Not a Love Song

Growing up, I always thought there were two kinds of songs. There were the religious, let-us-break-bread-together-on-our-knees kind, and there were love songs. I remember sitting cross-legged in front of the TV and watching an episode of Double Dare on Nickelodeon. Mark Summers was interviewing the kids before the game started. He approached one girl with long brunette hair. He looked at his note card and stated that the girl wrote songs in her spare time. He asked her if they were love songs. I frowned at the TV. Weren't they all love songs? The girl blushed, embarrassed, and said yes.

Despite 24 years spent enmeshed and working intimately in the English language, despite A's in Old English Poetry, Middle Welsh Poetry (yes), Seventeenth Century Poetry and Twentieth Century American Poetry, I still have a difficult time reconciling that there are songs that are not about relationships. After all, even all those Hosanna in the Highests I sang growing up were about man's relationship and love for God. Come on, Mark Summers, what other kind of songs are there?

Rolling Stone often publishes articles analyzing rap lyrics, detailing which rappers are currently battling. Those articles always blow my mind. I am nothing if not trained to take the English language and break it down into subtext and I can't figure out rap lyrics. Similarly I once read that Sara Bareilles penned the song "Love Song"—which I had thought was about a man—was in actuality a veiled reference to her producers about her struggle to produce a marketable love song. Once again, mind = blown.

Sunday I slipped on my barefoot trainers and ran along the river. It was cold and wet, but I needed a day to be alone with nature. I programmed my iPod shuffle to play Mumford & Sons. I had not listened to the band since I had been dumped; it was time to conciliate my relationship with them again.

I jogged down the path with the river to my right. The water level was high with the recent rain. The traffic on the trail was light, but people were still present. Mumford & Sons began to softly croon and I was okay; I didn't think of Valdosta and cry like I imagined I would have if I had kept the album close to me after the relationship. I heard the tinkling of the banjo and watched the Chattahoochee River. I smiled. It was all so very Georgia.

"Awake My Soul" was playing. As with any good song, when the tempo increased, I pushed myself faster. I could feel the pebbles between my toes, hear the steady whoosh of the river and feel the cool air stab my lungs like tiny sewing pins. "Awake my soul," he kept repeating, his voice becoming stronger and stronger with the actualization of the sentiment. I did feel awake.

And for the first time, the song wasn't about Valdosta or any boy for that matter; it was about me. And it wasn't a love song.

Or maybe it was.

Dark and Twisty

In the May 2010 issue, O Magazine ran a series of articles on what it means to be happy. Eat, Pray, Love's Elizabeth Gilbert contributed an article. So did beloved Grey's Anatomy creator, Shonda Rhimes.

Of course I skipped ahead to the Shonda Rhimes article first. Because what Shonda and I share that Elizabeth and I do not is the following phrase: Dark and twisty. While I wish that I could spend an all-expenses-paid year abroad after every breakup, it's Meredith Grey with whom I identify. Dark and twisty. Mer used to combat her problems with drinking too much tequila and sleeping with inappropriate men. Mer is jaded. Mer is me.

So what does the creator of TV's dark and twistiest character have to say about happiness? Give up.

She writes about it a little more eloquently. As women, we're told we should do it all: be an executive, raise children, have a great relationship with your husband, donate to charity, buy organic and train for that marathon. I was taken aback with how I have been trying to do all of those things without even realizing it. I'm in a battle at work for manager, I already do my charity work, I've spent this summer switching to organic and trying to psych myself up for that damn 5k. I don't even know why I've been trying to do all of these things. I might even blame O Magazine for touting mind, body, spirit health every issue.

Rhimes writes that wanting it all is the women's lament. And in her dark and twisty fashion, she reminds us that there are always going to be people better than we are at things. So, give up. Prioritize what you want out of life and let go of the rest. "Stop training for that marathon," she writes. (Mental note: check). "Let someone else have the great relationship."

My eyes stopped at those words, Let someone else have the great relationship. That's what I should do. I am so good at so many other things, I should have the career that I'm proud of and focus on my side knitting business I'm trying to get off the ground. Keep eating organic, 'cause I like it. Let go of running, because I don't. And let someone else have the love affair I've spent my entire life chasing.

I put the magazine down and picked up a dry erase marker and walked into the bathroom. Across the side of the mirror I don't use, I scrawled, Let someone else have the great relationship. And every time I brushed my teeth, brushed my hair or applied mascara before running out for the night, my eyes would trail across my new mantra.

I tried to embrace my dark and twisty, but it felt wrong. In the way that Elizabeth Gilbert writes about listening to your gut, it felt wrong. Lying- on- the- bathroom- floor- crying- because- you- don't- want- to- be- in- this- marriage- anymore wrong. For an entire month my stomach would sour every time I read it. It's a nice mantra, logically it should be my mantra, but I realized I can't give up.

I wiped the words off the mirror and replaced them with something that felt right: Someone, somewhere is going to love me.

And then I picked up my O Magazine and read Elizabeth Gilbert's view on happiness.

Cats

I have a small scar under my left eye. I got it Christmas Eve 2004, when I was at my then-boyfriend's Mark's parent's house. The Femme Fatale was with me and, having never seen a cat before, she was obsessed with their house cat. She wanted to smell him, and she wanted to play with him.

Mark stood in the door jamb holding the cat protectively, more for the cat's comfort than from the likes of the Femme Fatale: the Femme Fatale doesn't have an evil inkling in her 50-pound furry frame. I walked over to where she had her nose raised straight up in the air a la Snoopy, trying to get more of the cat's scent. I reached down to grab her black nylon collar to hustle her from the cat's space when the cat went all Kitty Ali on me and attacked my face.

I dropped the Femme Fatale's collar and shielded myself. The dog fled the scene on her own. I felt the blood run down my face, then my fingers and arms, without even having to look. Mark's dad ushered me to the kitchen sink where I dumped the blood cupped in my hands and held my face under the faucet until the water ran clear again. The cat had missed my eyeball by less than half an inch and left an two inch long incision across my face.

