Dissecting Diane

Yesterday I was early to my therapist appointment (as usual), so I sat in her tiny, humid half-room pawing through a stack of outdated magazines. Faced with choices including 2006 New York Times Magazines and ancient copies of AARP, I settled on a 2007 issue of Marie Claire and flipped to the feature well. I'm not a huge fan of Marie Claire (especially after reading an incredibly confusing story about sex with a paraplegic in this particular issue), but then I stumbled across one of the most fascinatingly counterintuitive pieces I'd read in a long time: this profile on Diane Warren.

Dianne Warren, if you're not familiar, has been honored over and over again at music awards shows as one of the great songwriters of our time. The woman wrote "If I Could Turn Back Time"! (As well as a bunch of classic Michael Bolton and Celine Dion songs, and one of my personal favorites, "Tell It to My Heart," sung by Taylor Dayne. Check out a longer list of her songs on Warren's Wikipedia page.) According to the profile, though, the woman whom we would expect to be home watching Lifetime Original Movies and self-medicating with chocolate is actually a fabulously foul-mouthed, tacky-home-decor-loving, parrot-owning force of nature who -- wait for it -- has never been in love.

Ever.

Warren is single and couldn't care less, even though she had a seven-year live-in relationship with a man in the music biz back in the day that she describes as not "love," but instead "comfortable." She loves her music and her work, but relationships? Not so much. I found this absolutely riveting.

For me, it was especially fascinating because I consider one of her songs a turning point in my early relationship with N. Remember that Aerosmith song "Don't Wanna Miss a Thing"? It was on the soundtrack to that terrible action flick Armageddeon, it was nominated for a Grammy, and it apparently sold like hotcakes. The lyrics are sort of crazy, though: "I don't wanna close my eyes/ I don't wanna fall asleep/ 'Cause I'd miss you, baby/ And I don't want to miss a thing." When I first heard it at age 18, I thought, "What does that even mean? What would Steven Tyler be missing if he fell asleep? This song is nonsensical."

Around Thanksgiving last year, N and I were sleeping in the same bed, and he fell asleep first. He usually falls asleep first. I listened to him breathe, and I ran my eyes over his skin, his hair, and his person, and I realized I was in love with him. I knew it was probably ill-advised, and I think I could sense I was in for a world of hurt, but I loved him then intensely and completely, and I have never since stopped. In that particular tangible moment, just like the lyrics say, a song flooded all of my synapses -- loud, as if I were cranking the radio in my Chevy Nova 10 years ago. It was that damn Aerosmith song: "I don't wanna close my eyes/ I don't want to fall asleep/ 'Cause I'd miss you baby/ And I don't want to miss a thing."

Ten years after the song's release, I finally understood the lyrics.

Toward its end, the Marie Claire story mentions "I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing." As it turns out, not only has Diane Warren never been as in love as the song would have us believe she was, but she also got the inspiration for the song from a quote that James Brolin gave about his love, Barbra Streisand.

I hesitate to say that my mind was blown by the seeming hollowness of the song, because I don't think any of us are under the illusion that everything we hear/see/experience isn't manufactured in some way. Even my love for N, by putting it to a soundtrack, was manufactured at that time, by using someone else's words to describe my feelings rather than using my own. Having just been to a wedding, though, I know that this goes on all the time. People use other people's music to describe their feelings -- the couple I just saw get hitched used "Angel Eyes" by the Jeff Healey Band for their first dance in order to express their love and happiness to their wedding guests. People having trouble in their relationships are compelled buy those pastel cards at drugstores that have long passages about "loving you always" despite "mistakes I have made." Those card authors even get a byline above where the card-giver signs his or her name.

So all of this got me thinking about imagery (bridal veils, hands clasping, a couple walking in the park) and patented words and phrases ("baby," "piece of my heart," "in love with you") that all of us -- at some point -- will either use or buy into or expect at some point. How do imagery and songs and crazy Christian upbringings (I'm sorry, maybe that's just me) affect our expectations?

