Hi. I'm single. I'm announcing it to the world because my ex-boyfriend decided it would be best for us to declare it quickly—with an easy sweep. That way, we don't have to share the same, old story a thousand times. For those wondering, that's why he updated his relationship status on Facebook to 'single' before I had the chance to say single aloud.
I guess I shouldn't be complaining; I'm the foolish one who ended it. We'd been separated for some time, trying to make it work, because it was good … once. Still once is the past—not the present—and once I realized that I no longer liked holding his hand—I knew I had to end it.
It's not been easy; we're trying to be friends, whatever that means, and I'm trying to not call him baby or say the word love when I'm with him. Inside, I'm sad, mad, dazed, hollow, and horny all the time, but I know that I'm not ready to kiss or even look at a new guy. So lately—to pass time—I head to Target, where I rummage through aisles of knick-knacks I don't like or need. My preference is the craft section, where I reach for wooden shelf ornaments carved into inspirational words like "marriage," "baby" and "love." I have this delusional idea that if I purchase one, that word is what will await me at the exit door. But no instead, I head to the parking lot, where exhausted, I nap alone in my car, afraid to turn on the radio.
"Awww, how … pathetic," declared my friend Jasmine, who instructed me to stay away from Target last week after I confessed that I had lingered in their bathroom for too long. It all started off as harmless. First, I was peeing. But then, I was refusing to let go—a habit I learned from being in a safe, comfortable relationship. "You know, you can get arrested for that," Jasmine says, over the phone.
"For jacking off?"
"No, for being a pussy! Now go home and take a shower. We're going out tonight. Just a few friends."
This is Jasmine's idea of a quick pick-me-up: her acceptable answer for anything. Just a few friends, just a few cocktails, until the point where everyone is drunk enough to forget they're friends and make out. But tonight, I agree, because she has been attempting to help me. Her technique: usually, a play-by-play conversation in regard to how hard her sexy boyfriend nailed her the night before. And then there are her typical text messages. How her weekend was 'hot-t-t' and how her man's penis is so mac-daddy she can't cross her legs because of the razor burn. "You think you're torn up?" She lifts her wine glass to salute my single hood. "Try dating Italian. Cheers!"
Her friends erupt in laughter as I wander over to the DJ spinning low-tempo house records. In the VIP room of the Middle Eastern lounge silver, shimmering curtains dance under a wealth of ceiling fans and everyone—except Jasmine—talks in a whisper.
Taking a seat at the bar, I ask the bartender to pour Sprite into my stout so I won't head to a drunken state, where I find being single funny before getting depressed about it.
"You're not mingling," Jasmine observes, finding me. She points to a muscle-man with greasy black hair she knows from yoga. He's wearing sunglasses at night. "That one has a crush on you."
"I'm not ready."
"Nonsense," she said. Then calling him forward, she tells him not to mind me for being a bitch; I'm just grumpy because the gay press has been blogging in jest about my break-up. "He needs someone to kiss him and make it better," she coos.
"Aw. No worries. You should get drunk!" he told me. And soon, I learn that's the limited amount of English he knows. Each time I escape, his robotic arms find me, taking me to him, where he sings it again. "Get drunk. Drunk! You should really get drunk." He only shuts up when he starts kissing some girl in front of me. And that's when I bolt.
"No! Why are you leaving?" Jasmine asked. Grabbing my hand at the entrance, she cradles a cigarette while balancing herself on one heel. "That guy likes you!"
Speechless, I'm boiling with anger. I can't do this again. I'm rusty at dealing with idiot men; I have no game and little patience to practice.
"Are you mad because he kissed that girl? He probably thought you would find it sexy," Jasmine stated. But I don't find it sexy. All I see are his sunglasses at night and his hairy tentacles around me, and as I walk, no, run away, I hear her scream about getting laid, but I'm not listening. I'm racing along an empty downtown street, and I find a dark alleyway leading to my car, where I fall asleep for twenty minutes before waking up with the flooring thought that I haven't progressed in a month. I don't know who I am without my ex. I'm in the same place. I'm afraid of movement, of touch. I don't if what I've done is right, but I know that staying in this same spot is wrong. So bracing myself, I turn on the car, and press the power on the radio—the first act I can think of to begin welcoming in all the others who have been wronged by love.
This is the Windy City Times debut of columnist Anthony Paull's Dating Diet column.