I've never had anyone comment on my scar—it faded into a quiet indentation beneath my lashes—but I notice it every morning when I put on makeup. Every time I spy it, I feel comforted. I have an outward scar to reflect and validate the inward pain resulting from that relationship. A battle wound. And then I wish every one of my ex-boyfriend's parents owned cats.

Homecoming

I pushed down the handle and my apartment door swung open. Still wearing my oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses, I squeezed inside with my bags over my shoulder.

"Hello?"

I knew Scott was waiting for me inside my apartment, so I was stunned when there was no response.

"Hello?"

Seriously, my loft isn't that big. And by "isn't that big" I mean "from the bedroom you can hear the ice maker in the freezer drop ice."

I huffed, "Really?"

My balcony door creaked and I saw Scott flip a cigarette over the side as he walked in, "Hey!" He ran towards me and kissed me while he pulled my bags off my shoulder and set them on the slate tile. My sunglasses fell off my head as I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist. This was the greeting I wanted.

After I was already at the beach, I told Scott it was a shame he couldn't come up for a few days. He got so excited over the invite he immediately took two days off of work to drive the 250 miles (400 km) to see me. Only an hour and a half into his ride, his motorcycle broke down and he never made it. We were both so bummed that I cut my vacation short by a day and came home to spend it with him before I had to go back to work.

He kissed me all over my face and neck and embraced me, running his hands all around my back and sides, "I missed you, baby." He had his shit-eating grin, the one that M-Joy described as the "smile that would melt the coldest heart if it wanted to." I climbed off of him and he held my face with both of his hands, "Sarah, I love you."

I gasped. Since the initial and the, uh, recommenced I love you, we hadn't said it again. I was okay with it. I saw it as the release of our feelings--we acknowledged how we felt, but I don't think either one of us was ready to handle it yet.

"That's the first time you've said it."

"It took you going away for a week. I was miserable without you. I would come home from work and just go to bed and sleep because then it would be the next day and I would be one more day closer to seeing you again.

"You want to know something?" he whispered to my face. "You're a milestone for me. I didn't think I could ever feel this way again. I didn't think I could ever even be in this situation again. I hoped and I prayed for you."

I thought back to when I started this blog, after the ending of a poor excuse of a relationship, and I remember feeling so overwhelmed about starting over. Finding someone to date seemed improbable. Finding someone to love me was already impossible. When I envisioned the future, I never saw me sharing it with someone else. I don't know if I ever have. I've always felt different in that respect. Even when I was a preteen, I always felt that love was always going to be outside of my reach. I never thought I would be here, with this man who is nothing like I've ever dated before. I understood how he felt.

Then I thought of all the men I went through to get here and suddenly I was angry. All the shit they put me through and--worse--everything I put up with. Nick rejecting me, Andy admitting to using me, Adam disappearing after I slept with him, Jack being an all around doucheface, Conor's antics, and Christopher, well, just being Christopher. I got so angry that I balled up my fist and pounded on Scott's chest, "You can't fuck around with me. I cannot go through what I've been through again! I will not! I won't! I need a nice guy!"

He grabbed my fist and held it away from both of us. "What's happened in the past, stays in the past. It's not going to be like that anymore," he crooned. "You have to forgive and move on. All we have is the present. And, if we're lucky, the future.

"You perpetually look skeptical. See, you're giving me that sideways glance right now. You have to trust me, Sarah. You have to trust me."

With possession of my own hand again, I smoothed his plain white t-shirt over his chest where I had ineffectually beat on him. "I do," I mumbled, not meeting his stare.

"Now I'm going to look you in the eyes and you're going to look at me back and you're going to tell me you love me."

I lifted my brow and saw his brown eyes looking at me with that same hopeful earnest he did when he said he confessed he did love me. As they always have since the first time we met, his eyes steadied me and my worries drifted away. I do love him and I told him as much. I began to kiss him, "This is me jumping."

"Go ahead, baby. I'm here to catch you."


P.S. I think it's appropriate that He Loves Me Not turns two today.

Board Games

Jack moved his queen into the center of my fortress, disabling me from moving any of my pieces because somehow they had all managed to cover each other. The only unaffected pieces were my bishop and a rook that was on the other side of the chess board for a reason I could no longer remember.

My birthday party was the night before, and it was a huge success. Which means when Jack called that morning, I could barely form sentences after not knowing I was in my own bed. He gave me 45 minutes' notice that he was on his way to pick me up for lunch and I was doing my best to find a glass of water and an aspirin. Lunch ended up being a sandwich from the grocery store because I couldn't fathom sitting down in public and ordering a heavy meal.

So it was no surprise I was losing at chess.

He hadn't managed to capture any of my pieces save the occasional Desperado pawn, but he had just managed to lock them down, making them useless to me. I tipped my bishop and rolled its edge inside the square while I looked for a place to put it. "I hate you," I said.

"I know," Jack bent his head down and looked into his lap. "Believe me, I know," he said a little softer.

I sat the bishop back up and looked at Jack. The games I had been playing with Jack had succeeded in that he knew I wasn't going to let him dictate the strategy, but at what cost? Now he sat on the other side of the board thinking that I dislike him. Why is he sprawled out on my living room floor if he thinks I don't like him? Why did he come at all?

Jack is so quick to say that he's not good at relationships, but maybe I'm not either. When he got upset with me for my Friday night out, I realized that I never considered his feelings when I organized the night. I told him it was the same people that were out on Tuesday, driving the point home that he didn't come out for that night either. It's been so long since I've done the relationship thing that I forgot my actions affect someone else.

And now I've hurt him not once, but twice.

Play nice, Sarah, I sometimes have to remind myself.

And then I took his rook with my bishop.

The most awkward conversation

Jack's room was hot. We were sprawled perpendicular on his bed with our faces in front of his open window. Jack was naked and exposed, enjoying the fresh air, and I tucked the blankets around me; it was the perfect analogy for our personalities. Jack stared out the window while I watched him.

