An XY Marks The Plot
Submitted by Lisa Steadman on June 10, 2011 - 7:00 AM
You asked for it, you got it! Here’s the story of how I met my husband…
This is not the story of an ex. But of an XY.
I met Mr. XY several years ago. During the best summer of my life. I had rented out my condo and was living with friends in my favorite L.A. neighborhood, was enjoying numerous career highs as a freelance writer, and had finally taken that extended vacay to Montana. And while there was once a time in my life when I looked longingly at my married friends wishing I could join them, I was now in a space where I felt happily married to my single life. Cocktails with the girls on Friday. A date with any number of cute and interesting boys I happened to be meeting but had no intention of getting serious with on Saturday night. Fun with friends on Sunday. And numerous single gal adventures during the week. All in all, a fabulous summer!
And then one July evening when I was out with my best gal pal, I met Mr. XY. He just happened to be sitting at the table next to us at the lounge where Gal Pal and I were enjoying live music. We struck up a casual conversation that lasted the rest of the night. I was surprised by how easy it was to talk to this sexy stranger. We bonded over a mutual affection for the music of Pink Martini and the random musings of David Sedaris. I mentioned there was a play being performed in Hollywood written by David and his sister Amy. And when Mr. XY and his friends got up to leave later that night, he asked for my number, mentioning that he’d like to see that play with me. Surprised, I gave him my number and didn’t give it another thought. I wasn’t looking for a man that night. I had no immediate need.
The truth is, I was still recovering from earlier in the summer when I finally got up the nerve to confess my feelings for my longtime crush. Someone I thought was possibly the perfect person for me. But after my confession, he ran away. And in the silence that ensued, I wised up. And realized that I had been playing a game of cat and mouse for far too long with someone who wasn’t interested in me IN THAT WAY.
And he wasn’t the first. I had been playing this game for far too long PERIOD. Trying to prove how fabulous I was to men who weren’t worth the time or effort. Men who waited two days longer than promised to call. Men who told me how fabulous I was and then ran the other way. Men who were both intelligent and successful, and yet completely incapable of emotional intimacy. It was men like this that I thought I wanted. And men like this that I finally realized I didn’t need.
And then there was Mr. XY. A man who waited less than 24 hours to call and ask me to dinner. A man who told me in that first phone call that he not only liked me, but he couldn’t wait to get to know me better. A man who was completely unencumbered by the rules of dating. I liked that. And it scared the hell out of me. It scared me enough that I flaked on our first official date. True, I was out of town, but I’d known my schedule when I booked the date.
Maybe I was testing Mr. XY. He seemed so young. So nice. So clean cut. I wasnt quite sure why he was interested in me. After all, I was clearly older, not to mention deliciously inappropriate, and more than a little jaded. When Mr. XY called to reschedule our first date, he had the nerve to ask me if I planned on flaking again. He wasn’t afraid of me. I loved that.
I also loved that when Mr. XY showed up on my doorstep that Friday night, he surprised me with flowers. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time a man had brought me flowers. And flowers weren’t the only indicator that this date would be different. Long ago, I had ruled out letting men pick me up for a date. Usually I insisted on meeting at our chosen destination so I had my own car and a quick escape route should I need it. With Mr. XY, I just had a hunch I wouldn’t need it. And I didn’t. Over a spicy Thai dinner followed by drinks at a hip local lounge, I discovered that Mr. XY was not too young, clean cut, or nice for me. Yes, he was younger. But it no longer mattered. He had a wonderfully edgy sense of humor. An insatiable zest for life. And while many a man has been completely intimidated by the fact that I write about dating and relationships and breakups for a living, Mr. XY was not only NOT intimidated, he was impressed.
And I was impressed when he told me he’d gone to my website to read some of my breakup stories but then realized he’d rather get to know me in person than through my writing.
My doubts were quickly vanishing as I peeled away the layers of Mr. XY. As he walked me to my door at the end of our first date, I knew I wanted to see Mr. XY again. I just had to get past my fears of our first kiss. You see, in my passionate pursuit of my single gal life, I had recently come across a string of bad kissers. There was Washing Machine Man (with his tongue that tied mine in a monotonous rinse cycle), Hostage Taker (who sucked my tongue so hard it took three tries to get it back from him), and Grandfather Tongue (‘nuf said). Those last few steps to my front door were agonizing. I wanted to kiss Mr. XY but I was petrified. And so I did what any jaded single gal would do. I went for the sneak attack. When Mr. XY pulled me to him for a goodnight hug, I went straight for his lips. He almost fell down the stairs in his surprise. But he quickly recovered, returned my brief kiss, and said he’d call me again soon. Which, of course, he did.
My second date with Mr. XY could have been a disaster. We went to a Chinese Food festival where the food was bad and the blistering sun was worse. But instead of getting cranky with each other, we washed down the so-so food with cold beer and continued getting to know one another. I couldn’t believe how comfortable Mr. XY made me feel. And how nothing I said seemed to faze him. Even when I confessed my Libran fear of commitment and my lack of desire for marriage or kids after he’d just mentioned hoping to one day have a child, Mr. XY just looked at me and smiled.
