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Do we search for lessons to lessen the pain?

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There are lessons to be learned in every relationship.  The good.  The bad.  The ugly.  However, it is typically not until sometime during the breakup grieving process that we can rationally seek out these lessons.

According to the world wide web, there are many stages to grieving the breakup and they look something like this:

  1. Are you f’ing kidding me!
  2. Wine, vodka and social media stalking.
  3. Ben & Jerry’s? Cookies? Chocolate? Bring it on!!
  4. What a d’bag, a’hole, yadda, yadda, yadda, he is. Be creative.
  5. Stupid sh’t we do to get him back.
  6. Watching XXX for the 30th
  7. Girls Night Out!
  8. Move-on Certificate earned.

Breakup stages can vary and not every girl goes through all the phases.  Some can simply go from stage 1 to stage 7 without so much as missing a beat.

In my first three breakups with Mr. Not Ready, I successfully flunked the breakup process.  I got to stage five and the vicious dating cycle started again.  So, when it came to brake up number four, I was determined to persevere in spite of the lure to get him back and earn that darn certificate of completion.  I worked hard for that certificate and I was damned if anything or anyone was going to hold me back from achieving what I deserved.

This is when I began to search for the lesson to be learned so that I could rationally move forward detached from my emotions and hence, lessen the pain.

For me, I am a numbers girl through and through and following the numbers has always been the best coping mechanism for any situation.  I was sitting down one morning with my trusty Papermate flair marker and notebook and decided to have a look at the numbers as it pertained to my relationship with Mr. Not Ready.  How many actual dates did we have.  As it turns out in the eleven months since we had started dating, there was a total of 18 dates.  So in essence we saw each slightly more than 1½ times a month or over the course of 334 days less that 5.5% of the time.  Yikes!  Really!  Reality!

I was shocked at that admission.  I guess the times we had spent together were fueled by so much fire they somehow managed to gloss over all the times we had not spent together, 316 days to be exact.  Now granted in that 316 days of not seeing each other, he had his kids two nights every week and three nights every other weekend.  Take that away and it actually translated to 160 days of not seeing one another.  We did not see each other 89% of his available time.  Anyway, my point being, I saw him less than I say my old, long-distance, boyfriend who lived in Chicago who was a plane ride and a different time zone away. I saw my guy friends more than I saw the man I was supposed to be in a relationship with.

Well, it all makes perfect sense now.  I solved the riddle and found the lesson I had obviously missed, there was no relationship. We went out on 18 dates we broke up three times in the middle of those 18 dates and then the finale, where the fire works light up the sky, end-all break up.  So what, four dates, break up, five dates, break up, four dates, break up, five dates, break up.  We did not spend the important holidays together such as New Year’s Eve or Valentine’s Day, and nor did we spend the silly holidays together either; Saint Patty’s Day.  How can 18 dates in eleven months be anything more than 18 dates?  And that my friends, is not the definition of a relationship relationship unless, of course, you want to use a select few adjectives to precede the word relationship:  unhealthy, rollercoaster, turbulent, etc..

Suddenly, I exhaled an audible deep breath, smiled ear to ear, laughed a guttural laugh reminiscent of the cackle of the Wicked Witch of the West and all was right in the world and it was time for a movie marathon: John Tucker Must Die (yup asshole), He’s Just Not That Into You (reality check), Bridget Jones’s Diary (watching this makes your breakup seem like a walk in the park), The First Wives Club (because watching revenge just feel good) and The Break-up (much needed comic relief).

I asked the girls what lessons they learned to lessen the pain in any of their past relationships and while most responses were cliché: being honest makes everything easier, if he doesn’t want you, set him free.  There was one lesson that made me laugh so hard I nearly fell out of my seat.  If you are dating someone and your best friend repeatedly suggests you should be performing certain sexual favors time and time again, think twice, just maybe that best friend is maneuvering to be in your place.

If we know the house always wins, why gamble?

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hotrollcrapsLife is too short to play mind games with the house a.k.a. Mr. Player, yet for some of us, myself included, it is, in essence the thrill of the craps table that keeps us in the game.  Just like a gambler, we are addicted by the highs of the feel good moments when we are raking in the chips and devastated by the lows when we realize those stacks of chips are quickly dwindling away and we start to feel as if we’ve truly wasted our time, or did we?  Gambling is a drug much the same as dating Mr. Player is a drug.

Mr. Player!  Where do I begin.