"You like to overlap girls."

"What?"

"You like to overlap girls. Always have another one lined up before you get rid of the last one."

"You have no basis for that. You may have a feeling, but you have no basis."

"Well there was the new girl to your ex-girlfriend that you just told me about, and then there's... You know what I'm going to say."

"What?"

"You know."

"What?"

"New Orleans."

"Oh." Jack paused, presumably searching for an answer, "I don't stop talking to other girls after one date with someone. I'll date around until I decide to concentrate on one girl." He laid his head sideways in his arms and looked at me, "Do you date only one person at a time?"

"Oh God no." My eyes widened at the fervor of my response, "I mean, I haven't, though, with you."

Jack corrected his chin in his arms and stared out the window again. "You don't have to say that to me. If you want to go out with someone, you will." He paused, "If you don't want to, you won't."

I hated his response; it seemed too nonchalant. Too apathetic. I made the fish face, opening my mouth to say something, then closing it again while debating if I really wanted to be that girl.

"I've bothered you."

"No." Open mouth. Closed mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing." Open mouth. Closed mouth.

"Tell me."

"It's just." Open mouth. Closed mouth. "Are you concentrating?"

Jack chuckled, probably at our ability to have this conversation without the real words. Relationship. Commitment. Doom. He stopped staring out the window to look at me again, "Do you want me to?"

I nodded, wide-eyed. He has a way of always getting my feelings before announcing his own.

"I believe we are single until we talk about it otherwise."

"I completely agree."

Jack paused again, "I haven't been seeing anyone else. I'm pretty happy here."

"Good answer," and I kissed his forehead.

"Is it?" he genuinely asked.

I rolled from my side facing him to my back. "I wish I was wearing a clown nose."

"I have no idea what that means."

"To lighten the mood."

"Oh. It's not needed." Pause. "I get pretty slow moving from this point forward."

"What point?"

"Whatever point we're at. I dunno."

"I'm so confused."

"I don't know what I'm talking about."

"Are we," long, drawn-out pause, "dating?"

He chuckled, "I thought that was obvious."

"Can you just explain it to me like a two-year-old? I'm not pushing, I'm just trying to clarify."

"I don't want things to get too much more serious."

I. Fucking. Hate. Men.

"We have to have some pretty serious talks before anything else can happen," he continued.

It was too late. I already heard it: I don't want to get serious. I know how hard this has been for you with the panic attacks and the crying the first time we had sex (I failed to mention that, but yes, I got overwhelmed and cried while he was inside of me. Nicely done.) I know how vulnerable you are, but I just want to have a good time, which probably makes you feel like a cheap conquest.

"There's so much about you that I don't know," said Jack.

The second part of his answer clicked in my mind: serious talks. I have so much fun with Jack. We laugh and kiss and play video games. We tease and hold hands and drink gin and tonics. He says things like, "I'm making room in my life for you." But these serious talks, like what is my attitude towards marriage, are absolutely painful for me. My beliefs are rather personal and I have a hard time expelling them to others; I'm a fairly secretive person. But I also understand that in order to have a meaningful relationship, one has to talk about these things. And now he's conveying that it's my beliefs that will make or break us. It's too much pressure on something I already don't feel comfortable with. Perhaps I should at least give him the credit of taking things seriously.

"There isn't a label for us that I like right now." he finished. When I didn't respond because my head was filled with the above, he said, "You're upset with me."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you're upset with me."

"Really, I'm not. I wanted an answer and I got one."

"You know, if you want something, you can just ask."

"I wish I was wearing a clown nose."

"Yeah."

Subtext

I have sort of a big deal going on tomorrow night. I've nominated myself the cruise director and I've spent the better part of a week e-mailing and calling everyone to invite them to said Big Deal. While driving home yesterday, I called those who had not yet responded to e-mails. And I saw his name on my list:

David.

David is a frustrating situation. Thing is, I don't really like David-- not romantically. I don't want to get married and have babies with David. I don't even want to see him every Friday night.

But it's been a few months since I've gotten laid and, dammit, David is my top candidate. I like him enough to sleep with him, and don't like him enough that the situation wouldn't hurt me, no matter the outcome. He's disposable.

I slid my phone shut and kept driving. I don't call boys; it's just not something I do. I'm not comfortable with it because too many times I have dialed and the boy on the other end was in a bad mood and consequently I spend the rest of the evening/weekend/week thinking I did something wrong. It's just not worth the hassle.

Then I thought of the other people I had called: Conor, Mike, Geoff, Bryan... all boys. And I didn't have problems calling them because they're my friends and nothing more. David is a friend and by not calling him I would be treating him differently, and that's not any better.

When I got home I looked at the white board on my fridge for the list of boys' names that I refuse to have in my phone and dialed David. And got no response.

Within the hour I heard back from him. Via e-mail. And because I'm so excellent with subtext, I'm including it in his response:

hey,

sorry i've been unreachable...lot of stuff goin on. (I'm still in love with my ex.) work's been killin me. (We're fighting, which means we're on some sort of speaking terms.) been gettin up at 4:10 am, and getting back well after 6 pm. (I'm not sleeping well because I've been up at night, searching for clues in our fights that she still loves me.) physically exhausted, and i've had to work out too. (I've been leaving emo song lyrics as my away messages on AIM.) so, i might need to just relax and sleep this weekend. (I'm staying home in case she reads my lame-o away message and wants to call me.) hopefully won't have to work this weekend too. (I really want to be home so I'm there when she realizes dumping me was a huge mistake.) but, we'll see. (She's not going to call.) i'll let ya know. (I love her so much.) holla. (E-mail me again and I won't respond.)

d

Too bad David couldn't read my subtext, otherwise he'd be getting some this weekend.

Flushing

The staccato of my right turn signal illuminates the quarrel behind me.

Flash. She's yelling at him.

Flash. He bends over and looks for something between the seats.

Flash. She looks as well, but then stops to holler some more.

Flash. He looks out the window.

Flash. She flips the visor to reapply some lipstick.

Flash. She yells some more.

Flash. He looks out the window.

Flash. He looks out the window.

Flash. He looks out the window.

I wanted to tell them whatever was lost in their Land Rover wasn't worth all the anger. That when she yells like that, her face contorts unflatteringly. That he leans away from her, putting as much physical distance between them that seat belts will allow. I wanted to say it's Friday night and I'm going home alone while they are out together.

I often forget about the downside of having a significant other: the fighting. I have had some knock down fights in my day. The screaming. The frustration of not being understood. The contempt. The low blows.

The traffic light turned green and I drove home, excited over my evening of laundry and season one of Coupling which arrived in the mail yesterday. They turned left and will look forward to an evening of frustration and contempt.

Actually, it's kind of nice not having someone around to tell me what a piece of shit I am.

Awakening

She woke up from her nap cradled between the arms of her brown leather reading chair. She hadn't meant to fall asleep-- she was worried it would mess up her hair which had already been perfectly curled-- but the pacific combination of the afternoon sun and the French film on TV quarreled with her.

She yawned and swung her legs off the arm of the chair and padded her way to the coat closet where her party dress hung on the doorknob. The sun which had previously lulled her to sleep had already put itself to bed. Nothing about the day was warm anymore as she shivered and dropped her jeans in the hallway and stepped out of them. Living alone afforded her such luxuries. She bent forward and tugged her hoodie off, spending a moment to examine her toenails and deciding they needed one more coat if time alloted.

In front of her coat closet, she tied the long black ribbon-- the only thing that held up her party dress-- at the nape of her neck. She raised a hand to her head and mussed up a few curls as she walked to her closet and awoke her party stilletos from their box.

Crossing back into the living room to the guilty culprit, her brown leather armchair, she paused as she caught herself in the mirror's reflection. Out of the corner of her eye, she didn't recognize herself. Now facing the mirror, she still had difficulty with the image before her. The image was beautiful.

She wasn't used to beautiful. She was used to "cute." She was used to "average, but with a great personality." But the image in the mirror wouldn't allow for such words. The hair was perfect, the dress was perfect, the complexion, thankfully, was perfect. For the first time in her life, she thought of herself as beautiful.

"Right now, in this moment, this is the best I have ever looked in my life," she said to herself.

At the party, everyone confirmed her suspicions. Her very gay boss grabbed her, pronounced her belle of the ball, and twirled her-- a favorite activity she usually reserved for behind closed blinds. Men looked her her differently, as if they were hungry. That is what desire must look like, she thought. Desire looks like hunger.

Armed with confidence and heady from spirits, she left and made her way to where old money lives and new money parties. Inside her favorite bar, she was flanked with winks and drink offers. She accepted the winks and turned down the drinks. Never in her life had she been approached by so many attractive men during such a short time span. One man in particular was kind and introduced her around to his circle of friends.

It was the exact moment her confidence waned. The other girls took her hand and smiled, but she didn't match their appearance. She wasn't tan, her hair wasn't platinum, and her skirt covered the entirety of her ass in addition to most of her thighs. But she suspected one wouldn't use the word thighs around the other girls, they solely had legs.

She excused herself from the group. He reached out and extended his hand to her and she took it and squeezed it until the space between them refilled with new people as she made her way through the crowds to the restroom. Instead of using the bathroom, she shook the last few ices cubes in her highball glass and drank the rest of the fiery liquid while staring at herself in the wall-length mirror. She shook the cubes again and set the glass down on the marble counter.

"You're ugly," she spoke harshly.

And she was awake.

TV Boyfriends

Stolen from the talented Mez, but with a caveat: I have a talent for knowing exactly how my relationships will end.

My Top Ten TV Boyfriends:

Dr. Doug Ross from ER (played by George Clooney). Like you didn't see this one coming. Better to start off with the obvious. Sure he was a bit of an ass, but he would do anything to save a child. Remember that episode when he was going to smoke a joint, but ended up saving a kid from a flooded sewer? I would have banged his brains out for that.
How I would screw this relationship up: One night after said banging, I would roll onto his shoulder and run my hand through his chest hair and say, "You realize we've been together for six months?" Not as a request for commitment, but as a marker of time. In any case the commitment-phobic Dr. Ross would dump my ass immediately.

Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties (played by Michael J. Fox). I know my life with the money-loving Alex would be financially stable. He dressed well and had a great family (well except for his fat little sister) and Mallory and I would be best friends who would often do lunch and spend the afternoon shopping. And he was misogynistic enough to demand that I quit my job to stay at home and raise the kids.
How I would screw this relationship up: No way in hell a picture of Richard Nixon is going up in my home.

Seth Cohen from The O.C. (played by Adam Brody). I've always wanted to date someone witty whose smart pop culture references would have me swooning. We would bond over our love for Breyer horses. Fine, my love when I was 10, and he still has Captain Oats on his bedside table, but whatevs. He would fall in love with me when I offered to extend Chrismukkah for 11 additional days (after all there are 12 days of Christmas).
How I would screw this relationship up: I would back over him with the Land Rover in his driveway for being a whiny bitch. I'm pretty sure he would break up with me as soon as he got out of the hospital or when I got out of jail, whichever came first.

Ben Covington from Felicity (played by Scott Speedman). I've been helping, now somebody save me. Ben, always drawn to the damsel in distress, would be more than willing to have my back. It must be nice to not have to depend on yourself all the time-- I would love to try that out. Plus he had a kick ass loft apartment that I wouldn't mind crashing at.
How I would screw this relationship up: Sorry Ben, but I would have broken up with you after you told me Lauren was going to have your baby. Good luck to you and the alcoholic mother of you child.

