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Dating Diary:
The break-up artist...
Dear Diary,
WHERE WERE WE?
I think one of the reasons why I liked the television show “Felicity” so much is because every time Felicity and Ben broke up, which was always once a season, their break-up scenes were so heart wrenchingly bittersweet that I couldn’t help but pine away for a love that strong – a love that could survive a pregnant ex-girlfriend, a sexual indiscretion with an old flame, and about twenty break-ups that often left one or more people awake at 3:00 AM, staring at the wall while emo rock played quietly in the background.As a teenager, this was the epitome of what a break-up was supposed to be: moody music, unrequited love, and occasional drunken confessions in the rain. I now know that this is just romanticizing something that goes beyond the fantasies of television shows and romantic movies-of-the-week. That was everything that I wanted in a break-up, because it was so deliciously passionate and tragic. But I think I was just kidding myself.
I think I was seventeen when I had one of the biggest relationship revelations of my life: I was a hit-and-run lovah.
In case you’re wondering if you know or have come in contact with a hit-and-run lovah, here are the warning signs: a hit-and-run lovah is prone to romantic whims and seems fairly sane; he or she will seem open to dating and getting to know people, but will clam up in a short time and leave you wondering what went wrong.
My patterns were too obvious to go unnoticed. I would casually date someone, find something disconcerting about the relationship, and be single again in two weeks’ time. Once I had this discovery, I wondered what it actually meant about myself. Was I:
a) a commitment phobe
After some thought, I decided that I was:
b) a thrill “seeker” who loved the chase more than the relationship
c) a big ol’ ho
d) a nutjob with intimacy issues
e) unusually and anally picky
f) destined to die alonea) not afraid of commitment because I believed in monogamy and was very good at keeping hobbies
And definitely lying to myself along the way.
b) definitely a thrill “seeker,” but also capable of liking what came after the chase
c) not a big ol’ ho…I think I don’t need to elaborate on that one
d) perhaps nuts, but not afraid to be intimate
e) perhaps the opposite of unusually and anally picky, which probably led me to date around because I would accept dates with little beforehand knowledge of the person, outside of his name and what he looked like in indoor lighting; second dates were automatically awarded to those who didn’t try to kill me or sell me Amway
f) perhaps destined to die aloneIn my single teen years, I reverted back and forth between bouts of insane happiness while I watched my friends tackle the maddening intricacies of high school boys, and bouts of insane sadness and yearning while I watched my friends run off with their boyfriends, with an, “I’ll call you!” tossed over their retreating form. But as soon as I was the one dating, all the longing would disappear and I’d be wondering what I was doing skipping class to hang out with someone I didn’t really like. Before I knew it, I was on the “run,” avoiding phone calls, dodging him between classes, and making excuses as to why we couldn’t hang out on the weekend. A short while later, and usually cornered, I would shamefacedly tell him that it was better off as a platonic relationship – something I knew I should have done from the start.
I had my first hit-and-run break-up in the eighth grade with a boy named Sam. Sam was a really shy and quiet boy with braces who uttered a total of three words to me when I met him. He hung out with a friend’s crush, so every time we went out of our way to stalk him, Sam would be there. Even though I didn’t really know Sam all too well, my hunches said that he was a very sweet boy. After a week of dating in junior high land, which means that we saw each other at lunch and he occasionally walked me to my class in total silence, I didn’t feel it – I was young, and I didn’t know what “it” would feel like, but I knew that my totally platonic relationship wasn’t exactly going to be fodder for a Sweet Valley High book. Unfortunately, my revelation couldn’t have come at a worst time – the school dance was only a week away, and it had been implied that Sam and I would go and sway to cheesy 90’s pop together. On the day of the dance, Sam surprised me with a very cute stuffed fluffball. I took it and ran off to class, and efficiently avoided him for the rest of the day. Later, when we could hear the loud bass emanating from the auditorium, it was time to lay it out. I can’t remember the specifics of the conversation, but I do recall that after it went down, I returned to the auditorium and proceeded to dance the rest of the afternoon away while Sam sat in a corner and sulked, mentally picturing himself throwing the stuffed fluffball at my head repeatedly.
This incident would only serve to lay out my stellar track record for the next ten years. In high school, I dated my cousin’s friend, who was fittingly nicknamed “Garfield” because, as he loved to admit, he was lazy and liked to eat lasagna all day. (My preference for his nickname would have been “Niagara Falls,” if only to describe his kissing style.) My cousin hinted that I was better off without Garfield, but being a bratty fifteen year old who despised anyone telling her what to do, I didn’t listen. Desperate to prove to myself that I didn’t have intimacy issues, I tried to stick it out with Garfield. This resolve lasted a whole month before the break-up bug bit me. It was around the time that we went to watch Pitch Black, and in the darkened theatre my resolve grew stronger. This was no doubt aided by Garfield’s mauling and constant need for some lip action, which always ended with me wiping gallons of saliva off my chin. Shortly after, Garfield and I were no longer an item, and he took it pretty well considering it was done over the phone and I was a complete coward about it.
