Downtime

Let's rewind a minute. We derailed the train and took off down Memory Lane (which runs through some pretty bleak terrain, I must say) way back around the time of my first, and hopefully my only, visit to the Office of the Unwashed Masses.  We have to board the train and put it back on the tracks.  There is lots of ground to cover.

So, at the time of my sojourn into Hell Itself for my eye-opening and eye-stinging visit to the Office of the Unwashed Masses, I had lots of job prospects and a lot of enthusiasm. And I had not yet begun to have beads of sweat form on my brow over money worries. I was going to play it safe, be responsible, make my money last for me.  I would not be running out to buy new sandals and bathing suits en masse, but my lifestyle and the lifestyle the kids enjoy would not really feel the squeeze in any palpable way.  OK, maybe we won't eat out at all, but why would we?  I'm home all day!  I have all the time in the world to prepare lovely, mouthwatering, world class meals!

But I do discontinue having my groceries delivered. It's not that the delivery fee and tip are back breaking. It is just that it is hard to justify the luxury when I have all damn day to shop and put away groceries. And besides, the new grocery store in the area has a Beer Garden (What??????) and gives you discounted gas prices based on your spending.  So if I can brace myself for the Hell that is grocery shopping with a pre-game beer, avoid a trip to the beer distributor AND get 20 cents off my gas price, why would I spend money to sit on my ass and have the groceries delivered?  That will be the carrot dangling at the end of my job search. 

So I search. Everyday. All the job boards, all the employers I have heard are looking for people who do what I do. (Or do what I did.) All the headhunters I know have been sent my resume.

And I network. They say that it is not what you know but who you know (which I really hope is not the case for a lot of industries, like Brain Surgery) so I connect with former colleagues. It is not enough to know a lot of people who can assist your search. They have to know you are searching. So I dial for dollars. Make small talk, ask for help.

And even with all of this searching and applying and submitting and following up and interviewing and contacting old contacts in good places, I am left with far too many hours in the day for any sane person to possibly contend with. 

So I decide something. I decide that I have absolutely no excuse for not having the cleanest house on the block, the most finely manicured yard, and the fittest physique on any 40-something in the Tri-State area.

Now, how to make that happen...

For Shore

A few days later, I have the good fortune to be invited to join my dear friend Caren at the giant shore house she has rented with her husband. And her children. And his children. And those children's husbands, and wives, and children, and boyfriends, girlfriends, and assorted bridal party members.  Did I mention that the house is enormous? 

Caren and I are old friends. We met when I was in Drill Team and she was in the Rifle Squad.  Her best friend, who became my good friend, Sally, had a locker next to Scott's.  The entanglements are long and complicated. Let's just say, there are no strangers among us.

Caren and her husband Joe are great people with big hearts and big appetites for fun and games. I offer to bring dinner. They tell me wine or beer or both would be better. I am overly obliging. It's going to be a wild three days.

And why not?  I am not working and have no interviews to conflict with the little sojourn.  I pack some fun clothes, a few bikinis, lots of sunscreen and my little job search notebook so I am not caught with my panties around my ankles if one of the nameless, faceless HR people from one of the hundreds of job applications I've submitted half-heartedly sends up a flair of good will.

Caren and I do what we've been doing all summer. Soak up the sun (though usually it is while standing in the waist-deep end of her pool) drink wine (though we are far less concerned about blood alcohol levels since no one is even leaving the porch, let alone getting in a car) and catch up on our lives (though mine has more highs, lows and hairpin turns than hers).

We share secrets. We laugh at our new "old age" habits (Hers is a sleep mask. Mine is incessant moisturizing.) We fill in gaps since the last hilarious chat. My job hunt. My man hunt. My kids and their climb into teenagedom.

I tell her about the message from Scott. I also tell her that her husband Joe thinks I should just search my soul and if I can still feel anything toward Scott, just cut the crap and let him back in my life. We were in love once. We'd remember how it felt and be married by Christmas. Has so much changed?

