DODGING WHITE CARS

Back in the fall, my sister reached out and asked if I would come to Colorado to dog-sit for a couple of weeks. I was hesitant. Yes, I’d dog-sat for friend in California in July. Yes, I’d dog-sat for my aunt and uncle in September. This is not some new professional gig. I fell into these experiences, there being a mutual benefit in that a dog avoided kennel time and I got to spend an extended break in areas I really liked. Plus, I love dogs and I’ve gone the past decade without one of my own, telling myself I wanted to enjoy travel without the guilt, expense and logistics of dog care. The two dog-sitting gigs were win-win situations.

 

It was different in the case of my sister. Nothing against her or her dog, a four-year-old, partially deaf English cocker spaniel. Even by my sister’s reports, the dog had some challenges, but I knew the dog and I would figure things out in some sort of comical alpha battle.

 

The problem was where my sister lived—Colorado. I realize the state is generally a draw from a tourist’s perspective. Her home is in a rural community, an hour outside of Denver. Urban accessibility, a general plus but a distinct negative for me. 

 

The last time I was in Colorado, I’d flown to Denver on Valentine’s Day. My partner of nearly two years had just moved there to start a new job. After a Seattle-Vancouver long-distance relationship, we were committed to making Denver-Vancouver work, too. I’m a writer; I can write anywhere. Denver would simply be a new setting. 

 

But we hadn’t even made it to his new place before we broke up. Ten minutes in the car and I was suddenly single. They say there’s something about the Colorado air that induces altitude sickness. Apparently it also implodes relationships. 

 

I stayed at a hotel that night and rescheduled my flight. A two-week visit got whittled down to a day. I insisted on that day, figuring it would feel too pathetic taking the first flight home on February 15^th, my sole memory centered on getting dumped. Instead, I walked around downtown, forcing myself to be a tourist, cramming in more than usual to try to temporarily distract from what had brought me to Denver and what had happened. I needed the city to be more than That Place. I salvaged the city’s reputation but barely.

 

The idea of flying back to Denver ten months later had zero appeal. It felt like I should wait a few years or, really, a lifetime. There were other places to see. Omaha, for instance. Iowa City. Duluth.

 

I went back and forth with my sister, first via text, then a phone call. “Are you sure about this?” (She’d be paying for my flight.) “Isn’t a kennel cheaper?”

 

But she did seem sure. 

 

And I, having not always been the best member of the family, set aside my Colorado-avoidance urge to say, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

 

To most people, an ex would not factor into the decision at all. The trip was not about him. He and my sister did not live on the same street or in the same neighborhood. I was certain they did not shop the same Safeway and, if I had to avoid Trader Joe’s, well, I could do without the banana chips.

 

Still, with months until my trip, I found I was dreading it. What if I run into him? The chances were so remote, I kept telling myself. Six million people live in Colorado. 700,000 in Denver. Nope, there was no way our paths would cross. He was yoga; I was gym. He was Mexican food; I was Indian. He was flashy New York City-styled cowboy; I could duck into a closet if I saw him approaching from two hundred yards away. If coincidence actually came to be—and it wouldn’t—I could deke and dodge. 

 

But I couldn’t convince myself with 100% certainty that we wouldn’t stumble into one another. His family cabin was off the same highway, halfway between my sister’s place and Denver. It was an added possibility. What if he ventured there due to a burst water pipe or a sudden calling to lay a few mousetraps for winter? 

 

I became surer of the fact we wouldn’t walk into each other on the street or in a café. My worst-case scenario became a chance encounter at a traffic light, me glancing down from my sister’s SUV into his white BMW. No matter how much I tried to lean into logistics and statistics, I couldn’t shake this idea. Sure it would be winter, our windows rolled up, any “hello” or “Oh, shit” fully muted. 

 

But seeing him would be enough to undo me. All the frantic travel I’d been doing for ten months to numb the pain of rejection and to delay processing the loss of the person I’d thought was finally The One would be for naught. One glance. So much potential harm.

