not your train, not your guy.

  There's something about shift and turmoil and the end of relationships that stirs the silt of all those that came before. In fact, I think of a particularly poignant phrase by one Ms. Cheryl Strayed, "understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again."

Sitting in Tom's office last week I brought up one such man--a man I've resolved again and again. And again. And for reasons I won't go into here, he's been on my mind of late.

I remember a few years ago, somewhere in the west village, just past midnight, getting into a fight with one of my best girlfriends. I just want you to move past him, she said.

You don't get to dictate that timeline, was my response. You don't know him. You don't get to pass judgement on him. 

And then we both started to cry. 

There's something about your good friends passing judgement on the people you love--the people you've loved. It always feels like an insult, because the thing is, you loved them. So for someone to say how crummy and awful and not-worth-it they are, well, it somehow feels like a judgement on you. For not just liking, but loving, someone so obviously awful.

But there's something to objectivity.

And friends often have it. (Sometimes not. And so you have to suss out who to listen to, but it's worth attempting to suss).

When I brought up one such so-not-worth-it-guy a few weeks ago, Tom said to me (man, Tom's good): That is a train you do not want to be hitched to. You just don't want to go where that train's going.

And what's so genius about this expression is that it moves the objective judgment from the man to the life he has and the choices he's made and all the things that make him him, which sort of demystifies affection in a way that makes someone's necessary objectivity far more palatable.

Does this make sense?

Because as I think back on what Tom said, I realize it is the best, kindest, most wonderful way to say, that guy is the pits. The worst. Not. your. guy. (And yes, of course, all men are worthy in some way and no person is as small as the small choices he's before made, but that's not a discussion I plan on having here today).

It's just, there are things I know I want for my life. And love is not always the whole of the story. And so that is a train I do no want to be hitched to.

the end of the thing

 

I sat down today to write about the end of the thing.

I hadn't wanted to write about it as it was happening. Mostly because I felt the need to protect him--and to protect the thing itself.

And words have a way of flattening, of distorting—of assigning value before the value is even known.

The thing is, I forgot that the act of writing is clarifying. The activity of it, the gesture of it, enlightens. It's like rooting around in the dirt and coming up with two grubby fistfuls of quite a lot of truth. Some of it expected and some of it not. And a little dirt under the fingernails can be a very good thing.

The first time I saw him I was struck by the clarity of his image. Everything seemed to fall away in his presence. And so I just sort of stared. He was speaking to the man next to me and when he glanced over I felt caught, exposed, seen. He made a joke and I gave a barely audible laugh. He was so very handsome and I was so very quiet. Handsome men always make me quiet. Very, very quiet.

It was my girlfriend who asked if he wanted my number. I wasn't there, was only told after. He said yes and sent me the loveliest message, wooed me with grammar. I'll never see another semi-colon without thinking of him.

He stood me up. On our first date—a late night drink—he stood me up. I sat there for thirty minutes, took two sips of wine before I collected my things to go. The bartender didn’t ask me to pay and I didn't offer.*

I had put on makeup. And heels. And a short skirt. And my legs looked better than they had in years—I remember having that ridiculous thought on that particular night, but my legs look so good. And this asshole has stood me up? I was convinced he had a wife or a girlfriend—that he’d come to his senses. My mother didn't understand why I'd make such a leap, but I've lived in New York long enough to know that such a thing is not only possible, but very, very plausible.

Turned out he’d taken a nap and slept right through his alarm. When I told my girlfriends they said to forget him, that it wasn't a good excuse.

But I believed him.

I always believed him.

So we tried again. A second first date. I made him come a little bit further west and I wore flats, my hair a messy knot on top of my head.

And it was good. Simple and good. No fireworks, just a quiet sort of unfolding. Which I figured was how it was meant to go.

The problem was that it was never so clear as in that first moment of seeing him.

We could never quite say all the things we needed to say. We traded in half-truths, danced around the big, scary things, told only parts of the whole, unfolded only a little, which in the tricky business of falling in love is simply not enough.

In writing about the end, I realized I’d been preparing for it from the very start--realized I’m always preparing for the end.

Always preparing to walk away with my head held high—with him saying, Well, I didn’t love her, but damn if she wasn’t cool about the whole thing.