The Pros

He’s hot.  Panty-dropper hot!!  He’s strong and sexy, and he possesses a bad-boy persona that sucks you in.  When we were together, he made me feel like a queen.  We went to the finest bars and restaurants.  He said all the right things: I looked ravishing, I smelled magical, I somehow possessed a mystical power over him.  He talked the future (pro), though he never followed through (con).  It was always ecstasy on steroids.  The PDA was rabid; sex in restaurant bathrooms, orgasms at table.  The sex wherever it was, was amazing. Mind blowing.  To satisfy my needs, he was willing to try things he had never engaged in before.

 

The Cons

The never ending and repetitive, as in you’ve used that six times in the past, excuses for cancelling plans: food poisoning, stomach flu, kids have strep throat.  Seriously get a doctor who makes house calls.  Then there was the best friend’s father who was in the hospital gravely ill and it wasn’t looking good, only to never hear about that best friend or the father again.  His three kids had at least six birthday dinners to celebrate their birthdays.  Three kids, six dinners, six different months.  I think they were celebrating halves, quarters and who knows what.  I think the dog celebrated a birthday too.   Perhaps there was a cat too, Just saying.  Oh and the pièce de résistance, my absolute favorite, also used on more than one occasion: I was out with the guys drinking all day in the Berkshires and the State Trooper friend who was drinking with us strongly suggests that I not get on the road and drive.

Mr. Player is only about winning and stringing you along so you stay in the game long enough to give him your every last chip, and you, for good or bad, harbor delusions that you are going to be the game changer you are going to beat the house.  You are going to be THAT girl.  You know the one, the one who makes him resign his Mr. Player membership card.  This is exactly what my Mr. Player relationship looked like.  And those are the precise excuses he used time and time again.  For sport, I kept a list in my desk drawer.

For me, I knew the reputation that preceded Mr. Player.  However, in my defense, I did not learn this until I was already captivated under his sinister spell.  I would listen to my friends, knowing they wanted to protect me and not see me get hurt, but I did not hear it.  For the most part, it was in one ear and out the other.  I even tried to separate from Mr. Player on three distinct instances, but it never lasted.  I was an addict.  I was addicted to the crazy good times we spent together, his heart melting looks and his sweet charm, and I knew my friends would pick up the pieces on the days I couldn’t get a seat at the craps table.

The adrenalin was flowing through my veins like crazy.  I couldn’t get enough of the high, the action, the games, the rhythmic hum of it all.  It was exhilarating every time we were together and then…

Suddenly it wasn’t.

My phone rang at midnight waking me from a sound sleep.  The voice on the other end of the line, said, “COME NOW” in a vehement tone.  And that voice continued, “Mr. Player is playing you.  I’m sorry, but you need to witness this for yourself.  It appears that he is quite comfy with a girl that is clearly NOT you.”

Tossing on the nearest outfit I could grab; jeans, sweater and ballet flats.  In under five minutes I was dressed with teeth brushed and a semi-made up face on.  It was time to confront reality.

I had heard the last excuse I was ever going to accept.  He sat there and lied to my face as I caught him with his proverbial and literal pants down in the stall in the men’s restroom with another woman.  He told me they had just met.  That she was a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, you get the idea.  So, a virtual stranger.  Was that supposed to lessen the blow.  That she was using the men’s restroom because the women’s room was full, at midnight on a Monday!  And when I asked him why this required him to be on the inside of the stall with her, he looked at me blankly and changed the subject.  And then he proceeded to leave with this new conquest.

There were so many ways I could have handled the situation, but I chose to hold my head high, to keep my dignity and act with class and pride.  Truthfully, by this point, seeing his eyes and facial expressions as he spewed lie after lie to me and this girl was comical.

With no remorse on his part, he texted me the following morning, my guess, when he was getting into the car after spending the night with this woman, only to exclaim he didn’t understand how I could possible be upset with him.  Back story, Mr. Player had reassuringly stated on more than one occasion in the past, that his life was extremely busy with work, a new venture that was soon to be launching and his three children, and that these factors were the sole reason we did not see each other more often.  And, he always, always, always professed that he was not dating or sleeping with anyone else.  I took that at face value and assumed he was being honest. Yet in his early morning text, he could only care to add to the lies.  And for what purpose?  That I would not be upset and we could continue as if this was a blip on the radar.

He couldn’t understand that seeing him in this light, I was, plain and simply, (momentarily) hurt?

I was done playing the game.  The time had come to place my last bet in hopes of gaining all my chips back or to gather up any that were remaining, move on and cash out.  I told him he had a choice to make and honestly, I am not even sure why I gave him an option, but I did.  Belief in the fairytale, I guess.  He needed to choose to give up being Mr. Player and enter an exclusive relationship with me or that I was setting myself free of him.  Had he decided on exclusive relationship, I wasn’t even convinced that I wanted to go down that path, it would not have lasted.