Because I feel for someone, does that prevent me from feeling for other people at the same time? What makes us want to couple? Biology, arguably, but studies show that men are only romantically in it for nine months, and then they move on to the next woman. People still marry, but for what reasons? If you don't need financial support, is there a compelling argument to pair up? Emotional support? Moral support? Desire for children? But if it's just support, where does sex and attraction fit in? Can you have support and attraction/great sex? Or are they mutually exclusive? Is a little bit of a chase always going to make things hotter? And does a good, strong relationship have to be just a little bit boring in order to feel stable? Is there really such a thing as "the one"? Or are we all biological creatures oozing against each other to fulfill what desires (sexual, emotional, or procreational) we have at the time? And, if so, doesn't that make the concept of "love" a little...impersonal?

Maybe Diane Warren has the right idea.

But you can bet that -- at some point -- most of us will choose to believe her songs anyway. I think that, despite everything, I still want to.

Black

I got home early today and watched Access Hollywood. I prefer it to Entertainment Tonight, though I'm not sure why. They did a segment on Amy Winehouse, interviewing the journalist who wrote this simple yet searing profile for Rolling Stone on the state of the singer today. I watched the whole show just so I could see the Amy segment, because I loved the article so much when I read it a few days ago.

The journalist, Claire Hoffman, began talking. She looked about my age, and as she spoke about seeing Amy living in filth, depressed, and missing her husband, Blake Fielder-Civil, I began to cry, because, like it or not, I identify with Amy. I don't want to identify with her, but I do. I am obsessed with reading about her lately.

I understand what it's like just to want to stay in the house and do drugs (or escape in some way -- booze, whatever) when the man you love is away, whether he deserves that devotion or not. Amy has made her existence Blake.

Amy wrote Back to Black during one of her breakups with Blake. Listen to it. I'm listening to it now. The lyrics are true and honest.

In the Rolling Stone story, Hoffman says that Amy's "trust is remarkable." Amy is kind to her fans, even talking about her wardrobe with two fans over an intercom. Amy's friend tells her she thinks she may have been in love before, and Amy says, "No, no, if you had, you'd be dead because you weren't together." Oversimplifying and juvenile, okay, but still, to me, there's something tangible to relate to. I relate to all of it.

Lately all I feel are restrictions: self-imposed, mostly. Like tonight: I'm drinking wine alone in my apartment, because I don't want to go to a bar by myself; I know I shouldn't go to a bar myself, because I've done that before, and all it led to was bad decisions, spent money, and self-loathing. I want to eat something else tonight, but I know that if I do I'll gain weight, and one of the only things that makes me feel good about myself lately is how thin I am: the thinnest I've been in years. I want to smoke -- I've smoked four cigarettes in the past two weeks, and I am disappointed in myself for that, but I'm more sad that I don't really care that much -- but I don't want to leave my apartment, and I don't want to make my bed smell like smoke. I want to call N -- he's on vacation in California -- but I shouldn't because I don't want to bother him, I don't want to be That Girl, and my therapist says he's supposed to chase me. I have people I could go out with, friends that I could call (someone from my past just called me to come hang out downtown; I pushed "mute" on the ringer), but if I did I'd have to spend money (which I don't have much of right now) and make pleasant conversation and feign concern about others and their feelings through my boozy haze, and I am less and less willing to do that as the years wear on.

In the article, you can tell Amy doesn't care much about working anymore, though you can see she's still passionate about singing and has new musical ideas. Music was her base. But that was then, and this is now, during and after Blake, which I'm speculating is the only thing she's felt passionate about in a long time.

I feel that way.

I feel that way about my work, which was always my first priority. I sometimes do read things that I love and get excited about the prospect of writing something that I love or others will love, but I have no follow-through. My feelings of failure about the disintegration of the romantic life that I tried so hard to create have eclipsed a lot of things. I try to get excited about movies or TV shows -- those normal things that normal people look forward to and talk about around the water cooler. I told myself that when I got home I was going to watch a DVD, but I didn't. I never do. I talk a great big game, about how I want to stay true to myself and be positive and make things work for me and not sell myself out. I think my friends and my therapist believe me.

But...the truth?

I've gotten everything I've ever wanted. Every. Single. Thing. The job, the city, the apartment, the friends, the (sometime) boy. I feel...done. Everything else feels like filler. Other accomplishments as addendums to what I already wanted long ago seem unrealistic, and just I don't have the energy anymore to get water from a stone, the way I did in my ambitious days. The hours crawl by. I count hours and minutes until I can go home for the day.

