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.

No More Fakes

I'm sharing this with you guys because you deserve it. You've earned it, coming back here time and again to see what shenanigans I've gotten myself into this time, or to see if I'm happy. You guys care -- at least to some degree. N doesn't. N never did. I sent him this today:

N.

This: I can't. Your behavior and attitude are not acceptable to me. I'm exhausted from spilling so much love onto the pavement. I can't stand the superficial nature of all of this, all of you. I deserve to be treated so much better than this. And I will be.

Enjoy your summer. Enjoy bingeing in L.A. while it lasts. I need my life back.

-Jane

I am not an "animal person" naturally. I've never had a pet, and I have no fucking clue how to play with a dog for more than 15 seconds. I do imagine, however, that puppies develop a certain kind of Stockholm Syndrome regarding their owners. They get used to poor treatment, to being ignored, to occasional shots of love. But there's only so much a puppy can take...at least I hope so. You can choose to only interact with the puppy occasionally, you can shut the puppy out, you can pet it only when you feel like it, and the puppy will still like you back. But if you make the puppy feel that there are other puppies out there that you own/owned, that the puppy is not special, the puppy will become despondent, and hopefully the puppy will stray. Hopefully.

It's over. I am done. I am done being done.

I walked home partway from the 50s today, and I felt something move deep inside. I wanted to lick the tiles in an interior-design window display. I wanted to rip my clothes off and press my body against plate glass. I could smell the seafood from a specialty grocery store. The Drakkar Noir emanating from a quick young frat boy hit my nose like a concrete block.

I hopped the bus eventually, answering texts all the way, and afterward I walked by an UES restaurant I've always wanted to try. There was a late-30s-looking couple inside -- her in a bad floral dress -- and they were holding hands across the table. I audibly snorted, feeling sorry for them. I can't anymore. Let her parse out what touches are real and which are practiced. Let her deduce which sex sessions are intimate and which are more about talking too much about fantasy girls in Catholic school uniforms, for the sake of both of them getting off. Let her weigh whether she should feel secure or she should feel duped. Let her put a glob of neat plastic in one hand and a glob of messy flesh in the other and let her figure out which she should choose.

Because I can't.

I can't anymore. I miss life too much.

Endo Ecstasy

After I work out, I experience a brief and glorious burst of endorphins that turns my entire environment into a movie set. (Well, more Breakfast at Tiffany's than, say, Seven, but you get my meaning.)

Post-gym, when my blond hair is slick with sweat, New York suddenly becomes quaint. The air feels crisp, not cold, and every new thing I hear or see seems authentic and creative. Case in point: a bum-slash-comedian yelling, "Ladies on the inside, men on the outside!" at a couple walking together in Midtown. (This actually meshed with an old wives' tale I heard -- that in the days before running water was common, men would walk on the outside of a sidewalk so ladies would be protected by awnings from randomly falling dirty bathwater that people would throw out their windows. I have no idea whether this is actually true.)

Even the subway was a Manhattan motley crew straight out of central casting: hipster youths pushing past me (naturally); a 40-something man in work clothes wearing an honest-to-god construction hat; a guy with short gray hair and Gucci glasses reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal whom I guessed on sight was an architect; and a large, polite man who rested his metallic gold-encrusted Yankees cap on his knee as he sat (for some reason this struck me as fantastically old-fashioned).

As I scanned the crowd and smiled to myself, I had one thought: Why don't I work out more? Amid the booze, the worries, the scheduling, the plans, the good intentions, the reasons why not, and the just-plain-laziness, there is an eye of calm I'd forgotten about.

The way I felt tonight reminded me of a time when I had just moved to the Upper East Side and was driving myself crazy in my new apartment with my circular thinking. I decided to go for a run along the East River, next to the sparkling water, and my eyes filled with happy tears for a split second, as I directed my thoughts toward the beauty of the city and all that it has to offer, rather than the dysfunctional world I tend to create in my head.

Breakfast in My Borough

Woooooow. Sometimes it takes humor to make a gal realize just how little she might be settling for. (Yes, I'm talking about N here.) This is hilarious, especially considering how much I love "The Pick-Up Artist": http://www.mydamnchannel.com/channel.aspx?episode=351

And now for your daily N update: I'm seeing him on Saturday at a bar on the Upper East. We're setting up two of our friends on a blind date. I find this whole endeavor entirely ironic, since N's and my non-relationship is such a train wreck.

