Hope dies last

There was a time when I was a girlfriend.

This was way back when Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt were still together. Back when I still did not know if Carrie would end up with Mr Big and way back when the iPod Mini was still the smallest MP3 player around. Back when Beyonce was making music about being Crazy In Love.

There was a time when I was a girlfriend.

And every summer I would read books by the major chic lit authors. Single girls on the pull finding a boyfriend and sometimes, but only sometimes, right at the end of the book, there would be a wedding. I could relate to those books. To the quest. Because had I not just been there?  Had I not just met and loved a man? And was he not right there in the room next to mine making me green tea?

Then, there was a time where I was not the girlfriend; instead I was the girl that had been dumped.

This was back when Brad left Jennifer. And hope was lost for the ordinary girl. Back when Sex and the City ended. Back when Avril owned the airwaves and gave me a reason to shout ‘So much for my happy ending’ out of my car window.

And the books? All the books I read were about other girls–albeit fictional ones–that were dumped just as unfairly as I had been. And in the books? They changed hairstyles and jobs and countries and soon enough they met another man. A better man.

The fact that pop culture seemed to be so compassionate, so respective, so responsive to my own life comforted me. In a ‘I am not alone’ way. In a ‘So this is normal then’ way. In a ‘I’m going to get through this and be all the better off for it’ way.

But then, there was the time that I was single. This never ending time that I am single.

And pop culture could care less.

Brad went ahead and had babies with Angelina. Jennifer canoodled with Vince, all the while, promoting ‘The Break Up’. Rihanna made the umbrella sexy, but that did nothing in protecting me from the raincloud that seemed to have permanently attached itself over my head.

And the books? By those very authors who had three years earlier written about a girl exactly like me? Now, they seemed to be telling me, “You’re still there? Still in the same place?” Because all their heroines are suddenly older, pregnant, getting divorced, on second marriages.

And I am still here, all those events mere thoughts; wishful thinking, just if’s and when’s. I am still on Amazon looking for something to read as I lay on a sun lounger next to a pool; the only colour in my life in splashes of bright red on my toenails.

On the following Tuesday my door bell rang unexpectedly in the middle of the afternoon.

Looking through the keyhole, my heart skipped a beat.There was a man standing outside holding what looked like a small box. As I signed my name, I clutched on the box, not peeking at all at the label.

I wanted to prolong the feeling that it could happen; that in my hands was concrete proof that the Real I have gotten to know, the Real that I want him to be was, in fact, real.

I closed the door and lent against it. Then, taking a deep breath I looked down.

***

Recipient: Real

“I just got a package I wasn’t expecting. My first thought was, ‘No. He didn’t. Cause if he did? He’s the coolest guy ever.’ But you didn’t, so you aren’t. ;) How was your weekend?”

1 New Message.

” I’m too shy to do that sort of thing. Besides, I don’t know where you work. Sorry. Weekend went well although I have a bit of a sunburned face. How’s your week?”

Recipient: Real

“My week is pretty relaxed. Only stress is trying to find a present for my brother’s birthday. Hey! You’re a boy! What do you need? Another busy week for you?”

1 New Message.

“What do you get the boy who has everything? Probably a car or an iPhone. I have expensive taste! My week isn’t too bad, but looking forward to the weekend.”

Recipient: Real.

“I’m sure glad its not your birthday because you’d be getting an origami iPhone. ;) Are you going away AGAIN this weekend?”

***

When I had not received a response to my last message three hours later, my stomach cramped. I doubled over.

When I had not received a response to my last message 24 hours later, I cried for the first time in front of my therapist.

When I had not received a response to my last message 28 hours later, I called a friend and sobbed, “What is wrong with me?”

When I had not received a response to my last message 48 hours later, I logged into Amazon and bought the book, Why Men Love Bitches.

When I had not received a response to my last message 4 days later, I whined to a friend, “I’m such a loser.” She replied, “No you aren’t. He’s the loser.”

When I had not received a response to my last message 6 days later, I shrugged and thought. “Well, that’s just too bad. He’s obviously not the guy I thought he was.”

When I had not received a response to my last message 7 days later, I knew that that had been the end of any sort of beginning.

But, I had no idea what that was.

Do you?

Initially, I did not tell anyone my intentions.

I knew that all my friends would try stop me. They would say, “It is a lovely idea. But people don’t really do that sort of thing.” They would try to analyze my motives, try to predict his behaviour. I did not want to think. I did not want to be stopped. I did not want rational thinking. For that hour all I wanted was to do what I wanted to do. I wanted to follow this spontaneous instinct that was making somersaults in my gut.

Life had become a little bit too serious.

Like a child let loose for the summer, all I wanted to do was play.

So, without telling anyone, I did.

***

“I’ve got to ask” I had written.  “Because I keep getting notifications that all these people are sending you flowers.  Did you break a bone or is this some sort of a new Facebook trend that has completely flown over my head?”

He replied–which was a vast improvement–that he had not broken a bone and that he was not actually receiving any of these flowers. “Must be some weird technical fault.” Then he added, “Nobody real wants to send me any flowers…”

I wanted to play and as he flirted with the use of three successive periods he had unwittingly just drafted himself into my game.

***

Thirty minutes after I had sealed the box and handed it to the taxi driver whose job was to deliver it, Real called me. As I failed to pick up, he sent a text message.

I just got it. Thank you. That was so thoughtful and sweet of you. I did not know what was going to be in it! It is now decorating my workspace!! xx

I smiled and replied excitedly,

Aren’t surprise packages the best? I’m glad you liked it. Although, I was just trying to make you laugh.

I got an immediate response.

I did laugh! After the initial worrying was over, of course. Thank you! It made my day!