 

I developed an anticipatory new phobia: fear of white cars. I am terrible at identifying makes and models of vehicles. I can distinguish between a semi and a Fiat, but everything in between has a sameness to it. Any approaching white car could, for at least a fraction of a second, register in my brain as a BMW. His BMW. Driving would produce tiny shocks every time I’d spy something that is white. 

 

There are so many white cars.

 

Shock agony.

 

And so a month before my scheduled Colorado dog-sitting I decided to be proactive. After I arrived, I would reach out to him. “Hey, I’m here for two weeks. Let me know if you want to grab a coffee.” It would be done. I’d have reached out and gotten it over with. 

 

He could ignore the message.

 

He could say he’s out of town, a work trip in Omaha. (Lucky bastard.)

 

He could reply, “Why the hell would I want to do that?”

 

A message hanging in the virtual world would, of course, put him back on my mind but the fact was he was already on my mind and I was failing to bat away all notions of a coincidental encounter. If he ignored it or said no thanks, I’d have at least done my part. If then we did cross paths, I’d be justified passing with blinders on. I wouldn’t be slighting him because he’d already done the slighting.

 

There was one other response I hadn’t fully considered:

 

He could say yes.

 

And that’s just what he did.

 

 

STILL GOT IT

I’m teary today. It comes with being scared. I’ve just past the five-month marker for severe food restriction. 

 

Funny, I used to count months in terms of being in a relationship. With that kaput, it’s about months of food deprivation. Segued smoothly from one to the other, with one month of numbing and hoping for a change of heart in between. 

 

I’ve gotten myself into a troubling spot. It could all be fine. I’ve been restricting food for decades. I’ve been at this level—and worse—before but never this long. 

 

This past week, I went for a reassessment of my eating disorder. I’d gone undiagnosed for so many years and then in 2017, I was finally told I had anorexia nervosa. I cried. It was a strange relief to finally hear that something I’d long felt was “off” with me was indeed an issue. I felt seen, understood. The label mattered. I could receive support from psychiatrists, counsellors, dietitians, nurses and occupational therapists. I could finally be present with others who had eating disorders, hear their stories, nod along. They could listen to me and nod back. I was with compassionate people who understood the struggle.

 

Throughout 2018 and 2019, I tried everything available—outpatient support, hospitalization, a group home. I was connected but neither my behaviours nor my mindset changed. Due to funding issues and the high demand for support for persons with eating disorders, my access to support was cut off after two years as a matter of course. I left the program knowing I officially had a problem and realizing I was stuck. I could sit out for six months and then seek service again, but I didn’t see the point. Without progress, I was taking someone else’s spot. 

 

I was fine. My life was different than others. Not as carefree; more rules of my own making. But it was an existence I could live with. 

 

In my two-year relationship, I was open about my eating disorder. I invited questions and answered honestly when the occasional discussion came up. I did everything I could to try to minimize the impact of my rules during our shared experiences. I exercised when it would have the least impact. I restricted but also ate regular meals, full portions. I even questioned which of us was the more disordered eater. His intake always seemed less. 

 

In the end, my rules were cited during the breakup. I’d been open about my mental health challenges, including those beyond the eating disorder. I don’t think he ever truly understood. I had unpacked all my “baggage” within the first week of us being together. I really wish he’d said his “No thank you” then and shown me the door. An early exit would have been more humane.

 

My reassessment took two hours. (There were already two updated blood tests and three ECGs on file.) As things shifted to talk about programming available to me, I interrupted and said, “So…I still have an eating disorder?”

 

“Yes. Severe. Anorexia nervosa.”

 

The “severe” was new. I knew this but hearing a professional say it was difficult. I wanted to break down but fought it off. With a hand, I was able to wipe away the few tears that welled up and finally trickled down my cheeks. 

 

Early on during the appointment, she told me I needed to cancel my upcoming travel plans. I am scheduled to be away for six weeks and this is delaying my cardiology appointments as well as access to eating disorder programming. I shook my head. Part of my trip is about building on social connections that are vital to me since, in Vancouver, I am rather isolated from deep relationships. I also managed to convey over the rest of my appointment how travel lifts me and how I even eat more when my routine has to adapt to different environments. I treat myself more. I allow things that are no-gos on home turf. 

 

So, yes, travel before treatment. The interventions have to wait. My decision. Still, it is scary. There are more what-ifs about my physical health now. I’ve heard a couple of frightening things from my family doctor and my psychiatrist. The remarks shook me so much I knew not to ask any follow-up questions. I was too startled and I couldn’t handle any more detailed information. I most certainly won’t be Googling.

 

Make it go away.

 

The information. The eating disorder.

 

The problem, however, is just what I said during my reassessment. “I can’t stop.” It was another teary moment. She nodded. We both knew this. That’s an inherent part of having an eating disorder, especially one that is severe.

 

I don’t sleep well. I don’t exercise well. Basically, I don’t function well right now. Nightmare scenarios play out in my head. I’m hoping travel will offer the distraction it always does. Let my mind and body rest. 

 

Let me be ready when I return to will some sort of change for the better.

 

  

NOW PLAYING, CENTER STAGE: AN EATING DISORDER

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. For myself, the awareness is a daily experience. Even on a good day, a worry will pop up—often—that a new chance to unravel could be moments away. The slightest glitch can do it. I hate when I crumble. I fight to be resilient. Sometimes, all I can do is surrender and wait things out. Things do pass.

 

I’m deep into a stint where my eating disorder has taken charge. It’s not altogether unwelcome. I journaled what appears below near the point when it shifted into higher gear. I thought it might have passed by now but this is Day 51. I have reached out for support but there’s a wait list. The thoughts and behaviors go on. I’m okay-ish for now. 

 

I’ve decided to post this because maybe it will help a reader understand what a friend, relative or colleague experiences. Perhaps it helps enlighten someone about the fact older, not-so-thin men can have an eating disorder, too. Maybe someone will recognize their struggle and begin the process for seeking help as well. 

 

To an outsider, the solution is maddeningly simple: eat something. I know this. I can tell myself this. However, it’s like telling someone who is clinically depressed to just smile. Cue Bobby McFerrin: Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Mental health, however, doesn’t correspond with a meme or a Hallmark card. 

 

March 31, 2024

It's another Easter weekend and I'm struggling. Easter is the longest weekend on the Canadian calendar. Things shut down for Good Friday throughout the weekend and for Easter Monday. This was especially problematic a decade ago in 2014 when I found myself admitted to the psych ward at Saint Paul's Hospital on a Thursday afternoon which just so happened to be the day before Good Friday. Ever since, Easter makes me feel uncomfortable. That stint in the psych ward left me with heightened anxiety and PTSD since the only bed they could place me in for that long weekend was in the most severe psych ward. (It had never dawned on me that a hospital would have multiple psych wards.) I was scared, I feared for my safety, I desperately wanted out and, having no control being involuntarily committed, the entire experience spiked my eating disorder behaviors.

 

It's not because it is once again Easter nor is it because this is the decade anniversary, but I am once again in the midst of a spiked eating disorder situation. This is day 7. I didn't plan this, but something about last Monday had me so busy that I missed lunch. I don't eat breakfast. Lunch is when my body finally receives a little fuel—cottage cheese or yogurt; rice cakes. Everything is limited and controlled. But having missed the lunch mark, it became a warped game. It was already 2:00 in the afternoon. I could clearly go without eating lunch. I could wait until 5:00. Dinner. A single meal. 5:00 came and went. I knew if I delayed dinner, I wouldn't have an evening snack as well. There would be a significant drop in my caloric intake for the day. This was victory. I was winning my game.

 

With the win on Monday, I decided to make it a streak. Let's go for Tuesday. Mission accomplished. Same for Wednesday, even though I swam 5 kilometers that morning, my maximum distance in the pool which I hadn't done in over a year. Usually, I am famished after a swim workout. My body craves carbs to restore whatever I swam off. But, no. One meal once again. Thursday, Friday, same.