For our third date, Mr. XY invited me into his home and cooked me dinner. Something about the candlelight, the soft music, and the flavorful food inspired Mr. XY to confess his feelings for me. And while I was having similar feelings, I was far from capable of expressing them. Instead, I asked if we could get some air. Instead of being offended Mr. XY took me on a moonlit stroll in his quiet neighborhood. And then he really kissed me. And I thought that while Mr. XY was far from perfect, he just might be perfect for me.
When I returned to Montana for a month in September, Mr. XY and I kept in touch over email and IM. There was a part of me that thought things might fizzle while I was away. But in reality I found myself missing Mr. XY and looking forward to our daily online chats. I returned to California in time for my big birthday bash in early October. I had long ago stopped introducing potential men to my friends but decided to make an exception for Mr. XY. I couldn’t wait to see all my friends again, and delighted in sharing them with Mr. XY. I felt free to laugh, be my obnoxious and loud tipsy self, and even left Mr. XY to chat with one friend while I snuck away to bond with others. As the night wore on, I began to feel a shift. At first, I thought it was all the cocktails. Or the euphoria of being surrounded by the people I love. But it wasn’t JUST that. There was more to it.
For my birthday, I received numerous thoughtful and fabulous gifts. And even more kind wishes for the coming year. But the best gift I received wasn’t something anyone could buy or wrap up in a neat package with a pretty bow. No, the best gift I received was when I woke up the next morning and looked at the person lying beside me. And I got my real birthday gift. Love. And for a cynical and sassy single gal like me, nothing could have been sweeter. That is, until moments later when Mr. XY looked deep into my eyes and said those three fabulous little words before I even had the chance. That was sweeter still.
There is a reason for each and every ex in my relationship past. Because breaking up with the Wrong person is always the Right thing to do. And it gets us one step closer to our relationship present. In my case? An ex has always marked the plot. But Mr. XY? Well, that’s a story that continues being written and is definitely part of my relationship future.
When Harry Met Sally: Unhappily Ever After
Submitted by Lisa Steadman on June 9, 2011 - 7:00 AM
I’m revisiting my breakup past by pulling stories out of The Breakup Chronicles archive.
I love the movie When Harry Met Sally. LOVE it. But I don’t buy the ending. Probably because I lived the real ending. The one that didn’t test well with audiences. The one where they don’t end up together. This is my When Harry Met Sally: Unhappily Ever After.
I met Mr. Ex my freshman year of college. I remember our first conversation in English Comp. He was talking to another girl in the class about his girlfriend back East. They were high school sweethearts, and even though she was thousands of miles away, attending college on the alternate coast, they were staying together. I told him it would never work. He looked at me like I was the biggest bitch he’d ever met. Instantly, we became friends.
I was right. The relationship didn’t last until Christmas. But it was just as well. She was sleeping with somebody else. And he was trying to screw everything in a skirt. Despite his horn dog tendencies, I loved him. We were similar in a lot of ways. Creative, driven, insecure, fun-loving, big drinkers. We bonded over beers, one night stands, and the occasional homework assignment. He was a wonderful writer. It was effortless for him. While I would stay up all night, agonizing over two pages of prose, he would whip something up between classes and it would blow my mind.
He went through girlfriends like I went through a bag of potato chips. He was well-known across our college campus for being outgoing, fun, and a total player unwilling or unable to settle down. And while he knew the name of almost every girl on campus, I was one of the elite few he confided in. Only I knew his insecurities about the future, his financial woes, his family issues. Even most of our friends didn’t know these things. We just had that kind of a connection. And thankfully, we weren’t attracted to each other, so there was no sexual tension between us. Until our senior year.
I chalked it up to Senior Mayhem. That frenzy of feelings and fiascos that occur during senior years in colleges across the country when life is so crazy that you just don’t care about tomorrow. One drunken night we kissed. Then another night it happened again. Then he started kissing me every time he saw me. And spending the night. Or vice versa. It was never much more than a good makeout session. I didn’t want to let it go any further. Yet somehow in the fray, I found myself falling in love with him.
Then we slept together.
And just like that, things changed, just as they had for Harry and Sally. But they changed in different ways for both of us. I found myself head over heels in love with him. As for Mr. Ex, he could only obsess about his disappointing performance. I couldn’t see straight, he couldn’t wait to see the girl next door. Or down the street. Or around the corner.
For the first time in our history, he fell in love with someone else. And broke my heart.
I knew it was for the best. A player like that could never settle down. But he wasn’t supposed to stop being my friend just because of one night, right? And yet that’s what was happening. I was losing him. Fast.
