There was a flock of little red-breasted buddies tittering around Rock Creek during my run this evening. They poked at the grass under the budding dogwoods, raising their heads from time to time as if they could hear my phone blowing up with calls from all the old boyfriends. That’s right. Robins, blooms and boys. Spring is here.
Okay, so the only call was from Jeb last night, the guy who wants me to help him look for running shoes. I didn’t call him back. I’m not going to call him back. I mean, WTF? Where is the chivalry? When did men become so cowardly that when they’re trying to get your attention and possibly make amends, they call you and ask for help. “I miss you. Now can you help me buy some running shoes or what?” For the love of all that is good and holy. Next thing I know, he’s going to be asking me for rides to work again like he did last summer after he broke it off with me. Nevermind, he’s 39 and when your car breaks down — you rent one.
Clearly, I’m not calling him back. Or emailing. I’m doing nothing because clearly there’s no backbone in sight.
Honestly though, even if he came riding down my street on a horse with guns blazing while fireworks that spray up in hearts and lips over my apartment building went off, which is what one should do when attempting to wedge oneself back into someone’s good graces after being a selfish coward, I would hide under my bed.
My therapist thought maybe I should call him from a pay phone so he wouldn’t know it was me calling and hopefully not pick up, which would allow me to leave the message “I stand by what I said in October and, before that, August. Leave me the effe alone.” That was weird advice. I’m not doing anything.
I thought about emailing an explanation of why I don’t want to talk to him (again) since I’m having a hard time myself with the WHY of it all. But whatever. He can wonder. I just don’t have the energy to take care of someone. That’s my problem after all. I find guys I think I need to take care of. (This according to “Women Who Love Too Much.” I’m sure I’ll find other pat answers to all my problems during my next break up.) Apparently, I launch into that mode whether it’s warranted or not and whether it feels right or not, and then I get crushed. And then they come a-callin at springtime.
Same thing with the guy I dated two years ago who woke up one spring morning last April, scratched his balls and emailed me a reminiscent account of that time I cheered for him during the Cherry Blossom 10 miler with homemade signs and all (god, I am such a sucker.) He remembered how sweet I was and did I want to catch up over drinks?
Not really sure what he wanted, I went just to see. And I’m still not sure what he wanted since he just sat across from me so hunched over I could barely see his chest and hardly keeping up conversation save for throwing down the same three jokes he always used. I don’t think he knew why he wanted to get together, either. Maybe he just wanted to see, too. Maybe all of a sudden I was fun again. (He broke it off with me because things just weren’t fun anymore.)
I sure have an eclectic arsenal of why guys have dumped me:
–Not fun anymore
–Not comfortable with the book (and I quote: “It feels like it’s us and the book. I just want it to be us. No book.” Okaaaay. Sorry Jeb. Though that evil book might could possibly pay for your therapy, which you so clearly need),
–It just got so serious too quickly (this came two months after Simon decided that we needed to be in a long-distance relationship after we’d already broken up bc he moved away. i mean, when you decided to drop a couple hundred bucks a month to see someone, doesn’t that indicated SOME level of seriousness? criminy.)
–Different ideologies/selfish with my time (What can I say? I still call bullshit. I almost don’t care that I will never really know a real reason. Almost. Still grappling. Maybe I should start burning shit again…)
So yeah it’s (almost) spring. And while there’s a downside to everything coming out of the woodwork, there are also signs of hope and warmth that will fill up the cold empty space of winter, like the buds on the pretty peach rose bush across the alley that I can see from my kitchen window. I love that rose bush. And that soothes the irritation over a couple guys I should never have gotten so involved with. Though, you know, I don’t have any regrets. I’m glad I dated every last one of them because here I am figuring stuff out and doing it with awesome hair and swimming in the jeans that were cutting off circulation a couple weeks ago. So “hollah!” to all the men who helped get me here. Couldn’t have done it without you.
Again—BOOYA. (I mean this in the definition #1 way on urbandictionary.com, not #5.)