Noel Crane from Felicity (played by Scott Foley). It's my top ten list and I can have them both if I want. He was a geek with a hot body-- how do I order me one of those? Noel would fix my CSS problems and we would bond over our mutual hatred for IE. God he looked hot in his pea coat. Mmmm. Sometimes I would give him smart powder for shits and giggles, just to watch him freak out.
How I would screw this relationship up: I'm a teaser and Noel is a sensitive soul. I imagine one day I would tease and it would really offend him. We would argue and I wouldn't cave because, seriously, he would just have to suck it up. And then he would breakup with me.

Brian Hackett from Wings (played by Steven Weber). Brian is the male version of me, another Type B personality. Together we would laugh incessantly and take spur of the moment trips. We'd win entire crowds of people over and reign as king and queen of the party.
How I would screw this relationship up: Wow, I don't see this relationship ending without me taking a shovel to his face. There needs to be some balance and together we'd be entirely too flighty. I would end up turning into some sort of mother figure for him and ultimately resent him for it. The breakup would be ugly. UGLY.

Nat Ostertag from Mad About You (played by Hank Azaria). Over the summer I developed a thing for dog owners. Sure, he doesn't own Murray, but he takes care of him every day. He would love my dog; men who love dogs are good people. And you know they have to come home every night or otherwise deal with a mess in the morning.
How I would screw this relationship up: I would encourage Nat to do something more with his life than walk dogs. And by "encourage" I mean "give ultimatums." He would eventually choose the dogs over me.

Eric Gotts from Wonderfalls (played by Tyron Leitso). This was a very short-lived show that I loved. He loved Jaye despite the fact she was so many things. He loved her despite the fact that she was disenchanted and he loved her despite the fact that she could be inexcusably mean at times, all while serving her alcohol. If Eric could love Jaye, he could love me.
How I would screw this relationship up: Jaye's fear and unwillingness to commit drove him away several times. Let's face it-- one of those times he isn't coming back.

Dr. Mark Sloan from Grey's Anatomy (played by Eric Danes). Mark looks and acts exactly like Christopher. I would go over to his apartment under the condition that there would be absolute silence during the hour of Grey's Anatomy. He would agree to anything as long as I came over. Halfway into the show he would get bored and put the split screen on his TV: my half with Grey's, his half with porn. I would have killed him had I been able to stop laughing first. Mark is also a "get under your skin" kind of guy. I forgot how hot Christopher was; I wonder if I still have his number...
How I would screw this relationship up: I imagine it would end the same way. After several months I would finally feel comfortable enough to pop over. He, however, would not be comfortable with it-- he freaked out and I never heard from him again.

Dr. Preston Burke from Grey's Anatomy (played by Isaiah Washington). This is what I need: smart, confident, and sturdy. He's not afraid of moving forward and he's confident enough to not freak out when Cristina does. He's a calm and collected rock which neurotic women can lean upon and not feel freaking crazy. That must be nice...
How I would screw this relationship up: He's so calm and collected that I would pick fights with him to get any sort of emotion out of him. If he fought back, I would know he cared. If he remained cool and calm, I would know he doesn't love me. I mentioned neuroses, right?

Drunk Truths

I pushed a pillow on his lap and laid down. I didn't do it to be closer to him, instead I was getting tired. It was 3:30 in the morning and the party was winding down. He absentmindedly ran his hand down my head. By this time I removed the bunny ears and fixed the hair since the kissing bandit a few hours earlier.

He asks, "Can I tell you something? Drunk truth?"

"Drunk truth."

"I don't believe in True Love. I think we have to do the best we can."

"True Love as in soul mates?"

"Yeah."

"Oh I agree," I said too quickly. I thought about all the reasons I believe that, "You've been hurt."

"How can you tell?"

"I guess I'm good at noticing that sort of thing."

We sat there for a minute, both lost in our own heads.

"You want my drunk truth?" I asked.

"Sure."

"I don't believe men hurt as much as women do. I don't think your hearts break like ours."

"Judging on the Bell Curve, I'd say you're right."

We were silent again. It felt good to vocalize what we've been thinking and hiding for years.

We're over. I'm fine with that. I accept that. Matter of fact, I'm a proponent for that. Our relationship was one big bang followed by a slow but steady decline. I know that you and I are better friends than lovers.

So when you asked me how my speed date went, I gave you the honest truth. I told you that the men looked at me like I had a contagious skin disease. I told you I wanted just one yes, even if it was from the really really boring guy, to prove that I'm not a boy-pariah. I admitted these things to you because those are the things I would tell a friend, but hide from a lover.

But your actions confuse me. The response you gave me was really great, but there was something dismissive about the remark you made towards my potential dates.

And then there's the blog-stalking. I told you I didn't want you reading my blog, but you searched for it and found it anyway. I knew that. I knew that before things were over. You used to log on about once every four days and only to read posts that pertained to you, but that has changed since the breakup. You check my blog every day from your home computer, work computer, school lap top, and, today, from your cell phone. Why are you giving me more attention now that we're over?

Why are you all of a sudden hanging on every word of mine? Are you just curious? Am I just that good of a writer? That funny?

Are you jealous?

Were you out with her when you checked my blog on your cell phone? (You know I hated it when you checked your football scores on your phone while you were out with me. We used to laugh about it.)

I don't blame you for it. I know you don't know about site trackers and how I can see everything. I don't think you would check it as often if you knew that.

But here's the thing: I come home from mediocre dates and log onto my computer to find out you've been at my site. Again. And, at the very least, you've been thinking about me. It confuses me. It makes me wonder what you're thinking about me, and why you're thinking about me.

It makes me miss you.

And these mediocre dates are only confirming that maybe I liked you a little more than I let on.

And I'm scared because I still keep your e-mails.

I cried to let you go; I didn't cry for you. I'm scared that if things keep going the way they are, one of these days you might win some tears of mine. And it is a strict policy of mine to never cry for a boy.

But you don't have access to this diary, so you'll never know that I'm thinking about you right now. And even though you think you know everything there is about me (and obviously you like it because you keep coming back), you'll never know about this place. You'll never have the whole truth.

