Dirty Little Secret

I've been at graduate school for three weeks now. Men here are a minority, and most of the few are married. Damn circle-wearers.

Except for one.

He's pretty cute. And he's going to be a doctor, so why not?

We were at a party. We got drunk. We ended up in his bed.

He drove me home in the morning.

It was a normal day for about five hours after that. Then I hear my roommate talking in the kitchen about the guy and his girlfriend.

What had I just done?

I called up the guy.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I do, I'm sorry. I was going to tell you but I didn't want to hurt you."

What the fuck. You didn't want to hurt me? We just met. How about, "'I didn't want to hurt the woman I've been dating for the past two years'?"

But he never said those words.

Instead of giving him a moral diatribe, I shared with him my own story about cheating.

I told him about how my ex made me feel as if I wasn't good enough. As if I wasn't satisfying him in some way. As if I was stupid, because I missed some sign he was sleeping around.

My ex made me terrified of STDs, because I had had no idea where he had been. My ex made me angry at the possibility that his moments of fun would have lifelong health consequences for me. My ex has made me paranoid that the next guy I give myself to will cheat, too.

I told this guy that if he truly loved his girlfriend, if he didn't want to damage her the way I've been damaged, he should either (1) tell her what he did and hopefully work things out or (2) break up with her before she finds out. Because she WILL find out. Whether it's through an anonymous email, or through some other cruel workings of the universe, she will find out.

I told him that when I think about all of the men I've dated, I still smile at our memories--except those I share with the cheater. When I do stoop to thinking about him, I'm filled with disgust. I know I'm awaiting an apology (one more grand than a Facebook message) that will never come.

And do you know what's so sad? People who have never even met him only know him as the guy who cheated on me.

I told my "friend" on the other side of the phone that if he doesn't want to be hated by strangers, if he wants his girlfriend to smile when she looks back on her time with him, and if he wants a shot at post-relationship friendship with her, he needs to take option (2).

"I can't! I'm going to propose to her next summer."

If things are so serious you're wanting to marry this woman, why would you cheat? Especially since you had told my roommate that while you and your girlfriend were not virgins, you had decided to wait for each other until your wedding night. Your unusual but respectful choice was the reason you were the topic of discussion in the kitchen.

The same reason I discovered your lie.

My only comment was, "I'm telling you what I wish just one of those girls had told my ex. I wish just one of them had told him that what he was doing was wrong, and that they wanted no part in helping him hurt me. Because your girlfriend is a stranger to me. She's innocent. I don't hurt innocents."

We hung up.

The worst part? At a school with only 100 students, my group and his have since combined. Naturally.

We study together, we work on projects together, we go out downtown together.

He's tried several times to get me into bed again. I want no part in this game he's playing.

I have to see his stupid face every day for the next four years. Fantastic.

So Says the Ink.

Tattoos. I have two. Both were drawn by my own hand and then traced by a stranger with a needle onto my ribs for forever. The first I got several years ago because someone inspired me to metamorphosize, and the second I got recently because sometimes I need painful reminders.

From every ugly reminder comes beautiful new inspiration, right?

So says the ink.

Ink which went on white, and then was redone in silver, and finally black as I've grown bolder.

I leave for graduate school in a week. As per every August for the last four years, I prepare to be uprooted again.

I thought maybe this time would be different.

So says my newly blackened ink.

The last time I left, another young woman replaced me at my job. She stood out from the rest of our employee regimen. Why? She had purple hair and was covered in tattoos.

I didn't think we'd get along when I came home to work for the summer. I thought she'd see my relatively blank, seemingly untold skin (for I keep my stories buried beneath my clothes--read by only a few) and my regulation brown hair and be very disappointed.

Maybe she was, at first. But we became fast friends.

We bonded over Indie music and hiking and boneless buffalo wings, and summer flings that ended before their time.

You already know what happened with my guy, E.F. He called us off because he didn't want to get too close before I move away. Her guy called things off because he didn't want to get too close before he moves away. To Nebraska.

I thought maybe she brought donuts into the break room yesterday because binging on sugar makes the heart feel better. But something was off.

She didn't have to tell me in words. I knew.

She's pregnant. With Nebraska's baby.

He didn't react well to the news. She came to my place afterward. But she didn't get past the garage.

We took a drive through the Indian reservation, our only soundtrack the wind rushing past my open car windows as we sped through the dark at 100 mph.

When the tires finally came to a stop, we lay on my car roof gazing at the stars. I told her I would support her, whatever she decides to do about the life growing inside of her.