That's why I prefer to sit here, drinking $7.99 malbec and watching as the empty identical wine bottles, in a span of a couple of days, take their place in line next to one another on my kitchen countertop.

People want Amy to get better -- kick the habit, get back to the music, dump Blake, not to die. But, aside from standard concern for your fellow human beings, I wonder why they want that for someone they don't know. So she'll make us another record that we can dance to at retarded, overpriced dance clubs and sing karaoke to upstairs at Japanese sushi bars? Maybe just let her be. Maybe she just wants to be left alone.

Sometimes the demons don't leave.

Better Halves

"ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT N?!" a coworker of mine asked today as I stood at Sunny's cubicle. Well, it wasn't so much "asking" as "accusing," and her tone was more "threatening" than "inquiring." I don't know what she overheard. I don't blame her for asking, as she was one of a sea of people who e-mailed me thought-out pep-talk paragraphs and launched into you-break-up-with-him-girl speeches when N was being a jerk.

"No..." I said. "I was talking about his friend, Six-Two." (This was true, actually.) As an afterthought, I added, "I'm not dating Six-Two." (Also true.)

I don't remember what I was saying about Six-Two -- maybe I was just telling Sunny a story or making some sort of soft comparison. But as I walked back to my desk, I had a thought: When did N go from being my cute, rogue-ish Nicky Arnstein to my detrimental bad habit -- my Blake Fielder-Civil? My Raffaello Follieri? My Pete Doherty? I suddenly find myself reading news stories about Amy Winehouse and Anne Hathaway and their blind love for their shady men and feeling some sort of kinship with them. Okay, so N has never been in jail (that I know of) or swindled people out of thousands, but where is the line between love and bad decision-making?

I'm afraid to mention N to much of anyone, because I don't want to hear the criticism. I know it all, in my head, already, so even if I feel that N is genuinely trying now -- really working to communicate with me, be present, and be nice to my friends and me -- everyone else is still going to hear what I said before, when he was making me miserable.

The question is, Will he be able to sustain this? And will I ever be able to trust him again?

Fleeting

I dreamed last night that structures were crumbling. Old billboards were collapsing on themselves and falling down as dust. Green-leaved trees were singeing internally and burning to the ground. I was trying to find my grandmothers. Everyone outside was milling around, not really panicking, but awestruck. I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, and I kept looking up at the destruction and repeating, "It's fleeting. It's fleeting."

I woke up from the dream with a start in N's bed. I panicked, my heart fluttering and my chest ever so slightly in pain. I don't remember this, but N said I was crying in my sleep, and then suddenly I sat up and looked at him and said, "I didn't know where I was."

When N is happy, he is wonderful, and I feel wonderful. He tells jokes and does funny impressions of people we know. He makes up sarcastic, hypothetical stories and relates them in movie-like dialogue, and I laugh out loud. He kisses me and holds my hand and tells me about books I'd like or news stories I should read. His eyes are clear and large, and he tells me how he feels about me. I smile, and my concerns dissipate. I feel like the woman I always wanted to be: pretty and happy and confident and metropolitan, with the man she loves next to her.

But I can feel when N turns. His eyes go dark, and his forehead creases. He doesn't talk as much, and I find myself trying to fill the space between us with stupid anecdotes or subway observations or updates on a subject we talked about days before. It's when I can feel him closing that I want to reach out for him and scream, "No! Come back! I love you! Please don't leave!"

But it is always too late.

"I Give Myself Very Good Advice, But I Very Seldom Follow It"

"You know, you're the worst person to give advice to," Middle Sister said to me.

"Really?" I asked. I usually think of myself as an almost tragically impressionable person.

"Yeah," she said, not really looking at me as she packed up her things in our hotel room at the end of this past weekend. "Because you just don't want to hear it." She launched into a somewhat unflattering impression of me that included the words "I know, okay? I fucking know. Shut up." (Apparently I'm fond of the cursin' and the belligerence when I've combined Bud Light and Jack Daniel's. As anyone would be.)

For me, though, patented, copyrighted, reprinted "advice" in any situation (career, relationships, life, apartment, friendships, financial decisions) rings hollow. I don't like platitudes and cliches. Even if you're quoting Lincoln, I'm kind of not hearing it, because it's all been said before. Easy phrases and psycho-babble passages are like the "Hang in there!" kitten-clutching-a-tree-branch posters of the emotional world. What I identify with are other people's stories.