The honest ending to When Harry Met Sally is that Harry never goes to the New Years Eve ball to profess his love for Sally. Instead, he tells his brother that he gave Sally a lousy lay, and his brother, who’s in town for Harry and Sally’s graduation, tries to make it up to Sally by hitting on her. And Sally, in typical high maintenance fashion, throws a drunken temper tantrum in the middle of their last college party in front of the one nice guy she’s met in four years. And the next day, hung over or maybe even still drunk, Harry and Sally graduate from college and never see one another again. And that’s too bad. Because they were the only ones in the big bad city who really knew each other.
The End.
Post Script: Harry and Sally go their separate ways. They fall in love with other people. They live their lives. They have fulfilling careers and drive nice cars and maybe even get married and have children. With other people. But let’s face it. That’s not what audiences want to see. We want the Hollywood ending. We need it. Which is why Harry ditched Mallomars and the Knicks on New Years Eve to chase down Sally. Because it tests well.
The One Who Rocked My World…Revisited
Submitted by Lisa Steadman on June 8, 2011 - 7:00 AM
So many of my new coaching clients have been asking about my Big Breakup. I’m pulling my story out of The Breakup Chronicles archive. Enjoy!
At 30 years of age, I’d never met anyone who rocked my world. Sure, I’d had relationships. Some good, some not so good, but none had ever turned me inside out, shook my core, and affected me the way Mr. Ex did. Now that all is said and done, it’s easy to see we were doomed from the beginning. But it’s also clear that we came into each other’s lives for a reason, and no amount of logic could have talked us out of the two years we took over each other’s lives.
I met Mr. Ex in the community kitchen at my new job. We introduced ourselves and chatted briefly. From then on, he always had a way of showing up just when I was making tea or grabbing lunch. At first I thought these chance encounters were just that: chance. But deep down I knew he was pseudo-stalking me. I didn’t think much of it, given that he was obviously younger than me, and we didn’t seem to have much in common. Still, he was fun to talk to, and I thought he’d be great company over a beer. Imagine my surprise when, three months later, he asked me to lunch. My initial thought was, He’s seen my ass, right? Turns out he had, and he liked what he saw.
Lunch transitioned into a surprisingly romantic dinner the following week, and a delicious makeout session in his truck the week after that. Before I could point out that our five year age difference wasn’t an issue but our difference in life experience was, we were a couple. He was new to relationships in general, had never been in love, and was still very much living the college lifestyle (without the degree) of drinking himself into oblivion and thinking bills were something you paid if you had any cash left over after treating everyone in the bar to a couple rounds. As for me, I was watching all my friends settle down, get married, and start families of their own. And while he wasn’t anywhere near marriage material, Mr. Ex possessed a lot of endearing qualities: he was cute, funny, sweet, and totally dug me. He was everything I had always wanted in a college boyfriend, including a serious drinking problem. Trouble was, I wasn’t in college anymore. Somehow I convinced myself that our differences were not insurmountable, and I jumped in with both feet.
Despite our differences, Mr. Ex and I were good for each other in many ways. He helped me see my own beauty and worth for the first time in my life. I tried to show him what life could be like when you embraced your insecurities and learned to love life. We totally clicked on a chemical level, which not only made the sex amazing, but our intimacy ran deep. However, that chemical reaction wasn’t always positive. When things were good, there were fireworks. But when things were bad, there was nuclear fallout. When we weren’t bringing out the best in each other, we were drudging up the worst. In all fairness, we were both at fault. His moodiness triggered my insecurities. My neurosis affected his feelings of self-worth. In between declarations of love, great sex, and fits of laughter came uncomfortable silences, major misunderstandings, and deepening drama. He was young enough to think this was normal. I was insecure enough to think this was acceptable.
We stayed together for a year, and really tried to make it work. But that’s just it. If you have to try that hard, and it’s still not working, is it worth it? Was I ignoring my need for someone more mature and further on his personal path for a good reason? Was I forcing him to be something or someone he wasn’t ready to be, or could never be? These questions swirled in my head often during that year, a year that saw him working double overtime to placate his demanding boss without additional compensation, which not only left us with little time for each other, but what little time we did have together found him stressed, moody, and drinking behind my back. Then there were the money problems that only surfaced when his dad would call to tell me about them, but when I confronted Mr. Ex, he would shrug and say things were under control.
The truth is, any reasonably self-esteemed woman would have left long before I did. And one day I, too, grew weary of the odds stacked so terribly against us and I ended it. Only nothing in our relationship had been easy so why did I think a breakup would be?
A few months after the initial breakup, we got back together. But truthfully, my heart wasn’t in it. Maybe I was being the guy in the situation, in it for the sex and companionship, all the while knowing it wasn’t right. He wasn’t ready to meet me on my level, and I was no longer interested in sinking to his. Within a few months, when his secretive financial failings once again bubbled to the surface (thanks to dear old Dad) I called it quits for good.
