Date #9

Date #9 was the date I went on before I got dumped. He asked to meet me for coffee at the Starbucks by my apartment.

I breezed through the doorway. I had walked there and I was a few minutes late.

"Hey," waved a man in the corner.

I had blown right by him. Normally I'm a champ at matching someone's picture to the actual person, but this time I failed miserably. I looked at him, puzzled. Clearly he wasn't here to meet me.

"I know, I shaved," he said.

Noooo, that wasn't it. The reason I didn't recognize him wasn't because Date #9 had shaved off his beard. It was because he was about five inches shorter than he said he was in his profile and his hairline was about three inches further back. And I'm being kind in overlooking the fact he had to be at least 30 pounds heavier. I was victim of the old bait and switch.

He paid for my small coffee "because that's how [he] roll[s]," and we walked upstairs to the seating area. I resumed the date, trying to ignore the fact he misrepresented himself and reminded me of the Gingerbread Man. I have a step-brother who is smaller than me with a hairline that's about three inches back, and he's a kind and generous person. I wanted to give this guy a shot. He has a nice smile, even though his teeth are really tiny, and he has an expressive face.

But the conversation kept circling on how down he is on society. He went to a private high school and told me how much better and more well-rounded he was than his classmates. He was also offended I had grown up in the area and had never heard of his private high school, but of all of the surrounding ones. And why are we spending this much time talking about high school? You know who talks about high school? People who don't go to college.

We talked about work. He used to be in radio before he quit to start his post-baccalaureate pre-med program. Now he's part-timing at some foam manufacturer that makes sex toys. I try to hang in there, revealing that in college I worked at an inbound telemarketing company and I sometimes handled the customer-service calls for those herbal supplement sex aids offered in the back of a magazine.

Then, I can't figure out the transition, but he starts ripping on high-functioning autistic people, which segues into how he had a psychiatrist—not a therapist, but a psychiatrist—because he had a clinical onset of depression at a pre-pubescent age. And now we've full circled back to high school because when everyone else became angsty teenagers who listened to Korn and Nine Inch Nails, he felt like he couldn't conform and listen to the same music because his depression was so much more profound than theirs.

I uncrossed my legs and stood up. "Welp! Look at the time! I gotta go to Walmart and pick up my drugs before it closes."

"Drugs?" he said, LIKE I'M THE ONE WITH THE PROBLEMS. "Ha, I don't even know how we got on that conversation."

True Story.

Living Underwater

I'm glad to be back at work and resuming some normalcy today. I spent the last few days feeling like I was living underwater: everything I did was slower and took more effort. Everything is met with resistance.

Friday night my friends drug me out to happy hour. I showed up in what I wore to work: blue jeans, a red hoodie, a puffy face and my hair pulled back by a headband. There's a guy in our group that we don't see much because he's constantly working out of town. He was Helen's boyfriend for five years until they split last year and Helen dropped off the face of the earth, never to be heard from again. We got him in the "divorce."

"I haven't seen you since Friendsgiving," I said.

"Yeah I heard you went and got a boyfriend," he said.

"Ah, well, he wasn't my boyfriend and he dumped me last night. It's a shame too because we were all talking about how you two would have gotten along together."

"What? You think I'm mentally retarded?" he asked, playfully offended.

"No?"

"You think there's something wrong with me?"

"No?"

"Then why would you think I would get along with this guy that dumped you?"

Ah, he was implying that Valdosta was dumb for getting rid of me. I laughed. I have really, really great friends.

Saturday was Katie's Around the World party. Everyone brings a shot, and a station and activity is set up in every room. The group then visits each room of the house, taking the shot and performing the activity, like a game of Twister. I had been looking forward to the party, but now I was dreading it. If I drink, I'll get tipsy. If I get drunk, then I'll cry. Drinking = tears, therefore I didn't want to drink.

I walked in the house late. Those who weren't at happy hour immediately noticed I looked devastated and asked why. I pulled Katie in the room and made her tell them. If I say the words, then I'll cry. Katie gave a nice, perfunctory summary and everyone surrounded me and hugged me. Then they grabbed the strawberries filled with amaretto and shoved four of those in my mouth. And then a jello shot was thrust in my hands, and then a chocolate pudding shot. I immediately hit up the hydration station and grabbed a bottle of water.