I got a good one recently.

I was relaxing on the Upper West with Six-Two (yes, the friend of N's from January), and he launched into a short story about a woman he was dating over in L.A. a while ago. Slouched in his seat, he rolled his eyes almost as soon as he started telling me about her:

"She said, 'Oh, you're wearing flip-flops. We're not going to get into Area' -- or whatever club -- 'tonight.' "

Six-Two paused for effect.

"And for a second I cared," he said.

His eyes bored into mine, and I could tell we were dancing around the pink elephant in the room. We were communicating through analogies and stories, because that's how information has been passed down for ages and ages.

For that moment, I looked at him and deciphered the code. Mmm. Exactly.

Now here's my allegory: In my late 20s, I once dated a man who, through emotional withdrawals and non-communication, pigeonholed me emotionally to the point that I molded myself into his theoretical ideal. I was an animatronic girlfriend. I didn't have problems, I didn't have boundaries, I didn't have needs, and I didn't have wants. All of my future plans could be counterprogrammed into something that he wanted, his vision of his upcoming life: Stepford girlfriend, batteries included. I always did my hair, I never called him to talk about my bad day, and I never bothered him when I knew he was out doing God knows what with whomever he wanted.

When he stopped wanting Animatronic Jane, as whittled down as I had become, for a second I cared.

Ass-Kicking

I'm going to be away this weekend, but I wanted to leave y'all with something. I've recently made a new friend, and he sent me something great a couple of weeks ago. I don't know how many of you guys are going through breakups or just remember how it was, but I found my friend's e-mail incredibly inspiring at the time (just FYI, the "failskirt" in this refers to a skirt that I ordered online and had to take scissors to in order to make the stuck zipper go all the way down):

"The rules are simple: You got sat on your ass? So what? Somebody doesn't realize why you're great? To hell with them. They'll learn or they won't, but you're not a teacher; you're an ass-kicker. You don't have the time to teach. The next time you drink, you're turning a failskirt into a WINskirt and you're working it hardcore. This isn't quantum physics, this is life. Time you spend crying is time you spend dying."

Love. That.

Laugh with Me

Okay, I think we need some breakup humor after all of this heavy emotional lifting.

Saw this yesterday and died laughing. I heart "Flight of the Conchords."

The C-Word

Trying to trust anyone now feels like ripping off my skin -- exposing the pink muscle tissue -- and standing in the summer air during an acid rain.

"Jane, you're so sexy."

"Mmmm-hmmm."

"Jane, I want you so much. And I think you want me."

"Of course you do."

"Jane, what is wrong? Do you want to sit down? Talk about your problems? Here, let's sit."

"No, that's okay."

"Jane, what did your ex do to you?"

[Silence.]

"Jane, whatever he did, I'm not him. Look at me. I'm not going to make false promises. You and me -- this isn't random. We have a connection."

Aaaaand, scene.

The C-word, "connection," is the most bullshit word in the English language as far as I'm concerned right now. In dating/relationships/hookups, there is no such California new-age thing as a "connection." There is attraction, and then there is work to make a relationship grow. "Connection" does not exist. N loved to use the word "connection," and I bristled like a porcupine every time he said it. It should go unsaid that N was and is an emotional infant.

Attraction is fleeting. Love is something you work on. It's easy to have the former. The latter is the tough part, and I am fucking great at the tough part. Unfortunately, men aren't. Or maybe not-so-unfortunately... I am far happier being by myself than being in purgatory with someone who can't step up.

Exiting

I watched Hillary Clinton's exit speech on CNN yesterday. The words "grace," "dignity," and "strength" are just a few generic terms that came to mind when I heard her speak. Imagine how much she put into her campaign: a brave face in the wake of total public humiliation, stoicism in order to be taken seriously, time, money, patience, grit. Now imagine how it must feel to have all of it be totally over, due to factors that weren't her fault (bad campaign manager, general public sentiment, sexism...you pick).

It's a stretch to compare all of that to my breakup, but I was incredibly inspired by this portion of her speech:

"So I want to say to my supporters, when you hear people saying – or think to yourself – "if only" or "what if," I say, "please don't go there." Every moment wasted looking back keeps us from moving forward. Life is too short, time is too precious, and the stakes are too high to dwell on what might have been. We have to work together for what still can be."

