. Used every syllable of intelligence on FB to figure things out. She's clearly watched too many episodes of CSI.

And she would call me on her keen (and borderline insane) observations.

She would note when I was on FB.  And message me directly that I was not answering her and wonder why.

She would note to me that my comments on line seemed like I was in good spirits, but I was not acknowledging her posts or commenting on her posts, so she was getting concerned.

She would email me asking if my phone was working.

She would send the same question 3 different ways increasing the chances that I'd see it somewhere. And follow up asking for answers.  She became worse than a nagging wife.

She'd make up frivolous yet seemingly gravely urgent reasons to need to correspond with me. Each correspondence a thinly veiled inquiry of some kind. Trying to find out what I was doing. Who I was talking with. With whom was I spending time? Who exactly had my attention? Why had she lost mine? If curiosity could kill that cat why was she still living to torture me?

I was not about to bite. And not biting seemed a little mean. And very unnatural.

She was electronically backing me into a corner. I had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide unless I turned off my phone, stuck it in a drawer and vanished from visibility.

I actually tried that. For a minute and a half. But FB was a lifeline to me. I was lonely. It was Winter. It's not like I was able to go sit on a crowded beach and find scads of friends in an instant. I could not let her deprive me of this. I would surely go mad.  Take up knitting. Get another cat. Doomed.

I pushed her off a little. I told her I was just lying low. Focusing a little closer to home. A little weary of all the noise and trying to find a little quiet. Assured her I was fine. Just tired.

And that worked fine.

For another minute and a half.

She began to text again.

Notes to cheer me up.

Smiley faces.

Asked if I minded a text or two once in a while to make me smile.

What was I supposed to say to that?  "No, keep your insipid little emoticons and love notes to your bunny-in-a-pot crazy self. It is YOU I am hiding from!" 

So I sent a luke warm note saying of course I didn't mind an occasional note. "Occasional" was intended to have been the most important word in the sentence. But no dice.

With my agreement more or less, she had put a wedge in the door and had set about pushing pushing pushing it ever so slowly open again.

The master of the game was she.

Somewhere Along in the Bitterness

And that worked for about a minute and a half.

She noticed the difference in my interactions with her right away.

My adoring comments to her on Facebook abruptly stopped. Comments that I'd normally make acknowledging our extraordinary friendship ceased to be. I had hardened my heart a little bit from the betrayal. Statements like that would be like vinegar on my tongue now. I'd always done so much to build her up when she'd been down. Support her in her dreams. Root for her in her often kooky undertakings. I could not believe that she'd disregarded what I'd shared with her, that she'd thrown it away in favor of her own needs. I'd never thought her a narcissist. But I was beginning to think otherwise.

And now, my correspondence was no more intimate or thoughtful than what you'd write to your cold, uninteresting, unwelcoming mother-in-law who lives on another coast and you don't give a hang about.

So she amped up the attempts to connect with me.

Admittedly, with the Magical Disappearing Scott Act, we had corresponded more frequently than normal.  But under normal circumstances, we'd just comment on FB. Very few direct emails, very little messaging. Maybe two phone calls a year. Tops.

Now it was like she was gnat buzzing around my head at all times of day and night.

I'd try to avoid her but she would not relent. Would. Not. More tenacious than I'd ever known her to be. How nice for me!

For instance, one morning she sent me three texts, minutes apart, that I did not immediately open and read.

When I finally caved and realized they were benign texts about plans with her mother, I responded telling her to tell the dear woman hello from me. And I'd question why I was doing this to her.

And once she knew that my phone was in my hand and I was answering, she'd ask a direct question, fishing for information. Dammit.

And once again, I'd start ignoring her.

I was not at all sure how this was going to end. But I knew this was a game I had no idea how to play.

Where Did I Go Wrong? I Lost a Friend

And then I noticed that someone else I regularly chatted with on Facebook and who regularly messaged me privately was not so chatty. Took no notice of my posts. Had stopped messaging. Or even responding.

So I said something.  Actually it came out like a screech, more or less. If there really a bitchy howler monkey bold font, I'd have used it. Not a proud moment, in retrospect.

And that friend, to whom I give enormous credit, instead of just continuing to ignore me, wrote me back. 

This common friend, had gotten wind of some of the gossip. And in turn, had assumed I'd played a part, was a willing dance partner in the swirl of nasty, bitchy, unkind, hard boiled blather.

I asked for examples.

I was horrified at what was forwarded to me.

Some statements were attributed to me that I never even thought, much less texted.

Some statements were marginally familiar to me, but had been put in a blender, twisted, painted with a black brush, amended, embellished, spun and mused about before they'd been passed along as the truth.

Every statement, close to the truth or far from it, had been unfairly shared, unfairly credited to me, and had been shared by the friend I had trusted.

For what purpose I am not sure. I had some ideas, including insanity, insecurity, and unparalleled evil, a hidden agenda.  I just couldn't think of why she'd sacrificed me.

And my heart was broken all over again.

Years upon years of friendship rocked. Its foundation cracked. I had been so horrified that Scott could have disregarded me as he had. And now one of my dearest friends, I was learning, had done the same thing. When given a choice, she'd chosen the other path. Not the one of loyal friendship. 

I made a commitment to my other friend and to myself. I would keep my distance. Not dig deep anymore. Keep the discussion to surface topics. Kids activities, holiday festivities, musings about benign topics. Not openly hostile, but not overtly friendly.

No need to cut the cord. No need to fight it out. No need to call her on her nonsense. Keep my enemy close and observe. Untie what it was my knee jerk reaction to cut. Patience is on my side. The truth will emerge. I'd sort it out in time.

Talking Heads

Charlotte recently posted something to Facebook that contained 17 pieces of advice to live by.  Some of them highly original, some of them our grandmothers may have said. One of the statements suggested that you never cut something that can be untied instead.

So I tried untying my friend. Everything kept in tact, more or less, just a little less tightly bound.

The issue, in its simplest form, was gossip.  Pure and simple gossip. Gossips being one of the things Dante certainly put at the bowels of Hell.  I found out in pretty painful fashion that my "conversations" with my friend were not being treated as private. Even though the subjects were intensely personal, like many shared things among age-old girlfriends.  My thoughts. My insecurities. My worries. My plans. What was keeping me awake at night. What motivated me to put my feet on the floor in the morning. All being shared. Or possibly.  I am sure there were edits. But we'll get to that.

And worse, she was sharing with people who may not have the slightest of good intentions about me. Her friends, not mine. And so maybe she didn't have my best interests at heart either. Maybe she had an agenda. Maybe one that she kept from me. Maybe one that disregarded me entirely.

Of course I didn't know it right away. She'd been my lifelong friend. I'd trusted her. When Scott vanished into thin air, she was among the first I'd reached out to. Leaned into. Put the full weight of my soul on her shoulders. Of course I did.

I was raw. Naked. The rug had been whipped from beneath my life. I looked for advice. I shared my fears. My hopes. My atrocious heartbreak.

We'd texted and emailed and messaged more often than usual for a few weeks. It was nice to have attentive friends when I was feeling so lonely and had endless stretches of unoccupied time to deal with.  Friends who knew my heart, like her. And friends who were willing to learn about my heart, like others who impressed me with their openness to letting me lean on them. It was restoring. It was just what I'd needed.

At first her messages were all ones of concern. How was I feeling?  Was there anything I could do to turn around the ship? What would I do if he called and wanted to come back?  What was I doing to make sure I was taking care of my fabulous self? 

But the messages became more and more frequent. And took a bizarre turn. 

A little invasive. A little pot-stirring.  She'd ask questions that almost seemed intrusive. Made observations about things that seemed to aim to get me riled up. 

Had I noticed all the chat between this one and that one on Facebook?  Did I have the same reaction to this one's comment on on someone else's post?  Had I heard about this one and that one unfriending each other over her jealous rage about a third one? 

To be truthful, I was too self absorbed and entranced by my own misery to give a hang about anyone else's drama.  She was always the first to join the tempest in the teacup. I chalked it off to her busy-bodiness, and fascination with drama. 

But I'd never imagined that I'd be the subject of such fascination. And that is where it got interesting. And not in a good way.

And What a Tangled Web It Is

I unfriended one of my oldest friends this month. On Facebook of course. How else would someone unfriend someone?  FB is responsible for the term "unfriend" or is it "defriend?" They turned "friend" into a verb. Bright guys over there at Facebook.

In days gone by, you'd just stop hanging out. You would stop calling. You would avoid each other at parties. You'd cross them off your Christmas card list.

But on Facebook, it gets tricky. Since the term "friend" is used loosely to define anyone you are connected to on the site, and membership has certain privileges of access, those friends, genuinely or loosely defined, have a unique ability to know your business, observe with whom you correspond, and if they are so inclined, to take issue with what you do or even interfere.

A reasonable person knows the exposure problem and manages their facetime on Facebook. (This is where teenagers get tripped up. They may think they want to blab hither and yon about something, but they don't consider the reach some things have).

But as I've said, a reasonable person manages the information they share. Won't air any dirty laundry on the web. This is not the place to call out your philandering husband or yak about your argument with your girlfriend, or snark about your wretched colleague at the office or your belligerent student.
The diciest places I'll go are to express a political opinion or comment on a public interest story.  I won't even publicly criticize someone else's opinion. I may express a different one, but opinions, as you know, are our entitlement.

But there are people who have more nefarious uses for Facebook.

And unfortunately, this friend of mine turned out to be one of those people.

Welcome to the World Wide Web

At the risk of sounding like I am a hundred years old, I have to say that I liked things better the old way.

When you had an argument or some other problem with a friend as a kid, you just argued about whatever it was, maybe got into a little physical thing like a shove in the sandbox.  Or you made yourself scarce at the playground for a while, or didn't invite the person to your next birthday party.

When we got older, some passive aggressive behavior naturally came into play. Maybe some gossip or some social undermining or making sure there wasn't a seat at the lunch table and so you had to go sit with the peanut allergy kids.  But it was live and in person, and you could tell what was happening with the people involved by the way people acted and reacted to you in person.  Snubbing. Face-making. Laughing after they'd passed you in the hall so you'd feel like some hilarious joke had just been made at your expense.

With the advent of social media and the widespread availability of smart phones, all of that has changed. And some of it has taken a decidedly dark and twisted turn toward the sinister.

Don't call me a nut who is living in the past (that would be my mother, who won't get a computer and considers email a fad).  I like that the social network tools are out there for us to use. A lot has been changed for the better by it all. For instance, I am in regular touch with friends from college and grad school that I might never have connected with again. Or maybe only by chance at a random reunion that I may not even attend because I won't know anyone. Surely not more than that.  Let's face it, people don't keep pen pals like they used to.

Young people heading off to college will never know this problem. They will never have to reconnect again - because they will never disconnect. Gone are the days when you have to give your friends your dormitory phone number when you get back home at Thanksgiving.  Smartphones have eliminated that practice - and probably a whole college town industry as well.

But there are some drawbacks.

Normally it would be almost unnecessary if not absurd to consider having an argument with, for instance, your former roommate five states away. There would be such little contact. Very little to take issue with. No immediate methods of regular correspondence or conversation that would lend themselves to the kind of interactions that lead to disagreements.

But with the social network you can easily have the opportunity, access and motivation for such things. Lovely.

Bullying can be done completely under the radar but on the grid. No one has to push you into your locker at school. They can figuratively punch you in the teeth on line. With an audience. And your mother will never know.

And there is no longer a need to whisper juicy tidbits of gossip by the water cooler or over the bathroom stall in the ladies room. It can be done without detection. From a distance. All through the magic of messaging and texts. Your reputation can be unraveling or your relationship undermined quietly, privately and in writing - all in cyberspace.

Holy crap.

Valentine, Schmalentine

I survived Valentines Day.

As it drew near I had very low expectations, but to be truthful, I had no idea what to do.

As I bought cute little cards and chocolate lollipops for my darling children, it occurred to me that this was the first Valentines Day in decades that I'd not had a Valentine.

Craig and I aren't quite "Craig & I" yet and may never actually get there. And like any God fearing man, he'd be wise to just ignore the whole thing. Who knows how many women he's juggling? There could be dozens of  cards and gifts to personalize and remember what went to whom.  He'd be smart just to be on a business trip and not even acknowledge the holiday at all. Which is what he did.

I did however get a Valentine text from Scott.

Yes. Scott. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'll back up and retrace the steps that led to that in a moment.

So like everyone else in the world of women, I got up that day, put on something pink (I don't own much red, I have no idea why) and went to work wondering what if anything else the day would bring.

And as the women in my office got balloon bouquets and flower arrangements and candy and surprise visits for lunch, I remembered how this day used to feel.

To be truthful - now don't call me crazy here - the best Valentiner I ever had in my life was Lars.  Lars, if you had to do a side-by-side comparison of all the history of the men in my life and what qualities they possessed or woefully lacked or met standard female expectations, would very likely take top prize in the gift giving category.

He was always a precise thoughtful gift giver. Paid attention to what I liked. Got the size and color right. Made things meaningful (when the whole shooting match was meaningful, that is) and in turn made me feel special. Until the gifts of atonement came into play, which made me feel stupid and bought.

But Valentines Day was where he was his shiny best. To him, it mattered that I felt loved and adored and cherished on this day. He wasn't going to just check the box. He could take me out to dinner or buy a box of candy or bring home a lovely flower arrangement and it would be wonderful. But Lars knew how the game was played with women. 