I sat down on the couch next to Government Mule. He pressed up against me in a quick hug. "I'm sorry," he said. "At least you're doing better; you're no longer dating guys that shit in your car."

Unfortunately the three people surrounding us had never heard that story. I've known these people for five years and they had no idea what happened to me. And who can pass up a good, yes-I-dated-a-guy-that-shat-in-my-car story? And so I found myself freshly dumped and retelling the incident. Head, meet oven.

"Are you okay?" asked Helen's ex-boyfriend.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It was years ago and I put myself through a year of therapy and I'm in a different place now. It won't happen again. What I want to emphasize is that it wasn't like things were good one day and then he punched me in the face the next. It was a downhill slope where you forgive one thing, and then something worse happens and you forgive that thing, and then something even worse happens but you've already forgiven the first two things... and then you're getting beat up and you're not even sure how you got there in the first place. By that time your self-esteem is so low that it's hard to get out, and your family knows and some of your friends know, and nobody does anything..."

"I remember Helen told me that he beat you up. I told her I was going to drive into town to kick his ass, but she told me you guys had already broken up by then. If that ever happens again, call me. I'm not above killing somebody."

"Thanks, but it won't. I'm fine now." Just what I want to be talking about right now. The bad ones tried to kill me and the good ones don't want me. Head inside oven, and big breath!

Sunday, I stared at my running shoes. Although I had been telling myself that I was going to attempt the 5k again, the reason I actually laced them up and began training again was because of Valdosta. And now that reason is no longer there.

Mel showed up on my doorstep and patiently waited. I put my shoes on and we went running. There were a couple of moments on the treadmill where I wanted to give up and burst into tears, but I didn't. In my funk I managed 50 minutes of cardio, my longest time ever.

Last night, I had my nightmares again. One about my ex-stepfather and one about Valdosta. The one about my ex-stepfather was so horrifying that I can't believe my mind was capable of conjuring it up. Once again, I was trying to convince my mom that what he did was wrong and my mom was trying to convince me to not tell anyone. For Valdosta, it was just me getting rejected in new, public ways.

I got up this morning, the same way I would have gotten up any Monday morning. Only this Monday morning, I woke up with the knowledge that he would never call again. Apparently this is a big difference.

It's been a long time since I've been dumped: I ended things with Christopher, S, and Jack. The last time I got dumped was by Adam in October of 2006. So I guess it's my turn. I'll be okay. This was a little breakup, not a BIG BREAKUP; I'll be back to normal soon enough. But for now, I'm still living underwater.

Aftermath

I hit "Publish" on the last post and immediately threw up.

Only I was sitting at my desk at work. I was already the girl that got dumped; I did not want to be the girl that got dumped and threw up into her recycle bin.

I got up and started racing for the front door: tall, heavy mahogany doors that require effort to open even when your hands aren't clasped to your mouth. I made it into the hallway, but the bathroom was too far away and involved yet another door.

I threw up in the hallway. And then I had to tell my office manager that I threw up in the hallway so he could call building maintenance to clean my throw up in the hallway. Ugh.

I've never had that reaction to a breakup before. I'm normally a crier. Scratch that. Normally I'm a wailer. Big, shuddering sobs that have me gasping for breath and on the verge of passing out. For Valdosta, I cried lightly on the phone to a few select people for about an hour. Then I took an ibuprofen to ward off the crying headache, put a cold pack over my eyes to help with the eyelid swelling and went to bed without the aid of alcohol or sleep meds. I slept soundly through most of the night, bar one episode of waking up completely drenched in my own sweat. The next morning I put another cold pack on my eyes for an hour before I went to work. That was that. I did good.

On last season's finale of Grey's Anatomy, there was a scene where Miranda's tending to a shot Dr. Percy and she looks around and above her. "Where is that water coming from?" she asks, confused.

"Doctor Bailey, you're crying," answered Mandy Moore.