I loved this. "The stakes are too high to dwell on what might have been" is my new mantra for getting over being so completely burned and hurt by someone selfish and deceitful, and moving on to feeling secure with myself: an honest, loving person who only wanted good things for everyone involved.

The Wrong Order

I ran a few quick errands today and stopped at my corner deli for breakfast. I glanced at the specials menu, and before I even knew what I was saying, I ordered N's favorite breakfast sandwich, in the exact control-freak way he always demanded it. I became angry with myself. Why the fuck am I still ordering N's food, still in N's head?

It was too late to call my order back. It was habit, I guess -- rote memory of all of those dumb little things you love about someone when you're in a relationship with them. If you could even call N's and my connection-free coupling a relationship. I barely do.

I carried my shame sandwich in a brown paper bag back to my apartment, so intensely mad at myself for picking something I wasn't even sure that I really wanted.

I unfolded the foil and looked inside: The deli guys got the order wrong. Instead of a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich (crispy bacon, egg soft-scrambled), I was the proud owner of a ham-egg-and-cheese sandwich (grilled ham, egg fried).

I smiled. Even the deli guys know it's time for me to move on.

Land of the Manchildren

I went out tonight with one of my favorite friends, Platonic Married Guy (PMG, for short). PMG and I were former coworkers, and we have a lot in common, including our religious upbringings and the Midwest as our true heartland. I adore Platonic Married Guy, because not only is he insightful on all things work- or relationship-related, he has never once insinuated that our relationship is anything but friendly. That, my friends, is nice. And rare.

I met PMG and a few of his buddies out for drinks tonight. It was unintentionally fantastic: me at a table with four other dudes. I wasn't expecting that. One of them was cute and looked about my age. We made eyes at each other, and I listened to him: Midwest-born. Artist. Eloquent. Smart. Funny. Ummmm...hello!

Later I made all of the boys fess up their ages. Cute friend was 43. Good God. I already upped my limit for N, but 43 is ridiculous. I tried to pay for my drinks, of course they insisted I didn't, and I went to the ladies' room.

I came back to the table to grab my purse and my jacket, and PMG's cute friend was showing off the shirts he bought at an outlet mall to the rest of the guys. I had an unpleasant flashback:

Shopping. Old but looks young. Fancies himself an "artist." Lives in Brooklyn.

No. Not again.

New York City is the official Land of the Manchildren. If your genes are right, you can coast for 20 years with no commitments, no rings, no children, and no spine.

I. Can't.

Buh-bye.

Attention, Please

"He liked your attention, Jane."

"So he never loved me, he just loved my attention."

"I never met the guy."

"That's a terrible thing to say. That's a horrible thing to say."

"Well...?"

"That's awful. Awful."

"How many times did he offer to come over to your apartment just to watch you pack?"

"Well... I'm sure... In the beginning..."

"Listen: You didn't do anything wrong here. You tried. And you really fell for this guy. It's what you do next that's the really key decision. You did nothing wrong. It's just...if it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out."

(Editor's note: Right! Again, that whole "We had a good run! Thanks for the warmth and the sex! Take care now!")

"I just...I don't know if you know how much I hate myself right now. How much I hate myself for falling for this guy who doesn't want me. [Crying] I just... I just..."

"Why? You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't cheat on him. You didn't break into his apartment and steal anything. You didn't do anything wrong. [Pause.] I don't think you believe me, but you didn't. How could you hate yourself? You hate yourself when you rear-end someone somebody when you're drunk behind the wheel. You didn't do anything wrong. I don't think you fell for a bad guy. You just might have fallen for the wrong one."

"Again."

Barely There

I went to work today with my glasses on and a bare face. That is to say, I didn't wear any makeup. I don't know how many of y'all know the Midwest, but we Midwestern women like our makeup. That's not to say we necessarily apply it well or pick shades that are right for our us or our current decade, but we know the value of a good lipstick -- especially when we're trying, even if we're just putting our best foot forward at church on Sunday morning.