Lars wanted me to be gushed over in front of all the other women in the office. As gifts began to arrive, he wanted everyone to take note of mine. How it compared. He wanted me to be blushing over the gesture. A lovely card, a Pajama-gram, two dozen roses, a bouquet of chocolate chip cookies on long stems. 

But those days are long over, as we all know. Small sacrifice in the long run.

I reached out to other women in my life that I knew were also alone. I wished them each a happy day, told them they were loved and adored. Rambled with each about what we were all going to do to distract us from the lack of romance.  And I brought home Chinese food for the kids and opened a bottle of wine for me and watched a movie snuggled on the floor with them both (both kids, not the Chinese food and the wine...) Chatted with a friend or two whose celebrations were not what they'd hoped for due to something or someone unexpected. The lonely hearts had each found their way by the time we all said goodnight.

And I wonder what my next trip around the sun will bring, and if next year my Valentines Day will look exactly the same.  Another reminder that I am not 22.

Looking at Me Through the Glass

The next day was uniquely painful. Getting my eyebrows waxed did not help matters. And it was a very bitter reminder that I am not really 22 anymore. 

In the morning, I chatted for a bit on line with Craig, and paid some bills on line, and drank a lot of coffee before I went out for a walk in the state park to clear the cobwebs from my head. I took lots of pictures, and posted them to Facebook. It was becoming a coffee table book of sorts in my phone. Same shots each week in different weather conditions and lighting. How artistic.

As I logged off of FB, I decided to read my e-mail. And there out of the blue was a note from an old friend I'd worked with, Sam.  I'd sent him a LinkedIn invitation in December when the lonely heart in me had needed human contact with people I did not need to explain myself to. He probably had not recognized my maiden name. We'd only worked together while I was married. But he'd figured it out and had sent me a lovely note. Funny, bitchy, adorable. How I'd loved working with this man.  I was quick to reply. He'd asked about everything: work, love, kids.

Sam!!!!! How I miss your unique ability to hold up your end of the bitch-fest. I work with the most humorless, uninteresting people on the planet, bar none. I spend a good portion of each day rolling my eyes and swearing under my breath. And considering workplace violence. LOL.

What I have not been through on the love front!!! I should write a tragic-comic novel. I'd make a fortune. Dated one man for 3 years, the last of which was spent trying to get rid of him as he spiraled into acute alcoholism. Oh, and got my facebook profile picture tattoed on his scrawny little atrophied thigh as a sign of his enduring albeit alcohol-soaked love for me. He died last summer (that would be the tragic part, not the comic part) and he and the tatt went into the ground,  and I could finally stop sleeping with one eye open.

Then, I dated someone for two years that I'd known in high school. Madly in love, planning on a ring at some point. Then, after hurricane Sandy, he flaked and vanished. No break up. No fight. No discussion. Poof! Gone. Carpet bombed the whole thing. Mailed my stuff to me from his house. Finis.

But my friends are fabulous, and so are my family, and I got my legs under me and have survived. I am in a great place and happy as hell. Back to snarking like a champion!

My kids are 13 and 14 now! My son is in high school! I am old but still think I am 20.

Speaking of which, went out with Toni last night and had shots and beers like a couple of 20 year olds. Hilarious. Painful getting my eyebrows waxed today but we were howling.

And how about you? How have you beeeeen?

Liza

I re-read the whole thing for typos and other unexplained madness before hitting send. And then hit the send key.

And as I did I thought that maybe I should not have. I had not seen this man in about 6 years. And in reading the summary of my life, he probably will immediately go into deep cover to avoid any further contact with me.

There is a fine line between entertainment value and scariness. I am not sure which side of the line my email fell on. I guess time will tell. And if I ever get desperate enough to go on a speed dating adventure, I should probably spend a little time re-writing my elevator speech.

Back in Time

Toni and I meander through town and talk through all that we have not discussed about Scott. All the things that we would be unlikely to discuss in front of Del. She's amazed that I have found room in my heart to have forgiven him. Frankly, so am I - but I have found that grudges keep me awake at night plotting revenge.  Forgiveness sets me free. I don't care if people think I'm foolish and prefer that I'd proceeded with castration.

We spend some time laughing about people with work with and problems we deal with at our respective offices, both of which seem to be in downtown Hell. We have always rooted for each other in our careers. We both dream of a day when we can work together again. Such great professional chemistry. We'd be hard to beat as a team. Someday.

We get to the bar and look for parking, swearing every time we think we've found a spot and it isn't one. She remembers that I am the world's best parallel parker. I promptly jump the curb. She gets out of the car and falls in a hole. I nearly pee as a result. It is exactly like when we were 22 - only we have better jewelry.