 

This was easy. If I smiled, the smugness would show. I am in control. Not of life. That's a mess. I am still shocked and saddened by being dumped six weeks ago after a two-year relationship I thought would last. I feel especially alone here in Vancouver. My best friend moved to Montreal four months ago. 

 

I can no longer relate to my closest friend who still lives here. Every time I see him, the experience rings false. He launches into a monologue about a new hobby, a long-winded recitation I sense he has repeated many, many times to other people. It used to be about mushroom videos on YouTube. Zero interest from me. More recently, it became about fermenting onions and other vegetables. Zero interest from me. During our latest catch-up, he arrived uncharacteristically late, hauling a five-pound bag of sugar. His grand new hobby: making vinegar from scratch. Dear God, help me.

 

So, yeah, he is not someone I can lean on. Other friends seem to have disappeared. They have families, one is still dealing with the death of her spouse; another is so passive he never ever is the one to reach out to do something. I am as alone in this city and in this life as I have ever been.

 

I do not know how to change this. I am stuck. I can do nothing to get my relationship back. I don't have any idea how, at 59 years old, I can go out and make new friends. Good friends. People I could lean on. 

 

My immediate family is not helpful. “Get a dog.” That’s their solution to getting over a bad breakup, not that they have any sense of how bad it’s been. There is no depth of conversation about the loss I have experienced. It’s par. They just don't go deep. It does not seem to be within them. They have all been in longstanding relationships, decades and decades of anniversaries celebrated. They understand very little about me being gay—that would require conversations and questions. They understand less about my habitual boomeranging to singlehood.

 

He loves me. He loves me not. 

 

Some poor little flower got all its petals plucked. The City of Vancouver should take out a restraining order, keeping me a hundred meters away from all garden spaces.

 

So yes, hello anorexia nervosa. It has always been there with me. This is one of those times, however, when it is taking centre stage. It has the power. I have given it that power. 

 

Yesterday morning, I was in a different part of the city to get my haircut. I brought my backpack, slipping in my laptop and two canvas bags. A health food grocery store I love is a block away from the salon and I figured I would pick up some of my favorite products while in the area.

 

I entered the grocery store and was immediately confused. I'm not eating much at the moment. Should I even grab a hand basket? I hesitated, then took one. Maybe just holding the basket would encourage me to buy more items. 

 

As I walked down the first aisle, one of the dangling tags indicated a box of wafer crackers was on sale. I buy these crackers on occasion. I stopped and stared at them. It became a dilemma. Do I want these crackers? When would I eat them? My sense was I didn't want them. I certainly didn't need them. I put the box in the basket nonetheless. Let this be the start to my grocery haul. I picked up nothing else from that aisle nor the next. 

 

I glanced in frozen foods windows. Ice cream registered in my brain. Usually, a pint or three of Häagen-Dazs or Ben & Jerry’s become an irresistible temptation. Sometimes, I load up so many, I feel obliged to lie to the checkout clerk. “Having a little ice cream social.” 

 

I had no desire for ice cream. I had no desire for anything. As I reached the last aisle, I stopped again. I stared down a container of non-fat cottage cheese. This is the only store I know in Vancouver that still carries it. I do not like the taste of 1% or 2% fat cottage cheese. It tastes heavy, it tastes gross. This was my chance to get the cottage cheese I like. I checked the expiration date: April 27. It was good for a whole month. Still, I questioned whether I would be able to eat it before then. I put the container in my basket, a companion for the crackers.

 

I perused the fresh vegetables and fruit. Nothing appealed to me. I had gone through the entire store and picked up two items. I had my two canvas bags in my backpack. I suppose that meant one item in each bag. A very balanced walk home. I headed toward the checkout. I glanced down at the two items in my basket. No, I did not want them. I did not need them.

 

I went back to the dairy aisle to return the cottage cheese, then went to the other end of the store to place the box of crackers on the shelf where I had gotten it. I put the basket back in the stack of empty ones by the entrance and left.