There’s a reason companies have policies against inter-office dating. It’s not that they discourage love and happiness, they just know that breaking up sucks, and having to see your ex on a daily basis sucks even more. But we made the best of it. First we didn’t talk at all. Then we talked all the time. Then we slept together again. And again. And again. And then, almost a year after our initial breakup, we realized we had to stop. For good. No hard feelings. And I mean it when I say no hard feelings. I accept that things didn’t work out, but I also know I had to go through this relationship, not once but twice. I had things to learn. And I’m better for having learned them. I’m a stronger, happier, more self-confident woman because Mr. Ex came into my life.
And speaking of Mr. Ex, I hear he’s getting his act together. I like to think it’s because of me but the truth is, nobody does anything they’re not ready to do for themselves. But I can at least take credit for pointing him in the general direction. And I’m thrilled for him (OK, my emotions are mixed). But one thing’s certain – we came into each other’s lives for a reason. I was there to show him the way. And he was there to love me like I’d never been loved before. And to rock my world. And even tho my heart hasn’t totally healed, I’m thankful we happened. As the saying goes, don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened. And boy, am I smiling.
Like A Prayer
Submitted by Lisa Steadman on June 7, 2011 - 7:00 AM
Lately, there have been a lot of requests for those early stories from The Breakup Chronicles. I’ve gone into the archive, dusted off some oldies but goodies, and hope you enjoy!
“I’m getting married next month.”
Even through the crackle of the long distance telephone and the drunkenness of my brain, the words were unmistakable.
“Who is she?” I slurred, no longer caring if he knew I was drunk or not.
“No one you know. I’m so sorry. I feel terrible. Now you’ve been hurt twice…”
Before I could give him the satisfaction of finishing his sentence and ripping my heart wide open, I hung up the phone. And then sat there, listening to the crazy party going on in the next room. My 22nd birthday party. The last birthday I would celebrate in college. And yet I was locked in the bedroom, staring at the phone, wondering why the hell I bothered to call Mr. Ex at all. We hadn’t spoken in over a year, not since he told he was re-enlisting instead of coming home. And now, not only was he not coming home, he was never coming home to me. Ever.
He was my best friend from high school. Sweet, funny, a native of the small California town I’d just moved to. The moment we met, instant connection. Electric personalities lighting up each and every time we saw each other.
He knew everyone. I knew no one. He protected me, took care of me, introduced me to my first love. I helped him with his homework, told him of all the places I’d lived, introduced him to my family.
He held my hand when I fretted about getting into college, was my shoulder to cry on when my high school sweetheart cheated on me, told me he’d always love me. Always. Until today.
How had things gone so horribly wrong? How could he have chosen another woman over me? I had given him everything. Written him letters every week to help him ease the loneliness of that first year in the army, sent him care packages, gone broke trying to pay my phone bill just to hear his voice. And all for nothing. He was never coming home to me.
Backtrack to end of high school. When he confessed his love for me. Said he regretted introducing me to my first love. Wished he’d kept me for himself. I confessed the same. And then he went off to boot camp, and I to college. He worked his ass off, trying to deal with being away from home for the first time, trying to prove his worth in an institution that valued his physique over his mind or faith. As for me, I drowned myself in sea of drunken parties, studied when I could, and lost my identity. Then he came home and saved me. Told me he loved me. That he wanted to marry me. And I believed him.
We spent the next six months writing letters, exchanging phone messages, caught up in an imaginary bliss. It was unrequited love at its finest.
That summer, I visited him. Didn’hurt that he was stationed in Hawaii. But I would have gone anywhere for him. For weeks before my trip, I fantasized about what it would be like to finally consummate our love. And while my trip was lovely, it wasn’t all that. He was distant, different. He’d kiss me, then pull away, touch me, then recoil. And he wouldn’t make love to me, citing his religious beliefs that I’d long known about. I respected his beliefs, but also knew he’d slept with women he didn’t love, so why not me? He said I was different. Because he loved me. I bought it reluctantly, but went home feeling deprived.
During my sophomore year in college, we continued exchanging letters, although we both agreed love was not in the cards for us. Yet every time he returned home on vacation, our platonic visits would turn into heated kisses and caresses, with the promise of more one day.
“Just let me get out of the army. Let me come home and take care of you. Marry you. Our children would be beautiful.”
Again, I believed him.
My junior year, just weeks before my 21st birthday, the phone rang. It was Mr. Ex. My heart beating, I waited to hear the words I’d dreamed of for three years: “I’m coming home.”
Instead, I heard, “I’m re-enlisting.”
Angry, I hung up the phone. For weeks, I refused his calls, didn’t answer his letters, really stuck it to him. And then everything stopped. The phone, the mail, my heart. Boy, I really showed him, didn’t I?
But I never forgot him. He was the one man who knew me better than I knew myself. Who knew my history, and would always love me, even if we didn’t speak for over a year. Which was what led to that phone call the night of my 22nd birthday party. Drunk and lusting, I fended off the advances of my occasional Booty Call to go into my bedroom, lock the door, and make THE CALL. The one that would change my life forever.
