Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Cabin Fever (a.k.a. "Put Down That Phone and Go Mop Something")

I officially hit my limit last night at around 7:23 PM.

I was completely out of projects. I finally got a 10-speed cassette onto my cross bike, but the shifting is off and no amount of fiddling with the limit screws and pleading was working. Every surface in my condo was dust and cat-hair free, mopped, shiny. All of my bikes were clean, I had bitten off all of my fingernails, painted my toenails, watched all three seasons of "Arrested Development" and all of my dishes and clothes were washed and put away in their proper locations.

Despite getting out on the snowshoes for almost three hours and getting almost a full day's worth of work done before before and after that little adventure (which involved learning that the Starbucks in John's Landing was probably the only one in Portland that was closed) , I was about to go crazy. Crazy like Jack Nicholson in "The Shining"-style. Except with drunk-dialing.

I'm not a drunk-dialer by nature (a rage-texter maybe, but that's a story for a different day), but after four beers, an ill-advised break from 72 hours of inner monologue was really tempting. Maybe he was as lonely as I was and there could be some sort of breakthrough....


The sane part of my brain promptly backhanded the inebriated part. Did I really have anything to say? Not really. Did I really want solidify my status as yet another crazy ex-girlfriend? Um, not more than I already have. Did I really want to explain this to my friends the next day? Hell no. Did I really want him back? Now, there's a complicated question.


I bet every women who has been dumped has had the same fantasy that I am having as I tromp through Willamette Park on my snowshoes. You know, the one where he comes crawling back asking for forgiveness.

By the time I reach the Sellwood Bridge, I'm on my fifth iteration of the redemption fantasy in the last ninety minutes. They involve speeding buses, walking through snow storms, tossing martinis in his face. Each one is more ludicrous, improbable and, shall I even dare say, humorous, than the last.

And in each fantasy where I do take him back, my mother and close friends each take turns beating me with an umbrella.


But in all seriousness, the "second go around" issue is one that several people have brought up with me in the last three weeks. I didn't even really start thinking about it until a few days ago, mostly because I know its a non-issue. I may have an active imagination, but I'm not delusional. He doesn't seem the type. I've read the emails and seen it in his eyes.

Because I know that, in this case, the fantasy will never play out in reality, its simply an interesting exercise in gauging how I feel about the relationship now that I can almost look at it as an abstraction. There's definitely the feeling of abandonment and loss, (particularly because I've been home alone for three days) but I have started thinking about "us" almost as if I was a third person looking in.

I'd like to think that if the improbable were to ever occur, that I'd be smart enough, and strong enough, to walk away. To avoid the inevitable repetition of past events and the loss of weeks of time to grief and heartbreak. But would I be that strong?

I have no idea.

Not knowing is scarier to me than the thought of being alone.

No comments: