Lather, rinse, repeat

I've said it before and I'll say it again; when the message is really important sometimes the universe has to tell you twice. Such was the case with "some things just don't work out." A friend of mine is going through a similar problem so I'm going to tell the precursor to things that don't work out and maybe that will get through their thick skull (kidding-sort of).

It was two years ago, Superbowl weekend. I secretly believe he left that night because he knew the Seahawks would lose and he didn't want to pay up on our bet. But anyways, we were at home supposedly relaxing. But we hadn't really been able to relax together for weeks.

It really started on my birthday a few weeks earlier. Where we were going was a surprise. The real surprise would be the dead end we would reach by the end of the evening. I felt rushed getting ready, although I can't remember why. And when I came downstairs I got my favorite, "You're going to wear that?" I argued that since I had no idea where we were headed it was hard to select an outfit and if I was really that far off the mark why didn't he march his rear upstairs and pick out something different from the 10 x 10 closet we both shared. He knew my clothes nearly as well as I did after all. This argument continued into the car and most of the way there. I was moments from tears (my lowest quality according to him) and he knew it.

We arrived at The Whitney still smoldering. It was a disagreement with no winner but it was my day and I clearly thought he should lay off this line of reasoning. The last thing I remember him saying as we walked to the door was, "Is a nice dinner without theatrics too much to ask for?" I gave him the look. We sat down and the waiter gave his spiel. He had no idea that table ten was on the verge of a melt down. I thought a drink would make me feel better. So I had two. But the irritation would continue as I was instructed on how to order and what utensil was correct. "I'm not five you know. I don't need to you to tell me these things." "Well I'll stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one." And then a course of silence; I think it was soup.

I have to give him half credit at this point. Half credit for trying to entertain me in conversation; a big red mark for topic chosen however. "So, you're 32 years old. What are you going to do with the rest of your life?" My mind raced through various, sarcastic remarks, the truth and how badly I did not want to have this conversation. So I said nothing. But, undaunted, he continued, "Well it's not like you can go on like this forever. When are you going to actually do something?"

We had not been together very long but in our short time we had looked at more than 50 homes for sale, talked about the possibility of children, he had met my family. "What did I want to do with the rest of my life?" What any 32 year old woman would want want; to get married again and try to start my own family-perhaps our family. But the words wouldn't come. The tears did however. And as we all know once they start there's no stopping them. The look on his face was so dreadful. There was no apology or quarter given and the questions just got worse. Eventually I would leave the table and pass the waiter who would give me a pained look.

There would be no apology when I returned in fact few words were said. And as I opened my birthday present he would look at me and say, "I hope you realize this will be that last jewelry I buy you." And recognizing his Freudian slip tack on, "for a long time."

Two weeks later he would pick a fight with me over something so non-consequential it now seems funny. we no longer went out because as he put it, "You could break down in tears at any moment and I just can't take that risk; everyone staring at me thinking I've done something to you." So we were home. What would start the fight doesn't even matter. He would turn to me and declare he was done with me and that he was leaving and then get up from his chair. And feeling a mix of emotions I would offer to help him pack.

I held it together for the first few hours well. But my grip was slipping. As he passed me with another box n the way to his car he would tell me that he didn't think all of his stuff would fit in one trip and that he would probably have to come back. And at that moment I had my usual amount of backbone for the first time in weeks. "Then you had better decide what you really want to take with you and prioritize accordingly. You've already ruined enough of my life and I will not let you have another day. You're not coming back." He looked stunned as the whole "you're not coming back" thing was actually his sentiment. He always said that once he broke off a relationship he never came back. Truer words had not been spoken.

Everything did fit in his car. And at 3am in a blinding, wet snowstorm I put the last box in his car and stood there on the sidewalk. That's when the tears would start. He grabbed me in what would be our last hug and kissed me on the forehead like a small child. And I would manage to eeck out that I was sorry I had farked things up.

Standing next to the open driver's door he would turn to me and say, "You didn't ever mess this up. It just wasn't meant to be."