Bug off

I just screamed "SON OF A BITCH!" at the top of my lungs in an open office plan.

S just friend requested me again. It had been two whole days since his last contact. I have not acknowledged his existence since he threatened me in October 2009.

Cockroach, I tell you.

Cockroaches

Around midnight after another epic Friday happy hour, I was shuffled into the parking lot and ordered in someone's car. I fell down in the grass only to stand up giggling and fall down again. It had been one of those nights.

The girl driving the car I met through dodgeball. I don't know her very well—it turned out I had been pronouncing her name wrong all evening—but I buckled my seat belt. Vince climbed in the hatchback of her Beetle and laid down, mumbling that he was being kidnapped. Only we kind of were. The plan was to go to Harvey's house, but the girl driving wanted to go to another bar.

We ended up at our dodgeball league bar. I stumbled into the small room that makes up the bar. I tugged at her shirt, "It's midnight and it's not a game night; we aren't going to know anybody. Heeeey!"

As soon as I said that, we ran into a guy on another team, one that I've befriended over the past season. He was standing with two other guys that I didn't recognize.

"Are your friends single?" I blatantly asked.

"Yes."

"For real?"

"Yes."

"Then come back to Harvey's. We'll play beer pong."

"But we only know flip cup!" he protested.

"It'll be fun!" I promised.

And just like that the boys left and picked up a case of beer and met us at Harvey's. I was surprised at the ease the situation transpired. I asked if they were single and they said yes. I asked them to leave a bar and go to someone's house that they didn't know and they said yes. The entire conversation took less than five minutes.

Harvey's husband set up the beer pong table and I played the two single guys with the girl who drove me around town. I won.

Just as quick as the boys decided to come to Harvey's, they decided to leave. The guy I did know thanked me over and over and said he had my number and he'd be in touch. Sucks for me that he was the married one. After they left, I received more texts about what a good time they had.

My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I picked up the call, hoping it was one of the single guys I just met.

"Heeeeeeeey."

It took me a beat to place the voice. It was Christopher.

"Oh. hey."

He tries to casually start a conversation. My replies are terse.

"What's that noise I hear in the background?" he probes.

"I'm at a party."

"No, you're not. Where are you?"

"I told you. I. am. at. a. party."

Harvey hears my lowered and curt tone and turns around. Who is it? she mouths, silently.

Christopher, I mouth back.

"Hand me the phone," she says with her arm extended towards me, palm up.

I place the phone in her hand. She hangs up on him. Immediately the phone begins ringing again.

This is too much. The cute, single guys who boosted my ego had left. The one I don't want is calling. I'm drunk.

I left the ringing phone in Harvey's possession and ran upstairs to the spare bedroom. I flopped down on the bed and tears started rolling down my face. Stupid, nonsensical, drunk tears. I could hear Harvey talking on the phone downstairs and everyone laughing.

"No, you're drunk!" she shouts into the phone. "Fine, then say 'bank statement.'" Everyone cheers.

A few minutes later, I watch Harvey tiptoe up the stairs and peek into the bedrooms until she finds me. She crawls on the bed next to me and hands me my phone back. "I programmed the number as Do Not Answer so you won't accidentally pick it up anymore." As if to illustrate her point, Christopher begins calling again. She shows the phone to me, "See?" Then she hangs up on him. The phone rings again, and she hangs up on him again.

"He kept trying to tell me how much money he was making, but he was slurring the whole time," she said.

I sniffed.

She motioned towards the window, "Those curtains came with the house. Aren't they ugly?"

"Mmm hmm."

Another pause. "This is going to be the baby's room."

Great. I was lying on the bed drunk and crying in the baby's room. I tainted the baby's room with my bad ju ju.

"It's the farthest room from your bedroom," I tried.

"Are you kidding me? Do you think I want to be woken up in the middle of the night?"

I began talking. About everything and anything and nothing at the same time. I've spent so much time putting on a brave face that I just needed a release, even if it came through hard liquor and beer pong. Harvey listened silently, knowing that it didn't really matter what I was saying, just that I was saying something.