I remember thinking that was the most preposterous idea, that someone could cry and not know it. Only I was laying in bed with the ice pack over my eyes, listening to Good Morning America on TV when water slid down my face.

"What the—" I said as I removed the ice pack and checked for leaks. Nope. Turned out to just be my face. The medical term is called ocular hyperosmilarity: too much fluid in the eyes.

I had prided myself on not crying too much, on immediately telling my friends I was going to be okay and I was only sad in that moment, but then I got sick when I had to confront what had happened. And now all of my coworkers are asking why it's wet in the hallway and I'm slumped at my desk thinking, You best be glad I hadn't eaten in 24 hours and that's only green tea in the hallway.

***

Of course because Valdosta was a gentle and kind person, he ended things gently and kindly. Knowing what I know, that he couldn't give me any more than what he already had, it was the right decision. I'm glad I know now and not later on down the line, and I'm thrilled that I meant enough to get an in-person dumping. I've never gotten that kind of closure before.

All of a sudden I felt like I was in a teachable moment. I wanted to prevent one more girl from getting dumped via text or fade away. Before I went to bed the night I got dumped, I sent Valdosta one final text:

Thanks for being honest with me and telling me in person. I have nothing but respect for you.

You're a great girl, Sarah. I'm really glad I met you.

Before I could think any further: delete, delete, delete. I cleaned out my entire text messaging inbox and outbox. I deleted his name out of my address book. I went through my call log and deleted every instance of his missed calls or received calls. Oddly enough, there were no instances that I called him. I logged on my e-mail account and deleted the folder that contained his e-mails. I hovered over the folder that contained our pictures, but had too much heart to delete those just yet.

Dammit.

I got dumped!

I was standing at the sink hand washing my red wine glasses when Valdosta called.

"Hey, where are you?" I asked.

"I'm at the restaurant."

Odd. The restaurant is on the first floor of my apartment building. I just assumed he would come up to my door.

I put on my coat and headed downstairs. As I walked out of my apartment building and into the restaurant, I saw that his car was parked not in the parking garage for the apartment building, but in the restaurant parking out front.

I saw Valdosta seated at a table. He had already purchased two beers for us. I sat down. We clinked bottles and talked about our weeks. He went on again about what a rough week he's had with his mother getting remarried.

"You look visibly stressed," I said. And he did. He was squinting and blinking hard. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he had a facial tic.

"I got really drunk with the guys last night. I'm running on a lack of sleep," he said.

Guys. I wonder about that word. He lives with his roommate, whom I know well. He should just say his roommate's name. His other guy friends are either not city dwellers or are coupled up. He doesn't see them often. It's the third time I've heard him use the word "guys."

We moved on to my week, and we ordered food.

"So do you want to watch a movie after this?" I asked, making conversation.

Valdosta put down his slice of pizza and picked up his beer. He took a long drink. That is the exact moment I knew.

"Well that depends," he said.

"Depends?" I asked strangely.

"We didn't talk for a few days," he began. I nodded. I remember. He sent me a text message Friday night saying that he didn't want to get out of bed that morning because I was in it. I assumed I would hear from him on Tuesday when he got back in town, but I didn't.

"I spent those days thinking about you, and thinking about me, and thinking about us. I couldn't get that conversation from Athens out of my mind.

"I did a lot of thinking, because I don't want to make a mistake and let a great girl like you go, but your feelings for me are deeper than mine are for you. Things are not going to progress further than where they are now. I wanted them to, but we've been dating 2 months and it would have happened by now."

He said a lot of other things. A lot of filler words. He was nervous. He was genuinely upset. "What do you think?" he asked.

I shrugged. What do you say to that? "It sounds like you already made up your mind."

He looked down and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"Shit. Really?"

"Yeah."

I kept my poise. I never cried. I smiled the whole time actually. When he looked down in his lap and said he wasn't doing a very good job at this, I ended up consoling him and telling him he was doing a fine job.

"You've always been honest with me, even at times when it would have been easier not to. I really appreciate that," I said.