I don't remember the last time I went out to see people I know without makeup on. But there was something about this morning (aside from my pills-and-booze minihangover) that made me not want to try. I wasn't giving up, per se, but I was giving in -- to the temptation of sadness, maybe. All week I've been swooshing and jangling about in bright outfits and touseled blond hair and megajewelry to put my pain on mute. Today, I wore black and the small diamond studs that the Boyf gave me two and a half years ago.

Maybe it was the giving in that caused me to e-mail N.

After writing and deleting a billion potential works of prose, I sent him three short sentences succinctly expressing the fact that it was possible that I was going crazy. I hadn't contacted him since I ended things. He was nice about my e-mail. Says he wants to be there for me. Says he has "regrets" about how everything unfolded. Yes. Yes. Don't we all? Don't ALL of us -- every single person reading this -- have regrets about our failed relationships?

I'm coming to the conclusion that N tried. My black-and-white version of the story was always, "I tried. He didn't. The end." Truth be told, in his own barely visible way, he tried. But, as Sunny said today (sorry, Sunny, I'm lifting from you for this post), "He gave 100 percent, and that was 60 percent of what you wanted." It just. Wasn't. Enough.

I love big. I expect big in return. Emotions drip out of me like I'm a saturated kitchen sponge -- every time someone touches me, I gush. When N touches me, I pour rivers. I still do. I still love that man more than any man I've ever loved in my natural born life, but he and I are (to quote my friend P) "wired differently." N is dry, even when he tries to be wet. I wish so much that he weren't.

I think about my apartment now -- how haphazard everything is, how neglected it all looks. The good news is that I'm puzzling out how to change that. I fantasize about wiping off my windowsill and hanging the (awesome) framed poster I just received in the mail. My apartment isn't all I think about, but I do think about it sometimes. Maybe this weekend I will get the impetus to organize it and then I will try.

A Blustery Day

I went to my college boyfriend's home, in the rural Midwest, for Christmas one year. The gifts that his family gave to each other were relatively modest. For College Boyfriend's gift, one of his aunts gave him a homemade carrot cake with buttercream frosting, wrapped in aluminum foil. It was College Boyfriend's favorite dessert. Later, he explained to me, "Her family doesn't have much money right now, so she made me a cake." The word "touched" doesn't even begin to describe what I felt that day.

The proceeding story can't hold a candle to what College Boyfriend's aunt's family was going through at that time, but I do understand desperation under certain circumstances. When I felt scared or sad or in terrifying, all-consuming love with N, I would always write him. Paper letters handwritten in black ink, well-crafted e-mails, poignant text messages... Writing was the last thing I had to give him. It was my swan song.

I write him all the time now; I write to him in my head. I write to him in unsent e-mails. I write to him in make-believe letters. I write to him in draft-saved text messages. It is the last thing I have to give him. But at this point, it's just bluster. It's noise and action to save something that can never be saved. That could never be saved, no matter how strongly anyone, on either end, feels. That is to say, me.

But what I feel for N is not not healthy. It is not good. I love him, but what I miss most is the memory of him when he was good for me. I am breaking out of the underworld; I am not Persephone:

"There is more to bitter sacrifice than this."

Musically Intertwined

I love music and singing and karaoke, so sometimes I think in song. At the risk of sounding like a junior high school girl, here are some lyric snippets that I've found myself subconsciously singing over and over again in my head -- or out loud. At work. Yeah -- my coworkers love me.

From "Take a Bow," by Rhianna:
"And the award for the best liar goes to you / For making me believe / That you could be / Faithful to me / Let's hear your speech. / How bout a round of applause? / Standing ovation... /But you put on quite a show / You really had me goin' / But now it's time to go / Curtains finally closing / That was quite a show / Very entertaining / But it's over now / Go on and take a bow / But it's over now..."

From "Brainy," by The National:
"I’ve been dragging around from the end of your coat for two weeks, ah ah. / Everywhere you go is swirling, everything you say has water under it, ah ah. / You know I keep your fingerprints in a pink folder in the middle of my table / You’re the tall kingdom I surround / think I better follow you around / You might need me more than you think you will"

From "Fuck and Run," by Liz Phair:
"And whatever happened to a boyfriend / The kind of guy who tries to win you over? / And whatever happened to a boyfriend / The kind of guy who makes love 'cause he's in it? / And I want a boyfriend / I want a boyfriend / I want all that boring old shit like letters and sodas / Letters and sodas / You got up out of bed / You said you had a lot of work to do /But I heard the rest in your head / And almost immediately I felt sorry / 'Cause I didn't think this would happen again / No matter what I could do or say / Just that I didn't think this would happen again / With or without my best intentions"

From "Take Me or Leave Me," by Jonathan Larson:
"Take me for what I am / Who I was meant to be / And if you give a damn / Take me baby, or leave me / Guess I'm leaving; I'm gone!"

