Friday, June 14, 2013

Three (or Four) Di·vor·cés: Foreshadowing the Finale

Like this.
Imagine if linguine came in a can, already cooked, packed in there like Ramen, and when you dumped it out, it came out as one long noodle and like Mary Poppins’ bag, you stare into the can wondering where the fuck the end of the noodle was – because god damnit, I’m hungry and I just want some fucking pasta already. That’s what the week when all divorcé hell broke loose and the proverbial divorced shit hit the proverbial fan was like. It started with one thing and never seemed to end.

Did you follow the analogy? No? Look back in the can.

So where the shit noodle began: Let’s start with Monday. No. Wait. In fact, let’s start with April.

Remember when I said I only knew one person who was divorced but it didn’t count?  Maybe it counts. Since College Chicago mostly takes care of himself, it seems the universe wanted to keep the tally at three. So back in April, the other divorcé confessed that for the past year and a half, he had a crush on me and wanted to ask me out. So he asked our mutual friend who, at first, say 'no' and then under the caveat of: only if you're really serious, 'yes'.  I suppose he wasn’t really serious for 18 months because April was the first I heard about us "making a good couple". (And I haven't mentioned this till now because 1. It didn't matter and 2. I said I wouldn't, but secret keeping ends when name-calling begins.)

Always completely oblivious to whether or not someone is looking at me like that because they like me or because I have food in my teeth, I had no idea. Even when my girlfriends were like “Oh, he’s totally into you,” I was the backseat going: Don’t be silly. That’s just how he is. This 'I like you' chat dance went on for a bit, then he took a break and a few hours later he came back online to ask if I felt the same way. Whatever he was doing in those couple of hours must of jostled up some courage, curiosity or at least an eh, fuck it, because then he asked: "Have you ever felt the same way about me". My answer was simply: No. I’ve been told by my coworker/male-mind guru that directness is the best approach. I struggle with it, but this guy loves himself, so I figured the rejection would go over just fine.

I think I was wrong. 

Which takes us back to that Monday: I was in Nashville; so was he; this group of friends is how we met. Over and over he kept slamming my moral character in one way or another. Granted, I think my sexual promiscuity (if you can even call it that) of late is amusing and, thus, I talk about it, I am in no way a 'slut'. 

Although, in a gynecological caveat, my lady doctor probably doesn’t think so: I went to my annual last month, which happened to be a few weeks after Derp (and Potato). She asked, “Are you sexually active?"

I first paused before replying, "Not this week." That's just bad phrasing on her part, but nonetheless lead to a quick discussion about “risky” sexual behaviors. I’m about ask risky as foregoing sunscreen on a spring day in Seattle: I mean, there’s a chance, but it almost never burns when I pee.

So finally we get to the point of Monday: Cachi was on a roll: Slut here. Whore there. Ho later. They were all jokes, of course. FUCKING HILARIOUS. So funny that I eventually exclaimed, “If you want to continue being friends, you need to stop attacking my character”. His retort was nothing short of a pathetic face-saving attempt that our mutual girlfriends had my back on. Also, jokes are funny, not demeaning.

Evidently his ego didn't stay quite in tact as I thought. But just because Joney doesn't love Chachi; that doesn't make her a slut. This was not a great way to start the week – or a day off – and I would soon find out it was just a bit a clever, foreshadowing of the ridiculousness that was to come...


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