My life is—literally—an open book. In my book, in this blog and in my published essays, I offer first-person accounts of my observations, feelings, adventures… and relationships. As I mentioned on Saturday, when you’ve created a public persona as I have, a certain degree of accountability comes with the territory; readers follow you because they’re interested in your life, and so you can’t put stuff out there and just let it hang.
So, what the hell happened between me and beloved boyfriend? Hmmm…. You know how you can be with someone and things are sucking and you’re both miserable and you’re in the “relationship hospice” for what seems to be forever and then you just can’t take the agony anymore and so finally you just pull the goddamn plug?
That wasn't the case with us. It was more like there were some smoldering embers that suddenly burst into wildfire and before we knew it, the whole freakin' forest had burned to a crisp.
The point of combustion occurred a couple of weeks ago. I had two free tickets to see Gladys Knight at the Orleans. Do you want to go with me? Sure. We have to pick up the tickets between 6:30 and 7:00--do you want to go to dinner beforehand? Sounds good. Do you want to pick me up at 5:15? Yep.
You see, I ‘m a planner. If my boyfriend is picking me up at 5:15, I start the beautification process around 4:30 so I have plenty of time to shower, do my makeup and pick out a slenderizing outfit that I think he’ll like. As you know, I’d make a terrible feminist. I think women should look good when they go out; a man likes to show off the babe on his arm. (Another reason why I'm not on board with the "formerly hot" concept--what guy wants to be with a woman who considers herself "formerly" hot?)
Anyway, I had on this cute little red dress--the one in this picture--and was ready and waiting at 5:15. And at 5:20. And at 5:25. At 5:30, I call him. He's at a Mensa friend's house, all caught up in one of those dorky freakin' Dungeons and Dragons-type games. He'll be right there. Sure enough, he was at my door by quarter to six, but by then I was seething.
You see, I’m a punctual type. Unlike beloved boyfriend, I like to be on time. If I have an obligation with someone at a specified time, I make every effort to be there and I freak out if I think I'm going to be late. To me, tardiness--yes, I just used the word "tardiness" and I'm not even a school teacher--is a sign of disrespect. It's a passive-aggressive way of saying, "You're not that important to me." I value my time, and I especially value my free time since I spend so many of my waking hours sitting in a gray cubicle. I think we should respectful of other people's time.
Let me tell you that beloved boyfriend messed up on the time the night before, too, and I ended up going to a comedy show by myself. Same thing with an event at the library a couple of weeks before--he forgot all about it, didn't answer his phone when I called, and so I went alone. So yeah, when I opened the door that Saturday night I was ready to bite his freakin' head off, and when I saw him standing there in the same jeans and gray t-shirt he had on all day, all I could think of was the old Mystery Date game from the '60s and I got the dud.
I simply rolled my eyes, gave him the Fran Drescher "hand," and shut the door.
So yeah, I was pissed at him for (yet again) screwing up on the time and he was pissed that I closed the door in his face and then I was pissed for a million other reasons that I won't get into but believe me they're good, and the bottom line is I haven't seen him since. We talked on the phone for an hour and a half this past Sunday night and we're both open to negotiations, but we're also both stubborn as hell, so no guarantees on whether we'll ultimately decide to rebuild.
Of course, I went to see Gladys Knight anyway. Of course, before the show I met an Irish guy named Sean from New York who lives in Vegas now, and of course, he gave me his number in case I ever want to hang out. He was really nice, but I don't think I'll be calling him. I could use a little break from boys. Stupid boys.