Because it doesn't matter how far away I am geographically. I make the people I care about a priority. And will take the Interstate home as often as she needs me to.

She smiled, because there was nothing else to do.

Despite the utter blackness of the empty desert, I could see the flame tattooed on her arm. The blue part, the hottest part, was larger than any of the other colors.

She's a survivor.

So says her brazen, pigmented ink.

Why my summer romance was consequence-free and hers wasn't, I'll never know. But then again, who can ever fully answer these questions of intimacy?

Mission Aborted

I moved back in with my parents for the summer. I had planned to do little else other than work for three months to save up for graduate school expenses in the fall. But someone got in the way.

Someone, a Mormon, and fireworks.

My coworker threw a birthday party for me last month. It was a rager till 10pm when she, her husband, and their newborn had to go to bed.

Everyone left except for two guys. A really cute someone (let’s call him E.F.) and his odd Mormon friend. They were committed to waiting up with me until midnight, so that I could have a “real” birthday celebration.

Any good celebration calls for fireworks, right? So off to Wal Mart we went.

While it’s legal to buy fireworks, it is illegal to set them off unless it is Independence Day. After illicitly lighting just one in the parking lot, our Mormon companion was too morally conflicted to let us continue. He insisted we call it a night. He held the car keys, so call it a night we did.

Utterly absorbed in his moral monologue, he failed to notice he had driven half a block past my house.

E.F. got out of the car to walk me down the street to my door. And on the porch he asked me out. I said yes.

We went to dinner a couple of nights later. I can tell within a few minutes whether the guy is going to get a second date. Rarely does that happen. I don’t like to waste my time.

E.F. was a true gentleman. A Left-Circler for sure. He picked me up, opened doors for me, paid for dinner, took me to a Jazz concert.

We talked in his idling car for over an hour when he dropped me off.

I was absolutely terrified when I wanted a second date, and a third, and so many more. E.F. was NOT in my summer plans. I was NOT supposed to get attached during my hiatus from real life.

Yet I let myself fall for him anyway. I knew I was opening myself up for a world of hurt, whether we decided to do long distance or write us off as a summer fling.

I was happy simply living in the moment until we went to a pool party with his friends, his sister among them. 

While E.F. and the Mormon were parking the car, the sister interrupted my conversation with one of the guys about his long-distance girlfriend to ask me how she should introduce me to a person in our group who hadn’t arrived yet.

“Are you my brother’s girlfriend, or what? I have to tell her something.”

LDGF guy came to my rescue. “You could just say her name, like a normal person.”

The sister wasn’t having any of that. “She’s my best friend. I can’t just be like, ‘this is so-and-so.’ She’ll want to know WHO she is.”

My turn. “Look, we haven’t put a label on anything, but I don’t think your brother will correct you either way, whatever you tell your friend.”

Cue E.F. and Mormon. They approach. We all quickly change the subject. The sister’s best friend arrives. The sister introduces me by name, sans epithet of any sort.

My heart sinks. I wanted to be E.F.’s girlfriend. Dammit.

It bothered me for the rest of the day. When he would grab my hand and kiss it unexpectedly, or wrap his arms around my waist, or look into my eyes for a little too long…I felt my heart’s defenses crumbling.

For the next couple of weeks, I kept a note on my phone of all of the things I wanted to say to him, but couldn’t. We were doomed from the start, so what was the point of saying things which would only make it harder in the end?

And then I drew for him. I hadn’t picked up a pencil since the semester before I started this blog as a stupid class assignment. I was still pretending to be an artist then.

So not only had I not drawn for myself in nearly two years, but I also hadn’t drawn for another person in four. Yet I did for him.

And when I gave him the drawing, he played guitar. He played guitar like someone else never did.

Every chord exposed a new chink in my pathetic armor.

And so when E.F. asked what my response would have been had his dad asked me what my intentions were with his son, I knew. I would have said that my intention was to treat E.F. the way he deserved, and not the shitty way every romantic interest in his life before me had. This man lying in the dark beside me had suffered more than I could ever comprehend. My pain was a raindrop compared to his ocean.

It was my mission to show him how beautiful love could be, and how much more beautiful it could grow if you work on it every day.

His mission was to understand me.

We enjoyed 11 dinners, 3 concerts, 3 movies, 2 rounds of fireworks, 1 art festival, and 1 ice cream run. I don’t regret a second of it. I learned a lot about an amazing human being, and a lot about myself, too.

I learned that regardless of how many times I’m beaten down, regardless of how hard I try to keep my heart closed so that no more can get in and nothing can get out—it doesn’t matter. Sometimes a single word can make a heart open.