***

Yesterday I logged on Facebook to discover that S has now sent me friend request #3.

I had this huge accomplishment over the weekend. I got up and ran the race and finished in a respectable amount of time for my first attempt. I've felt so much personal growth over the last year and it's exhausting to constantly battle the roach infestations that are my sleazebag ex-boyfriends.

My ex-boyfriends are cockroaches. Where there's one, there's usually another one lurking nearby. Just when you think you got rid of them, they come back stronger than ever. They're nocturnal, vile and they'll outlive us all.

5k Results

Final Time: 39 minutes

Rank: 125 of 360

Run of the Mill

Jenna, Schmoozer and I have been meeting at the running trail along the Chattahoochee River three times a week. The after-work crowd is sparse compared to the Sunday-morning crowd; however, the ratio of hotness among the runners is greatly increased: only the fit and tasty hardcore runners are out on a Monday night at dusk.

Jenna and I maneuvered around the mudpits that had formed with the recent rain. We leapt through puddles, sometimes landing with a squish and a scream of "Ew!" Schmoozer had run ahead: he ended up running 4.9 miles in about the time it took me to run 3.3. While we were doing sprints, I called ahead to him,"Why didn't you run like this when we played kickball?!"

He shouted from over his shoulder, "I had to get on base first!"

It wasn't long before Jenna assured me to keep running and let her fall behind again. Over the last two weeks, all of us improved exponentially on the running trail. I've learned that I can run outdoors and finish and no, my lungs won't actually explode. I'm excited for the race this Saturday.

I heard footsteps and looked over my shoulder. It was Schmoozer coming up on the inside. He slowed down to my pace and I felt his fingers in the notches of my spine, gently prodding me forward. It was a completely platonic gesture, but it's the most I've been touched in months; I couldn't stop myself from being thrilled at the intimate contact. I obeyed and pushed myself harder than I thought I could do. My breathing got heavy.

"Just to those benches up there," he nodded.

"No, the mile marker behind it," I puffed.

"Okay."

I am stronger than I think I am. I need to remember this.

Schmoozer then branched off on another portion of the trail, adding more distance to his run. It was becoming dusk out and I wondered at the safety of the three of us alone on different portions of the trail. It would be the kind of story that Dateline would cover: Not-fast runner disappears in woods. There used to be a serial killer in the city in the early 80's and he'd dump the bodies not far from where we were at. The police actually found him by staking out the highway bridges that cross over the Chattahoochee River and literally wait for a splash from when he dumped a body. It was all very high tech then.

I saw the end of the trail, marked by a single lit lamp post. I was the first one there. I coughed and sputtered and heaved. I leaned over the water fountain and ended up drooling in it. I drank until I belched loudly and then collapsed on a bench with my knees splayed open: I was the picture of femininity.

A few minutes later I heard foot steps in the dark; Schmoozer was approaching. I stood up and cheered and clapped like it was the end of the 5k race. He paced in front of me and coughed and sputtered and heaved, exactly like I had done minutes earlier. I felt better.

Jenna soon followed, pounding the trail so hard that it sounded like horse hooves.

"We'll meet again Wednesday and then no more running before the race," Schmoozer instructed. "And eat pasta Friday night."

It feels good to be a part of something. All of my life I've been a WASP: my connection to things come in the form of white wine spritzers. I've never really felt like I belonged to anything. Until now.

Date #12.2

Refill your coffee, settle in and brace yourself. This is going to be a long post.

Last night I had my second date with Date #12. My enthusiasm for the date waned when he sent up the entire date via e-mail. We've gone out before, he has my phone number and he's called me before, but he sends me an e-mail asking if I'd like to get together this week. I respond in the affirmative, thinking he would follow it up with a phone call to make plans. No. I get an e-mail about the activity, an improv show. I send another affirmative e-mail back. Then he sends another e-mail asking if I would like to eat beforehand. It took about 10 e-mails over the course of 2 days to firm plans that could have been made in a 2-minute phone call. The last e-mail hints that I am to meet him at the restaurant and there is no date confirmation made within 24 hours of the date.