 

Grocery stores have given me many problems over the years. I often become anxious in them for reasons I don't fully understand. But this was the first time I walked all the way through a grocery store having planned to buy food and then consciously decided to not buy anything. On the sidewalk, I felt stunned. I knew this was a problem. But nothing was going to change my decision. I walked a couple blocks farther from home, stepped in a favourite café, ordered an oat latte and had a writing session. Keeping with my new routine, coffee with oat milk is all I consume until my evening meal. 

 

Walking home, I passed that grocery store again along with two others where I frequently shop. Generally, I like going into grocery stores farther from home to pick up items on sale, to save a few bucks. I get this from my father. He is a man who glories in a bargain. He stocks up anytime any item he might possibly want to consume in the years ahead is on sale. This is a coup to him.

 

No. Grocery. Shopping. 

 

I realized I had a lot of food at home and I didn't know how I was ever going to eat it all. I passed bakeries, a donut shop, two of my ex’s favorite eating spots, a vegan restaurant I love. When would I ever go into any of these places again? In only one week, food had become the object of my rejection.

 

Still many blocks from home, I felt weak. I felt panicky. I didn't know if I could make it back to my place. I was vaguely aware of an emergency vehicle passing by me in the street. Not a police car; maybe an ambulance, maybe one of those smaller red trucks the fire department uses. It dawned on me after the fact that maybe I should have flagged it down. Maybe I really needed a ride back home. Maybe it was even an emergency. 

 

You can't tell if someone has an ED
just by looking at them or checking
their weight.

Although scared, I knew this would not be enough to change the level of restriction I am on. As I walked, I leaned into one of my regular distractions. I stopped and took a selfie against a background that matched my shirt. Usually, I do this for amusement. In the moment, however, it gave me a chance to pause and also a break from thinking about the struggle the walk was becoming. 

 

I walked down an alley I knew had a great deal of graffiti. I looked for more backgrounds to take more selfies. Then I continued the walk. With only a few blocks left, I was very weak, but I could make it. 

 

Despite this experience, I knew that after sitting on the sofa for a little while, I still had a three-hour workout to do involving ab crunches, time on the exercise bike and using weights to focus on working out my chest. This would not be compromised. In fact, I shortened my rest on the sofa, got up and got started with the workout. I didn't want a delay to make me complacent, to make me back out of the exercise I required of myself. 

 

All this is fucked up. I know it. 

 

I can't stop it.

**

IF YOU NEED HELP...See your doctor. Tell the doctor EVERYTHING. (People with eating disorders tend to minimize things or be secretive.) If the doctor dismisses your concerns (as first happened to me), get a second opinion. Don't settle for or freak out over whatever Google says. Seek actual supports in your community. 

If it feels like an emergency, go to Emergency at your nearest hospital. 

 

THE BIG SEND-OFF

As I stepped into the hallway, a small package toppled after resting against my door. First assumption: delivered to wrong unit. I don’t order things. I don’t have an insatiable need for more stuff. I picked it up, stepped back in my condo and saw my name and address slapped on the front. Second assumption: shirts. I had, in fact, strayed from “I don’t order things” last week—it’s not a hard rule—and bought two Japanese-style linen shirts online. I may have gotten a little too caught in Vancouver’s cherry blossom season. It was a rash purchase that had me fretting over cultural appropriation. Nothing like Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku Girls

period but, if I wore one of the shirts in public, would I be shamed, spat on and told to stick to tartan tam-o’-shanters and kilts? The Vancouver Japanese Hall National Historic Site is two blocks from me. Risky buy. 

 

“I don’t order things” should become a harder rule. 

 

It was a very small package. How could one shirt, much less two, fit? Being linen, they’d be wrinkled messes. Cultural appropriation karma: a dry cleaning bill preceding the pending shaming/spitting incident. One shirt at most. Let guilt build as I awaited the arrival of my second violation.

 

I opened. No shirt(s). A white envelope, familiar penmanship. Oh, yes. The keys to my place. Six weeks after my ex dumped me, I got them back. Giving them to him as I moved into this condo had been a big deal. I even took a picture at the time. (Not going to scroll back to find that now.) Getting them back is most definitely not a photo op.