“I’m getting married.”
The words hung in the air long after I’d slammed down the phone. How could he do this to me? I’d already been betrayed by love once. And he knew all about that. Now HE was betraying me? Who was she? What did she have that I didn’t? Why would he marry and make love to her when he wouldn’t do either with me? These questions haunted me for months. Quite possibly for years. I thought I was cursed. Unlucky in love for life.
Years later, thanks to the internet, we found one another and re-connected. Exchanged emails and phone calls and finally met in person. He was on his second marriage and fourth child. I was still single, between boyfriends, and still wondering if he was THE ONE. And if so, was I willing to break up his marriage?
Our rendezvous was nothing like I expected. But everything I needed. We met in a public place. Talked for hours. He explained himself. About why he re-enlisted and why he married someone else. And for the first time in my life, I understood. We were never meant to be. In truth, we were polar opposites. Him: devoutly religious, traditional, conservative. Me: unconventional, artistic, experimental. It never would have worked. But it worked during a time in our lives when we both needed someone to love. Even if it was from afar and not fully requited. For me, it was safe at a time in my life when I was afraid of men and not terribly secure in myself. For him, he needed the comfort of home while he was far away from it.
To this day, he remains one of my best friends. We may not speak often, but I know he’s always just a phone call away. He’s even incredibly supportive of The Breakup Chronicles, and when he reads this, I know he’ll agree wholeheartedly about our journey from friends to almost-lovers to friends again.
Since those messy college years, I’ve loved and lost several times, and I’ve survived them all. My life and loves just keep getting better. And I’m better off for having had Mr. Ex in my life, even if it’s not the way my 22 year-old mind had imagined it. In fact, it’s so much better.
The “It” Factor
Submitted by Lisa Steadman on June 5, 2011 - 7:00 AM
I went digging in The Breakup Chronicles archives the other day. Thought you’d enjoy this story of how I discovered that compatibility doesn’t end at the bedroom door…
He said he didn’t want to end up a breakup story. That he didn’t want to become yet another Mr Ex. I told him there were no guarantees. After all, when you date a writer – or an artist of any kind – that’s the gamble you take. That your life story will somehow end up in print, on screen, aka public domain. I’m sure he’ll understand.
Mr. Ex and I met the way many 21st century couples meet – online. We liked what each other had to say about life, love, art. Several emails and phone calls later, we met at a hip coffee shop somewhere in between our neighborhoods. The conversation was easy and our personalities meshed nicely. Even our fashion sense was similar. He complimented my Frieda Kahlo bag. I liked his flame-emblazoned bowling shirt.
And that’s how it started.
On paper, Mr. Ex was perfect for me. Checks in all the right boxes. Employed. Check. Making good money. Check. Creative profession. Double check. Lived alone. Major check. Lived within his means. Took an interest in my career. Liked the same kind of music. Same kind of movies. Believed that chivalry wasn’t dead. Check. Check. Check.
Aside from the checklist, he was easy to talk to. And sweet. And he was emotionally available. Which was a refreshing change from the guys I’d dated who were super cool but unable to commit to anything other than the fear of being hurt, abandoned, rejected.
We had romantic dinners on Friday nights. Saw great documentary films on Saturday afternoons. Went out for sushi in the middle of the week. About two months into the relationship, he offered to whisk me away to wine country for the weekend. It was all very adult. And incredibly liberating. I told myself, This is how it can be when you date your equal.
But here’s the thing – there was no zing.
At first I thought the lack of chemistry during our good night kisses was due to nerves. After all, I was still recovering from The One Who Rocked My World. And I was afraid of being hurt again. But I knew this one wouldn’t hurt me. I knew he’d be good to me. He was in the same place in his life that I was in mine – ready for THE REAL THING. And so I told myself to get over it and jump in with both feet. Which – loosely translated – means I slept with him. I’m still convinced that’s the best way to really know if you’re compatible with someone. It’s just a theory.
Here’s how it happened. After an intoxicating evening of amazing Indian food in a lusty atmosphere, exhilarating conversations about religion, politics, and art, and a comfortable drive back to his place while listening to the hypnotic rhythms from our mutually-favorite radio station, he asked me to come up and see his recently-completed and film-fest-favorite short film. Little did he know that even if he’d just asked me to come upstairs and get it on, I would have.
After said short film, we got it on. One thing led to another, and soon my clothes were on his living room floor, and our activities moved into the bedroom.
Still, no zing.
It’s not that the sex was bad. It wasn’t. He said all the right things, made all the right moves, was totally attentive to my needs. And afterwards, the pillow talk was casual and comfortable. I felt right at home in his bed. And yet I couldn’t wait to get home to my own.
The next day, after conferring with my girlfriends, the consensus was that I should try it again. Sometimes the first time could be awkward, we rationalized. This guy was really cool and I owed it to myself – and him – to further explore our physical chemistry. And so the following weekend, after yet another fabulous evening of fine dining, scintillating conversation, and thought-provoking film, we returned to his bedroom. And once again, it was nice. There were moments that were quite spectacular. And yet afterwards, as we lay next to one another talking, all I could think of was Get me out of here!