That maybe I liked you a little more than I let on.

And I'm scared.

Words

Nonplussed.

I don't think I've ever used that word to describe myself before, but there it is. I am nonplussed.

And a bit cold.

Adam e-mailed me three times on Wednesday and has since remained in consistent contact with me. I have no idea what changed his recent skanky behavior, but I have my guesses.

Impassive.

That's how I feel towards him. I grieved for him on Sunday and once I close someone off to me, it's nearly impossible to let him back in. I have followed his lead with the communication frequency, but his letters mean nothing to me. I don't know what to say back; I have nothing to say back.

Adam: (via e-mail) My life is WAY too busy. Being married in a dull, unloving relationship was much easier in many ways!
Sarah: ...

In his 180 he's been kind and sweet, but after all they're only words.

Like impassive.

Or nonplussed.

100 Things About Me

My blog is so material specific that most readers don't really know about the person behind the dating disaster. Here are my 100 things about me:

1. I have one brother. I also have 3 step-brothers and a step-sister. I also have 3 step-half siblings. That makes 9 of us. 9
   
2. I refer to all of them as simply my brother or sister in hopes that we could be closer
3. It is not working
4. My parents divorced when I was 6
5. I do not remember them being together
6. My father introduced me to my new family by taking me to see A Christmas Carol. He pointed to the stage where they were all performing and said, "That's your new brother," "That's your new sister," etc
7. I had an interest in acting ever since then
8. I was in a thespian troupe in high school and was in 3 plays, one being the lead
   
9. I was an extra in "Road Trip" and met Tom Green and Seann William Scott. You can see me walking behind Brekin Meyer and Amy Smart kissing at the end of the movie
10. My stupid brother was also in the movie and he has more screen time than I do. I think he did it to prove he's better than me
11. I love to start little craft projects. Finishing them, however, is another story
    
12. I sing in the car with abandon
13. I also love karaoke
14. I used to be really bad at it, but I can hold my own now
    
15. So far I've been booed once and had a lemon thrown at me: I finished both songs smiling
16. I consider this to be an accomplishment
17. My mother never taught me anything girlie like applying makeup or shaving and I wish she had
18. I never dated in high school
19. I went to my senior prom with another girl (as friends)
    
20. When I got to college, I dated all. the. time
21. I was only truly single for 3 weeks of my college career
22. I've been in love at least once in my life, the others I'm not so sure about
    
23. I've been coloring my hair since I was 11
24. It is naturally a grey mousy brown--the ugliest color ever
25. I rarely dye my hair the same color twice
26. Blondes really do have more fun
    
27. I had my tonsils removed when I was 19
28. I am a really possessive person
29. I have had 5 full-time jobs since I was graduated from college
30. When people laugh at my jokes, I'll repeat the punch line
31. Even I find this habit annoying
32. I don't wear makeup in the summertime because I think freckles are beautiful
33. I was in a really serious car accident when I was 17. I'm lucky to be alive
34. Because of this, I have a dent that can be seen when I wrinkle my forehead
35. I played the violin for seven years
36. I went to Italy after I was graduated from high school
37. I still can't believe my mother let me go. I think it was because my friend almost died my senior year and she went
38. I lost 3 good friends my senior year in high school within 2 months
39. I was very angry at God
40. We're getting back on track. It's a slow process.
    
41. After the third death, I became a recluse, dropped all my friends and after school activities and gained 20 pounds
42. I lost the weight almost immediately when I started college
43. I was arrested at 19 for possession of alcohol. I was never convicted
44. I took an extra semester to get through college because I drank too much
45. My parents still don't know about that extra semester
46. When I was 21 I hurt my forehead again. 11 stitches, alcohol related
47. My parents don't know that real story either
48. I hope men find scars sexy because I have a faint one on my forehead
49. Most people don't even notice it anymore
50. I don't drink that much anymore. This relieves me
51. I'm convinced that everyone will pass through my life. No one will stick with me
52. I don't think anyone will love me enough to ask me to marry them
    
53. My father was the first man in my life who left. So far every other man in my life has also left me.
    
54. My mother says this is a coincidence, but I don't believe her
55. I can't forgive my mother for my childhood. I've tried
    
56. My family is very rich, but I am not
57. I'd take independence over money any day
58. In addition to my blog, I keep a paper journal as well
59. I have a Siberian Husky
60. I am a published writer
61. I've written for two different newspapers, both critically acclaimed
62. I wish I was serious enough to put an effort into my other writings
63. I wear my hair in a pony tail most of the time
    
64. 
    
65. I love sushi
66. I want to see Hong Kong and Thailand before I die
67. I drink cheap beer when I'm alone, but nice beer when I'm out in public
68. I can be pretty selfish except when it comes to men
    
69. I hate to 69
70. I lost my virginity when I was 19
71. My roommate was less than three feet away. She never knew
72. I'm fairly secretive if you can't tell by now
73. I stopped counting the number of men I have slept with when I realized it doesn't matter
    
74. Fine, I just counted. 13
    
75. I started getting anxiety attacks over men and commitment after my last relationship ended
76. The sight of baby stores give me chest pains
77. I do want that stuff, I just don't want anyone else to know it in case it never happens
78. I don't like to fail
    
79. I should wear glasses all the time, but I don't
80. I'm not very patient
81. However, for the ultimately annoying combo, I am very persistent
82. I blame it all on the being the youngest. I'm used to getting my way
83. I am a great story teller
84. If sailors rode in my car with me, they'd be offended by my swearing
85. My capacity to love is so big, it often scares me
86. My smile is very expensive, but well worth it
87. I scratch my neck when I concentrate. The marks will stay for hours
88. I bite my nails when I'm nervous
89. I'm silly. I hope that never changes
90. I laugh when I lie
91. I'm in perpetual need to lose 10 pounds
92. I honestly believe if I was thin enough, I could have any man I want
93. My BMI is 21.3 which means I'm of normal weight
    
94. Strangers stop me on the street to compliment my butt all the time
95. I don't believe men when they say I'm beautiful. If they're better looking than me, I think they just want in my pants. If they are uglier than me then I don't think they know what they are talking about
96. I'm cold natured
97. I'm addicted to Diet Coke
98. I'm happy when I'm single and I'm happy when I'm in a relationship, but I'm generally not happy when I'm dating around
    
99. My laugh is contagious
    
100. I love my life right now. Love it

Spoons

"Big spoon or little spoon?"