 

Breakups are awkward. Dilemmas pop up. How badly do you want that hair dryer back? Or that pricey salon pomade? There’s that fun pair of Chuck Taylors but the soles were showing wear and tear, right? When the ex’s place is across town, it comes down to arranging a half hour some Saturday afternoon and asking that he not be there. No drama, which is in itself dramatic. He can’t even look at me?! 

 

It's trickier when the breakup involves two people living in different cities, even different countries. In this instance, however, the property retrieval, like the breakup itself, was one-sided. I didn’t have shoes or hair product or even a bottle of Stumptown cold brew coffee that required a list of pros and cons about bothering to get them back. As much as the breakup TOTALLY SUCKED[1], it was convenient that my ex had just moved from Seattle to Denver and I’d cleared everything that was mine from his Seattle apartment. I’d figured I’d gradually add new objects to the Denver closet he kept saying he’d set aside for me. All his now. 

 

But he’d still had a number of items in my Vancouver condo. I wasn’t quick to return them. It wasn’t that I was trying to be mean, holding his road bike or hiking boots hostage. For a while, I couldn’t face the task. Even in the best of times, I’m terrible about this kind of thing. I procrastinate. My self-doubt is a core personality trait. My reflex response to any such minor chore is that I won’t do it right. That expression, “he can’t find his way out of a wet paper bag”? It came from people who know me. Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Brian and Sue and Ali and that other ex and the ex before that. I automatically think I’ll buy the wrong sized box, the wrong kind of tape and maybe even make a transcription error in writing the street address. I’ll swear I sent the parcel, my ex will say nothing but tell all his friends I’m a vindictive liar and then eighteen months later he’ll pass a guy who lives three blocks away wearing his hiking boots. Same shoe size…uncanny. 

 

But the first weeks of delay were about denial rather than doubt. That whole dumping drama was accidental. Low blood sugar. A wonky adjustment to Colorado’s higher altitudes. Too much reading about conspiracy theories and wrongfully concluding I was directly involved in the demise of Ricky Martin’s career. (As if “She Bangs” wasn’t the obvious undoing.) It feels more embarrassing with each passing week, but I honestly thought we’d get back together. Like Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello. (Bad example.) Like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. (Another bad example.) Like Bert and Ernie. (Let’s just say they had a trial separation and the Sesame Street Workshop crew kicked into high gear keeping it under wraps. Just wait for Big Bird’s memoir, forthcoming 2026.)

 

Nope. The remorseful what-have-I-done call from my ex never came. No delivery of several dozen roses to take up all my counter space. Not even a text with a “Hey” and a smiley face emoji. Instead of shared bathtub adventures with Ernie and his rubber duckie, I was still a discard, my Muppet place coming closer to Oscar the Grouch’s abode.

 

I can’t explain why I couldn’t send everything all at once. Was it too many items of different sizes that overwhelmed me? Or was it the significance of sending off the parts of him I’d loved having in my home, the reminder of him while we were apart? I’m far too sentimental.

 

The first package was a shoebox. A piece of pottery was the main item. I used clothes and biking gloves to protect it from breaking. Smart packing, I thought. No wastage in buying bubble wrap or other packing materials. I worried about the pot. I had to prove I could do it right. It had to arrive unbroken. To minimize problems, I drove across the border and mailed it from Blaine, Washington so customs officials wouldn’t open up the box and then send it on with the pot less protected. 

 

The little trip was a hassle. A chunk of my day lost, worsened by an uncomfortable exchange with an American border agent who said I wasn’t supposed to be transporting somebody else’s belongings across an international border. When I blurted, “It’s my ex’s stuff. He dumped me on Valentine’s Day,” Mr. Tough Guy took pity, waving me through with a verbal warning, a silver star of sorts awarded for being pathetic. 

 

It didn’t even bother me that I had to highlight my rejection to a stranger in uniform. I’d already gone through a lot from how things ended. A good friend of mine, the epitome of Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky, was incensed with me. “Why are you doing anything? Why aren’t you chucking it all? You owe him nothing!” 