From "Hey Jupiter," by Tori Amos:
"Sometimes I breathe you in /And I know you know / And sometimes you take a swim / Found your writing on my wall / If my heart's soaking wet / Boy your boots can leave a mess.... / Guess it's clear he's gone / And this little masochist / Is lifting up her dress"

From "Rush Hour ," by Ani DiFranco:
"I expected he would be there in the morning / I awoke to the alarm / He was still in arm's reach / But his body had wandered off long ago / You could see it in his eyes / Love isn't over when the sheets are stained / In my head there remains / So much left to be said / Make me laugh / Make me cry / Enrage me / Just don't try to disengage me. "

Wet Noodles

Whenever I'm hurtling down the FDR Drive in Manhattan in a cab, I hear a quote from a high-school driver's ed video echo in my head (imagine this with a Midwestern accent, please): "People say, 'Oh, instead of wearing a seatbelt, I'll just put my hands up against the dashboard to protect me if I get into an accident.' Well, when you get into a wreck, your arms become like wet noodles. Are those wet noodles going to protect you when you're about to fly through a windshield?"

Strong words, those. So now, I try to always buckle up if I'm flying at high speeds down New York City streets. Because Lord knows my wet noodles won't protect me.

I spent the weekend with N. At his request, at my request, at both of our naked, sweaty, instinctual requests this past Monday night. That was back when he said he felt something he never had before, and I let my guard down, and all of those infant possibilities that we nurtured this past winter seemed to be coming back to us...in some form, anyway.

I'm trying to be honest with N now, even if that means shooting him an e-mail about something completely random (like snacktime cravings) or telling him I love him 50 billion-trillion-million times. Sometimes it seems to work. Sometimes it doesn't. I call this tactic throwing pasta against the wall -- both flat, saturated, linguine-like sentiments that have the best chance of sticking (declarations of love) or spiky, barbed, farfalle-type jabs that might catch him off guard (half-jokingly calling him names). Either way -- any way -- I decide to hurl words at him, at this relationship, it's all just wet noodles in the end. And as I've learned, wet noodles aren't enough to keep me alive.

I came home tonight and ate a piece of pizza and poured myself a glass of Chilean cabernet. I went through the mail, and I put N's and my used water glasses into the sink. I took a shower. I smell like lavender. I am writing now, and I feel connected. I think, "If there were only some way to integrate N into this world -- into my world, where I feel crucial and effective and strong."

But there's not. Because everything that happens is on his terms, in his world, per his preferences. What I have is wet noodles.

The Disconnect

In the Carlyle Hotel in New York City, things like embossed cocktail napkins and specialized disposable drink coasters with the hotel's name emblazoned on them exist. In the bathroom, you'll find nice paper towels and real Kleenex should you feel the need to blow your nose in the presence of the marble surfaces and shiny gold fixtures. I always feel grateful when I'm there -- as one should if someone else is buying the drinks.

I looked at myself in the mirror there tonight. I was dressed appropriately, in a pin-tucked black shift from another decade with matching heels. I gave the mirror a Paris Hilton (or maybe, more appropriately, a Julia Allison) -- that half-cocked, cheekbone-in-the-air stare that makes a young woman look like a socialite, if only for a half-second. I stayed there and stared at myself, smoothing down my pencil-skirt silhouette, for a good five minutes straight.

I look good. I am thin. I am pulled together. I am a mess.

Only an idiot doesn't know that an outside can contradict an inside, but I was the living, breathing example of that tonight. I was present and laughing at contrived jokes but really going into mixed-up reveries as the punchline was delivered. I wondered how beauty and possibilities could seem so at odds with each other. I hope that I was at least polite.

I went home and put on one of N's T-shirts, because it was the first item on top of the laundry hamper. I looked at myself in my hallway's full-length mirror: I looked strangely pinup (or at least, strangely 1980s fantasy), hard nipples pushing through the white cotton fabric.