“Are you my brother’s girlfriend?”

And all those things I didn't say
Wrecking balls inside my brain
I will scream them loud tonight
Can you hear my voice this time?

No, E.F., you can’t. Because this is an anonymous blog post. My occult following in Germany is more likely to hear me than you are. Because, according to my page view tracker, I’ve a lot of fans across the pond.

But I don’t need you to hear me. I need to hear me. I need to hear me admit that after every heartbreak, I become a better version of myself. And that for whatever reason, you and I weren’t meant to be. Not right now at this moment.

I’ve been single, I’ve done hook ups, I’ve done long-distance and long-term relationships…and I’m not sure where this Ephemeral Fox-shaped puzzle piece fits in, but I’m happy I got to walk through a month of life with you.

You said that you hoped the next guy I introduced to my dad was worthy. He was. I just wish you had met him more than once, so that he could see what I saw.

I went to our park earlier today. At sunset. With red wine (concealed in a thermos cuz I’m classy), Nutella, and pretzel sticks. The thin kind.

As I saw something very close to your favorite color, I thought about how you’ve got an unsigned drawing, and how I’ve got an empty 18x24 frame (with an unpaid balance of 20 kisses).

You’ve also got a full set of fireworks, minus one. I’ve also got half of a pizza leftover in my fridge, and an unopened copy of your brother’s book.

We’ve both got a collection of ticket stubs and restaurant receipts. And a "To Do" date list with 2 out of 23 items checked off.

Those 11 dinners, 3 concerts, 3 movies, 2 fireworks shows, 1 art festival, and 1 ice cream outing were worth the tears I shed with each keystroke.

We should have kissed goodbye.

Mission aborted.

Jokes On You

Over dinner we passed around pictures of the girl he cheated on me with. Everyone called him an idiot and laughed. Those who knew her took the opportunity to tell me stories about her. They weren't flattering. His loss.

My Friend Veronica

I may be a twenty-something, but that doesn’t mean I’m too old to scale inflatable rock walls.

This was at my sorority’s philanthropy. March 2015. Every climb raised money for battered women and children.

Clad in my event T-shirt and Converse, I kissed my love goodbye while he went off to class and I set my sights on ringing the bell at the top of a rather unstable blow-up mountain. 

Little did I know that I should have been worried less about my person crashing to the ground, and more worried about how my world was about to.

As I was preparing for my ascent, my phone buzzed. New email? Ok.

“I feel like this news should not be coming to you from an anonymous source, but your boyfriend has cheated on you multiple times throughout the past year. I am assuming you do not know, but I am telling you because I feel you have the right to know. It is really fucked up that he is doing this to you. You deserve better….”

The message was sent from a bogus Gmail account, and the sender used the pseudonym “Veronica.”

Obviously I confronted said boyfriend about it. He didn’t act defensive/guilty. He seemed sad some stranger thought him capable of doing such a thing. He admitted to some flirtatious behavior with someone else, so perhaps that was the basis of the misconception, and immediately agreed to drop her from social media. He said he was thankful to have friends who look out for me, who keep him morally in check. He looked into my eyes, swore the accusations were not true, and apologized for flirting with this girl.

Like an idiot, I believed my lover over a stranger.

Three weeks later, during the final week of my toughest (and last) collegiate semester, Mr. Wonderful broke my heart. I was devastated. We had been together for 18 months and had had plans to stay together during graduate school.

It had been an ordinary Wednesday. Went to class, did some homework, made dinner, tackled a lab report.

Then I got a text. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

During his breakup speech, he listed a few bullshit reasons for ending our relationship.

My sadness only lasted until I met up with this Veronica person. She gave me some hard-and-fast information I could not ignore. I confronted my (now ex-) boyfriend again. This time he admitted to cheating, and to hooking up with the same girl (a previous partner) just a few nights after we split.

Guess he was incapable of keeping it in his pants. This chick must be pretty irresistible considering he slept with her before me, during me, and after me. Except she’s not. She’s rather ugly.

Oh and she had had a boyfriend throughout the cheating, too.

I haven’t figured out yet whether my ex likes her, or just likes her vagina. She seems ok with either possibility. News flash, you two: people who cheat with each other, later cheat on each other.

That day I stopped missing him. Anger and hatred set in. I had spent nearly half of college with this scum.

What could possibly make my life more ironic? Turns out that the same night I posted here last, the entry about how I would never hurt him, he was busy cheating on me. 

Three more weeks later. Graduation day.

