NUMBERLESS HITCH LIST ITEM: Emotional Detox, or, Semi-Illegally Squatting in an Ex's Apartment (with a non-stalker purpose)

I'm squatting in an ex-lover's apartment.


Okay, well, not entirely. According to the unquestionably reliable pillar of knowledge that is Wikipedia, "squatting" is classically defined as "occupying an abandoned or unoccupied space or building, usually residential, that the squatter does not own, rent or otherwise have permission to use."


The whatever-he-was knows I have his keys, because he gave them to me. And, before our tenuous pseudo-romance pseudo-ended with all the flaccid fanfare of a cigarette sizzling out in a rain storm, he asked me if I'd mind picking up his mail while he was away on a trip I was not invited along on. (An exclusion that led to the conversation which finally revealed, to me at least, the Munchian portrait of how much he was "just not that into me." Hence the weird psuedo-ending.) So he knows I'm around his unoccupied residential space that I do not own, rent, but otherwise have semi-permission to use. 


What he does not know, entirely, is that I brought a suitcase, three different pairs of black suede boots of varying styles and heel size, a blow-dryer, a flat-iron and my laptop, and have set up for an all out affection-detox scheduled to last from this very moment until the day before he returns, whereupon I will slink back to Brooklyn with, ideally, some sort of immunity to him--a resistance to the pieces of him that have, somehow, taken root in the usually un-farmable topsoil that is my emotional commitment to anyone. I figure that if I cannot exorcise the demon of feelings after several days of living among the items of a life he has, almost expertly, built to exclude anyone like me, then the matter is out of my hands and I can go cry to old Joy Division albums without shame. 


I'm fully aware that this sounds insane.


Walk with me a moment, will you?


First, lets make this clear: this is not an obsessive camp-out. He is a good man, a post-Alex rebound I knew better than to catch feelings for. I was a rebound he had no intention of ever feeling anything for. And so I am not wandering his halls swathed in a burka constructed from used bed sheets while tearily keening to Vic Chesnutt records. I have no delusions that he will suddenly burst through the door, drop his suitcase on to the floor with a careless clatter and scoop my pixyish form into his arms, pressing my tiny head to his chest while confessing the time apart has made him realize all we could be. His journal, left in plain sight, remains and WILL remain untouched. I've even started to return things he's given me over the length of our purgatorial courtship--the skully I borrowed during an icy, mid-December meet-up; the vintage men's nightshirt he gave me because it made me feel like I was on Mad Men; the palm-sized copy of a book of microfiction passed along with a "you have to read this"--to their original homes. In his actual home. 


The thing is, when it comes to the end of affairs, I have chosen the "Out of Sight, Out of Mind" method of healing hurt (with a little sprinting from my emotions tossed in for good measure) for about...oh, 26 years. OSOM is easy, familiar, methodic: box up all photos, ticket stubs, items left behind, gifts given, etc., and discard or hide them. Pull all bands/songs shared as a pair from the iTunes playlist. Carefully remove "we, he, us" and their formal name from the daily vocabulary. And then, as stoically as possible, move forward (punctuating the journey with occasional emotional meltdowns, complete with  Nancy Kerrigan-style wails of "WHYYY," that are usually triggered by the door closing on a now tomb-like bedroom). 


But this tactic obviously doesn't work for me. Seven years after the first major split of my life, I still can't listen past the first chord of Des'Ree's "Kissing You" without exploding into snot and tears like a cheap tissue. I obsess. I dissect. I blame myself for everything while running as far in the opposite direction of my own bloodstains as possible. And, once the over-analysis and self-flagellating passes, I find myself thinking about the death-blow and executioner constantly, like some ghost haunting her own tomb, seeing only the specter of the fantasy "us" and not the reality of the situation. Burying my head in the sand burns the imprint of loss inside my skull. 


So, a new tactic; an experiment of emotional kinetics. Staying still, rather than running. And attempting those fledging steps of detachment while surrounding myself with things I've become attached to.   


Toilet paper. Shampoo. His coffee. That couch. I'm injecting these little pieces of infection into my body purposely, until my emotional defenses are armed effectively enough to exorcise them. Call it practical applications of vaccination theology.


I cannot run from feelings anymore. So I'm just going to sit here with them until they run from him...until the fever breaks and I go numb.


Also, his place is 3 subway stops from my office, one block from Whole Foods, has heat and there's a motherfucking blizzard outside. If faced with the same option, I hope he'd make the same decision.


I am a mad, mad, mad, mad scientist. With keys. 

The Second-First Date: Can You Go Home Again?

Carrie Fisher and Paul Simon. Jude Law and Sienna Miller. Travis Barker and Shanna Moakler. Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. (And then Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock.)

The list of celeb couples to break up and try for round two is not encouraging.

Fortunately, I'm not a celebrity. 

Two weeks ago, Alex-the-boy-I-moved-out-on, threw down the gauntlet. In short, after months apart (accented by bi-monthly meet-ups to exchange our dog, as detailed in our amazingly civil canine custody arrangement), Alex asked me out on a first date...again. Not a date, not an ex-sex hook-up, but an actual first date, with all the rules intact: no sex, no guaranteed phone call the next day, no handsy-grabsy bullshit. 

As I've mentioned, I'm skeptical of split couples trying to sew the torn fabric of their relationship back together once the blanket's gone off to Goodwill. (How's THAT for a convoluted metaphor, huh?)  

I'm also skeptical of those who say their relationship is "different." Everyone thinks they're different (just like everyone thinks their life is blog-worthy). But we, in this one instance, are at least a little different in that our similar lifestyles, levels of attraction, mutual respect and shared interests were intact when I left, as were lingering feelings of love and affection. I haven't forgotten that.

What I HAD forgotten is what dating other people is like. (For an idea of my "success" with that over the last few months, click here.) 

What this endless intro (and Jesus, this is getting longer than The fucking Fountainhead) means is: I SAID YES AND WE WENT ON THE DATE.

The results are as follows:

• 9:00PM: Alex arrives with bouquet of roses and daises (all healthy, price tag removed), and sweaty palms (Yay, you're nervous too. We'll both suffer). He looks good. (He's lost 15lbs since we split? How did I miss that? Are those---yes, those are abs under that thermal! Carmel-colored, 100% Spanish abs leading down to----) I get a grip. Focus! Chest out, flirty eyes. I mention he looks "healthy." He mentions he's taken up running. (Running? Really, Forrest Gump? Followed by, Stop being a cunt, you cunt.) I try not to look at the abs, because I am not shallow.
   
• 9:05PM: Awkward moment where we habitually go to hold hands. (Mayday! WHY DIDN'T YOU WEAR THE DRESS WITH POCKETS!?!?!) Hands sort of clasp, then fumble and let go. Hang from our arms like dead raccoons.
   
• 9:06PM: Awkward moment deflected with "I'm not that kind of girl" joke. We walk on.
   
  
• 9:07-9:10PM: Awkward silence. (Oh god, this was such a bad idea...)
  
  
• 9:11PM: Small, strange Asian lady with goatee (Holy shit, yes, this woman DOES have a goatee!) approaches us and produces...a turtle. After several weird hand gestures, we realize she is asking us to buy said turtle. More hand gestures ensue. We use international sign for "Thanks for the offer, but I'm fresh out of turtle cash." She offers to trade the turtle for my purse. (Back off, TurtleBitch...) We decline. She yells a string of obscenities, totters off.
  
  
• 9:13PM: We stand watching Turtle-Lady totter off in stunned silence. Then, the laughing starts.  First a nervous, "Wow, that was weird, how do I react" chuckle, followed by real, genuine belly laughs, that one-hand-on-the-hip-one-hand-raised-to-Jesus laughter that makes you wheeze like an old-fashioned bellows before dying out with a "whooooooooo."

And here's where I stop checking my watch, because things finally feel comfortable. 

We head out to dinner. We talk a lot. We catch up, fill each other in on friends and family (his mom still hates me, his father doesn't, and his recently-divorced uncle thinks that a Hitch List is the coolest thing he's ever heard of...go figure). He shows me pictures of new art pieces he's working on, which stings as much as it excites, since I'd cited his complacency about his talent and art as a major turn off before I left. I show him my latest published piece, worry about job security; he comforts me. It all fits as well as a worn-in pair of jeans, but I'm looking past the smiles, past the conversation, and seeing hurt behind it. Hurt and fear. It's all swimming in those two almond shaped, espresso eyes of his.