That’s when the invitation for a weekend in Wine Country was put on the table. Which made me realize that while there had been no zing for me, Mr. Ex couldn’t wait to zing again. All weekend, maybe. And while the offer was incredibly tempting, the thought of being stuck in a far away destination with Mr. No Zing was more than I could bare.
There’s no good time to tell someone the zing – or “it factor” as my girlfriends call it – isn’t there. But when you’ve investigated all the possibilities and you know it wasn’t nerves or fear or any other self-imposed drama, you have to face facts. And fess up.
In the end, Mr. Ex was very gracious. He asked if he’d done anything wrong, and when I insisted he hadn’t, that it was just the elusive “it factor,” he thanked me, told me he’d really enjoyed our time together, and that was that. Hands down, it was the best (and easiest) breakup ever. And that’s when I realized – without the zing, there’s no sting. And I don’t know about you, but I’ll take a little sting with my zing any day.
Bouncing Back from a Breakup
Submitted by Lisa Steadman on June 4, 2011 - 7:00 AM
I recently stumbled across this in The Breakup Chronicles archive. It’s one of the first stories I wrote when the idea for The Breakup Chronicles first came to me…
You want to know what I do to get over a nasty breakup? I take a trip. Travel abroad. I’ve racked up so many frequent flyer miles at this point, I could go to the moon and back. And that’s okay. Because I haven’t met The One yet. And rather than settle, I go for the breakup. And then I go far, far away. I cry, I sightsee, I fall in love. With myself, that is. Breakups take their toll on our self esteem. But the truth is, I’m all I’ve got. And rather than beat myself up over the end of a relationship, I cherish the fact that I probably learned something along the way.
With my college crush, I learned to make great ravioli from his mother’s recipe. With the bodybuilder, I learned that I actually liked to workout. With the Star Wars fanatic, I realized that nice guys really do exist. With the 22 year-old, I discovered how exciting I could be to another person. And with The One Who Rocked My World, I learned that unconditional love feels unbelievably amazing.
With each new relationship and subsequent breakup, I discover a little bit more about who I really am and what I want out of life. And that’s the girl I fall in love with every time I travel. The fun-loving, creative, adventure-seeking gal who goes to the Greek Islands in hopes of mending her broken heart, who discovers a sense of connection with the universe in the rhythmic lapping of the Mediterranean sea on the shore, and who delights in how the sun dances off the white-washed buildings in the afternoon. She’s also the spontaneously sassy chick who spends six weeks of her summer in Montana; hiking, writing, and going to a rodeo for the first time in decades. If it weren’t for the breakup, she’d never discover these simple pleasures.
One day I hope to travel with my husband. He’ll be handsome and witty and cultured and totally not neurotic. And he’ll love me for being unconventional, passionate, and a little bit nuts. But in the meantime, I’m not waiting for him to live out my dreams. I’m living them out every day on my own. So when he finally does come along, and his front tooth is crooked, or his spelling sucks, or he’s shorter than I’d imagined, I’ll know that’s okay. Because I haven’t been waiting for my life to begin until Mr. Perfect arrives. I’m just looking for someone who’s brave and bold, ordinary and extraordinary enough to join me on the journey. After all, that’s what life’s about. The journey. The messy, imperfect, magnificent, and virtually invent-able journey. And what would that be without a little heartache here and there to let you know you’re really alive and kicking?
Postscript: I love this story because it illustrates the importance of moving on after a breakup, even in the face of doubt and despair. I also love this story because somehow that last paragraph perfectly describes my husband!
The Force Wasn’t With Us
Submitted by Lisa Steadman on June 2, 2011 - 7:00 AM
Here’s another one from The Breakup Chronicles archives. Enjoy!
I knew early into the relationship that he was an addict. Although in his circle, they called themselves collectors. Addict, collector, fanatic. Call it what you will. But in my book, anyone who camps outside overnight to see a movie needs help. We met at a party. One of my first since returning to Los Angeles after the breakup in Arizona. I was not looking for love. I didn’t even want to be at the party. But friends had dragged me, so there I was. Through the course of the night, I met his roommates, his friends, and then on my way out the door, I met him. And I just knew. As I walked down the block, I bitched to my friends that the short Hispanic ones always like me.
In the coming months, we’d get together for dinner regularly. His roommates and him, my roommate and me. We became a platonic dinner club, sharing a love of good food, movies, and laughter. And over time, I began to think I would have been lucky had he liked me. He was a good guy. Sweet, funny, sincere. So when he asked me to go out just the two of us six months into our friendship, I agreed. And thus, the beginning of the affair. He was a good man. And I needed someone nice. Which is why I looked past the wall of Star Wars action figures the first time I saw his bedroom. I reasoned with myself, we had a good time, didn’t we? It didn’t matter if he spent all his money on action figures instead of treating me to dinner, right? Maybe nice guys don’t pay for dinner. I could live with that.