The challenge to tame this beast was not won.  Mr. Player was not willing to commit and thus, so be it.

However, I asked a few of my single girl friends that same question, if the house always wins, is it worth the gamble?  And much to my amazement, the answers were split.  Some admitted that they would engage in a relationship with the right Mr. Player, as soon as in the next five minutes.  For me, I am taking a sabbatical from the Mr. player types and I honestly believe I dodged a bullet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Can you get to a future if your past is in the present?

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Sitting in the parlor room at the famous Castle Hill Inn, this is the question I pondered.  Is this man in my life my Mr. Big?

The elegant 1895 white-pillared Georgian mansion situated in a beautiful historic neighborhood on Massachusetts’s North Shore is one of the states most distinctive Inns.  Since opening its doors it has hosted Kennedys, Vanderbilts and the like.  This tranquil beauty boasts eighteen quaint quest rooms, a four season breakfast room and a wrap around porch.  It is as if you have been transported to a bygone era, and, it was the perfect escape to relax with my thoughts and consider my relationship.

Stepping away from the busy hustle and bustle of familiar faces is exactly what the doctor ordered.  The quiet is a blessing.  I’ve disconnected from social media and turned off my phone entirely.  It was time to open my heart and let the emotions flow, allow the façade to crumble and feel what I needed to feel.  It was time.

The typical classic guy I could not resist is the one I fell for.  He was the mold of many before him; charming, handsome, charismatic, athletic and fun.  He was striking with a structural and muscular body, broad shoulders, fair skin, the ultimate facial hair (soft as a baby’s bottom) and brown eyes, and we looked hot together.  The difference being in the past, I was the one who did not want a commitment, the men I dated were lucky enough to get past a third date and when they did, a month or two into it, I ghosted them, moved on.  This time, that all changed.  I fell in love with someone who I knew had a fear of commitment.  I kept returning to the relationship even though he was clearly emotionally unavailable to me and unable to meet my needs.  Was it that he emotionally crippled and scarred from his past marriage or upbringing, figuring out his financial and structural security or is it the pressure of raising two young children halftime.  Did I fall in love with someone that is so selfish to his own needs or did I fall in love with someone who is just cautious to get it right the second time.

I did not need or want him for his financial means.  I wanted him for all the things money cannot buy.  I saw a long term potential in us, even if he could not see it yet.  But why?

Sex in the City gave us Carrie and the memorable and unavailable relationship of Mr. Big.  The inner turmoil of Mr. Big creating insecurity and misplaced feelings of unworthiness, being an option and not a priority and not allowing Carrie to understand her position in the relationship.  The intoxicating chemistry coupled with the impatience of wanting more by only one person in the coupling is my life right now.

I’ll never forget when I met my Mr. Big, a.k.a. Mr. Not Ready.  It was the end of March.  The Northeast was up to its eyeballs in snow.  It had been an unbelievable record setting season with snowfalls topping 70 inches.  Schools were closed.  Offices were closed. And Bostonians were hunkered down tweeting #getmeoutofhere.

And here I was, looking to #getmehere.

I was half of an empty nester with the second half just months away from completing a high school career and getting ready to embark on a college adventure.  One a junior in college across the country, the other entering college on the East coast.  It was my time to spread my wings and fulfill one bucket list item, finding my dream condo in Boston’s Beacon Hill area.  A place I dreamt about living and making a life since I was a little girl growing up in a quaint suburb on the South Shore of New England.  I found the most charming walk-up on Acorn Street.

After a viewing a few properties, the first one I saw, was ultimately the one I wanted.  I chose the unit that offered the most square footage and raw space.

Negotiations were complete and it was time to move forward with the financing.  Enter Mr. Not Ready.  As with many realtors, they have preferred lenders and Mr. Not Ready was the mortgage broker du’jour.  We had connected briefly on the phone, by email and text.  We made introductions, discussed what was needed at the first meeting and set a date for later in the week.  We planned to meet at the realtor’s office for convenience to the hotel I was staying at.

A few days later, on a Friday, the day we were to meet, he was running late and had texted me a few times to reschedule the original meeting time.  After the third rescheduling we settled on a mid-afternoon time slot.  Once again, that time came and went and in my typical fiery, lack of patience, Aries persona, I told my realtor what he could do with the mortgage broker and than in another fifteen minutes, I was done and on to the next.