I show up on time. I walk up the street and notice that there is now a digital parking meter where there didn't use to be one. There is a guy standing in front of the meter exasperated. He's cute with a fauxhawk and I notice we have matching cars. He looks at me, "I'm sorry I'm taking so much time, but I've put four different credit cards into the meter and it says, 'Card not read.'" He sighs and jambs a Mastercard into the meter and a receipt prints. "Good luck," he tells me.

I try my Wells Fargo card. Card not read. I try my Mastercard. Card not read. I try each card two more times. Card not read. I fish a five-dollar bill out of my wallet. Take your cash. Transaction cancelled. I have now tried three forms of payment in good faith to this meter. I go back to my car and start fishing out change I use for toll money. Fauxhawk returns to his car and sees me. "Hey, I just saw the meter maid drive away if it makes you feel any better." I thank him, shove in $2 of change which buys me an hour at the curb.

Now I'm 10 minutes late. Date #12 already grabbed a table. I thought it was strange that he chose a table outside in the dark when it's less than 60 degrees outside. I'm thankful I brought my coat and button it up. The very first thing I do when I sit down at the table is tell him about the parking meter. "When dinner is over, I have to go back to that meter and try again. I can't just leave my car there like it is."

"Well I found cheaper parking," he says simply. "You know I have to be careful about where I park." I think back to why. That's right. Because his 20-year-old pickup truck doesn't go in reverse anymore.

"Have you gone out on any other dates since I last saw you?" he asks.

I think back. "No, I was out of town. Remember?"

"I had one. It was bad. All we did was talk about school and work. I mean, I can talk about school and work with anyone, I don't need a date to do that."

"I'm sorry," I say automatically, realizing I'm consoling him on his failed date with someone else.

Date #12 checks his watch. I'm still eating my po' boy. He gets up and leaves the table to hunt the waiter down to grab the check. The service wasn't bad, Date #12 was just antsy about the time. He'd count down the time every five minutes. "We have 20 minutes. We have 15 minutes..." It's a good sandwich. I munch away while he leaves me alone for a second and third time to give the waiter his credit card and to sign the slip. He's visibly anxious and his body stiffens over the time.

We walk down the stairs and he looks at me. "Do you really need to go check your car?" he asks. He's tense.

Once again I feel the need to console him. "Um, no, it's okay. You don't want to be late," I say. I behave like the good little woman I'm supposed to be. I'm agreeable and put his needs above my own. He just looked so upset.

"Good," he says, relieved.

We walk to the improv house. Inside he asks if I would like a beer. I answer in the affirmative. We stand in line. The house lights blink and Date #12 turns and looks at me. "We don't have time; we have to go sit down now," and he gets out of line and enters the seating area. Just like that.

I sit beside him. He rests his hands on his knees. We don't say anything. As the show progresses, he doesn't really laugh. His hands are still on his knees. I take a minute and ponder whether he has Asperger's Syndrome.

The house manager asks for suggestions. My suggestion is used. Date #12 doesn't acknowledge me in any way.

We walk back to my car. "Have you told your friends about me?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say casually. "They know about all of my dates, good and bad. I have nothing to hide."

"I haven't told my friends about you because I don't want to jinx it."

I remember feeling that way when I was younger. I'm in a different place now.

I approach my car slowly. There's a ticket on it. Parking tickets in the city costs $25. Considering my recent credit card bill, that's a lot of money. All of a sudden, I'm angry. I'm beyond angry and I'm trying to hold in my rage. I told him at least three times at dinner that I needed to go back to my car. I didn't want to be a bitch and I let this guy's emotions talk me out of standing up for myself.

"That sucks," he says casually. No I'm sorry. No I should have let you check the meter when you were so concerned. He doesn't care; it doesn't affect him.