 

I quoted Michelle Obama: “When they go low, we go high.” And, sure enough, as I walked out of that post office, first parcel out of my hands, I felt elated. He got rid of me; I had to unload what I still had of him. I was doing it right, but I was also helping myself, feeling power, relief and the tiniest bit of accomplishment. 

 

I still needed a bigger box for bigger possessions plus a bike box for his road bike that had become a menacing reminder of a love lost, still propped against my fireplace as it had been for most of our relationship. The first box was easy. I bought one that turned out to be larger than needed and then searched for extra items to stuff in it. When it arrived, my ex reacted to the fact I’d included his half-used bar of soap. Like I’d been petty. It’s possible. But, really, if he knew me at all in our two years together, he’d know I don’t throw anything away. Not soap, not coffee grounds (compostable), not a relationship.

 

Oops, did I go low in that last sentence? Truth!

 

The bike box took more effort. I Googled it, came upon dead ends. The box store had nothing but sent me to a U-Haul center on the other side of Vancouver. Nothing there either. I finally came upon the bike box at the UPS store where I mailed the second box. (No driving back over the border to send things. No more dealing with customs officers. My level of care had dropped. It would get there or not.) The bike box wouldn’t fit into my Mini Cooper so I decided I’d return after Canada’s four-day long weekend for Easter, pack the box while in the store and be done with it. 

 

Didn’t happen. As luck would have it, my ex’s best friend was in Vancouver for some sort of gay Easter parties which I had no clue about. He came by and we loaded the bike in the back of his SUV, Seattle-bound. If or how it gets to Denver is not my concern. I can see my fireplace again. (Admittedly, it looks underwhelming.)

 

And now the returning of possessions is complete. There’s still an oversized lamp of his in my living room that I have no use for. I never turn it on. It fills an empty space atop my hutch. It can stay for now. Tonight I’ll clear his things from the fridge and chuck the alcohol I will never drink from a cupboard by the sink. His new Denver home never had any trace of me. I walked in it, right after being dumped, and he weirdly gave me a tour that I had zero interest in and can’t explain any more than the breakup itself. So technically my presence was there for ten minutes, easily aired out by an open window. 

 

Lamp excepted, his possessions are gone from my condo. The harder part is that the memories are everywhere. He was with me as we furnished much of the space. (It was much appreciated to have a designer’s input!) Maybe I’ll buy that green chair from a warehouse he took me to in Seattle. I loved it. “It’s fun!” I said. 

 

“Furniture isn’t supposed to be fun,” he replied.

 

So he says. It’s time to define fun for myself again.

 

 

---

[1] I refrain from writing anything in all caps. It’s too Trumpian and, basically, too much. It’s a slippery slope from all caps to overusing exclamation marks and then—gasp—typing multiple exclamation marks in succession. By waiting two or three years since the last time I typed anything other than a title in all caps, it underscores how much the breakup, in fact, TOTALLY SUCKED. Click here if you want the backstory.  

PRESSING PAUSE

I’m a rejection warrior. How many coffee dates have I gone on that ended with, “Nice to meet you,” “Let’s do this again,” and then nothing? 

 

He got hit by a bus. 

 

Abducted and dumped in the Amazonian jungle.

 

Boyfriend announced their open relationship wasn’t working for him.

 

Shit happens. Maybe Matt Bomer messaged him. Not everything is about me. 

 

But, sigh, sometimes it is. That crooked tooth I have. Maybe it was the flowery Converse shoes. Did I blurt I was a vegetarian? 

 

Okay, so a guy passed. And another. And a hundred others. Have I passed two hundred yet? The numbers get even more depressing when the thought pops in my head that My Guy is one in a million. How can I even schedule 999,800 more coffee dates? That crooked tooth of mine—and all its companions—will be woefully yellow by then. Mr. Million might pass, too.

 

My rejections aren’t limited to dating. I have this crazy dream I will get a book published. A New York Timesbestseller. Oprah rhapsodizes about it. Reese features it as a book club pick. Giller Prize. Booker. Pulitzer. Movie deal. I write the screenplay. Spielberg and the studio say, “Love it! Don’t change a thing.” And the Oscar goes to…

 

Dream big, right?