"You're such a great girl." He repeated that statement about 20 times last night. "I'm glad I met you. You're just such a great girl and you have really awesome friends.We've had some great times together. I'd like to continue to know you. Argh, you said you were having a really great week this week; I'm sorry I ruined that for you."

And this is the exact moment where I knew I'd be okay: I thought to myself, Don't think so much of yourself that you have the ability to single-handedly ruin my week in one fell swoop. The good things that happened still happened.

"I'm sorry," he continued. "I've done some really horrible things in my past and I've gotten into relationships because it was the easy thing to do. I don't want to do that to you. You're a really great girl and you don't deserve that. There's someone out there for you."

I cut him off. "I'm a big girl. You don't have to feed me full of bullshit," I said. I mean seriously, don't sit there and talk down to me, telling me Mr. Right is out there and waiting.

"I'm sorry, it's just you're sitting here and looking at me and not saying anything. I'm not doing a very good job at this," he repeated. "I still want to know you."

He never used the words "breakup" or "stop dating" or "friends." I'm especially grateful for the last one.

Neither of us touched our dinners. We boxed them up, separately, and walked outside.

"You want to split of bottle of wine and get drunk?" I asked. I had accepted it. It just happened too fast and now it's over.

We took a few steps towards my apartment, but then he stopped. "I better not. We should just let things marinate. I'd love to get drunk with you another time."

I put my hands in my pockets. He approached me for a hug. He squeezed tightly and held on. I don't know why he would squeeze someone he just dumped so hard. I found myself uncomfortable and patting his shoulder.

I turned around, headed back towards my apartment, and never looked back.

Lanie in the City

Want to read about me from someone else's perspective?

Lanie in the City

Operation: Cat String

Yesterday as I was walking out of my office building, I felt the urge to call Valdosta. I know he had an intense weekend and was going through some things, and the normal me would have typed out a text to see how he was doing. But Operation: Treat Him Mean and Keep Him Keen had been employed. I'm playing aloof.

"Where is Valdosta?" Schmoozer asked Saturday night.

I wiped up the last of the hummus with a pita chip and ate it. "Back home. His mom is getting remarried this weekend." I took a swig of beer, "He won't commit, you know."

"I figured as much when you said you went on a date this afternoon. What are you going to do about it?"

"Operation: Treat Him Mean and Keep Him Keen."

"Ah," he laughed. "The old Cat String Theory."

Schmoozer's buddies looked away from the football game on TV and turned their attentions to our conversation. "Cat String Theory?" one of them asked.

"You know how you dangle a string in front of a kitten and it plays with it for a short bit before getting bored?" The room nodded. "What do you do to get the kitten playing with the string again? You just pull it a a little bit away." He made a tugging motion.

Ah! The Cat String Theory! I like it!

"I like you, Sarah," Schmoozer has told me on multiple occasions, "You date like a guy."

So now it's Wednesday and Operation: Cat String is in full swing. I huffed in the parking lot. This is when it counts, I told myself. He may have not noticed the first couple of days, but the longer without contact, the more he'll start to notice. This is the crucial time point. You cannot cave now.

I got in my car and began my commute home. Only I was so distracted with Operation: Cat String that I didn't take the back roads like I normally do, and instead I merged onto the highway. And because it was rush hour, I came to a complete stop.

I looked at the clock. It was 5:58 p.m. If Valdosta were to call, he'd call at 6 p.m. The couple of times where I had wondered whether he was going to call, he always called at 6. It's when he's off the highway and almost home from work.

Just then, and I swear this is true, my phone rang. "Sweet Child O Mine" played. It was Valdosta's ring.

I debated whether or not to answer the phone, but I picked it up, "Who's this?"

He laughed. "Hey babe."

He said he's had a tough week. His mother got remarried. Work called him in to work over the weekend to make up for our snow days last week and he lost his hockey game.

"How's your week going?" he asked.

I thought about it. "You know, it's going really great. I finished that painting you said you wanted, and I think it turned out really well. That hat I ordered off the Internet arrived and it's the perfect amount of awesomeness and ridiculousness. So are the thigh-high tube socks I bought over the weekend. I got some special recognition at work today and I'm kicking ass at my running program." I've been a little off with Operation: Cat String, but really it's been a pretty awesome week.