I left it that. There was not much else to say. But, I was happy.

Happy I had done what I wanted to do. Happy that I had brightened someones otherwise mundane Thursday. But mostly I was happy because he had got it. He had not freaked out. He had seen it–I naively thought–for what it was.

A playful gesture; an innocent joke.

Because in the box that he had just opened, under some tissue paper, I had placed–while mischievous giggles escaped my throat–an elementary, handmade origami flower.

To be continued…

I want to say, “I knew it”. I want to hang my head in despondence and tell myself, “See I told you.” I want to look in the mirror–as I usually do–and search for answers as if they could be written on my face. I want to throw my mobile phone against it. I want to watch the cracks it makes on the mirror until my reflection is as distorted as his intentions, until my face appears as shattered as my insides.

Real never called.

Which I guess, that in itself, is the only answer I should need.

On Friday night, in the early hours of Saturday morning actually, I met my daughter.

I was on roller skates speeding through a corridor when I felt a presence following not far behind. As I came to a halt, a breathless twelve year old girl approached me.

“Why are you going so fast?” she asked, clearly distraught. “I can’t keep up with you.”

“We have to do it my way.” I said firmly but ever so kindly.

“But why do we have to do it your way?” she whined.

“Because it’s the right way.” I said.

“And why is YOUR way ALWAYS the right way?”

***

As I recited this dream to my mother the next morning, I felt uncomfortable.  “I saw my daughter in my dre-” I started to say but the second the words came out of my mouth, in the moment they were spilling out for another to hear, for me to hear, I realized that the 12 year old girl? That girl with the straight hair and the fear in her eyes? The girl out of breath doing her best to persuade me to slow down?

That wasn’t my daughter at all.

That was me.

***

“Three weeks ago you sat where you are sitting now and you know what you told me?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘But why do we have to grow up?”

“No? Really?  I said that? Are you sure?”

“Yes! You were laughing as you said it but doesn’t that strike you as something significant?”

Silence.

“It’s the same voice, I think. The voice in my head that used my lips to tell you ‘But why do we have to grow up?’ and the girl in my dream.”

“So who do you think is right?”

“I see the girl’s point of view. Why DO WE HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MY WAY?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because we have to. We have no other choice.”

“Hope, who did you identify with more in the dream? The adult you or the girl that couldn’t keep up?”

“The adult me. But, I felt truly sorry for the girl.”

“Why?”

“Because she was afraid. She was so very afraid.”

“Well, if you could tell her something right now. What would it be?”

The room filled with silence. Flashes of the little girl careened into my mind. Her smile. Her tiny frame. The slight tremor in her voice as she tried to reason with me. My eyes welled up with tears. I wrapped my hands across my body in an almost self-hug and I whispered,

“I guess, well, I think. Yes. I think I’d just tell her. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.”

Over drinks with the girls the other night we spent  time mocking my ex-boyfriend until I had tears in my eyes and I was slamming the table with my hand from laughter.

This was instigated because of an email he sent me recently which was so bizarre [A disconnected paragraph at the end of the email went something like this: The wind. The walk from here to there. A lone dog. Barks. I am happy.] that I sat staring at my screen for quite some time wondering why on earth I was so completely enamored by this boy.

“Guys, please tell me he wasn’t like this when we were dating?”

“Oh yes he was!”

“He was?”

“Yes!”

“Why didn’t I see it?”

“Because you were in love.”

***

There are things about people that I don’t see. Or perhaps, I choose not to see them. Or even, I see them yet in those early days of all consuming passion and shimmery beginnings, I convince myself that I would like it (it being a habit, or a hobby, or an interest, or a type of temperament) if only I was more like that person myself.

I do not mean this in a Runaway Bride kind of way. I know the way I like my eggs.

But if the ex, for example, had enjoyed his eggs with dollops of ketchup (a dish I happen to find repulsive) I would not let it affect me. I would not even notice it. And if I did? I would convince myself that it is not really such a gross combination and maybe I have been wrong all these years. That maybe, I am the weirdo because I do not like ketchup on my eggs.

See what I did right there?  Doesn’t my commitment to always demean my own likes and dislikes–my own self–impress you?

***

I first noticed the spelling mistakes while we were chatting on Facebook in real time.I winced. And then internally scolded myself while defending him.

“Hope, YOU are a spelling snob. He is obviously preoccupied and not paying attention.”

Now, they have become a consistent part of our exchanges via text, Facebook message or email.

Spelling mistakes. Grammar mistakes. I try to ignore them but they stand out glaringly, the way my white skin would look on a beach full of tanned women who must have been sunbathing since April to have achieved their colour.

I shake my head for the these thoughts to slip out. When that does not work I try to convince myself that IT IS OK, I ALSO MAKE SPELLING MISTAKES. Then, a little voice sneaks up on me.

“Yes, you might have trouble spelling a complicated word but you know the difference between where and were. And can I remind you that you once declared that you would never date anyone who DID NOT?”

***

I search for the answer to this phenomenon. That in the hypothetical boyfriends I sometimes create while bored at work on rainy days, I list such specifics as if I believe that he could exist–this ideal I have created. When I finally meet a guy I actually like? He isn’t at all like the one I had designed for myself.

So when I go over all the failed romances of my life, I wonder if perhaps that is the problem.

What do you think? Does that elusive chemistry blind us to the extent that we spend time with a person that we aren’t really compatible with? Should we follow our hypothetical boyfriend lists more strictly?

Or it is possible that I am just nitpicking now? That my negative reaction to his lack of perfect spelling (despite my ever increasing like for him)  is just me trying to find reasons NOT to like him? To protect myself?

And if that is true?

Is therapy finally paying off?