[My guitar in 2007. I used to play the shit out of it.]
April 2013 is ex-girlfriend remembrance month apparently. It’s been a meditative state of going through transitioning, accepting the inevitability of coming across dust bunnies of relationships passed. This is what happens when you do spring cleaning, eliminating thises-and-thats of clutter not needed to continue through life.
As previously mentioned, the discs containing my photos from my 2007 England trip were found. There was much rejoicing. Going through the discs, I realized that there was a solitary picture included of an ex-girlfriend of mine from years ago…
Well, okay, 2007.
I didn’t go through the John Cusack’s Rob Gordon of High Fidelity, trying to figure out why this didn’t work out. This was already known: she left me for someone else she was seeing. It was the night I brought her over gifts to celebrate whatever month anniversary it was–it was in the lower single digets. However, it was kind of pathetic that yours truly did not see this coming. It was all about the signs and her talking about this new guy, who was friends of a friend’s boyfriend, who was so great.
She mentioned one night, as if there was a future with us, that I would like him. Him and I would get along great.
I find this so laughable that using an acronym is dearly acceptable. Never would I do this, cheating, since I am sensible and have too much of a guilty conscience.
This relationship was mentioned in my The Paroxysm Soliloquy (Part 2) post. I put myself through the ringer in that. But it’s worth the read, the re-read, and my reflecting again. Poking fun of myself essentially proves that I can laugh at myself, which is a fine quality to have. The post was written in October 2012, and the time that has passed yielded sufficient self-discovery.
The Relationship Itself: First Movement
In the last blog post, I mention the notion of signs, explaining briefly that my life is made up of foreshadowing that does not get attention paid to it. This was one of those too-good-to-be-true relationships.
It started off as friends in high school, but we didn’t go to the same school. I had met her through friends, and I ended up going to her junior prom. She had gotten into a car accident that day, which is not a great thing on any given day, but her being shaken up from it put a damper on the evening. I don’t blame her. However, we stayed friends and contacted each other through college years.
She moves back to Syracuse, and inquires what I have been up to. We make it a point to go out an evening, which I pick her up and bring flowers. The flowers and the vase fit perfectly well with her decor, and the color red was/is/was (who knows) her favorite. We go to Twin Trees for dinner and catch up over antipasto, wine, and lasagna. The agreement was made to continue the evening.
To Fairmount Glen we went for mini golf. We spent the time cracking jokes and quoting Anchorman, discussing our love/hate towards Will Farrell. She won; although, it may have been a tie game.
I dropped her off, but she felt it necessary to suggest we hang out and watch some television. Anchorman is on TBS or one of other cable networks. We watch it before calling it a night.
One of those epic five-hour dates.
The Relationship Itself: Second Movement
Skaneateles and Blue Water Grill was another perfect date. We walked along the lake as our wait time clock counted down to our meal. It was a cool night, late in the year. We held hands and our arms were close, scuffing against each other. The air was definitely fresh, or maybe that’s the illusion that cooler air gives off.
We sat out on the porch section of the restaurant, and we ate. She looked out onto the water, and I indulged in the not-as-glamorous restaurant scene. That’s why I had eyes to look into.
Referring back to the picture, her eyes are squint. It was cute, as I previously had thought years ago. Her smile, flawless.
I tend to flock toward the cute, girl-nextdoor-types.
As we ate fireworks burst out from the country club, cascading out onto the water. The family next to us, the mother specifically, leaned over to our table and said that I had done good, referring to the display. I told her, thank you, looking back at my date. Still smiling.
The Relationship Itself: Coda
Our first kiss was not a good one. It was one of those couch kisses. It was generated by watching a movie. Our hands, our fingers were moving in and around each other’s fingers. The occasional glare and smile would occur. Arms moved out of the way. Glances continued and slowly stuck. Eyes squint. Noses rub. The kiss.
It’s not important to say whether or not she was a great kisser. You’re wondering. You’re already asking why I am not. Hell, Chris, you already went this far. Suspense, my friends, that’s why. I’ll simply say that I’ve kissed better. Anyway, the delivery, the moment, of this first kiss was bollocks; it was memorable in a terrible way. This sprouted a seismic wave of anxiety, and I subconsciously could not get comfortable with her. The couch kiss, the lean-over-and-smooch.
Oh, well. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably won’t be the last.
The Relationship Itself: The End Chorus
The picture is of the two of us in Ithaca. We went there to hike. The trip was filled with Dispatch and Guster and Ben Folds and Dave Matthews Band songs, but all those have had a history of music enjoyment before she came into the picture.
This is not an emo song. This is not falling for her again or asking: What If?
It’s just is. It’s the past. It’s a block a part of supporting the foundation of learned experience. It is time to move on from my most recent relationship.
How can I assure you of this? I don’t keep pictures of my exes.
I defaced this picture.
adventure communication dating drama Hiking Anchorman Ben Folds Blue Water Grill Brak dating drama Fairmount Glen gorges Guster High Fidelity hiking Ithaca John Cusack Kiss mini golf Skaneateles Syracuse Will Farrell
I play with words and invisible objects.
A mind, a pen and a piece paper have the best relationship ever.
"Remember this--if you shut your mouth, you have your choice."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald