Chapter Afterstand up, dust off, and get moving

‘Til Death Do Us Part by Kate Bouman

I’m not sure how widely known this is, but I’ve just been turned on to a series of short films on vimeo that’s absolutely staggering. Break-ups: The Series

They appear to be mostly, if not completely, improvised, and range from psychotic to hilarious to simply (as though it was simple) touching. Most likely, your last relationship is in the mix somewhere. If only I’d come across this a few months ago — there’s a certain comfort in seeing other couples disintegrate, even when you know it’s only pretend.

Perhaps you’ve seen this:

I posit that, while generally valid, this model leaves out one very important dimension. I would label it thusly: “Into You”

In a few, short weeks, I’ll be looking back on this as the absolutely heaven-like time of year when the weather is just right (enough) but the mosquitos aren’t quite able to carry you off to their dungeon. My flirt is in approximately fourth gear (watch that last step; it’s a mother). I’m two-for-two in as many days getting a quick word with lovely ladies I’ve noticed about town but that I hadn’t seen in awhile. I’m pretty sure one could be the other’s daughter — and that is a sweet detail all its own. The messages are flying on hipsterDatingService (well … perking at least) and I’ve got a couple dates scheduled. T__ and I had a flirty chat over wine and coffee this weekend (nothing else much to tell, or I would have). The other day, I looked at K__ and found her attractive for the first time in months. I see these fine, young things — in line at coffee, on the sidewalk drinking beers with their friends, a smile here and there. It’s about time their hibernating sex-lives poked their still-groggy heads above ground and took a look about the world. I can see the difference in people’s eyes now that their gonads have thawed. It’s Spring out here! Now for Christ’s sake, come on out so everyone can get laid already.

Perhaps it’s a skewed sample, and there are a lot of qualifiers, but I just learned that the average user on OkCupid.com reports having had six sexual partners. Comforting news for someone like myself who always assumed I was missing out on something.

Even more compelling is the finding that gay and straight users’ graphs line up so closely that the deviation is probably statistical anomaly. The take away? Gay people are no more promiscuous than straight people. We were pretty sure this was true before, but now we have the data to prove it.

To the inflection point and beyond!

K__ accompanied I__ and I to his basketball practice, and although I find it fairly uncomfortable to do so, I sat next to her on the bench and tried to make small talk. She asked about my new iPhone, and wanted me to show it to her. Immediately I thought of two or three items I’d rather her not see…

But things are what they are, and I’m a big believer in owning my “whatever is”. Sure, this site is anonymous, but I’ve been playing a game of chicken with myself to rectify that once the divorce is finalized.

In any case, she didn’t really seem interested anyway. It seemed like a pretense to talk to me. Was she flirting? I saw T__ come into the gym and tried not to react. Over the next few minutes I noticed as he dorked about with his camera and struck up a conversation with the woman next to him. Very interesting.

K__ told me she’d quit smoking. At first, I was lost. She’d quit smoking years ago. Oh! She means, smoking. I see. I told her I hadn’t smoked since New Years, which was true, but this isn’t exactly because I’ve “quit”. K__ hurt her knee pretty badly a few months ago and had to have surgery. Her genetics predispose her to weight gain, so she’s always had to remain very active to stay in shape. I, on the other hand, maintain a girlish figure no matter what. It’s merely my moods which become disgusting when I go sedentary. So she’s working out again, lost some weight. Why exactly are we having this conversation? I’d be wondering except I’m also wondering if T__ is flirting with the woman next to him.

She asked something about the phone again — if it really was a pain to dial, so I showed her. Then she noticed her own entry in the recent call list: I__’s Mom.

“You really have me in your phone as I__’s Mom?!”

What was I going to say, “No?”

After a beat, “That’s completely disrespectful.”

After which it was my sincerest pleasure to point out how she ought to know a thing or two about being disrespectful to me. “Sorry you can’t take it,” I said.

We sat there in silence for the next twenty minutes while time distortion took over and opened a pocket wherein I thought about the whole dirty business for a good hour and a half. It bugs me that shit like this still bugs me. This is incidentally the very reason why she’s in the new phone under her official business title. Every single time I saw “K__” on the phone display for the last year it’s been a little bit of torture. When I re-entered all my addresses, I decided to do something about it. I could have picked out something nasty and rude; instead, I stuck to “what is.” We’re business partners in the task of raising our son. That has defined our relationship for the last two years — perhaps longer. Everything else is just small-talk.