We drink, head to a Broadway show. When he reaches for my hand in the darkened theater I don't pull away.

But I'm not paying attention to the stage. I'm too busy doing self-inventory in my head. Where's the rush? Where's that drug-high, hot-flushed limerence, that dizzy adrenaline feeling, like coke slamming into your brain? Do I still love him? If I love him, where's the drug high? I want my high...

After the show, we have that moment where he needs to go back to Penn Station, me back to my train. We're standing there, awkward, staring. I don't know what he sees on my face, to be honest. But I invite him back to my place for a nightcap anyway. A nightcap and sleep and nothing else.

Back in Brooklyn, I'm pouring two drinks when he lays down his iPhone and lets Pandora start playing to fill the relapsed silence. An old club-banger by Rhymefest and Kanye West comes on, and the drunk in me starts ass-shaking, hand still on the pouring liquor bottle. Alex starts laughing, because I can only dance when I'm drunk, and I tell him to fuck-off (such a lady), and then we're both dancing in the middle of the empty apartment. Not two-stepping, not bobbing, not slow-dancing like at prom, but ass-shaking-rump-rubbing bumpin' and grindin' like a ho' and a hoodrat on a Thursday night. We dance ourselves sweaty for ten minutes before the battery bleeps out and the iPhone goes mum. 

Alex slept in my bed, and that's it. Slept. Clothes on. I laid awake and stared at him for who knows how long, wondering where my pitter-pat drug high was. Then I started to think about that drug high limerence and all the people, not just guys, who'd gotten me drunk off that feeling, and dimly remembered that each limerent love affair has always ended quickly, with a come-down worse than any drug on the market. 

I don't know what any of that means yet. 

In the morning, Alex kissed me on the cheek and left before I got up for work. I stayed in bed after the alarm went off and smelled him on my sheets, and for the first time in months missed the scent of Chanel Homme and cocoa butter and skin on my pillows.

I'm waiting the required two days before I call him, but I texted a genuine thank you for a great night.

You can't go home again, obviously. But maybe you can visit?

Ah, fuck me.

 

Warning Labels for Dudes

There's a boy on his way to my apartment for our first date right now, and I've got the jitters. Which is ridiculous, because I already dated this guy for half a decade (before getting cold feet, having a quarter-life crisis and moving out, but I digress...), and know his issues. His warning labels, and mine, are clearly displayed and readable; both of us know exactly what we're dealing with.

This got me thinking about how much easier and less painful modern mating would be if all people, like bottles of benzodiazepines or fancy electronics, showed up with their warning labels exposed.

And so, a preliminary list of labels which would have come in handy (to me) over the past several months here in Brooklyn. I encourage you to add to this list. (And guys, don't worry, I haven't even gotten started on the disclaimers girls need to come with...but I will.)

*EDITORS NOTE: The guy I'm going on the date with is not guilty of any of those WARNINGS. The guys I've dated since we broke up ARE. Hence the, "Hey, maybe you weren't so bad" moment which brings us to the second-first-date.*

WARNING: THIS GUY....

...Does not trim his junk.

...May cause drowsiness.

...Is for External Use Only.

...Should not be taken with alcohol.

...Should only be taken with alcohol.

...Will flake out as soon as he meets someone prettier but text you to keep your hopes up.

...Needs a skycap for all his baggage.

...Acts like your boyfriend, then freaks the fuck out at the first sign you like him.

...Sings that song he "wrote for you" to EVERY girl.

...Should not be taken orally.

...Will passive-aggressively attack you in his Facebook "25 Things About Me" List.

...Wears smaller jeans than you do.

...Will talk really loudly about art and music so everyone nearby hears how "with it" he is.

...Will make you pay the bill. Every time.

...Becomes disinterested if you cannot ID what movie/album/poet/cartoon/'zine/graphic novel he's quoting.

...Has cool-looking hair because it hasn't been washed in three freaking weeks.

...Is gay and doesn't know it.

...Is gay and hopes no one else knows it.

...Wishes he was gay, but isn't.

...Listens to Nickelback.