I ran into his family on the street. I don’t know where he himself was. I was on my way to a party, but they waved me down. It was hard to be polite. His folks knew we had split, but they didn’t know what their son had done.

We made small talk. My own family strolled up. I introduced them. My ex’s mom made some joke about how she was so happy to finally meet my mom, yet she had never imagined it would be under the current circumstances. Everyone laughed quietly.

We went our separate ways. Them to their hotel, us to the party.

The host, my best friend, had seen the interaction on the street. Within a few minutes, the entire room full of graduates and their families were talking about my doucher ex, whom most of them did not know, and how horrible it was that this sort of thing had happened to me.

It was hard to hold my head up. Because as much as he hurt me, I still loved him while we were together, and no one likes to hear their loved one trash talked.

I had no words to defend him, though. Other than mentioning he had said he was sorry after I confronted him for the fourth time. But then the crowd switched from calling him a cheater to a LYING cheater. Is he sorry he cheated, or is he sorry he got caught?

Three days later. Today.

I don’t really care what he does with his life anymore. I don’t really care if he ever reads this. I’m leaving for a road trip with my friends in a few minutes. I’ve got all of my belongings in one suitcase, and I don’t know where I’m staying tonight.

Time for a new adventure. Time to start the climb towards that bell.

Experience: the Most Unforgiving Teacher

Facebook friends. The majority of them are not “real” friends, but people with whom we’ve spent a very limited amount of time in a very specific context, or people with whom we haven’t spoken in years, or people we don’t even know and the only reason they made it onto our friends list is because they have lots of mutual friends. And, sadly, sometimes members of that last group aren’t real people at all.

My point? Being friends on Facebook is not that big of a deal, so it’s kind of a big deal when someone unfriends you. Like, “_______ is friends with that rando we once sat next to in 12^th grade English yet he unfriends ME?”

How about when the unfriender is someone you dated seriously? And he doesn’t unfriend your sister? And his sister, his brother, his mother, his grandmother, and his cousin don’t unfriend you? And the length of your break up almost exceeds the length of your relationship?

And the unfriender untags himself from every last photo you ever took as a couple, but not the ones you took as friends? Or the ones of himself and your sister? Or the ones taken by you of himself with your friends? Such discriminate destruction.

Why now of all times? What’s it matter anymore? The wound isn’t fresh. We’ve both been seeing other people for over a year. You never posted more than maybe twice/year anyway, so did you make a special effort to log on, click “untag” some 300 times, go to my profile, and…delete? If you really didn’t want me in your newsfeed, either unfollow me or remember to delete my sister, too, and ask your family members to do the same.

It could have happened months ago for all I know, but I didn’t discover it until Christmas Day.

So I’m confused. Why are you trying to erase the past? You can’t undo what happened.

You broke your promise.

Yet I don’t regret the time I spent with you because you made me a better person.

I’ve always thought of opposing emotions as two sides of the same coin. As fate would have it, you showed me happiness for the first time. I thought it was the shiny side, but until we failed and that coin flipped to its dark, rusted side, I had no idea. I was plunged into a darkness so complete, a sadness so deep, it took me years to flip over. And it required a lot more strength than I started with. (A reformation process we will not get into here.)

But…thank you. I am extremely happy with the love I’ve got now because I have a full understanding of the whole coin. I didn’t when I was with you, and I’m sorry.

During that coin flip, you taught me a few things. 

You taught me to appreciate the light, and to never take him for granted. And so I will never stop trying. I’ll never stop holding his hand, and I’ll never get used to him. Because relationships only thrive if you continuously pour effort into them.

You taught me how much it hurts to lose. And so I never want to lose him.

You taught me how to communicate, and how to settle disagreements effectively. You taught me of the importance of very clear, “I feel X when you do Y because Z” statements, because we never used them. Any psych majors reading this?

Unbeknownst to you, you taught me the pain of cheating. 

You showed me all of my mistakes, and gave me infinite motivation to never make them again. The memory of loss continues to make me want to be the best version of myself in my new relationship. He deserves nothing less.

So, goodbye, my Facebook friend. You’re just somebody that I used to know. Less than that rando in English class.

Ready, Set, "I Do?"

Hiya. Yours truly has survived the summer and fall from hell. Miss me? You must have a teeny bit if you’ve bothered to keep checking a blog for updates after 8 months of silence. My apologies for that.

What’s changed? A lot. In addition to applying to and accepting admission from a professional school, I recently celebrated one year of left-circling.

Woot woot stable college relationships! More elusive than unicorns. I consider myself…

Excuse me while I go vomit.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my knight in shining armor. Even when his man-dress complements said armor.