I look good. I am thin. I am pulled together. I am a mess.

Another cell phone check: My past is giving me the full-court press. My present is stagnant. My future is muddled.

Shhhhh

I mopped all of the hairballs and food (okay, mostly pizza) particles off of my black-and-white-checkered tile floor yesterday. It needed it. After days (okay, weeks) of neglect, my apartment needed spiffing up. In part because I just read (in Time Out New York, maybe?) that cockroaches love clutter. I have never had bugs at my place, but God forbid....

I concentrated on the soft shhhhh-shhhhh sound of the mop. I was tired but knew I needed to do this, to clean this, to make all of this better and more livable. A few strokes in, I realized that not only was I tired, but my lower back was sore and raw. PMS, no doubt: something I rarely have. Call me lucky.

I listened to the mop, and I listened to my body in the space of my small kitchen and hallway. There was something soothing about hearing from my cells that I was tired, knowing that my body was spent, and accepting those signs of fatigue as a stoplight, that I should slow down.

It's instinct, all of it -- like the way we reach for a lover at night in bed, hands passing each other, accidentally knocking into one another, almost desperately searching for familiar skin, or maybe some answer that isn't coming or presenting itself the way we'd pictured.

There's something real in all of it that's to be embraced and appreciated for what it is (biology? continuity? a furthering of the species?). But it's what we do with that information that gives us personality, gumption, and self-restraint.

The Weight of Nothing

I went grocery shopping as a single person today. That...was huge.

It's strange, but as I walked into Gristede's to buy a few basics, I realized I'd never been to that particular grocery store without having N in mind. As I strolled the aisles, I felt weightless -- moreso than I ever had there. I immediately remembered all the times I went food shopping in hopes of making N happy -- running around frantically with a plastic basket, tossing in Bisquick and syrup (if he ever wanted pancakes), eggs (to show him I could, in fact, scramble), coffee (for our many mornings together), Coke (I only drink Diet).

I had never bought food just for me, even though I live alone. So, it was with a sense of strength that I lugged home my girly purchases (nonfat yogurt, Lean Cuisine meals, strawberries, bananas...). I opened my refrigerator and looked inside. More than half of the interior was him: leftover homemade salad dressing from when I cooked him dinner, a can of Red Bull just in case he was ever tired before we went out drinking, a half-empty Pepsi can he mixed with Jack Daniel's last weekend, superchocolatey ice cream I picked because I knew he'd like it.

I threw all the leftovers away and replaced them with today's haul. Afterward, my refrigerator looked remarkably normal. And my apartment felt more "me": a emotional coup I don't take lightly.

Hating to Exhale

The one thing that has most surprised me about this breakup is the sense of calm I feel. I'm not saying that once it hit I suddenly became the Dalai Lama, but in between fits of feeling like an emotional kamikaze, I have been surprisingly zen.

"You're doing really well," my friend P said. And my friend P should know, because he's been my close friend throughout every single breakup I've ever had. I reminded him of that today.

"So I have the collectors box set?" he said in an online message.

"Absolutely!" I typed back. "With the DVD extras, including 'crazy statements' and 'drunk dials.'"

In the past, I couldn't handle a breakup without at least attempting to bed a bartender or drink my weight in Bud Light. So if "centered" is the state of mind now, it's possible that I'm simply getting older, or that it's a reaction to how I felt in N's and my relationship. With N, I felt insane. Crazed. Worried. Stressed. I constantly checked my phone. I don't know what I wanted to find on its screen. All of my crazy vibrated just below the surface of fancy dinners and trips and bars and parties.

Now, I'm noticing the little things: I can still order Ketel One in bars. (Vodka still exists in a post-N world.) I can go to a newsstand and browse the magazines, feeling patient for once. I can talk slowly and pontificate if I want to. I don't have to force a smile and a lilt all the time.

Of course, this is between the emotional retchings (which occur at semisteady intervals).

That said, no scene has summed up my disappointment about the breakup and how lonely I sometimes felt when I was with N like this one does:

I stood, in heels, chin trembling, next to a coworker's cubicle yesterday and said, "I would have given back everything he ever bought for me if he would have texted me every day."

One person's love is not enough to sustain a relationship. Onward.