Tuesday 12 June 2007

At That Particular Time

Yesterday at an off-the-record lunch with a member of the royal family (where we were told ahead of time we could not have wine or garlic, and that any water had to be served exactly at room temperature), I bumped into someone I haven’t seen in several months.

We exchanged a minute of chat, and then she said: “So what else have you been up to?”

I paused and thought – and had to bite my tongue to stop myself from answering truthfully. The answer: Obsessing about the Fig.

It is difficult to watch myself handle this – and I do feel like I’m watching from outside myself, shouting at the character onscreen to do something already, but to no avail. I keep thinking maybe things will be different the next time we go out, but so far they haven’t been. Mostly because of my travel schedule, we’ve only been out five times and already I am wishing we could recapture the headiness of the first couple of dates. Then again, it’s been a while since I’ve gone out with anybody more than once, so I can’t help picturing myself – New Yorker cartoon-style – in front of a pile of men, a la Ramona Quimby in the basement with the pile of apples, each one with a bite taken out. The caption would be what Ramona told Beezus: “The first bite always tastes the best.”

But in my gut, I don’t think that’s the problem. Stripped to its essence, the real problem I am having with the Fig is that he knows perfectly well that I am wary of him, and has done absolutely nothing to make that less so. When I poke at why things he does upset me, that is often behind them. I spend no small amount of time wondering if he’s waiting for me to end things, the way – a couple of weeks ago – he tried to get me to cancel a date before he did. (He admitted it when I called him out on it, and laughingly wondered if he were that transparent. Actually, he’s usually unbelievably opaque.) On Saturday night, we had plans to go out but I didn’t hear from him all day – despite the fact that I’d called him about 5 p.m. He called at 8:20 p.m., about 40 minutes after I’d made other plans – and 20 minutes after I’d deleted his number from my phone. (If that sounds rash, consider last summer, when he disappeared suddenly. And anyway, I’m a terrible drunken texter.)

Turns out the Fig – who has insomnia, like Enrique Iglesias,apparently – had fallen asleep on the sofa with his phone in the other room. He was too tired to go out, anyway.

I know I’ve gotten what feels awfully far from the subject of weight here, but hear me out here. Saturday was awful. I spent large chunks of the day picking over our last two interactions, which included an email he signed with a couple of kisses and the comment that I should come to his dad’s place in the country this summer. It didn’t make sense, but nor did his disappearance last summer. By 8 p.m., when I was convinced I was being stood up – and that he’d disappeared off the face of the earth yet again – I dreaded the initial days of getting through it. I remembered last summer, and I loathed myself for putting myself in a position to have it happen again. On Saturday night, I didn’t feel like bingeing – I just felt empty. But I feared that the urge might surface on Sunday, and realizing that, I felt I’d started to climb up from the bottom: He’s not worth that. No one is worth that.

I just have to work on remembering that.

5 comments:

  1. Anytime you don't feel like writing about weight, feel free. I'll read anything you write.

    It's so easy to say to dump him and find someone better. I know it's easy to say but hard to do. I can only say do what you feel is right and it seems like you are aware of things and not blindly walking around.

    I do think you deserve everything your heart desires.

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  2. trust your instincts. you deserve better.

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  3. You write in a manner that makes me feel as though I know you, so if this is too personal, my apologies up front.
    I'm sure you've read the corny smash hit by a human with god-awful hair (think Ty Pennington but FAR worse): Greg Behrendt. They've now turned his advice into the world's most awful daytime television. While I don't agree with every word in his far-too-popular crap-fest of a book, there is no denying that a lot of it is true. One thing that I used to have to remind myself of all the time: you shouldn't have to spend hours analyzing it all. You're too good for that.

    And you seem to know this.
    And perhaps you'll dally around with the Fig a bit more, sounds like there is something you find irresistable about him - but know that at the end of the day he's not worth your efforts and there is someone fabulous out there waiting to meet you and your hot Size 31 7 Jeans ass!

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  4. Congrats on your great time in Cannes btw.

    I feel like so many women have experienced what you are describing. I know I have. I'm the worst obsesser. I feel like when I get that way I've ruined it for myself because I'm needing someone so much that i've projected onto them a bit of myself that i'm not in touch with yet. Yknow, like when you put someone on a pedastool, it's because you think they're better than you, but really it's because you can't yet accept that you yourself are that good (or so they say...)

    I've only found out the hard and painful way. But reading your post makes me think I wish you'd pull that pedastool out from under this dude instead of go through this all again. As for him- most people, being insecure, are often both uncomfortable and flattered by this behaviour but at the end of the day they know it's more about you, than about them. It gives them all manner of excuses to do you over. He's not a Scorpio, is he?!

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  5. Add one more sentence to your affirmation before sticking it to your mirror: "I'm worth more."

    Back to something I know more about, writing: I love your New Yorker and Ramona analogies. Just one example of how you so accurately nail your experience in prose. :)

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