Tuesday, August 10, 2004

 

The Art of Losing Isn't Hard to Master

Ok, so I stole the title of this post from an Elizabeth Bishop poem, but let's look at all of the things I've lost recently:

1. The comments on this blog (which I will replace at some point, but which I cannot face dealing with right now).
2. My ambition to do any of the work that I must do.
3. My dignity (but more on that in a moment).

At any rate, before I get to number three, I will briefly address the recent comments that were lost. Profgrrrl wrote:

"Are we really supposed to care what we say, re: the boy-girl stuff? I'm
starting to think that the answer is no. Not now, not at our age. "

And she goes on to discuss the differences between dating at 20 and 30. I agree that things are radically different as one gains experience. This has become even more clear to me in the past couple of days in dealing with Freud and his idiotic flailing around in regard to me. I have found that on the one hand I am much more casual in this go-around in the dating scene and also much less casual. As Profgrrrl writes,

"I feel like these days I can peg the potential longevity of a relationship
pretty darn quickly, and I have no problems with deciding to amuse myself with a
relationship for as long as it lasts -- and that includes saying things and
acting in ways that the 20-year-old me would have thought most not-OK for
dating, but the 33-me says 'eh, why not? because if I'm not in some way, shape
or form enjoying myself then what the hell am I doing here?' "

I know full well that this thing with Freud is only a distraction to get me over the pre-semester hump. I know full well that I have no interest in having a "real" relationship with him. Knowing this means that one the one hand I am more casual - if it's not going anywhere I really don't have to care what he thinks of me - and less casual, in that I can't just lose myself in the thing because I realize that it's "not going anywhere." I don't know. This could just be a way of rationalizing keeping him at arm's length, but I don't think so. I think I actually don't like him very much. He's just.... lame. But, for now, perhaps lame is all I have the energy for.

Just Tenured wrote that email is more dangerous for her when she's drunk than the phone calling. This was true for me for a very long time, and then I got smart and got rid of email at home. I am much less likely to do the drunken dialing than the drunken emailing, and so generally I'm safe as long as nobody calls me (heehee!).

Finally, Professor B. rightly notes that not caring what one says "is the route to being devastatingly irresistable." I think that this is confirmed by my latest (lame) dealings with Freud, and thus I will use this to transition into this weekend's loss of dignity, which, apparently and unaccountably, has not driven Freud away.

So. Freud calls Friday night. Once again, he is "exhausted" and is just going to stay home and "chill." I wondered for a moment why he bothered calling me, but just went with it. He then said, again, that he would call me the next day. He called me Saturday, but my parents were visiting and so he just left a message about getting coffee. I didn't call him until Sunday, at which point I left him a voicemail. He called back a couple of hours later, and we planned to meet at Starbucks (sigh) for coffee at 6:30. I arrived at Starbucks at 6:40, and he was sitting there with a copy of The Grapes of Wrath pretending to read. This is the second yahoo in the past year who has tried to impress me by reading Steinbeck, and I don't get it. Are people generally impressed by people who read Steinbeck? Am I missing something? So then we have coffee and chat about books, at which point he tells me that Pat Conroy (whom I've never read) is his favorite author. I don't really know what to say about that. So then the conversation turns to "truth" and things that I don't believe in, and he suggests we go get a drink.

So we go to this bar down the street, and get a couple of beers. At which point he asks me in a bar whether I've gotten my period. For real. I am not kidding. Is he retarded? Because 1. it's not really his business and 2. who asks that sort of question in public? I pretty much laughed in his face and then proceeded to drink vast quantities of liquor to attempt to improve the situation. Three shots (two of tequila) and many beers later, I was a hammered mess, and I proceeded to insist that he come home with me "to snuggle," he refused, I angrily staggered into my apartment, took off my clothes in the living room without turning on any lights, and collapsed onto my couch. At this point, (2:42 AM according the caller ID) he calls me, and we had what seemed like a tremendously long conversation, during which I believe I asked him repeatedly, "What's wrong with you? Why are you calling me on the phone if you didn't want to come up?" I also believe that he said something about wanting to see if I was ok, and I was utterly confused, as I was at home and didn't understand why I wouldn't be ok. So, somehow I got off the phone with him and staggered into my sweet, sweet bed and passed out.

The kicker is, he called me last night! I had pretty much decided that I would never call somebody who acted as I had, and also that I never wanted to speak to him again, so this really threw me for a loop. I was an asshole on Sunday night. It was not attractive. I can say this objectively. But last night he claims that I was great and that he really had an awesome time with me. It's as if he was out with somebody else. We didn't have an awesome time! Or, at any rate, I sure didn't. So I'm supposed to call him later in the week. Will I? It is hard to know.

So, that's the weekend in a nutshell. This is what it has come to. I wonder what next weekend will bring?

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