in his defense
"But..."
Everytime.
It's the same thing everytime.
"He's lied. He's cheated. He's broken my trust. He's not who I see myself with. He's not right for me.
...but..."
___________________________________________________________________________
As I dial the number of my most reliable "fuck-him-he's-an-asshole" friend, I pause - index finger suspended over the key of the phone number's final digit.
Suddenly, in my mind, I am whisked away to a phone call that I made at the beginnig of last week: a call placed to a former flame. Although I haven't thought about him or the unreturned message that I left on his Voicemail, I am suddenly implored to analize my [subconscious]intentions for the [booty] call. Who innocently calls a former bed-buddy to see if he wants to go see the new Paul Walker movie?
Furthermore, I am currently running in my head that this [booty] call is the possible reason that Karma has punished me [yet again] by forcing me in love with another man of the "gotta-have-a-lover-in-the-on-deck-circle-in-case-this-doesn't-work-out" variety. (hereforth referred to as HISWFM (He Is So Wrong For Me).)
And in the time it takes me to move my finger to the "end call" button, I have convinced myself that I somehow deserve to be treated the way I was treated earlier today:
_____________________________________________________________________________
Having celebrated our second week "broken up", Mr. HISWFM is in town for what we have collectively decided would be the "make it or break it weekend". In theory this will be a weekend that we sit down and decide if the past two weeks have been hell or if that the time apart is finally starting to make sense; that we just aren't good together.
Like any highly [dis]functional relationship that I have had insight into, we avoid the topic 100%. Reasons: a) I hate the "let's end it" conversation, b)it really does feel nice to have him paying attention to me, c)he has brought his five year old daughter with him, d) I just don't care that much.
In short: Friday is quiet. He goes out to a local bar that he used to frequent when he lived here (he moved to DC in June - I think that was break-up #6 or 7). Ironically, it was in this bar that we met and it was in this bar that I constantly witnessed his questionable fidelity. Which is why it still gives me pause if he decides that he is going there without me. Saturday is family day - no way to make that exciting (the joys of being attracted to DILFs).
Now, Sunday is where Karma begins to close her ugly hands around my neck.
Sitting in a trendy, 'popping up in every mall in America' kind of restaurant, I realize that I have yet to make plans for the football game later that evening. Patting both pockets and saying the magic words that never seem to make that which you are looking for appear, I realize that I have left my cel on the nigtstand.
After appologizing to daughter of HISWFM for using such foul language and for wishing such horrible things upon Jesus Christ, I ask HISWFM if he would be so kind as allow me the use of his phone. In light of his tendency to use his cel as a 'little black book' and of my tendency to think I am an investigator on CSI:, this is a test of the trust that we are attempting to establish with each other: It would be a HUGE episode if he is able to trust me with his phone and even HUGER for me to trust that, even if I were to snoop in the contact list, I would not find names here that would cause me to make a scene in front of the cute-but-too-young server that is now taking our drink order (not to mention the ever encouragable five year old).
So yeah. He hands me his phone. I do mini-cartwheels in my head.
"Hey, girl, what are you doing for the game later tonight? .... Yeah, I'm at [insert name of cheesey corporate restaurant here] with HISWFM an the kid. .... Oh, girl I can't drink too much tonight, so I don't care where we --- uh, hold on one second. HISWFM is getting a call on the other line ... I'll be right back with you."
To HISWFM: "So - babe? You're getting a call on the other line."
HISWFM: "Who is it?"
Me: "[insert name from list of names that I hope never to see in his 'black book']"
HISWFM: "Just ignore it."
Me(eager to give the cute-but-too-young server a good show): "ha ... riiiiight. Hello."
The color is instantly gone from Mr. HISWFM's lovely mixed race brown face. He looks more white now than when he "cleaned up" to meet my parents.
Me: "Hello? Hello?"
Bitch on the other end: "uhm ... hello? I was trying to reach HISWFM."
Me: "may I ask who is calling? ... well honey, this is his better half, and he isn't available right now. ... what? ... you didn't know he wasn't single? ... He'll call you later."
>>click<<
Enter the boy-server: "here is your cah -- i'm sorry, are you leaving? Would you like your entree to go?"
After letting the boy know that he could just enjoy the meal on my behalf and charge the cost to HISWFM's bill, I turned to HISWFM and let him know that that phonecall just helped me decide the outcome of this "make or break" weekend and walked out to the payphone to call and ask my roommate to pick me up.