...Collects other peoples' girlfriends.

...Honestly doesn't know what the supercool Kanji symbols tattooed on his ribcage mean.

...Preaches about Buddhism. Does not practice it.

...Will only be interested if he thinks you aren't interested, especially if you really AREN'T interested.

...Cannot actually play that guitar in the corner.

...Will secretly hate your gay friends.

...Will try and fuck your girl friends.

...Will never be cool enough for any of your guy friends.

...Is still actively involved with his college fraternity...at age 33.

...Is a vegan.

...Has "never felt this way before" about 100 times before.

...Has trendy Ikea furniture which will fuck up your last chiropractic appointment.

...Collects vinyl but does not own a record player.

...Has unacceptable aversion to going down on girls.

...IS STRAIGHT-EDGED.

...Lives off his parents but is still a shitty tipper.

...Leaves skid-marks.

...Will wear that trendy fucking scarf even when it's 90 degrees outside.

...Smashes out with his socks on.

...Does not know where the clitoris is.

...Does not know WHAT a clitoris is.

...Uses that "I'm so mature" Hemingway beard to hide all the bullshit he should have grown out of by now.

...Will Twitter about sex with you.

...Is using his faux-hawk to hide how much hair he's lost already.

...Will use that expensive liberal arts education to write a publishable dissertation on why you should let him fuck you without a condom.

...is in a shitty band sucks. No, seriously, it REALLY SUCKS.

(And, of course, the obligatory: DO NOT OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY WHILE RIDING THIS GUY.)

On that note.....I'm going on the date. PS, my dress says "Warning: Will blog about this date."

I DO(n't know)

Six months ago, I was the cover of the "liberal-arts-educated-chick-from-the-burbs" textbook: 25 (not 26), gainfully employed and living a blissful routine of guaranteed sex and companionship with my attractive, supportive and employed boyfriend of five years. (And our dog. White with black spots.) I cooked, he cleaned. Sunday nights we watched reality TV in our underwear. On special occasions, he could have it anally.

Then, as the 6 year mark approached, I began doing what generations of women have made a fine art: dropping hints about marriage.

But I am not an artist. "Hints" devolved into billboards with the words “ARE YOU EVER GOING TO FUCKING MARRY ME, DUDE?” scrawled in 50-foot Helvetica font on the sides of buildings. (That's an exaggeration. But I did get wasted off Stoli and bitch in a cab from the Upper East Side aaaallllllll the way to Astoria--in front of my boyfriend, our friends and a Pakistani cabbie--about how he hadn't proposed. NOTE: This is one of the three instances in which a man is actually allowed to murder a woman in the back of a cab. We'll talk about the other two another time.)

It became an obsession. Would he? When? Where? How would he do it? What if he picked out an ugly-as-sin ring? I’d say yes, but was it appropriate to melt it down...? GOD, what if it was pear-cut?

Then, the bomb dropped: Alex, as we’ll call him, WAS going to propose. According to the mole who leaked the news, soon.

I freaked the fuck out.

Not in a jumping up and down with your sorority sisters kind of way. More a I-packed-my-shit-up-emptied-my-bank-account-and-subletted-a-room-from-a-gay-man-in-Brooklyn kind of freak out.

Well, not “kind of.” That’s actually what I did. Literally.

"This girl’s a fucking nutjob.” “Bipolar." "That dude’s better off.” Yes, I can hear your interior monologue from Brooklyn (the acoustics off the bridge are ah-mazing). I get it. Respectable, sympathetic girls don't do things like that to hot, supportive, amazing guys who love their crazy asses.

But staring down the barrel of marriage, it clicked: I’ve never been on my own. I always came home to parents or the live-in boyfriend, never walked into a party or social event without the bullet-proof vest of my partner layered over my party-gear and never learned to be the confident, self-reliant, worldly woman with cool stories to tell.

Worse, I’d become the sort of grating, obnoxious, smothering girlfriend who guys and girls alike wish to kill with their bare hands...one that turns into the sort of grating, obnoxious, smothering wife some guys DO kill with their bare hands. Lump in the fact I suddenly questioned whether this guy was THE ONE, since I’d never really taken the time to talk to anyone else, and the whole humiliating hot-mess puzzle should assemble itself pretty easily. (Alex had his own issues to deal with as well.)