But it wasn’t just action figures I was competing with. It was the memory of his ex-wife leaving him, the fact that his college glory days were behind him, his laziness towards his career while mine was just taking off. These were the strikes against us. In the three years we were together, we had many good times. But I knew it wouldn’t last. While other female friends in shorter relationships got engaged and then married, we told each other we didn’t want to ruin what we had by walking down the aisle. The truth was, I didn’t want to marry him. And he was too burned to want to marry again.
Two and a half years into our relationship, we decided to move in together. It was a great apartment. Big kitchen, second bedroom to be used as an office. Killer living space. And it was all decorated with Star Wars stuff. In his defense, I traveled light, and didn’t have much to contribute to the household. Still, being surrounded by memorabilia was like living in a wacky museum. And it wasn’t just the decor. Instead of the two of us coming together to form one cohesive life, it was like two roommates cohabitating in the same space. I’d get home from work, he’d be playing video games. I’d go in the office to write, he’d eventually come in to check on his eBay bids. I’d go watch T.V. He’d play computer games. I’d go to bed. He’d come hours later after I was fast asleep.
We squabbled over the chores. If he had to do laundry more than once in a row, he pouted. I was constantly feeding the cats and scooping the litter box and going to the grocery store alone. The big excitement in our lives? Going to Toys R Us in search of new action figures. Seeing Episode One on opening night. And the following week. And then in Digital. It was an okay life. There was nothing particularly wrong. But nothing particularly right either. I began asking myself, when does today become forever? And if this is forever, can I live with that? More and more often, the answer was no.
And then one day I was done. I can’t explain it any better than that. We were coming up on our three year anniversary and I didn’t feel like celebrating. We were fighting more and more, and the arguments were getting heated. I realized I wanted more than he could give. And whenever I tried to talk to him about it, he’d brush me off with “We’ll talk about it later.”
But later wasn’t cutting it. And so one day when I came home from work, I asked him to turn off the video game. We sat down and talked. And cried. And talked some more. I moved out the next day. I felt bad leaving him, knowing he’d already been down that road with his ex-wife. But if he didn’t change, he’d go down that road again. And that wasn’t my problem. Those were his battles to face. Moving on was easier than I thought. There were sad times, but I never looked back. I knew I’d done the right thing. Since then, I hear he’s gotten way more into his collection. I guess unlike women, those action figures will never leave him. I hope for his sake they’re insured.
As for me, I now live in a condo with a wall of dolls. Okay, maybe he rubbed off on me. But in a good way. While they bring me joy, they’ll never become my life. Or my love. I reserve those feelings for an individual with a life force of his own. And hopefully the force will be with us.
Happily Ever After…an archive favorite
Submitted by Lisa Steadman on May 28, 2011 - 7:00 AM
This happens to be one of my all-time fave stories ever shared with The Breakup Chronicles. Enjoy!
By Lani Voivod
I would start with the image of a semi-crushed can of Keystone Light flying across a seedy motel parking lot in Cody, Wyoming at four in the morning, followed by an impassioned SLAP in the face, but it all sounds like one big freakin’ cliche. So I’ll pick some arbitrary spot on the timeline, label it “The Beginning,” and start there instead.
Mr. Ex arrived at the resort toting nothing but a duffle bag and a crooked smile. I had been working on the outskirts of Nowhere for about two months – two months that felt like a few hard, lonely years at Sing Sing. I had fled my life in our nation’s capital to claim a personal sabbatical in the Wyoming wilderness at the ripe old age of 24. Ironically, heartbreak was the catalyst for that decision, too.
On the national spectrum of good-looking men, Mr. Ex would probably fall in at about a five. On this remote resort’s spectrum of good-looking menMr. Ex leaped to a whopping nine. He had all his teeth, a full head of hair, some rippling muscles, and the flirty confidence of Tom Cruise.
He also had a teardrop tattoo (gang slang for, “Look at me! I’ve murdered a rival gang member!”) and an Indian-inked “ODESTO” tattoo that sprawled across his abdomen. It was supposed to say “MODESTO,” as in Mr. Ex’s hometown, but unfortunately for Mr. Ex, the artist/fellow inmate ran out of ink before he could finish. I guess they were too busy with cockroach races to bother finishing it up over the rest of the six-month sentence Mr. Ex earned for robbing a mini-mart of $40 and a case of beer.
Here are my excuses: I was lonely, drunk, heartbroken, desperate, deluded, stoned, and lacking in self-esteem, self-worth and self-knowledge – not necessarily in that order. I didn’t know what I wanted out of life, thought I had lost my youth, and had gained 40 lbs. in two months. At such times in a woman’s life she sees only one “cure,” however temporary. That cure is SEX.