He goes in for the hug. I'm still holding the bright orange ticket in my hand and I'm trying not to let my head detonate off of my body. I force a smile.

"I would like date you exclusively," he says to me.

I check his eyes for the punchline. It isn't there. The guy who went on another date and told me about it, the guy who hasn't even kissed me, the guy who has shown me less compassion than I've shown him, wants to be exclusive after two asexual dates. He asked me to be exclusive as I'm shoving the ticket in my purse. I can feel the blood course through my body.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as I process this. Yeah, that just happened. "Ha, well I'm not ready for that."

I'm puzzled. Date #12 has two years of school left. He told me he's neither looking for a wife nor to settle down, yet he wants to be exclusive in record time.

It's the exact opposite problem I had with Valdosta. I laugh at the irony.

Retail Therapy

I just got my credit card statement for the billing cycle following me getting dumped. From what I can tell, getting dumped cost me about $400.00.

• $35.00 in random crap from Amazon. I think it included a season of How I Met Your Mother because if I can't date, then I can at least watch it on repeat.
• $125.00 spent online buying new knitting needles and yarn to help ease my path into becoming a scary spinster.
• $125.00 buying new workout gear to help prevent me from becoming an ugly, fat, scary spinster.
• $120.00 in clothing in case there's hope for me yet.

Normally I rack up about $300 – $500 in credit card charges a month and pay off the entire balance. This month, my credit card statement was $880.00. It arrived in an envelope padded so thickly that I haven't seen one like it since I got accepted to my university. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

If anyone needs to find me over the next month, I'll be sitting on the couch in my apartment with the lights off.

Sunday

Sunday morning Jenna convinced me to get up and run a 5k with her. We met down by the Chattahoochee River where there was a flat gravel path that ran alongside the river that separates in the inside of the city with the metro area. It was 20 degrees cooler than it was at the beach but my skin felt hot from the sun.

I'm in week 6 of my Couch-to-5k training. The real race is in two weeks. The entire group of friends is running and I'm surprised at how seriously everyone is taking it; I'm not the only one training.

Jenna knows I'm nervous about the race and promised to stay by my side. Only when we passed the first marker and started jogging, I heard her breathe harder and harder until she fell away from me, shouting to keep going. This girl ran a 5k every month last year. I kept going, even speeding up in the thrill of being able to run.

Guy with Rib-Cage Tattoo passes me. He's cute. And then I notice that every third or fourth guy I pass on the trail is checking me out. I had no idea that the Sunday morning running trail was such a meat market. Goodbye, treadmill!

That was the exact moment I learned about pacing. I heard the warnings, but now I was on a narrow wooden bridge crossing a marsh wheezing and out of breath. I lifted my arm above my head to stretch out the side cramp that was rapidly forming.

Guy with Rib-Cage Tattoo passes me. Again? Maybe he is running a shorter loop, otherwise he's running three miles to my every one. I'm not going to let Guy with Rib-Cage Tattoo know that I have a cramp, so I lower my arm and take off in a slow jog until he is out of sight. I walk. I walk farther than I should have walked.

Eventually I pick back up in a slow jog. I run against my shadow, noticing my form looks like I know what I'm doing. Whereas my mind wavers, my body remains confident; I'm stronger than I think I am. I need to remember this. I think back to Peter Pan chasing his shadow and I realize I'm doing the same. I smile.

I think of a poem I read years ago:

How do they do it, the ones who make love

without love?...

They do not

mistake the lover for their own pleasure,

they are like great runners: they know they are alone

with the road surface, the cold, the wind,

the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-

vascular health--just factors, like the partner

in the bed, and not the truth, which is the

single body alone in the universe

against its own best time.

I am alone, but I'm running, moving forward. I have nothing to do these days but compete against my own time. Guy with Rib-Cage Tattoo passes me yet again, but this time I don't care.

I see the end of the trail and pick up into a full run. Jenna's waiting for me.