But you know, I’m not sure why college women make it their ultimate ambition to secure one of these guys by graduation. Isn’t the whole MRS degree a bit outdated?

Because when graduation happens, then what? Maybe his noble steed will take you both off into the sunset. Maybe you’ll get married and make cute little heirs to the castle. 

….Or maybe you’ll both pursue graduate-level education. Because, unlike in years past, settling down doesn’t necessarily immediately follow post-Bachelor’s. Many careers demand at least a Master’s, or more.

I have a friend. A singular friend because I’m a loser. Just kidding.

I have a friend (let’s call her Jennifer) among my seven friends who’s told me to my face she’s jealous of my relationship. She has a rule that she must be married by age 23 or else the world is going to end. Since we’re both 21 yet I’m the one in a relationship, clearly I am going to beat her to it.

Wrong. It’s 2014. It’s not a race to say, “I do.” 

Well, I got on a shuttle this morning. The shuttle was headed to the airport, to a plane, to my hometown, to my family.

Airports are funny.

When I was eleven, my family was at one of these funny airports getting ready to go on some exotic vacation at an exotic locale where we were guaranteed to have loads of exotic fun. Obviously, these kinds of trips took place before two daughters with college tuition happened. Prior to my sister and I being so expensive, however, I remember proudly telling my mom that “airports are sad.” (This was during my raccoon-eyes-all-black-wearing phase when I used to think sadness was cool. Sadness was deep. Sadness was something only grown-ups could pretend to understand.)

I guess I expected her to ask why I held such an opinion, but instead I got a slap on the wrist and a very stern, “No, airports are HAPPY.” What little brat doesn’t think traveling to Aruba is the absolute best thing ever? In trying to be deep, I came across as ungrateful. A common mistake.

Retrospectively, I understand my mom’s viewpoint. I think her statement goes beyond that one vacation. I’m 10 days shy of the age she was when she got engaged to my dad, which was Christmas Eve of senior year of undergrad. To her, airports represent the times when my dad came home to her, and eventually me, too. My sister, three years my junior, was much luckier and has known him since birth.

Military family.

But as for me, airports have been predominantly sad places. In my childhood they represented moves out-of-state and away from friends, a new house, and a new school. Essentially a new life when my old one was perfectly fine.

In college, I honestly thought airports would morph into happy places. A trip to the airport would mean trading up dining hall mush for home-cooked meals, an annoying roommate for my adorable pet bunny, and a condom animal balloon-laden hallway for a private bathroom.

This was true until the “home” I left became my parents’ house. Once Gramps took my spot at the kitchen table and my spot in the car, once exercise equipment and a rather large stuffed moose crept into my room….It kind of just became too painful to go back.

I tried to exist in two places my first year away. Yet the dissonance between my home-self and my school-self became too much. So the night before my six-hour drive into sophomore year, I severed my last tie to home and decided to fully dedicate myself to no place.

I built a fine little floating life. I had my classes, my human research project, my professors, my clubs, my job, my sorority, my friends…all things I could enjoy nine months out of the year and live without for three. 

That is, until I fell in love.

A love which has made this past year so incredibly amazing.

A love which makes me want to make ties again.

As I stepped into that airport-bound shuttle this morning, Jennifer’s words came to mind. They brought tears to my eyes, and on the wrong leg of my journey. The tears were supposed to be reserved for leaving my parents’ house, not heading towards it. 

I wasn’t crying because I wasn’t absolutely thrilled to see my parents after half a year. I was crying because my happiness was tinged with the sad realization I wasn’t going to see my other half for an entire month. I was crying because in college it’s impossible to not exist in two places, even when you try your hardest to stay unattached. Love will do that to you.

Frankly, I can’t wait to finish my education. Maybe then I can stop drifting from place to place, packing up and moving back and forth half as often as my semester schedule changes. Maybe then I can form attachments without wondering when either of us has to tear them apart.

Sure, that trip down the aisle and those two little words sound really nice right now. But it’s more because, as college women, we really just want a little stability after 4 (or 8!) years of turbulence. There’s no standard-issue timeline, and trying to create one for yourself will only lead to anxiety when you don’t meet it. 

Unless the neighbor pops the question to me within the next 10 days, I am not going to be like my mother. That’s okay.

No one should feel that kind of pressure on top of everything else. Get a diploma, and then may you direct that noble steed, with or without a knight, any which way you please. Sunset, pasture field, another 4-6 year gauntlet (er, I mean, post-Bachelor's degree)—it’s up to you.