She nearly huffs wine out of her nose and looks around as if she's looking for something heavy to hurl at him.  She's making that "Are you an asshole?" face at him.  He's not even on the porch. It is a remote telepathic thing only spouses enjoy. Somehow, telepathically, he knows he was smacked upside his head.

I tell her what I told Joe. There have been so many wonderful people who I already have in my life, why would I choose someone who treated me so poorly for the coveted position on my arm forever more?  Friends treat me better. Acquaintances have been kinder and more concerned about my well being. Strangers have heaped praise upon me. Why spend time with someone by whom I will always be reminded that when the going got tough, he bit his nails down to nubs and went scampering off to hide, whimpering and afraid to speak? 

I tell her about the older man I met at a local pub who described me as "the only lady on the pirate ship" and who found me so charming and disarming he offered genuine help in networking for a new job.  And the man at Girls Weekend (we've not covered that yet, friends, but we will!) who kept telling me I was "delightful." Joy and I had howled with laughter about that. Oh yes, I am a delight alright. You just ask anyone.  Give me a minute and a few other D words will come to mind. Drunk. Disorderly. Deranged.  Disheveled. Maybe even Douchebag. You never know which direction the evening will go. 

Caren has the perfect reply for Scott. One word. "Delightful."  Only she and I will know the joke behind it.  He'll be confused. And maybe just astute enough to know that the message has more than one meaning.

I am delightful. I am.  My life is delightful. And other people find me so, as well. Too bad you let me out of your sight. But there I will stay.

Delightful. Send.

And The Winner Is...

Am I ok?

Am I ok?

Am I ok?

The possible replies are endless. Or is it more accurate to say that the possible retorts are endless.

Who wants to know?

Who is this please?

I'm ok, you're ok. I'm My Own Best Friend. Yes, I Can.  (quoth Rosanne Rosannadanna). 

Compared to you, I'm fabulous. 

Thank you for your concern. Now, fuck off, please.

I am not completely sure why this simple question touched my shredded nerve ending with a hot poker, but it did. I literally slammed my iPhone down, screen first, on the night table.

Note to self:  Slamming one's iPhone, face up or face down, accomplishes absolutely nothing of value. No one knows you did so but you (and maybe a couple of observant house cats) and thanks to the 3 pound protective rubber casing, it is wholly unsatisfying, even from an auditory standpoint. Slamming should sound like flying bowling pins. 

Haven't I been clear about the way I feel?  Haven't I expressed that there is no hope of reconciliation and even dimmer chances of friendship?  (Why so maybe someday I can sit with Craig in the church pew while he marries the reasonably cute 20 year old from the Animal Shelter where he got his 27th dog?)

What I want to say is this:  "You lost your right to even inquire about my well being when you vanished last year. So until such time when you stumble across my name in the Obituaries, assume that everything is hunky-fucking-dory, pal."

But I don't. I need to consult with my friends. This has got to stop.  Evidently my tactics have all met with failure. I need another plan.  Please, lets pull the coven together and come up with a carpet bomb reply.

The Subtext Of That Text Is Contested

So a few weeks go by. And he sends another one, just when I've convinced myself that he's taken the hint and ceased. And desisted, for good measure.

An early morning text.  One that comes at 5:30 in the morning.  Only two entities are permitted to text at that hour. Family reporting the untimely and unexpected demise of another family member, and your lover. The dawn's early light should be used only to read the tragic "Don't go to work, so-and-so's carcass needs to be retrieved from the sewer pipe today" messages and the often flirtatious, always fabulous "Good morning beautiful, wish my head were on your pillow" messages.  No other messages are welcome at that hour.

He says he thinks of me often and imagines me with a big smile on my face. He hopes everything is great in my life and wishes me a great day. XO

And again I don't answer.


The text from Scott sits there festering like moldy tub of cottage cheese. Gaseous. Stinking. Ready to explode.


And in the meantime there was a storm.  A big one.  And Hil was worried about Scott and the girls. The last big doozy was the catalyst for his meltdown.  Or so I'd assumed. It also handed the East Coast some of the worst devastation we'd seen in decades.  They even have an annoying little jingle about rebuilding that sends me into fits of rage every time I hear it, in a Pavlovian way.

