Sunday, July 10, 2005

for my Mme.

Tonight, in the space between the wide banks of flourescent lights and the taupe streaked linoleum flooring, there was me and Mme. Grape Leaf folding warm laundry at the Thrifty Wash laundramat.

As I matched socks and she smoothed out towels, we taked about the aftermath of our relationships--the part where The Boy truly becomes The Ex. The part where there is The New Girl, who is not you.

When B found someone new, it was a mere seven days after our break-up. "This one's special," he told me.

It was the same thing he had said about me when we first met, and the thought of the analogy made me squirm.

A few weeks later, he UN-invited me to a wedding of some friends (who were his, but also mine I think, as a function of spending time with them as B's girlfriend) to take The New Girl, instead. It was this UN-invitation that finally spiraled into the conversation that ended our attempts at friendship.

It isn't so much that I now want to be with B. But I wasn't ready--perhaps still am not ready--for B to be kissing a New Girl. I thought about them going to this wedding, her sitting in my seat, chatting with my friends, eating my chicken. Eating MY chicken. And I felt... displaced. As if this New Girl was living the life that was mine. That I was only a small piece of a machine--perhaps a faulty piece--that had been replaced, fixed. The machine runs just fine without me now. And maybe it shouldn't, but the fact that the machine is humming along, it makes me mad.

Beave says that my mission this year should be to "not take things personally that aren't." In this case, this mission has been particularly hard. I was to find out later that this level of serial monogamy is really B's M.O.--that B has not been single for more than a week since high school. Yes, high school. So it isn't personal--this New Girl. Though I didn't know it at the time, I was once The New Girl, to someone else. But I have yet to fully translate this information into something less personal, less mad. I am still angry. I have dreams, sometimes, where I yell.

To the someone else before me, I wish I could apologize. I think maybe only she (and I) really know why.

At a barbeque with friends this weekend, Mme. Grape Leaf watched her Boy frolick with his New Girl in their old swimming pool.

"That's where WE used to swim and play," she said, a little sadly.
"She's eating your wedding chicken," I said.
"Yeah, she's eating my chicken."

There isn't really a happy way to end this post. There's no sense in being mad about not having what you said you didn't want in the first place. And no sense in saying that just because YOU don't want it, doesn't mean you were ready for HER to have it. The most stupid part about loving someone (or even having loved them) is that it just hardly ever makes sense at all.

posted by m at 11:11 PM



Friday, July 08, 2005

the strange lives we lead.

Had dinner with my friend TM last night at the beer garden on the roof of the New Otani in J-Town. TM may be the only person on the planet to disappear to Burkina Faso for two years, and return irrefutably and wonderfully, gay. We grilled little bits of meat and vegetables and exclaimed over our love lives and gossiped about ourselves in tragic terms for the better part of two hours.

In the meanwhile, the New Otani was hosting a bizzare rooftop kimono club fashion show. Which meant that TM--who is addicted to his Blackberry--was to partake in this exchange:

Mike: where u at?
TM: im at a japanese fashion show, drinking a 40.
Mike: i think that may be the strangest thing you've ever said.

We lead strange lives, indeed.

posted by m at 11:39 AM



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