I had a phone conversation with K__ today that was on the longer side. We talked about some stuff with I__’s education. How school’s going, goals for the year, homework, stuff like that.

We also tiptoed into the touchy realm of finances. I still haven’t done the taxes for 2009, and eventually that could turn into a major problem for both of us. She asked (again) if there was anything she could do to help. My honest answer (again) is not really, because I was the one running a business, so only I know what the fuck was going on or what to do about it.

She was nice, didn’t try to make me feel guilty. Or at least I didn’t pick up on any vibe like that.

When I picked up I__ after work, I caught myself noticing she’d had a hair cut. I didn’t mention it.

The weather briefly popped us deep into spring (somewhere an April is missing a day) and I was going to be damned if I didn’t sit outside at L__ sipping whiskey. Mondays are notoriously slow if you’re looking to get your party on, but since I’m more comfortable in a smaller crowd, all the better.

One of my favorite bartenders was working, and he greeted me enthusiastically by name. He’s been in the business a very long time, so I know it’s something he’s trained himself to do and not because we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Felt like a rockstar all the same.

The crowd was so light that he was taking long breaks outside, smoking, and chatting with the few folks that were out. A beautiful woman came over to try to buy cigarettes from him, and he politely informed her they could be purchased at the bar. She was in a threesome of young women, but it was so dead, I slid down the bench to chat after my next refill like I’d received an engraved invite.

She was receptive and the conversation was pretty much effortless. It didn’t take long to figure out why — she was from out of state and about to move cross-country. It’s amazing how open and carefree that can make someone.

Her group was ready to take off around midnight, and I soon followed to the bar to cash out. Before long though, I’d let myself be sucked into a pleasant train wreck of a conversation: two girls discussing a list of requirements for an imaginary, future husband. I’d heard of such things and dismissed them as the delusional entertainment that they are. I helped review it, and it was pretty innocent — none of that pie-in-the-sky bullshit you’d expect.

In any case, it was your classic setup. The attractive one, and the … funny … one. I ordered another beer. Buy the ticket, take the ride. I knew the night was headed nowhere fast, and in a sense, that made it more fun. The bartender pitched the last of us out at closing time, and I barely spun around to wave goodbye.

I got an iPhone today. It’s been too many years that I’ve been rocking this piece-of-shit Razr that was already out of fashion the day I bought it. The more things change…

I knew that my feelings of retail-therapy induced joy would be short lived. I’m no fool; I know about impact bias. I knew I’d only get as far as updating my address book before the terrible truth became obvious — I just dropped $300 for a new phone and (basically) nobody (I want to talk to) ever calls me. I’m doing a little better on the texting front, but not $300 better.

Now I can verify that I have no new emails from almost anywhere! The cutie I wrote that really witty whatever to? No, no reply yet (ever). I will have a much better selection of games to play while sitting at the bar alone; so there’s that.

How quickly the joy turns to shame.

…

I started a twitter account. It’s going to be gruesome. When I want to shout thoughtless, shameful, obscene things into the ether, that’s where they’ll go. Unless I’m actually proud of them — then they’ll go under my “real” account.

I went out last night when I should have stayed home taking care of my business. It was in the sixties at 10pm and I couldn’t resist one more ride with the top down. I ran into some “friends” (by which I mean “fellow bar-flies”) which was nice since I didn’t have to sit there and put up a front like I was all cool flying solo.

There was a gaggle of girls celebrating a birthday and at least one was emitting this high-pitched eeeeeEEEEEK! that seemed evolved, nay intelligently designed, to repel members of the opposite sex. It made my good mood teeter on the knife-point edge it’s been hanging out on since I got back from C__ town.

One of my friends was disappointed to find himself in the same bar as an old conquest that, upon reflection, would have been better left unconquered. I moved from not-really-at-all-sympathetic to full-on-empathetic upon piecing together that he was talking about the woman who’d just smiled at me and who would then be submitting me to her hardcore flirt for the next five minutes. It was flattering, I guess, but only because she was gracious enough to take a hint and move on before it got at all weird.

This morning I awoke to an incredibly pleasant dream in which I was softly kissing R__. More sensual, less sexual. I think she probably represents something prototypically delicious, and I’m completely ok with that.

It’s in the seventies today. Productivity was fucked before it even got started. The fifty pushups I did this morning are well on their way to being the only thing notable I’ll accomplish all day.