Adam's trying to use my terminology.

"Little spoon for movies..."

"And big spoon for sleeping," he finishes. I smile.

He removes the pillows from the couch and we climb on together with me in front, the little spoon. He lays his lower arm under my neck and wraps his free arm around me. Never in my life have I ever felt so good and safe and warm in someone else's arms. I take a moment and ponder if I just feel this way because of the absence of someone else's arms, or if it's Adam. No, even now I still can't answer that.

A couple hours later and we change locations. Instead of feeling good and safe, I feel sexy and skinny and powerful. I truly like kissing Adam. I've learned I'll do just about anything to hear him groan. With Adam, I don't worry that I'm not beautiful enough or smart enough; I don't feel him judging.

He leans forward and sits up in bed and I wrap my legs around him and we make out. Light from the highrise across the street pours in his bedroom window, giving just enough light to see the outline of his slender body. I put my hands on his face and push them through his hair. I want my hands everywhere on him.

A couple hours after that and we settle into sleepy silences. We giggle under his goose down comforter while we slowly make our way into our sleeping positions. Adam turns and thrusts his back towards me. I take the opportunity and snuggle up against him, meeting every crevice of his body with my own, and smoosh my face into his shoulder blade. Adam groans.

"Big spoon?" he asks.

"Big... spoon..." I repeat and fall asleep before I could even finish the thought.

Dialogue

I'm fighting right now with my inner voice-- my forever optimistic conscience. If I could slap her, I would. Stupid bitch.

What the hell is your problem?
I don't have a good feeling about this.
They should really lock you up you know. Look at you, you're talking to yourself. He likes you, I swear.
But what about Wednesday morning? I think I kissed him too much.
He didn't brush his teeth and you did; he was worried about morning breath.
I just think that since the naked factor has entered the equation, he's not trying as hard.
You spent the night at his place the next night.
He had to let me come over-- my apartment was flooded. He didn't try anything with me.
Get over yourself. You both were exhausted from the night before where neither of you slept. It was 1 AM when you got there.
We did fall asleep immediately.
And how did you sleep?
In his arms.
So there.
But what about the next morning?
What about it?
You know what I'm going to say.
You have no proof.
I only caught a glimpse of the screen, but I really think he was answering an online dating e-mail.
You only saw the greeting.
Boys don't write that to each other. That's how I greet him in my e-mails.
Maybe it was one of yours.
Why would my e-mail be open on his computer screen while I'm in his condo? That's just poor form to look elsewhere while I'm in his house.
You have no proof. Besides, you're not exclusive. You said yourself that you wouldn't feel comfortable in a relationship because in many ways he's still a stranger to you.
I know, but I want to have my cake and eat it too.
When has that ever worked out for you?
Never.
And then he found you on the couch and he kissed you on your neck.
Yeah, that was nice.
And he still e-mails you regularly. They're still flirty.
But they aren't as flirty as they were prenaked factor.
That's debatable. Just this morning he wrote you an e-mail about how cute you are.
See, I knew boys thought of me as cute, nothing more. My gut says something is off though.
He still talks about the future.
I just want to feel special.
Look, worst case scenario: he never calls again. It's only been two weeks, you wouldn't even cry over it.
I know.
You still have your secrets, you haven't slept with him, you could walk away right now with your pride.
I'm debating it.
I only brought that up so you could argue with me!! I was trying to make a point-- you weren't supposed to actually agree!!
This trusting thing, it's just too hard.
But dating is fun again.
And I'm talking to myself again.
Touche.
I'm just going to pull away a bit and let him pursue.
Uh, you've been doing that all along.
Not the last two days. And I'm feeling self-conscious already.
I think you should just relax. He's done NOTHING to prove anything other than he likes you.
I just want to feel special.
You are.

See? Stupid bitch.

Wavering

"Are you okay?"

Clearly I was not. My body was shaking and my mind couldn't stop racing. Every time I've slept with someone in the past year, it's always been on a casual level. I didn't want that anymore. Not with Adam. I wanted a boyfriend. A chance at love.

"I'm fine." I think my voice even shook as I said it.

Adam leaned down on top of me, putting all his weight on me. That's the thing I miss the most when I'm lonely-- the weight of someone on top of me. He ran his fingers through my hair and gave me very slow, very soft kisses; he was trying to calm me down.

I've been thinking about sex a lot lately. I wanted to wait with Adam. I needed to take things slowly, for my own sanity if nothing else. I didn't know how to tell him this and I didn't know how he would take it. Somehow I knew that it wouldn't be a problem, he didn't even stick his tongue in my mouth until our fourth date and when I insisted that all clothes stay on a couple of nights ago, he gave the best possible response:

"You have to look it at like a Prisoner of War camp: they're obligated to try to escape. I'm obligated to try to do more with you, but I'll respect whatever you decide."

Originally I wanted to tell him I needed a relationship of some sorts before giving that part of myself to him. It would hurt my feelings to know he could sleep with me and then shop around on-line the next morning.

Then I rationalized it with even if I did get some sort of commitment out of him, it still wouldn't keep him around. He could end things at any moment, regardless if I was the only one or not. By sleeping with him, I would be taking a risk no matter the situation.

I had questions I wanted to ask, but I can't. It's too early. I would look wounded or damaged. By admitting I'm insecure to him, I probably would have to provide some examples. I'm not good with sharing my secrets or opening up.