 

I’ve sent query letters to countless agents and editors. The response has been unanimous: No. 

 

Generally speaking, all this rejection has strengthened me. I’m adept at shrugging off a bad date. I’m quick to update my submissions spreadsheet and move on after the latest form rejection for my manuscript. Even when a date seems to sparkle or an agent reads like a perfect match, I limit wallowing when they “pull a Lucy,” yanking the elusive football away, cementing my Charlie Brown status: ever hopeful, ever duped. 

 

Rejected again. There will be (many) more instances to come. Life is meant to humiliate. Or, wait…I think it’s supposed to keep us humble. I’ve just exceeded expectations. 

 

Rejection ace. It’s listed as a skill on my LinkedIn profile.

 

But my skill weakened when a first date led to another and another and warped into a two-year relationship. It ended. I had a closure call. I’ve waited for the guy to come to his senses and beg me to have him back with some irresistible speech like Billy Crystal’s in When Harry Met Sally or whatever Ben Affleck said to JLo. 

 

Hasn’t happened. Won’t happen. Apparently, the guy’s still doing his happy dance. Fitter than ever with a marathon like that.

 

REJECTED.

 

No mistake.

 

All righty then. I know the drill. Shake, shrug, play Adele, summon my inner Wile E. Coyote, resurrected after umpteen catastrophes involving falling anvils and mistimed dynamite explosions.  

 

I moved on. I got on four dating profiles. I fled to Venice Beach. I bought new shirts. (Maybe too many.) 

 

And then I had a coffee date. 

 

“Nice to meet you.”

 

“Let’s do this again.”

 

We actually meant it! We showed up again. And again. Four dates in eight days.

 

On paper, I could check all the boxes. Every. Single. One. 

 

Mr. Million, is that you?

 

He invited me for a homemade dinner. Makes everything from scratch, all of it vegetarian. I messaged him: “Hey. Can we have a FaceTime?”

 

I put my foot on the brakes. Didn’t end it per se. Officially, I pressed pause. 

 

Five days earlier, he’d asked, “Is it too soon?”

 

I answered honestly: “I don’t know.” 

 

It’s become a cliché that the person you date after being dumped is Transition Guy. He provides a much-needed dose of affirmation, he helps you see the value of shaving and showering again, he proves that the text-message function on your iPhone still works. These are very good things. But he can’t actually become something more, right? Not even with all those checked boxes.

 

I told myself I didn’t need a Transition Guy. I would bypass that and proceed to the next relationship. Something significant. Something with so much potential. After all, I had never wanted OUT of a relationship. My entire being had been invested. 

 

Alas, this was not a case of pulling a simple switcheroo. Like second Steven Carrington on Dynasty. Or second Fallon on Dynasty. I may have even preferred Sammy Hagar to David Lee Roth in Van Halen. But it says something that I’m having to dig up Van Halen. 

 

It was a belated answer but, yes, I’d realized it was indeed too soon. As nice as New Guy was and as wonderful as it felt to be wanted, I couldn’t jump into this new something. “If we proceed with this right now,” I said, “it won’t last. I will mess it up and I don’t want to do that. I like you. I want there to be a chance. I need a month.”  

 

Lovely man that he is, he didn’t mark anything in his calendar. A month-ish. 

 

It upsets me that getting dumped has caused residual damage. I want to be past it. I want to set that two-year commitment aside. Shove it in a drawer, block it, conduct some little ceremony involving screaming in the woods or tossing items in a dumpster or boiling water in a pot, a stand-in for a cauldron, and making up hocus-pocus jargon as I toss items in. No eyes of newts or live crickets. Horrors! My first vision is oatmeal. 

 

Witches would reject me, too.  

 

A budding relationship now would be mired in unfair comparisons, sabotaged by lingering questions about my unworthiness and muted by inability to process what I did wrong and the depression I feel lurking, eager to step right up and consume me.

 

Will a month make a difference? A month-ish? Despite a résumé chock full of rejection and commendable resilience, I can’t seem to draw from all that experience. 

 

Not yet, dammit.