We take a seat at the bar and order three beers because as we survey the place Del comes up behind us.  The twins have a post-game social engagement and he has another hour to kill with us.

I am shocked that Toni, the light-beer or red wine only girl is not only drinking but critiquing the IPA we ordered. Del must have rubbed off on her during their marriage. I wonder what they are noticing about me. Whose influence am I wearing on my sleeve?  Lars? J.? Scott?  Am I wearing it well or are the years on my face, and is the trouble bubbling out in my sarcasm?

Del leaves eventually and we immediately traipse to the older bar next door.  It used to be our haunt back when it was the only game in town. The little old men have been replaced by college students in backwards baseball hats and young women in jeggings and heels as opposed to drinking shoes. The jukebox has given way to some complicated music streaming thing.

I go to pay a fortune for 5 songs and to pee.

I return to find that Toni has found seats for us and is seated at the far side of the bar. There are shots and beers lined up in a row in front of her and she is smiling that trouble-making smile.

We really are 22 once more. 

Preserve Your Memories, They're All That's Left You

I park and walk in hoping to not look too near-sighted and loser-ish while I find Toni and Del.

Toni darts to my side the moment I walk in. They are in the bar area among throngs of people. It is a good crowd.  They have clearly had a few belts before I arrive. And have found a few old friends of their own. Both of which warmly greet me, and in succession, buy me a decent beer. I love men for this. Girls never do that.

It is so nice to be with Toni and Del. It is like coming home. We'd met when we were young but not children.  We were at each other's weddings. Endured job changes with each other. Navigated fertility problems and new babies together. Attended our father's funerals.  We've put on a lot of miles at each other's sides.

Toni and I had run into each other at the local department store recently. She straight from the gym with no makeup on. Me straight from the track with Hil and also sweaty and sans makeup. We'd barely recognized each other. Hil had thought we were nuts.

During that brief encounter where we were both buying coffee K-cups, we'd discussed J's death, our kids academic woes, our mothers, the arrival of facial hair, and Scott having vanished. Toni had peppered the conversation with her signature wide-eyed "Shut up!" about a thousand times. Clearly we had a lot to catch up on.

When the two gentlemen friends leave and I figure out how Toni and Del manage to be out with out their twin girls, I fill in the details that I'd skipped in the Readers Digest abridged version of the Scott story.  Del makes a few kind suggestions about what might have happened. Toni is more vicious. Some men need to be castrated based on stupidity. Clearly I am a Prize. I need to be cautious and choosy and be my naturally fabulous self. I am smart and confident and I have great boobs. The world of fabulous men will stand up and take notice the minute I am on the move.

Soon enough, they have to go pick up their girls. They are at the same school event that Hil is attending. Only I have no pickup obligation.  Toni sends Del to get them and says she'll go with me to one of the four local bars near our homes.

Del agrees and Toni and I head out. And it is as if we are twenty-two again. She lights a cigarette and tells me I still have the best legs ever. I ask about her insane sister and we laugh about her particular brand of drama.  She is howling that I drive a stick shift. I am in hysterics that Del is calling on the phone for us to stop so he can get a cigarette from her and she's already spraying perfume in my car so it doesn't smell.

And as I am driving through the parking lot we are both laughing to the point of tears.

And that is the beauty of very old friends who know every beat of your heart, even when they haven't seen you in years.

Old Friends, Like Bookends

In the meantime, I spend some well deserved and much enjoyed time with old friends.

On a Friday night when I do not have my kids and Craig and I are not going to be able to connect, I text my old friend Toni.  She and I live a mere few blocks from each other and I bump into her husband more than I bump into her. Most famously, I ran into her husband the night before Christmas Eve one year while I was dating J. - at the grocery store, as he did the self check out.  I came up behind him and said, "Did you forget your Christmas goose?" and promptly goosed him, making him jump out of his skin.  We had had quite a laugh. J. - not so much. When I told him the story, with tears of laughter streaming down my face (you have to admit it was pretty darn clever) he'd thought it was the most horrifically inappropriate thing I could have done. It mocked him. It led Toni's husband on. Toni's husband Del would surely think I was a dirty slut.

WTF?  Hil was with me. It was hilarious. I'd met Del the week after Toni had. We'd been friends for years. Our children were in school together.  And it's not like I flashed him my boobs. A goose is so benign.

