Monday, December 22, 2008


"Be offhand or do your hand." 

To all you hopeless romantics: heed my brilliant slogan.

Having continually defined and redefined the word "desperate", the termination of my last pursuit came at me like a dormant volcano blowing its top all over an unexpecting group of half-naked villagers. Fortunately, there was only one casualty, and it was yours truly, who would face a slightly intoxicated and somewhat tearful 3 AM drive home from downtown Portland, shouting obscenities over John Mayer's smooth vocals and groovy guitar work. 

But how did I get here?

Perhaps it was the culmination of drunken phone calls and text messages, spread over the period of several months. Perhaps it was the page-long emails, confessing my deepest feelings and desires, sent at 2 in the morning on work nights. Perhaps it had something to do with me telling her, directly, that I would put my joie de vivre on hold for her for the next 10 months, when we would finally reside in the same city. Or perhaps it was telling her that I had thought of nothing but her in the last month of my previous relationship. Whatever it was that led to my predicament, I was completely oblivious. Clearly, I had done everything a woman could possibly desire.

Be that as it may, she decided to let online networking sites to let me know that she had decided to move to California in the upcoming year. Questioning into the matter led only to denial. Further questioning, in person, led to reluctant confirmation. I was not deterred. 

Apparently in lieu of previous interactions of the "you're everything I've wanted" type, she began changing her facebook statuses to everything from "the fights, they don't stop. It might be time to sign off" (despite only smooth sailing between us as far as I was concerned, meaning her ex was out of the picture) to "it's love, it's love, it's love" (resulting in the biggest of Fonzie looks on my part).

As far as I could see, this was going to be the greatest romance in romance history since [insert male and female names from famous chick flick here]. I even memorized Bennie and the Jets in preparation of the getting a whole bar singing a song everyone loves with a special lady kind of nights that evidently loomed around the corner that is the end of this school year. 

And then: "girl (love) boys with guitars"


First thought: her ex is in a band. A pretty damn good band. He plays guitar.
Second thought: I own a guitar as well... perhaps she knew.
Third thought: I took her out for a damn nice dinner on our first date. I bought her flowers.
Fourth thought: there's no way she's going back to that asshole.
Fifth thought: she probably didn't know...

And finally...

Sixth thought: @%!$^&#*

I saw her one more time after this, which is how I came to the previously described predicament. Having pledged not to let her get to me and have her come meet me with a large group of my friends, we decided on a pub in Alberta. I decided on one theme for the night: utter indifference. A summary follows:

First hour: success. She seemed intrigued at my offhand interactions with friends and ability to have a good time without discussion of my deep and undying desire for her. 

Second hour: having tried to kiss her more than once and been met with a lowering of the head and a barrage of excuses, indifference had somehow fled.

Third hour: "I'm tired... can you get a ride home with your friend? Oh he's just left? Well you better run to catch up to him!"

Cue John Mayer.

Having made every mistake in the book of courtship, I bring you the definitive "don't do as I did or am currently doing" guide to God knows that I end up getting myself into as the wheel of time spins its gangly spokes. 

Update: she is spending winter break with her former ex, having rekindled what I can only describe as a sewage treatment facility meets hellfire sort of flame. All bitterness aside, I hope they both get the clap. 

1 comment:

Emily Erdman said...

Hell yes Dennis. I see this so much more clearly now.