While waiting on the curb I hear a sobbing in the distance. I quietly berade myself for causing such a scene in front of the child. To my dismay [and satisfaction] I turned to see HISWFM stumbling toward me -- crying like a six year old.
I gave him the well rehearsed "i am so sick of this shit" speech and climbed into the car (thank god my roommate has impeccable timing).
In all honesty, as I looked in the rearview to see him being consoled by his five year old daughter, I was absolutely devoid of feelings. I wasn't happy, nor was I sad. I was empty - completely detatched from a situation that my friends had been trying to pull me out of for nearly two years.
Of course he got in his car and followed us. Of course he jumped out and made a scene in my building's parking lot. And of course he begged me all the way to my front door to forgive him. begging me the entire time: "BABY! Don't leave me! We were broken up! I can't lose you!" -- all of which have worked for him before.
I shut the door in his face and proceeded to franticly gather all of his belongings that had accumulated in my apartment over the past year. As I near the end of this task, I decide to finally answer one of the calls that he has been inscecently making from the parking lot outside of my apartment.
It's more of the same.
More: I wasn't going to call [insert homewrecker's name] back
More: I only want to be with you ... but I didn't know where we stood.
More: I'm not even interested ... [homewrecker] got my number from a co-worker.
And I can only see that he is wrong ... again.
And I can't rationalize why I shouldn't call it quits. So I tell him this and that his belongings are in the garbage bag that is now freefalling from the second floor window.
" --and stop calling me. Have a safe trip."
____________________________________________________________________________________
Karma. That's what it all is. And that is exactly what I tell myself as I redial "fuck-him-he's-an-asshole" friend's number.
As my friend tells me all the reasons that he is so wrong for me, I spew off all of the reasons that he was justified in his most recent episode of extracurricular dating.
This is how it goes. I always arm this friend with enough ammunition to make HISWFM hate-able and equally as much artillery to defend all infidelities (read: why I am at fault for him having a wandering eye).
And perhaps that is what I get out of this relationship. I get to pick him up and prove to myself and to my friends that he is worth defending and that I am soley reponsible for the outcome - that I am the reason we keep failing. That he has reasons for everything and that a second chance will prove him worthy.
Perhaps I can't stand the thought of being alone long enough to see that despite his proclomations of love, I have nothing to do with the things he does and the choices that he makes -- a thought that is just too painful to entertain.
Everytime.
It's the same thing everytime.
"He's lied. He's cheated. He's broken my trust. He's not who I see myself with. He's not right for me.
...but..."
___________________________________________________________________________
As I dial the number of my most reliable "fuck-him-he's-an-asshole" friend, I pause - index finger suspended over the key of the phone number's final digit.
Suddenly, in my mind, I am whisked away to a phone call that I made at the beginnig of last week: a call placed to a former flame. Although I haven't thought about him or the unreturned message that I left on his Voicemail, I am suddenly implored to analize my [subconscious]intentions for the [booty] call. Who innocently calls a former bed-buddy to see if he wants to go see the new Paul Walker movie?
Furthermore, I am currently running in my head that this [booty] call is the possible reason that Karma has punished me [yet again] by forcing me in love with another man of the "gotta-have-a-lover-in-the-on-deck-circle-in-case-this-doesn't-work-out" variety. (hereforth referred to as HISWFM (He Is So Wrong For Me).)
And in the time it takes me to move my finger to the "end call" button, I have convinced myself that I somehow deserve to be treated the way I was treated earlier today:
_____________________________________________________________________________
Having celebrated our second week "broken up", Mr. HISWFM is in town for what we have collectively decided would be the "make it or break it weekend". In theory this will be a weekend that we sit down and decide if the past two weeks have been hell or if that the time apart is finally starting to make sense; that we just aren't good together.
Like any highly [dis]functional relationship that I have had insight into, we avoid the topic 100%. Reasons: a) I hate the "let's end it" conversation, b)it really does feel nice to have him paying attention to me, c)he has brought his five year old daughter with him, d) I just don't care that much.
In short: Friday is quiet. He goes out to a local bar that he used to frequent when he lived here (he moved to DC in June - I think that was break-up #6 or 7). Ironically, it was in this bar that we met and it was in this bar that I constantly witnessed his questionable fidelity. Which is why it still gives me pause if he decides that he is going there without me. Saturday is family day - no way to make that exciting (the joys of being attracted to DILFs).
Now, Sunday is where Karma begins to close her ugly hands around my neck.
Sitting in a trendy, 'popping up in every mall in America' kind of restaurant, I realize that I have yet to make plans for the football game later that evening. Patting both pockets and saying the magic words that never seem to make that which you are looking for appear, I realize that I have left my cel on the nigtstand.