We live in this society where as woman we’re constantly told we’re too emotional, too feminine, too sensitive. And I’ve spent so much time trying to act and speak in a way that no man might ever level those words against me. But, the thing is, I am emotional and I am feminine and I am sensitive and goddamnit if those aren’t the things that make me pretty fucking great. But in hiding those things--in rounding the edges and softening myself--I’ve hidden much of who I am—made myself small and flimsy (and what really kills me is that the crummy men will level those insults even, and most especially, when it has nothing to do with the woman and everything to do with the man).

I have made a life of replacing courage with cool. Oh-well-isn't-she-cool. And fine. And detached. This, as it turns out, is not a viable life-plan.

Because to fall in love (or not)—to attempt the thing, to have a real experience, demands extraordinary amounts of courage and vulnerability and self-worth.

You have to be courageous enough to give someone the power to hurt you. And human enough to let them in on that.

It was a quiet ending. I asked a question. And he answered. And I sort of nodded my head and smiled and left it at that. I didn’t ask the other questions I needed to ask, and I didn’t say the things I needed to say. I gave my best impression of the I'm-really-fine-with-it response.

And really I was fine with it. But for that part of me that wasn't. But for that part of me that was quite hurt. Because for a moment it leveled me. Made a big, sweet mess of me.

But today, as I was writing, I realized that my grieving process has to be mine—it’s not my job to hide from him that he’s hurt me. This is not the part where I worry about him. It’s my job to feel what I feel and make no apologies for it.

Yes, he hurt me. And yes, I’m lonely. And no, I don’t care if he thinks I cared a disproportionate amount. And yes, I’m angry that he didn’t value me enough to give me his words in that moment as the train approached. I felt like an idiot standing there, his hands in mine, his silence hanging low and loud between us. I asked because I had to, but I shouldn’t have had to. He should have met my courage with his own—which would have meant the full truth, and I’m not entirely sure that’s what I got.

The way he ended it was shitty. And I have the right to say so.

And anyone can say that I'm too emotional or too attached or too anything, but the too is on them. I am just as much of everything as I need to be in this moment.

Men have a way of shaking my self-worth. But today, just as soon as I thought, you know, I value myself enough to actually have the experience I'm having—to feel what I need to feel and say what I need to say and ask what I need to ask--just as soon as I gave myself permission to own that--well, hell if I didn't feel better.

Hell if I didn't unfold all the more.

*I did leave a tip

how it ends

  I could give you ten reasons, right now, why it never would have worked. Simple things. Stupid things. Like how I loved the rain and he did not. His propensity for clean lines and my affection for a bit of muss.

Big things too. The sort of things larger than language allows for.

And I knew, I knew it wasn't right. On an intellectual level, on a gut level.

So I didn't think I'd be so sad.

But, the thing is, for just a moment, we were tethered, one to the other. And everything meant a bit more because of that. Because of the possibility of that.

But on the other side of that possibility is what is felt and what is not. And for that there are no reasons, just a very lonely road one must travel between the two.

Dating in New York

  A few weeks ago I went to lunch with a man I'd dated for a little while. Because we're friends, now. Which, you know, feels very mature.

And so we do things. Like go to lunch. And as we were parting ways, I had a thought and turned to him:

Every time I turn on my gas stove I think about you. Which, well, it must be that the scent of the gas is somehow connected to you? And how could that be? And do you think maybe you have a gas leak in your apartment?

Oh. Yeah. I do, was his response. Without batting an eye or missing a beat, Oh. Yeah. I do.

And I sighed. And laughed, just a little.

Dating in New York. So it goes.

I'm waiting for that scene in a rom-com.

Editor's Note: I have been assured that the super was called and the gas-leak was taken care of. 

the game changer

A few years ago I went to the movies by myself, as one does.

And I saw Crazy, Stupid, Love.

Remember that one? Sure you do. It was right around the time the whole world realized Ryan Gosling was unstoppably hot.

Well, so what I remember from the film—besides Mr. Gosling’s impossible abs—was the moment he turned to Cal (Steve Carell) and in an attempt to explain his love for Cal’s daughter (Emma Stone) said, “She's a game changer.”

And sitting there in that cool theatre, all alone, my breath caught in my throat. What a perfect phrase. What a perfect thought.

Game changer.

Game changer. Holy shit. Holy shit!

And all I could think was, I want to be a game changer.