"That's great, baby," he said. "I'm glad one of us is having a good week. I was calling to see if you wanted to go out to dinner tomorrow night."

I paused. This is new. Usually when we go out to eat, it's lunch the next day after we've partied together. When we get together during the week, it's usually take out and movies. This was a dinner date.

"Ennnnnnnnhhh," I said, thinking aloud. The thing is, I already accepted a date invite for coffee at 6. "I can," I said slowly, "If we do it later in the evening."

"Okay," he said quickly.

"It'd have to be at like 8."

"That's fine."

I smiled. That move wasn't a part of Operation: Cat String. That was just plain, old life.

Child is father of the man

"So have you heard from anybody?" my mother asked me on our daily phone chat.

This is code for something. She's asking about someone in particular and I don't know to whom she's referring. I don't think I told her about Valdosta. Actually I'm pretty sure I didn't because otherwise I would have to disclose the story surrounding the DTR, or non-DTR as it turned out to be. (And for those who are keeping count, last contact was made by him Friday night saying we would get together this week. I'm staying strong, but am getting a little antsy.)

"Um, no?" I said.

"Oh," she said flatly. "You didn't hear from the wine guy from Saturday?"

I groaned. "Oh god no, Mom," I said. "I told the Internets that I didn't want to date him anymore and I closed out the match."

She gasped. "When did you do that?"

"The very next day."

"You're ruthless."

This exemplifies the attitude of dating that I grew up with. When I was in therapy, we discussed extensively my mother's attitude that it was better to be with a man than without one. I remember a time about six or seven years ago that I wanted to break up with my then boyfriend because I wasn't happy anymore.

"Just wait it out," she said. "He's got a good job and comes from a good family; he may be the best you can do."

And so I did. And so he dumped me four months later via text.

I'm over it now, but when I was growing up and my mother and step-father were fighting, she'd tell me the only reason she married him was to give me a father. She stayed in that marriage for 17 years, 10 of those years being after I moved out, so I acknowledge it wasn't all about me.

Even now, a year after the divorce, she's unhappy with The Doctor, but doesn't do much about it. She avoids his phone calls for the most part, but she hasn't cut the cord.

I can feel her disappointment through the phone. "You didn't even wait to see if he liked you," she said.

"It doesn't matter," I said calmly. "I don't like him."

***

To put this in context, I had a bit of a breakdown on Christmas morning. It was just my mom and me at her house. Christmas lasted about 15 minutes as we each handed our gift to the other person. I was loading up my car to drive to my father's house. It was snowing heavily and I was wearing my Uggs, which are not waterproof. I was balancing my bags as I fought my car keys to get my back hatch to unlock. As I tried to lift the tailgate, the Christmas dishes that I just unwrapped a few minutes earlier tumbled out of my hands and broke in the driveway. My mother had been more concerned with keeping the kitchen door closed to save on the heat than she was to help me.

I cried.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" she asked.

I kind of was. Anytime she needs anything heavy lifted or carried or moved, it's my job. I had spent that morning hauling an antique desk up a wooden staircase while she hollered after me to not scratch anything. Anytime she needs something looked up on the Internet, it's my job. Anytime she needs anything, it's my job.

"No," I responded. I bit my lip to fight back tears.

"Go ahead and let it out," she urged.

And so I dropped the f-bomb on Christmas. I said I was tired of f-bomb being alone and tired of shouldering all of the f-bomb burden. When something is too heavy for me to lift, I have to get creative. I have to figure out a way. I don't have anyone to f-bomb lean on.

My mom cried. "Don't you think I feel that way?" She opened her hands and motioned to the giant house that surrounds her.

I sighed and looked at her, "But you have me."

And so she wrote a check to cover the broken dishes.

It explains why she has taken a sudden interest in my dating life, suggesting web sites that she sees on TV commercials and asking why I didn't like the wine guy from Saturday.

I guess my Husky just doesn't need a dad.