We e-mailed today -- probably 10 e-mails apiece, back and forth. It was all cute, witty banter and good writing and confirmation of our Saturday plans. "But what does it MEAN??" my friends asked me on the phone.

My answer? "Hell if I know." And I don't. No one can, especially with him. My reaction right now is to anticipate my new furniture, drink good wine (I'm sipping a decent malbec right now), work hard, and appreciate my friends.

Okay, so I did buy a new dress for Saturday, but it was on sale and wildly short, and I look amazing in it. I used to want to be a New York Holly Golightly (minus the whole prostitution thing, of course), and I had this thought as I walked home in the cold today carrying my new purchase and a couple of bottles of red from my local liquor store: Of course Holly Golightly would buy a new dress for a date with a silly premise. She'd absolutely fritter away some coin on party dresses, wine, and 400-thread-count sheets and go out with the kind of guy who would give her $50 for the powder room.

I remember this about Breakfast at Tiffany's, though: Holly wins in the end. I don't need a manwhore/writer to rescue me (wow, even though N is exactly that), but I will win this -- of my own volition, in my own apartment, in the city that I've earned.

Coccooning

Saw the movie Juno today at the cute one-screen movie theater around the corner from my apartment, and it was fantastic and witty. What's even cooler is that a chick who's about my age wrote it, and the dialogue is brilliant. What's cooler than that is that the female lead is such a breath of fresh air and completely nails her loveable, cool-girl character, the likes of which I haven't seen in quite some time. It's female role models like that and the unwavering encouragement that I've received from every single one of my friends that are keeping me going right now.

My friend Sunny and I blew off no fewer than three parties tonight and coccooned up here on the Upper East while the wintry mix descended. Staying in was necessary. It feels strange but good. (Insert "that's what she said" joke here.)

That's About Right

N dumped me today.

When I say that it was out of nowhere, I mean that. I am a lot of things, but I am not delusional.

He took me to drinks and dinner in Brooklyn last night and met two of my college friends out at a local bar, where he tried to get in good with them and impress them. He took me to brunch this morning, then to a bookstore, and then to an art gallery he "wanted to take (me) to," holding my hand and engaging in light conversation the whole time. He then said he was cold and wanted to go back home. Once inside, he kissed me multiple times and took off my coat. I could tell by his face that something was wrong, and I said, "What's on your mind?" He led me to his couch, sat us both down, and went silent. I said, "I'm not going to push you, but know that you can tell me anything."

That's when he said that he didn't "see this turning into a relationship." Ever. He said he "had fun" when we went out together but that he felt "disconnected" from me when we weren't together, and that he also felt disconnected from "everything." He said that he felt that two people should feel connected to each other at all times, and that he had been trying to force that with me. He said that he didn't want me to think that he didn't like me, because he did. And that he didn't necessarily want to stop seeing me, but that he didn't want to "disappoint" me by not giving me what I wanted. I said that I didn't want to push him into a commitment that he didn't want and that we could keep things casual. He said, "Would you be okay with that?" And I said, "Well, would you see other people?" He said, "I don't know." That was the nail in the coffin. That was an "Oh, hell, no." I was taken aback, and I was sad. I told him that he should work out whatever issues he was dealing with. He continued to kiss me and hug me. That made it difficult to leave, even though I knew I needed to leave immediately. I needed an exit strategy.

"Want to fuck one last time before I go?" I said.

"Is that what you want?" he said.

"Yes," I said.

It was a power-play move. The sex from my end was strong, dominant, forceful. He took forever to come. I stared up at the ceiling afterward and then, with a half-smile, collected my things, refusing to cuddle next to him, even though he was inching closer to me.

I put my sweaty hair into a ponytail and shrugged my coat on -- he always used to help me put on my coat, which always used to make me smile. I looked at him and said, "I had fun. Good luck working your issues out. I know it can be hard." He kissed me, and I left, avoiding eye contact. He doesn't have to know that I cried in the elevator, and on the subway, and all through the streets of the Upper East Side.

I've been broken up with twice in the cream-colored turtleneck I was wearing today. I'm throwing it away tomorrow, maybe with unnecessary flourish into a streetside trash can.

I always used to pity women I met who said seriously that they're "not dating" or are "over" dating or can't deal with the scene. I found them sad. I thought that they harbored no hope. I understand them today. I know that I'll be over N's and my short-lived non-relationship in about three days flat, but I cannot go through this again. I will choose not to go through this again.

They say that nice guys finish last, but it's nice girls who get the short end of the stick, because we care first and think later. That is a recipe for hurt.