Mercifully, Mr. Ex was too drunk to notice the sprawling lard that was my ass and my bad perm. He spoiled me with booze and sweet, city-licked poetics, plowing through his meager paycheck in one sitting. We went on hallucinogenic hikes through grizzly-infested woods. We lit bonfires anywhere we pleased and insisted we were “one with nature.” Short, unexpected bursts of intelligence and insight were punctuated with the word “dude” and his air-headed laughter.
Among other things, he begged me to buy him a wallet with a chain attached to it. Lord knows what he intended to put in it, but I acquiesced. I had become some sort of white trash sugar-mama. I was even contemplating a life in a pick-up and cab-trailer with this moral-less, penniless, vision-less moocher, and yet somehow I thought my father was the crazy one when, after a long talk in a phone booth, he suggested I was out of my damn mind.
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Which brings me to a certain motel parking lot. After a long day attending to some weird crisis involving evictions, suspended licenses and general mullet-filled drama, I found myself shelling out yet more money for a room in town in which about ten misfits – myself included – would party and crash for the night. Several cases of cheap beer later and I’m standing in a parking lot at four in the morning, REALLY angry, looking Mr. Ex straight in the eyes. My eyes are red and puffy from crying, and we’re fighting over something -definitely something ridiculously stupid.
It is at this degrading point that I throw the semi-crushed can of Keystone Light across the parking lot. I would have said this is the absolute lowest point in my life, but, ever the perfectionist, I had to up the ante by actually slipping further down the hole of humiliation and slapping this guy hard across the face.
I don’t know why he didn’t hit me back. He wanted to – I could see it in his eyes – but he didn’t. The sound of the slap in the pre-dawn Wyoming air woke me up to the absurdity of the scenario. It also summoned three inner truths that had been in hibernation for some time:
I want better than this.
I deserve better than this.
I AM better than this.
I went back inside, crashed on the floor next to a bunch of other lost souls, and woke up again a few hours later to a brand new day.
Thank God.
Mr. Ex left the following week with one of the other female lost souls sitting faithfully by his side. They had found a 1978 pick-up in town for $300 and decided to seek their fortune in Jackson Hole. I stayed on at the resort through winter, left around the first day of spring, and headed south on Rt. 25, eventually bound for Southern California.
Less than six months later I met my husband. My darling, beautiful, intelligent, handsome, law-abiding husband, whose only tattoo is a tattoo of a playing card: the seven of hearts. He surprised me with it about six months after we moved in together. He says it’s his good luck card, and I’ll happily ever after take his word for it.
Funny how life works out. You just can’t make this stuff up. I guess, in the end, it all sounds like one big freakin’ cliche, huh?
What’s YOUR Breakup Chronicles story?
The Breakup Chronicles: When Love Gone Wrong Leads to Lessons Learned
Submitted by Lisa Steadman on May 24, 2011 - 7:00 AM
Here’s another story I pulled out of The Breakup Chronicles archives. Enjoy!
I take the cake. I went from one heart break into another!
When I met the first Mr. Ex, I was in a relationship but fell so deeply in love that I had to break it off. As is usual, everything was wonderful. And then he started to stray. For five years I stayed with him, through affairs, disrespect,t baby mama drama. Finally, it was the day that I saw him kissing another woman who was dropping him off to work. Yes, we worked together, that I finally realized that I had to get a hold of myself. I broke it off, and told myself that I would never fall victim to another man’s stories again.
After 10 months of the single life, I met the new Mr. Ex. He seemed to be all that I dreamed of – witty, articulate, and kind. We fell in love and soon enough, started living together. That’s where the trouble started. Since it was really my house, he said that he felt at a disadvantage. Then, he started hanging out with his buddies, and would come home at all hours. Then I discovered his addiction to porn. Things were starting to unravel. The worst was when he told me that he had lost the ‘spark’ in the relationship. Still he remained in my home, sleeping in my bed every night, and barely talking to me. On New Year’s Eve I walked into the house to find all his things gone. He had moved out without a word.
A month later, he called to ask me out on a date. Fool that I was, I went. Of course, we started up again. But this time he treated me like somewhere to go, when he had nowhere to go. He would be in my house almost every weekend, and I would cook and take care of him, do his laundry, almost as if we were still together. Meanwhile, he is saying that it was a ‘transitional’ period, and he was not sure how he felt. In short, he was getting all the milk he could drink, without having to purchase the cow.
One Sunday he remained all day without taking a bath, smelling all funky, and looking like a slob, and by evening I found myself just hoping that he would go. The next morning he left, and I haven’t seen him since. Oh he still calls, but now I answer the phone only when I feel like it. He’s asked me out since, but I turn him down. What helped me to make the change, is when I asked myself Why am I doing this? I realized that as hard as it seemed, in order to save me, I had to let him go. And so I did.
There are people who come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. Mr. Ex taught me that I had to fall in love with myself first, before I could fall in love with someone else. It was a lesson well learned.
What’s YOUR breakup story? Post your comments here.
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