Soon after Garfield came “Lucky,” another one of my cousin’s friends. I don’t know why Lucky was named as he was, but it certainly didn’t have anything to do with the ladies. (And if you’re wondering if my cousin suddenly became my pimp, this was not the case, for he warned me again that I should not be dating Lucky either; whether it was because Lucky turned out to be an inane, juvenile guy or my cousin knew that I would just end up doing another hit-and-run is up for discussion. And, as much as I hate to admit it, my cousin was right about both things.) After six on- and off-again months of a very turbulent relationship that went as far as phone hang-ups and frenzied fights, it was time to let it go. I told Lucky that we shouldn’t be dating. He took it well, considering that he didn’t really understand what I was saying. A week later, he called me and insisted that he was still my boyfriend. When I told him otherwise, he asked me to get back together with him, and then promptly hung up on my ass when I refused. This cycle went on for a couple of weeks. It was during this “break” period that Lucky supposedly fooled around with an acquaintance of mine, and I found out through a friend. When I spoke to Lucky, he obviously didn’t mention it, and once again asked me if I would wear his pin. Unbeknownst to him, this was not going to happen, but I led him to believe it was. I decided to meet up with him to confront him face-to-face about the latest developments in his sex life. We met at a park near my house, and he showed up wearing his best Helly Hansen and toting a single rose and a picture taken from his old driver’s license. As soon as we converged on a sunny nook, I started berating him for his one night in heaven. Even though it seriously was none of my business, it did hurt to know that he was pining away for me but getting his jollies from someone else, even if we were in every-sense-of-the-word broken up. He tried to deny it, I didn’t believe it, and then I took his rose and threw it on the ground along with his picture (I didn’t stomp on these, but it’s good to know that I’m still as dramatic as I was ten years ago). I stormed off, and that was the last of Lucky and me. In retrospect, I was probably glad that he did what he did, because it effectively gave me a way out of the relationship without resorting to the “It’s not you, it’s me” shtick that never works.
After a series of short and disastrous relationships in high school, I was still doing my hit-and-runs. It was always the inevitable and dreaded talk that led me to go into hiding for days; the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t understand why we weren’t clicking, even though these were perfectly nice guys. The anxiety of potentially hurting someone, of letting someone for even a moment think that they did something wrong – it probably led to the most devious plans I could come up with in order to have the boys break up with me instead. There was Arwin (three weeks), who once took me down to the basement stairwell and gave me one of my first real kisses; I purposely picked a fight with him and it ended quickly and painlessly. And then there was Mike (two weeks), who asked me out on a subway car and then continued our blossoming relationship by only speaking to me briefly between classes. I knew very little of Mike, even after we were officially “dating,” so that wasn’t going to go anywhere. I found out that Mike was having some trouble at school with a rival group of guys and had actually “hired” some of his friends as bodyguards, which was both scary and stupid. That’s when I decided to let Mike know that I had a crazy ex-boyfriend who was still quite possessive and foolishly jealous, and that Mike should be careful. Of course, this was a total fabrication of my imagination, but it didn’t stop me from asking Lucky to come down to school to visit me so that I could make sure that Mike saw me canoodling with someone who could potentially be crazy. A couple of days later, Mike broke up with me.
Even though I knew that there was something wrong and that I should rethink my whole dating plan, it took a while for me to spring into action. A relationship with B. that lasted through my last year of high school was a good indication that I wasn’t a commitment phobe, had intimacy issues, or attracted guys who were gluttons for punishment. On the other hand, a relationship with the Devil’s Spawn that almost lasted as long left me wondering if perhaps I was the glutton for punishment – if I purposefully dated guys who were all wrong for me because I was afraid to get close to anyone, which would be the kind of closeness that would lead to 3:00 AM reflections with an emo rock soundtrack.
After the Devil’s Spawn, I stayed single for two years and again went back and forth between feelings of complete independence, freedom and grrl power, and Bridget Jones-type fears of being eaten alive by Alsatians. I reverted back to my hit-and-run lovah attitude and went out with guys here and there, always cutting it off by the second week because there was something off, like the fact that he called constantly, or didn’t call enough, or didn’t share his Doritos with me and I was starving and we hadn’t eaten anything in ten hours, or automatically thought I was into phone sex by our second conversation. This time, though, I was a little better at being honest and upfront; in other words, I no longer hatched schemes in my basement to try to make him break up with me instead because I was afraid that if I broke it off, it would confirm that there was something wrong with me.
I think it took these two years by myself to finally delve deep into my neurotic tendencies and get to the root of my perceived aversion to commitment. Even though I loved watching “Felicity” and the romantic turmoil of its main protagonist, a part of me didn’t want to go through what she went through; it made for good television, but as a real life event, it could be devastating. As a result, I was dating perfectly nice guys that I knew were not going to be my soulmate. And once I could admit this to myself, I knew that if it meant potentially meeting someone who was going to be, I was willing to put it all in – including staying awake at 3:00 AM listening to emo rock and wondering what he’s doing.
I kept myself guarded by making safe choices, and turning away before it became too complicated. Because everyone loves a little introspection once in a while, I took my time being single to find myself. And when that happened, I knew that I would be more confident in my future choices. ¤ C.Ho.
Next Month: Christine tracks Sam down and buys him a stuffed fluffball so that he can throw it at her head repeatedly, to make up for callous junior high transgressions on her part.