So as I am prone to do, after a night of wine and Facebooking and blogging and movie watching, I replied. Someone really needs to invent a Breathalyzer for one's phone to prevent such things from happening. The mere whiff of Chardonnay and the texts go into a holding pattern until the person is sober enough to make a competent, thoughtful decision about sending the boozy rants which are undoubtedly riddled with typos and brimming with emotions no one ever hauls out in polite company.

"Scott - It isn't that I don't think about you. I do. And the kids were worried about you during the storm last week. It is just that there is too much that I can not reach past. So this has to stop."

Or something like that. I've erased it.  Again, no need to keep a souvenir from the relationship.  I've also pitched the cards and notes I'd so carefully collected when he'd left them for me in my car or under my pillow or in my lunch bag. I am not sure I even have any pictures left. Our relationship is over and there will be no shrine, thank you.

And since then I've continued to distance myself.  Meet other people. Create a social life for myself. Check for wedding bands on hands of nice men I meet. Keep my heart open to possibilities. Including Craig.  So far all the people I meet seem to serve only one purpose, and that is to make Craig seem more appealing, however hopeless the prospect may appear to be at any given moment. I don't want to get old with nothing more to show for it than a really good friend that I see 10 times a year, even if marriage is off the Bucket List for good.

And Scott sends a random text every once in a while. A simple hello or something similar.  All of which are ignored. (As Priscilla's voice echoes in my head, "Do. Not. Engage!")

And then he sends me one that sends me sailing over the edge of reason.

"Hi, Liza. Are you okay?

What Would I Say?

So where were we when this little schlep down memory lane began?  Oh, yes. Scott's last unanswered text.

I did not answer because I could not. It was a running-on-one's-sword, cards-on-the-table sort of text. He'd loved seeing me. The short encounter had made him miss me even more. He had really hoped I'd come back to hug and kiss him.

I could not tell whether that last line pertained to my return from the Office of the Unwashed Masses or was a more general statement. Some romantic notion that I'd searched the world over for him so I could fall into his arms a live Happily Ever After, some cosmic force having once again pushed us together. (Those cosmic forces have some great pranks...)

Not unlike my friend Jane who I'd had to unfriend and block, he seemed to take every contact as a new opportunity.  A cosmic message from the world that we were meant to be together. Though I trust his intentions were purer of heart than Jane's. Jane was a double agent observing and reporting for her own benefit and at everyone else's expense. Scott really just wanted me back. In some way.

And even though it is not even a remote consideration, people have asked me if it is a possibility. (At least those who have not threatened to throw a net over my head and drag me off in the direction of the nearest Booby Hatch do) And I can truthfully say it is not. No way, Jose.  Hit the road, Jack. The line forms on the right, babe. No, going back to Scott is not an option.

But think about it. What would that look like?  It would be a two-week courtship (not unlike those he was a proud proponent of in high school).  And it would end badly. Very badly.

• We'd reunite.
• In a matter of days he'd recall in living color whatever it was that gave him the vapors and made him run for the fire exit in the Fall. (Oh! Right, right, right, right....).
• In those same days, he'd compare unfavorably to nearly every kind, mature, educated, successful, attentive, fascinating, communicative man I've spent even a minute with in the last few months, and I'd be making excuses. ("Sorry, can't see you tonight...I promised I'd take a class with my elderly neighbors on 1,000 uses for your used candles and bars of soap.") 
• We'd decide we don't really like each other and vanish from each others lives again. Why bother with the litmus test?

OR

• We'd reunite
• Panicking, and vowing never to let me get away again, he'd race to the jeweler and get a ring, on Beyonce's sage advice. 
• And he'd find some cute, adorable, hard to refuse way to give it to me. This time, I am the one with the vapors.
• And I'd refuse anyway, because he compares unfavorably to nearly every kind, mature, educated, successful, attentive, fascinating, communicative man I've spent even a minute with in the last few months
• And a dozen YouTube moments would follow, the final one featuring me peeling away from the curb in front of his house with him hanging onto the bumper of my car.
• Not pretty.

