I was irreversibly broken up with last night. It was going to happen eventually, but it still sucked. The basic issue is that Old Sport and I weren’t in love, and if we were going to be, six months was long enough for it to have happened already. This was, needless to say, Old Sport’s idea and not mine. I was very happy in a relationship based on strong “like,” a lot of food, good sex, and the kind of easy companionship that is hard to come by when you’re in love with the other person. Old Sport, though, god bless him, smelled a rat and broke up with me. It did seem like we were sort of cheating at times. Not on each other, just cheating at having a relationship. The whole thing, now that I’m experiencing the lovely crystal-clear vision of hindsight, has always been a little too convenient, a little too easy, and a little too good to be true. I did not think that this was a problem, though. I thought that this was, in a word, awesome. Still, I should have seen the breakup on the horizon. You can’t cheat forever.
When Old Sport called and told me this, I was so angry that I packed up all the stuff he had at my house in a hot pink Victoria’s Secret bag. His stuff included two Pat Conroy novels, a T-shirt, and a few extra bars of that sandalwood soap that I got for him a few weeks ago and kept forgetting to give to him. When he arrived at my house and I handed him the big pink bag, he didn’t want to take it at first. Then my spiteful little joke dawned on him and he just kind of shook his head, laughing. This is my underhanded gift to the boys who break up with me: I leave them with good stories to tell. He walked around with it slung over his shoulder all night as we went to several different bars, getting as drunk as possible together one last time. When we were finally kicked out of the last one, the bartender shouted after Old Sport, “Um, dude… you forgot your bag.”
I’m not in the general practice of being friends with boys who make me cry. Old Sport thinks that I should make an exception in his case. On one hand, I think he’s right. Over the past six months, he’s been some of the best company I’ve ever had, “in love” or not. He cheers me up when I’m sad, feeds me when I’m hungry, laughs at my jokes, and gives me some of the most effective pep talks I’ve ever gotten from anyone in my life. He’s been my hot date on the weekends, my tour guide at the Philadelphia Zoo, and the only person I know who would soldier through an entire five-pound tongue sandwich at the Famous 4th St. Deli even when it is obviously disgusting. Old Sport has been the only part of some dark, dark weeks that seemed worth looking forward to. I can’t imagine my life with no Old Sport in it. If he made me cry by breaking up with me, he has made me smile a lot more. So maybe I could give this whole “friends with your ex” thing the old college try. I mean, I know that’s what he’d do.
On the other hand, I’m really sad. It’s not the deep, dark, hopeless kind of despair that I’ve felt in the past when breaking things off with someone I was in love with, but it’s not exactly warm and fuzzy, either. Mostly I just wonder who’s going to scratch the back of Old Sport’s head for him while he falls asleep and give him hugs when he’s too far up in his head and remind him of who he is when he’s feeling unsure. Because that shit is MY job. Which is why I wonder whether I’m capable of being friends with someone who’s basically come right out and… fired me? I mean, I wouldn’t go hang out at a restaurant that has fired me, even if I liked the food and my other friends wanted to go there. I’d stay the hell away from it.
But maybe the “job” analogy is why I just got dumped on the “not in love” premise in the first place.
This blog entry could have just been two words: this sucks. I wish I could get it up for some kind of cutesy perfume tie-in, but frankly, I could give a fuck about what I smell like right now. I obviously have a lot of rethinking to do about a few things. Anyway, Sweet dreams, Old Sport. I hope you feel better than I do right now.
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