Anyway, back to Toni.  We hadn't been out for drinks in ages. I think the last time I was on a bar stool next to her was when I'd broken up with J. and was confiding to her that I was sure he'd be dead within a year. Perhaps that was a little bit of an exaggeration, it had taken almost two, but he'd texted me that night that he was hospitalized with a very grave prognosis. Of course he had. He'd have done anything to get my attention and my sympathy.  As if that is how you want to feel about your partner. Yeah - that'll woo me back.  Toni had taken my phone and threatened to text him something that would send him into irregular heart rhythms just to get him off my phone.

But since then we'd always missed each other. She's headed out to the pub with Del on a night when I have my kids. I invite her out for a beer and she's at the beach.  I go to the early Middle School concert, and she's gotten tickets for the late one.

So on my way to my car, I text her. "Up for a beer at the pub?"

And she replies right away that she's on her way to another place with Del. Further away, but a good place to hang. Loads of men with money for sure if I need to keep my options open.

"You are welcome to join us!!!!"

I consider my options. Surely at The Pub I'd find friends. But I may sit there uncomfortably long looking like an aging loser barfly for a bit and I'd probably lose my tolerance for that and leave before anyone remotely interesting or familiar came in.

I decide at the crossroads on the way home what I'll do. I am reasonably dressed and groomed. I need to run a comb through my hair and add a fresh swipe of lipstick. And some gum. But I am game. I'll join Toni and Del. Let the games begin. There is nothing like stepping out with a friend with whom you regularly stepped out during your Roaring Twenties.

Bring on the Tylenol.

If X, Then Y

I know I need to close the book on things with Scott. I hate loose ends. I am the type that likes to wrap things up in a bow and put it on a shelf for ever more, knowing that the box need never be opened. The details have all been wrapped up and resolved.

But since Scott has always had a magnetic pull on my heart, I need to be feeling pretty full of myself and superior to do so. That is the only way I'd be strong enough to dig in my heels if he began to try to reel me in.

I need another date. I need to nail down some plans with Craig (that's his name, Craig Reeve) and be feeling good about the possibilities before I say what I have to say. Otherwise I am doomed. Even though in my heart and soul I am confident that I will never turn around and look back in that direction. Scott has always had a way to put a whammy on this heart of mine. For decades now.

Craig and I said we'd get together again, but some time has gone by. Life has gotten in the way, and the flu. And the usual routine things that would prevent either of us from just getting up and going anywhere. (Kids, work, other plans, other obligations...the usual drill at this age)

Craig and I continue to talk all the time, and I suggest that I am open to the possibility of plans...but after a while I feel like I am nagging. Or chasing. Or some heinous combination of the two.  Such lovely qualities are bound to be lurking in the heart of the nagging chasing desperate woman.

And then out of the blue, as we head into a weekend where there is no possibility that I'd see him, he texts me a suggestion that we get together the following weekend and asks if I am available for any of it.

Of course I already have an obligation on one evening, but I tell him I am free on the other and that I'd love to see him.

And he suggests some plans. Perfect plans that I can look forward to all week.

I need to find time to get my eyebrows waxed. And my toes done.  I need to make sure that I don't inadvertently gain 20 pounds during the week. I need to make sure that my grays are covered.

And I immediately set about getting Hil to help me with outfit possibilities. I'll need to have several - right down to the shoes and jewelry until I know what we'll be doing. I don't want to show up for a dinner date and find out that we're snowboarding instead.

And as I flit around the house assembling suitable ensembles, I am planning to reply to Scott's text. Simple and short. That I really have no idea what to say to him.

Whatever Lies Behind Doors Number 1, 2, and 3

And there are moments of weakness.

Like when I am sitting at home in my pink leopard print pajamas eating Oreo Cookie ice cream and watching The Way We Were.  A classic that strikes every heartbroken, hopelessly romantic note a girl's heart beats in time with. When Katie and Hubbell embrace at the end of the film, there is so much unspoken emotion. Superior acting. You'd have to be nearly dead not to feel it. The love. The regret. The hopelessness. The electricity between them. Redford and Streisand totally nailed it. Every person in the theatre in 1973 knew exactly what they were each thinking at that moment about the way they were.

It doesn't help that that was the song Scott played in a beautiful trumpet solo in in high school. 

The whole thing sends me swirling in a blender filled with high school desperation and rabid attraction and the madness of loving having loved someone you will never be with again.

So long as I have not answered Scott's text, I can imagine a million possibilities. Like when a relationship is starting. Or starting over. There are choices to make and paths to choose.  And I wonder about the ends of the stories.  Wander down the roads not yet taken and imagine what would happen. I'd say this, he'd write that, someone might call. I diagram the whole thing out in my head. Sometimes it's how I get to sleep. Sometimes it's the thing that keeps me awake. It is a no win situation.