So, no. I don't answer. There really isn't anything to say that isn't hurtful or even hateful. Silence will say it all more effectively. And perhaps less harshly.

Missed Messages

I had a blast at the wedding. My friends and other guests made me nearly forget that my man had:

- Blown me off
- Not called
- Not apologized
- Shown no remorse
- Not cared for a moment that he was sending me off to a beautiful, fancy occassion without him, running the risk of some predatory man sweeping out onto the dance floor, off my feet, and out of his life (maybe not all at once---but perhaps with sustained effort...)

Had I not been so crushed by the slight -- or heaping pile of slights -- I might have thought more in those terms. Ya know, love the one you're with.

But I am more loyal than that. I'd never bolt from anything meaningful like my relationship with Scott without talking through things first.

Had I only known that he had no such notions himself. Fewer than three months later, I'd be swirling in bewilderment and grief when he drove a backhoe into our relationship and sped off without so much as a glance in his rear view mirror. It's hard not to now view the entire relationship through shit-colored glasses.

But I do know better. But only because I knew Scott for decades and knew how deeply he loved and how he'd handled matters of the heart in the past. How he treated departures when he was a young man. My mistake had not been to have gotten involved. It was to have let myself be convinced he'd ever be different.

Given that understanding, I am convinced that my convictions now are correct. On point. Accurate.

He loved me once. He may still love me. He flaked. That is all.

But flaking is not okay. Fifteen year olds flake. Fifty year-olds don't...or should know how not to. You know, a little self control. A little ownership. A little responsibility to another person.

So having flaked is the kiss of death for Scott. He obviously had something he needed to say and didn't. He was overwhelmed by something and could not find a way to manage to collect himself sufficiently to articulate his fear. He bolted rather than have to step up into the ring.

And so the past being the best predictor of the future, I have to say he's a bad risk. He couldn't manage to have a meaningful conversation about the direction our relationship was taking. What if I got cancer? What if Someone had some real tragedy to deal with? Would he be a man or a paper tiger?

Survey says!.......

Paper tiger.

And so my mind remains made up.

I Will Survive!

In survival mode, I resorted to the tactics I'd employed as a Miserable Wife. When Lars had acted horribly, had embarrassed me, had disparaged me in public, had humiliated me, I'd smiled and carried on. Why let the habitual grouch ruin every joyful moment in my life with his inexcusable behavior?  Why let anyone rain on my parade?  Why forgo all that is important to me and wallow in self-pity when I could smile and laugh and enjoy myself?  If Lars - and now Scott - wanted to marinate in their own pathetic, insecure cess pools of social isolation and misery, I had no need to dive in and join them.  I'd thrown a life line. If they chose not to grab the monkey fist, fuck 'em.

I parked my car practically giddy with anticipation.  This was going to be a fun event, in spite of the baggage I'd dragged along in the trunk of my car. My dress was perfection. My hair was sexy.  My perfume divine. My legs rivaled Tina Turner's. 

I walked with my pretty clutch and my envelope to find the mother and father of the bride.  Placing the envelope in Dad's hands, he led me by my other hand to a gaggle of men at the the beer tent. Introduced me to them all and asked the bartender to treat me like royalty. The stage was set.

But when I caught up with the MOB and our other dear  friend from High school, they both immediately knew something was not quite right. My smile betrayed me.  They asked questions.

I matter of factly explained Trudy's flair up and Scott's need to care for her. And then explained less matter of factly how it had all happened. The MOB rolled her eyes and shook her head on her way to the Wine Bar.

The other friend took my face in her hands and looked into my eyes and said, "I know."

She knew. She knew what I was thinking.

She knew that I was thinking that the ghost had been given up. In one small tip of the hand, Scott had shown me his soul.

The handsome 18 year old who had dated his way across three counties in two states had not evolved into a charming man with the maturity and depth to carry a long term relationship with someone as soulful and sincere as me.

He was still the same 18 year old, with the same immaturity and the same inability to have a meaningful conversation about anything that actually matters. When push came to shove, he'd push his way out.

And again, as in so many instances with Lars and with J. I was all dressed up with no man on my arm, no one to dance with, and no one to call my own.