Low and behold, in walks this, completely not what I was expecting, handsome guy.  And just like that, with dimples so enticing, he smiled and all my anger at his tardiness melted away.  He was tall, handsome and nicely built.  He had dimples that could melt the snow in the entire Northeast.  Yes, he was that adorable.

We bantered through the professional conversation of my finances.  I was smitten and I sensed he was too.  I didn’t want the meeting to end but alas it did.

We set a date for the following week to meet prior to the scheduled property inspection to have coffee and for me to provide him with additional documents needed for my mortgage.  He was an hour early!  I had gone over to the Tatte Coffee Shop, on Charles Street, early myself, I wanted to grab a table and relax before he arrived.  I was so enamored with this man I hardly knew, a feeling I had not felt in years, I just wanted a few minutes to myself to breathe and relax before he arrived.  So much for that well thought out plan.

We sat down at a small table and I was at a loss for words.  If you know anything about me, this is an anomaly.  It is so rare that I am stumped for conversation.  He sat there in jeans and a button down.  He was beyond sexy and possessed that certain “je ne sais quoi” that made him irresistible.  Not that I am half bad myself.  As I came to learn months later, after the third breakup and rekindling that I possess some mystical power over him.

And that was the beginning of the Mr. Not Ready relationship of dating, breaking up, dating, breaking up, dating breaking up and so forth.

I moved into my place during the summer and he could not wait to take me on that first date.  It was one of the most wonderful fun dates I can remember.  He was attentive and complimentary and I think he was a little anxious at taking me out.  On the way to dinner he forgot to exit the highway for downtown and began heading out of the City.  And, his driving was erratic.  Describing him as an aggressive driver would be kind.  My heart sank and all I could think of was, OMG, I am going to road-kill, the victim of rape and death.  Thankfully he also noticed the error and made a comment to put me at ease.  I was a mess until we were back heading in the right direction.

The dates that followed were sporadic but consistent, if that makes sense.  But there were definite red flags that I was ignoring.  He kept me interested enough that I was hooked, but he would not commit.  He would make and cancel or reschedule plans.  He would say he was going to call or text and never did.  My stomach was doing acrobats as I waited for that next text, a plan to be made or just some sort of indication he was thinking of me.  And then, as simple as putting a Band-Aid on scratch, he would reach out, the elation would kick in, those crazy endorphins, and the thoughts of all the frustrations and red flags were banished. And this crazy sequence still continues today.

Two steps forward, three steps back.

We have broken up several times.  The first time sometime during the summer months.  I don’t even remember the conversation except to say that I wanted to be a priority and not an option.  The second breakup followed a lovely dinner at my home with close friends.  He was amazing at dinner; helpful, caring and a perfect “husband-ish” partner.  And the third was late winter.  And these are only the ones I remember.

With each breakup there was a period of several days of no contact until one of us eventually made contact and then the cycle would begin again.  There was just something that could not keep us apart.

In Sex in the City, Mr. Big eventually marries Carrie; after one failed wedding attempt.  But she got the fairytale ending.  She focused on the finish line and not the process.  She went on with her life and dated.  At one point, following the wedding debacle she ghosted him entirely.  She put Carrie first and ultimately earned herself the best prize, his hand in marriage.

Is that in the cards for my Mr. Not Ready relationship?

Currently we are in the dating part of the sequence and yet, while I am in a good place now.  I often wonder why I am still in it, when there are so many other better dating options out there.  Will my Mr. Not Ready realize how lucky he is to have a girl like me; smart, funny, attractive both intellectually and physically.

As I sit here in the parlor room I know the questions to be answered.  Do I want to be a part of the aggressive-passive hamster wheel anymore?  Do I continue, and for how long?  What am I getting out of the relationship in its current state?  What more can I give to the relationship?  Am I standing in my own way of moving on?  Can I get to a future if my past is still in the present?  Has the current state of what we are finally lost its appeal?

The questions are probing and the answers surely telling, if only I could dig deep enough within myself to find the response.  I sit here no further along in my thoughts than when I started.  I don’t know what the endgame will be, but for now, I am prepared to go on with my life.  To manage what is within my control and not what is not. To go with the flow enjoying the time spent together, if I so choose.

And, most importantly, to remain confident in who I am, to put myself out there and to date other eligible suitors.

Why I want the fairytale with my Mr. Not Ready is anyone’s guess, but for some reason I still do and it is the process by which he chooses to engage in this courtship and show his true colors will ultimately determine the ending t0 this story.

Stay tuned!