Which brings us to THE LIST:

Ammendment: The Hitch List fully recognizes that marriage does not equate death. If you're with the right person, most of your life adventures should continue, only with double the cost of airfare. But if you've a history of codependency (check) and/or limited experience with personal independence (double check), Hitch Listing might be one way to reboot....and make sure you're not a clingy nightmare when you find your soul mate.

Things To Do Before You Marry, or The Hitch List:

(last updated on September 18, 2009)

1. Learn to comfortably fly solo.

2. Conquer lingering, irrational childhood fears (dark, fucking scary spiders, etc.).

3. Go on week long "Help Me" Detox--no asking for help from anyone, for anything. (This pertains to help carrying laundry from the laundromat, reaching items at the grocery store, holding subway doors, killing fucking scary spiders, etc., as well as to the obvious areas of financial, emotional and social assistance.)

4. Get lost in a major city alone. Find your way home.

5. Do something that scares the shit out of you.

6. Do something that scares the shit out of someone else.

7. Sleep in the WHOLE bed.

8. Go on an epic road trip. Must visit minimum of three places you've never heard of before Google mapping.

9. Start selfish, indulgent lifelong habit.

10. Get involved in doing ongoing good deeds for others.

11. Have wild night at the strip club.

12. Break one personal beauty law (i.e. no short hair, no red lipstick, no Lindsay Lohan leggings, etc).

13. Break up with the television, phone, Facebook and g-chat and live like an urban Emerson...temporarily, at least.

14. Do post-mortem on past relationships for evidence of YOUR insanity at work (no blaming the ex).

15. Go on a date with someone who is not your "type."

16. Tattoo.

17. Restock your entire underwear drawer with new inventory.

18. Revisit an old fling.

19. Wingman your BFF a piece of ass.  

20. Have your BFF wingman you a piece of ass.  

21. Go on a 100% lesbian date.

22. Skydive.

23. Get in a fight.

24. Learn a new language. Must be able to order food, ask for directions, give a compliment and give instructions on how to make you orgasm in chosen language within 6 weeks of starting.

25. Learn from the "other woman."

26. Relocate somewhere you've never lived and don't know anyone.

27. Create "Ethnic Sexcapades" Bingo Card (Italian, Irish, Puerto Rican, African American, Japanese, etc.). Compete with friends for first "Bingo." (Winner gets bragging rights and a free trip to the STD clinic.)

28. Take a midnight train going anywhere.

29. Be with someone older.

30. Be with someone younger.

31. Break a Guinness World Record.

32. Party with someone famous.

33. Smash out with someone famous (see 32 for assistance).

34. Play a player.

35. Threesum?

36. Visit the birthplace of your personal hero.

37. Read/view/listen to at least three of the books/films/albums an ex recommended but you never touched (who knows, they may have been right aboutsomething).

38. Spend a day in someone elses' shoes...literally, swap locations, jobs, friends and lifestyles for a day. See what you learn.

39. Build something from scratch utilizing three tools you have no idea how to use.

40. Try something you would "never" do in bed.

41. Be the star of your own nude photo shoot and learn to love your naked self. (Pictures for your eyes only.)

42. Start mixed martial arts and/or self defense classes.

43. Go on a vision quest with an experienced guide.

44. Travel somewhere exclusively for a famous local food item (must cross state lines). Philly cheese steaks, media noches in Cuba, Pad Thai in Thailand, etc.

45. Get arrested.

46. Experience a complete relationship in one weekend (meet, flirt, fall in lust, spend too much time together and breakup all over the course of a single weekend. Hard to do in small towns, but it happens all the time in NYC).

47. Read at least two books on the world history of marriage (better the devil that you know).

48. Experience parenthood temporarily with the assistance of friends/siblings/relatives who have small children.

49. Have a raucous ladies'/guys' night in a famous non-native party city.

50. Write your own eulogy.

51. Curb cursing habit.

52. Answer Haddaway's age-old question: "What is love?"

53. Advocate and march for equal marriage rights. (Just because I'm not ready to marry doesn't mean EVERYONE else on the planet shouldn't be allowed to.)