And so, I keep all of those possibilities alive until I am sure.

I think I am but my mettle has not been tested. I think I am sure I do not want to start a relationship of any kind with Scott.

I think I am sure that I am strong enough to resist any wooing he might do. If that's what he'd do if I opened the door. I think I am strong enough to hear what he'd have to say about what led to his leaving. I think I could dig in and stay where I am without backsliding into the pile of mush I'd been just a few weeks ago.

It helps that I have someone new to think about.

That is another situation with possibilities and paths to choose. All new and hard to predict. We barely know each other. So there are lots of possibilities for fun and for love and new experiences. And being hurt and being disappointed and being cheated on and being misled and being duped. (Since we've already established that I am not a great judge of men.)

I am at a crossroads. And I am standing completely frozen in place.

What to Do, What to Do Part 2

But there is something unfinished and nagging about just leaving the text unanswered.  Like leaving the silverware drawer open an inch.  Or the broom closet. Or the garage door. Or the toilet seat. It just isn't natural!

But I am not at all sure what to say. If there is anything to say. If there is a single syllable worth saying.

On one hand I could never say it all. And I certainly don't want to go prattling on an on with no end in sight like some lunatic on the tattered, fringed edges of what remains of my sanity, a la the jilted Mrs. Havisham sitting around in her decaying wedding dress.

Whatever it is that I decide to say, it will be too little and too much all at once.

But every so often, when I am awake in the middle of the night, or stuck in traffic, or hear a song that reminds me of him, I nearly pull out my phone and send him a reply that hits its mark.

But I don't send anything. Sometimes I type them in a note on my phone, and promise myself not to send it for one full day. Sometimes I decide that I've had a cocktail or two and no one should send a message of import or risk wrecking their life with an irreversible Texting Under the Influence violation. 

And there are times when I think, "F*** closure and the horse it rode in on. Scott didn't feel the need to close anything when he refused to reply to texts or calls or emails as I desperately clung to the few remaining shreds of our relationship as I watched it circle the drain and be gone forever. Let him sit and wonder what I'm thinking."

And that's what I do.

Until I think that he probably is too arrogant to think that I am simply not responding. Of course I'd respond. I have always responded. Always forgiven. Always accepted an invitation to talk. Always let him off the hook. Always opened my heart.  He probably thinks I blocked him on my phone. Or didn't get the text at all. I am sure he's convinced himself of that.

So eventually, I need to find something to say. Something I can live with. Something that says the most important, succinct thing I need to say. Something that says, I got your message and I do not really want any more. Something.

What to Do, What to Do?

I almost respond a few times. But I don't.

The truth is, a month earlier, this would have been the text I hoped beyond hope that I'd receive. A ray of hope that maybe my life would be restored to order. A chance to talk. To ask questions, to get answers. Maybe we'd get back together.

But too much time had gone by. Too much water over the dam.  I had had a million things I'd wanted to say and a thousand questions I'd wanted to ask. And now I just don't know.

Two months is a long time. Holidays went by.  There were events in my life that I navigated alone. I had all of those conversations I'd wanted to have with Scott with my friends and with myself.  Scott threw me into the deep end of the pool and let me figure out on my own that I could swim.  I paddled around in the swill of a wrecked relationship and eventually got my legs under me.  I spent some time with myself and with my most dreaded thoughts and fears. Wallowed. Listened to morose music. Talked through the most raw parts of the days that followed Scott's vanishing act.  And I forgave.

But I did feel like I had to tell My Date that he'd texted. It was Scott's disappearance that had brought all my friends and neighbors and acquaintances running to my side. I'd learned so much about the decency and kindness of people.

I told him matter of factly. I told him I'd be an idiot to let Scott have one more minute of my life to toy with. He said he must be an idiot based on his personal experience with me.

It felt good to disclose. It felt like a mature, thoughtful thing to do early on in any potential relationship. It was nice to hear that My Date thought Scott was a moron to walk away from me.

I just don't want there to be any doubt that my relationship with Scott is not completely in the past. No games. No nonsense. No maybes. Not. This. Time.

Say What?

I was literally shaking.

I didn't open it at first.

It could be anything.

It could be that someone was hurt or sick - someone that he'd want me to know about.
It could be that he'd finally gotten around to sending back the print I'd been asking about that he forgot to mail when he chucked all of my stuff in a box and mailed it with no note of any kind.
It could be that he left something at my house that he'd like back and wants to work out a hand off.

But I knew it would not be, no matter how much I tried to temper my visceral panic attack reaction.

"I am so sorry I threw everything away. I am a total a******."