I lifted up and rolled Adam on his back. I picked up his hands and pinned them above his head. I needed control. I needed to take the focus off of me. Perhaps if I turn the attention on him, I can buy myself a little more time to think about things.

No, I would not be sharing any secrets tonight.

Girlfriends, Part 2

Conor had his head in the fridge and grabbed another beer. "Hey, que Sarah Sarah!" he called out. He's been calling me that for years. "Come sit."

It felt late. A few people were strumming on guitars. A few were asleep, including Conor's girlfriend. I introduced them when Conor and I were dating. Conor and I listened to the guitars for a few minutes. He looked over at Caroline sleeping on the couch and turned back to look at me.

"I have a secret to tell you."

I looked from Caroline to him, "Omigod, you're getting engaged."

"No!"

I gasped, "You got her pregnant! You're having a baby!"

"No! I can't tell you here."

"I wanna know."

He got up and gestured for me to follow. We went into his other roommate's bedroom. He told me to close the door and I did.

"Caroline has been getting mad at me for no reason a lot lately."

"Yeah, well girls do that when they're unhappy about something. So what's your secret?"

"You don't know it already?" He began to look uncomfortable.

"No," I nervously laughed.

"I've told you this before." He looked even more embarrassed.

I thought about it for a minute. A couple of years ago, Conor got drunk and told me he loved me. He said he loved me when we were together and that he still did. That was before Caroline. I didn't know for sure if this was what he was going to tell me or not, so I decided to play dumb. Besides, I liked watching him squirm.

Conor got up from where we were sitting and went over to his roommate's computer. He clicked around for a minute and Blue October's "Hate Me" began to play.

"This song reminds me of you. I can't listen to it without thinking of you. It's the type of music you used to listen to while we were together."

"I do like this song."

"How long ago did we date?"

I really had to think about it, "Four years ago, I think. I was 21 and you were 23."

"That sounds about right. Four years. It's been four years." He began laughing and covered his face up. "You know, the only reason we're not still together is because we both belonged in straitjackets during that period in our lives."

While I didn't exactly agree with the way he put it-- that I belonged in a straitjacket-- I did have to agree that I wasn't a very stable person back then. I had just gotten out of a very serious relationship. Conor introduced me to whisky and pot, neither of which I've had before. He and I had dreams back then. I was going to move to NYC that August and work at one of the eight publishing houses up there. Conor was... I don't remember his dream anymore, only that he had one. Those were the best days of my life. In photo albums, it's the period where I look the happiest.

"Hate Me" ended and I heard Bryan singing one of his songs through the bedroom door. I liked it.

"Ugh, I hate it when Bryan sings!" growled Conor. "He's almost deaf and you can totally tell. That better not be my guitar he's playing!"

"You know it is."

Conor huffed and sank lower, "I know."

"So what's your secret?"

"You already know it!"

"No I don't!"

"I told you and you were so happy!"

"I don't remember!"

"I can't believe you forgot."

"What is it?"

Conor was squirming so hard right now. He was playing with a piece of chain maille and had taken it off his head and covered his face with it.

Here it goes. This is when Conor tells me he still loves me. I could never be with him again, but I need to hear this. After Nick, Bryan, Christopher, Andy, and BDB, I need to hear this. I need to know there is hope for me.

"Que Sarah Sarah," Conor sighed into the chain maille, "You gave the best head I ever had."

If I could make things like this up, I'd quit my job immediately and would start writing novels.

I jumped up. "Are you serious?" I screamed. "That's it?! That's why you pulled me in here!?"

"It's been four years!" he half-laughed. "I can't forget you. You were the best."

I pointed at the closed door. "You have a girlfriend in there!"

"I know! I know!" He fell over with his face pressed into the couch where I used to be sitting. "She's not as good as you."

"Well I could have told you that, Conor." I stomped out of the bedroom.

Conor followed me out, calling after me, "I think we can be together forever, Sarah! We're like Jerry and Elaine, only not fictional!"

The party was mostly broken up by now. Caroline was nowhere to be found. I stepped outside to see if I could see her truck; it was not there. In the kitchen Bryan and a boy I went to school with leaned against the counter and were in a debate on new grammar rules. It was late and I wanted my leaky apartment. I left.

Good Night and Good-bye

Called him last night. I pretty much knew the outcome of the phone call before I even made it, Maybe I just needed to hear it again for closure. Maybe I just wanted someone to cry to. I don't know. I shouldn't even try to understand myself right now.

Spent the hour we were on alternating between blubbering, wailing, trying to catch my breath, and hiccuping. He wasn't rude, but he was very firm and curt. He mainly was silent and listened to me cry.

I'm used to easier break-ups than this. Bob and Ryan both weaned me off them. They would sit with me when I got too drunk, hold me while I sobbed, and took a general concern for my well-being.

I told Mark about the panic attacks, how when I find something of his I can't breathe, and my body just generally shutting down. Half a dozen times I whimpered, "I'm not doing that well." I wanted a kind word from him, something to soothe me. I had to ask him questions. He wouldn't respond to "When did you stop loving me?" but I did get him to admit he missed me sometimes and that he still cared about me.

He made up his mind. I have no delusions about us ever getting back together. He completely shut off whatever we had, which makes me feel incredibly stupid because I don't work that way. He didn't want to sit with me on the phone; I don't even know why he did it. When he said things like, "It won't always hurt like this," he sounded almost angry. No "I'm sorry," or "I wish things could have been different." No tenderness. He's done. He made a decision and he's going to stick with it.

What I do know is that he's not like this. I've never heard him be unkind to anyone since the day I met him. I want to know how he stopped caring so abruptly so that I can stop too.

I asked gently if we were ever going to talk again and he said he didn't know. I asked him how we should end the phone call. He didn't know, but he needed to go to bed because he hasn't slept much the last couple of nights. I asked why too excitedly: I wanted to hear that he was struggling too, that would mean what we had was real. He said he didn't know why. "Good night," he said.

Good night.