After appologizing to daughter of HISWFM for using such foul language and for wishing such horrible things upon Jesus Christ, I ask HISWFM if he would be so kind as allow me the use of his phone. In light of his tendency to use his cel as a 'little black book' and of my tendency to think I am an investigator on CSI:, this is a test of the trust that we are attempting to establish with each other: It would be a HUGE episode if he is able to trust me with his phone and even HUGER for me to trust that, even if I were to snoop in the contact list, I would not find names here that would cause me to make a scene in front of the cute-but-too-young server that is now taking our drink order (not to mention the ever encouragable five year old).
So yeah. He hands me his phone. I do mini-cartwheels in my head.
"Hey, girl, what are you doing for the game later tonight? .... Yeah, I'm at [insert name of cheesey corporate restaurant here] with HISWFM an the kid. .... Oh, girl I can't drink too much tonight, so I don't care where we --- uh, hold on one second. HISWFM is getting a call on the other line ... I'll be right back with you."
To HISWFM: "So - babe? You're getting a call on the other line."
HISWFM: "Who is it?"
Me: "[insert name from list of names that I hope never to see in his 'black book']"
HISWFM: "Just ignore it."
Me(eager to give the cute-but-too-young server a good show): "ha ... riiiiight. Hello."
The color is instantly gone from Mr. HISWFM's lovely mixed race brown face. He looks more white now than when he "cleaned up" to meet my parents.
Me: "Hello? Hello?"
Bitch on the other end: "uhm ... hello? I was trying to reach HISWFM."
Me: "may I ask who is calling? ... well honey, this is his better half, and he isn't available right now. ... what? ... you didn't know he wasn't single? ... He'll call you later."
>>click<<
Enter the boy-server: "here is your cah -- i'm sorry, are you leaving? Would you like your entree to go?"
After letting the boy know that he could just enjoy the meal on my behalf and charge the cost to HISWFM's bill, I turned to HISWFM and let him know that that phonecall just helped me decide the outcome of this "make or break" weekend and walked out to the payphone to call and ask my roommate to pick me up.
While waiting on the curb I hear a sobbing in the distance. I quietly berade myself for causing such a scene in front of the child. To my dismay [and satisfaction] I turned to see HISWFM stumbling toward me -- crying like a six year old.
I gave him the well rehearsed "i am so sick of this shit" speech and climbed into the car (thank god my roommate has impeccable timing).
In all honesty, as I looked in the rearview to see him being consoled by his five year old daughter, I was absolutely devoid of feelings. I wasn't happy, nor was I sad. I was empty - completely detatched from a situation that my friends had been trying to pull me out of for nearly two years.
Of course he got in his car and followed us. Of course he jumped out and made a scene in my building's parking lot. And of course he begged me all the way to my front door to forgive him. begging me the entire time: "BABY! Don't leave me! We were broken up! I can't lose you!" -- all of which have worked for him before.
I shut the door in his face and proceeded to franticly gather all of his belongings that had accumulated in my apartment over the past year. As I near the end of this task, I decide to finally answer one of the calls that he has been inscecently making from the parking lot outside of my apartment.
It's more of the same.
More: I wasn't going to call [insert homewrecker's name] back
More: I only want to be with you ... but I didn't know where we stood.
More: I'm not even interested ... [homewrecker] got my number from a co-worker.
And I can only see that he is wrong ... again.
And I can't rationalize why I shouldn't call it quits. So I tell him this and that his belongings are in the garbage bag that is now freefalling from the second floor window.
" --and stop calling me. Have a safe trip."
____________________________________________________________________________________
Karma. That's what it all is. And that is exactly what I tell myself as I redial "fuck-him-he's-an-asshole" friend's number.
As my friend tells me all the reasons that he is so wrong for me, I spew off all of the reasons that he was justified in his most recent episode of extracurricular dating.
This is how it goes. I always arm this friend with enough ammunition to make HISWFM hate-able and equally as much artillery to defend all infidelities (read: why I am at fault for him having a wandering eye).
And perhaps that is what I get out of this relationship. I get to pick him up and prove to myself and to my friends that he is worth defending and that I am soley reponsible for the outcome - that I am the reason we keep failing. That he has reasons for everything and that a second chance will prove him worthy.
Perhaps I can't stand the thought of being alone long enough to see that despite his proclomations of love, I have nothing to do with the things he does and the choices that he makes -- a thought that is just too painful to entertain.
posted by brian. at 12:10 PM