I am in a tailspin. I really don't need the confusion of an intrusion from someone I would have followed to the moon and back just a few short weeks ago.

I start texting my girlfriends in the same groups as before. Telling them that I had a marvelous date the night before with a great guy and had Fun with a capital F and out of the blue as if on cue, Scott texted an apology laced with self loathing and remorse.

The reply is varied.  I am actually a little surprised.

Priscilla writes first. She's practical and sensible and makes heartfelt decisions. She knows that I'd loved Scott. How much he'd hurt me.

She says to play it cool. No need to respond right now. No decisions need to be made. See where things go with the new guy; he sounds promising. Keep Scott on ice. Eventually something will feel right.

My friend from college, also very thoughtful and astute, says to respond with kindness. She knows I adored Scott. Remember how I felt before.  Don't let him think he's an a******. Tell him I'd like to talk and understand what happened so we can put it behind us and see if there is something left for us to build on. 

James says that I should not, under any circumstances, for the love of God, respond in any way.  One mere sentence will give Scott the idea that the door is open to more conversation and, forgive him for saying so, he knows I will turn to mush and be back in the game, forsaking all others and getting myself hurt all over again. 

I do what I do best when I am confused and upset.

I do nothing.

Sign, Sign, Everywhere a Sign

A first date can be the beginning of something (Scott) or the end of something (Casey) or just a confusing pile of feelings and memories and road signs that seem to indicate one thing but may indicate something different or nothing at all.

It's like being in a very friendly foreign country where you can never be sure if you are getting directions to the town square or being sold a prize goat. And some people will say or do or be anything to make the sale. Buyer beware. It is kind of a buzz kill.

But since no one is going to come right out and say anything of import, or make any kind of commitments, everybody spends a lot of time looking for buying signs. Or running through a mental checklist of things we look for in a mate. Whether or not a mate is what everyone is looking for. At this age, even if there isn't a Forever After in the future, if anyone is going to make the slightest effort and give up precious moments of life investing in another person, everyone has to make some responsible decisions about the other person's worth. 

But this date, whether there is a second date or a thousand more dates or no dates, was just the thing I needed. A handsome man paying attention to me, asking meaningful questions, listening and digesting answers, flirting with me, complimenting me, making me laugh.  There is simply nothing more attractive.

When the sweetness and romance must come to an end, I am sorry to see him leave, but he'd said the magic words and asked if I'd be interested in seeing each other again.  I do my best not to show that I am practically turning a cartwheel, but make sure he knows that yes, I'd be very interested.

And then we start exchanging texts and little love notes on FB and instant messaging. I can barely take my eyes off my phone.  I could waste hours of life just looking for the little indicator light to flash.  It's insanity.

And then, as we are messaging one another. I get a message from someone else.

I am busy reading so I don't immediately see who sent it. Probably one of the girls asking for a post mortem on the date.  I can hardly wait to tell them all how fun it was.

I back up to see the list of latest messages.

Oh.

My.

Gawd.

It's from Scott.

One Down, More to Come?

This date is wonderful.

I have on The Best outfit ever, thanks to some expert fashion advice from Hil. Rich and Skinny jeans, black with a subtle gdark gray and silver snake print. They look like they were made for me.

Black, drapey, open-weave sweater with the perfect neckline. Shows a lot of collarbone but only hints at cleavage. The black camisole takes care of that. 

Outstanding jewelry.

New matching bra and panties. Nothing like a fabulous foundation to boost a girls confidence. And boost the girls as well.

The shoes were the hardest decision. I chose a pair of black heeled booties that would not interfere with the narrow cuffs of the skinny cut of the pants. I had considered some very pointy calf high boots but Hil had said they looked like I could hurt someone with them. Probably not a good idea to wear a pair of shoes that inspires a man to imagine being kicked in the crotch with them. At least on the first date.

We head out to a local pub to finally get to know each other a little better. We start with some basic foundational information.  We ask about kids and jobs and family pecking order and people we have in common and things we've discussed recently.  Fill in the background. Add to the foreground. I no longer feel like I am out with a complete stranger. A complete stranger who knows more about my breakup with Scott than he does about me.

And then the fun begins. Two drinks in we decide to head to a local microbrewery with an eclectic staff and hipster vibe. 

And I can't remember ever being more at ease so soon on a first date.  We laugh. We ask questions. We listen to answers. We laugh some more. We share a lot of information about ourselves in little stories and tales from our lives. We share a sandwich.  We share a few laughs that will become inside jokes we'll be laughing about for years to come.

It feels like a years to come kind of thing.

Pace yourself, Liza. It's a first date.