Oh, silly, foolish, romantic Meg, I think now (with great compassion and appreciation for the girl I was at that particular moment in time).

Here’s the thing, that notion—that game-changer notion is sort of a load of shit.

What I mean is, the notion of the game changer is tremendously romantic and lovely (perfect for film), but tenuous. Because what happens when two years down the line the man who’s been wooed by the-game-changer decides the woman in question has changed the game yet again and he doesn’t like the new set of rules? In fact, not only does he not like the new set of rules, he begins to think he gave up too much in the first place. He didn’t want commitment. He wasn’t looking for commitment. Commitment was never a priority.

And so he walks away.

Tom and I talk about shiny objects—how men are attracted to them. And if (bear with me and the overwrought metaphor that's about to happen) all men want to drive then there are the men who know they want a vintage Rolls Royce and are willing to wait for it and then there are the men who don't really know so much what they want as they know they want something new and fast. A basic motto of, on-to-the-next. The latter are the men I've dated. The latter are the men I've adored. They are the men who've wooed me with confidence and verve. Who've held my gaze from across a crowded bar. Who've made me feel feminine and sexy and a little undone. These are the men who give great first date—mostly because they've had a lot of practice. And great first dates almost always go nowhere very, very quickly. These are the men whose confidence belies a quite a lot of fear. The men who have yet to really figure themselves out—in part because they’ve not taken the time to—they’ve been pretty busy test-driving a lot of different cars.

I don't know if it's a little bit of growing-up, or a little bit of life smacking one around, or just timing that gets a man from not-ready to here-we-go.

Timing is a thing. Where relationships are concerned, timing is a thing. The thing maybe. Which feels really hard and really unfair, but it is what it is. So when two people do meet at the right time—well, the chance of that—it feels nearly impossible and so yeah, it does smack of the divine.

I was sitting with girlfriends this last December, a tremendous bowl of a latte between my hands, and the discussion of success came up. And a question was posed. When you get what you want, what will it feel like? Not what will it be—but what will be the feeling of it?

And out of my mouth, without thought, from the part of myself that is ancient and wise, tumbled two words:

Stability and freedom.

And a bit of my future unfurled before me. Something revealed.

I looked down at the cup between my hands and suddenly knew that the man I’d loved for years and years, the man I'd always thought that given enough time and space would come round—well, he’d never be able to offer me those things. And knowing that, I knew I'd never again be in love with him. Which is a different sort of freedom. A little bit sad and a little bit sweet, but really, really important.

I say stability to my girlfriends here in New York and they think I mean money, and I think they’ve missed the point. Money is a part of it, yes. But it’s more the strong hand. And the strong voice. And the daily choice. It’s the man who climbs into bed night after night. It’s building a home that’s forged not of mortar and brick but of vows and values (yeah, that feels a little sappy to me to, but there you go). The sort of house with doors and windows that only the two of you know about.

It's the commitment to commitment.

And the freedom that comes from that.

Freedom as commitment’s silent partner.

The thing is, when things end with men I've cared about there's always that seductive, little thought: Well, I wasn’t their game changer.

I wasn’t worth it.

And I know, on an intellectual level, I know there are a million and one reasons it didn’t work, and most of them have nothing to do with me, but damn if it doesn’t feel like it was because I was just not good enough. Not worth it. Not. A. Game. Changer.

When really, the guy has to be ready for the girl to change the game. Because that is a scary fucking thing.

Sitting across from men in booths now, burgers between us, that's what I listen for. In the silence between his words and my laughter. In what he won't say, but has marked him, nonetheless. Is he ready for the game to change? Has life seasoned him? Has he known loneliness and heartache and all the muck between? Can he meet me there in that land of: yeah-I-know-lonely-and-what-the-hell-took-you-so-long?

Because sometimes life is a nearly crushing game of waiting.

I said to Tom recently I feel like I’m doing it all wrong. And he said, But what if you’re doing it all exactly right?

Which is Tom’s way of saying there is no right. And there is no wrong.

Every guy is the wrong guy. Until you meet the one who’s not. And he’s the last guy.

And so it goes.

Maybe it’s a numbers game. Maybe it’s patience. Maybe it’s fate.

Maybe it’s all those things.

Because, the thing is, the vintage Rolls Royce is the game changer—always has been.