Misery Loves Misery (and Lightfoot), Part I

I know this message has already been conveyed by numerous Lite FM songs, but I’ll say it again: break-ups hurt worst at night. Until sundown Thursday, I resembled one of those Oprah “Explore Your Spirit” segments. “Honestly, I’m just so glad that I made a friend in Charlottesville,” I told HTS. “And I’m feeling better each day.” At the time, I wasn’t lying. Twenty-four hours prior, I had treated HTS to a voicemail straight from Ch. 8 Nicholas Sparks -- before tearfulness and angst channels into rain-soaked passion. “I’m sitting in an out-of-order massage chair, and I’m miserable,” I sighed.

More generally, I was in the middle of a Huntsville, Alabama mall -- Mom and I had gone south to visit my aunt, uncle, and cousins. I’d fled to the wonky massage chair after Zen tear-suppression techniques failed. I liked the fact that the chair couldn’t keep its chakras centered either.

Post-mall, post-Mexican dinner, as my family dreamed of margaritas,“Awake in Alabama” (how’s that for a Tom Hanks movie?) pieced together a montage of Boyfriendish memories. No smiling walks through the park or holding hands over the popcorn bucket....nothing you’d pay $7.50 to see on the big screen. I lay awake thinking about that afternoon when Boyfriendish played a White Stripes MP3 three times, so I could appreciate how the drum riff “sounds just like Animal from the Muppets.” Or how he recounted the entirety of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair on our first date (could’ve been an ominous sign, but wasn’t).

(I realize this all sounds a bit gooey, particularly for a romance that didn’t last as long as some of my better highlighting jobs. The fact is, I could easily charm/sicken you with details about Ex Who Shall Not Be Named. He fried up the best hashbrowns I’ve ever eaten: lots of garlic, dashes of cumin and dill. He also looked great in cowboy boots. But these idiosyncracies don’t tug on me at 2 a.m. I say time has a lot to do with it, though my ex-therapist might claim otherwise. Maybe relationships are sedimentary -– some layers get pushed down in order for others to spread out. Maybe my two and a half months with Boyfriendish will sink and settle into a thin, flat nothing. Still, he sure could kiss.)

Thursday morning, I mustered some of that fish-bicycle Wellesley spirit and got my car halfway unpacked. After my chat with HTS, I called Boyfriendish. No agenda, I promise....can’t a girl phone a good friend? Boyfriendish was in his car, en route to NYC where he’s spending New Year’s Eve with old college buddies. We talked for 45 minutes, not a single “baby,” “sweetie,” or “honey.” After we hung up, I texted him: “It’s nice hearing your voice.” Sweet sentiment, good for a “You too, dear.” I needed something. One message received: “I like your voice too.” My chakras shifted dangerously.

See, I know Boyfriendish likes my voice. Once in a while, I even Scarletted it up for his benefit. “Darlin,’ ahhh can’t find mahhh umbrella anywheah. And I do declah, I think it might ra-yun.” Perhaps I’m overanalyzing just a hair, but I believe liking someone’s voice is altogether different from liking to hear that voice.

My lip trembled, and the neuroses knocked on my brain: let us out.

I immediately called my friend Courtney. Courtney is a former high-school chum and the only person I know in Murfreesboro –- she went to college here, and she never left town after. She hates her job. Also, she tends to go on unsatisfying dates. In sum, this all means that Courtney is usually up for lots and lots of drinks.

We arranged to meet at around 9 p.m., local sports bar. Courtney had dinner plans with her neighbors –- she’d call when she left their place. At 8:00 I showered, turned on Beyonce, turned off Beyonce, and listened to Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen” twice. If I was going to wallow, I wanted to do it right. “At Seventeen” is the saddest song I know (“I learned the truth at seventeen / That love was meant for beauty queens...”). Gordon Lightfoot will also work, in a pinch. One of my closer friends (W.) has requested a blog post about the cathartic benefits of bad ‘60s/’70s ballads. I caught her on IM at 8:30, and we discussed Gordon (by way of Jessica Simpson, naturally):

W: Why is Jessica Simpson famous?
J: because she has lots of blonde hair and a very small waist and very big boobs.
W: Oh, God bless America then
J: Jessica Simpson probably isn't consoling herself with Gordon Lightfoot right now.
W: Because the lyrics are over her head
J: I bet she'll be "reading that book again" in less than a month.
W: she may have already read that book
J: several times
W: so the rumors go

And on and on....until 9:00. No call from Courtney.

J: well, I'm going to call her...
W: ok
J: no answer
J: frustrating
W: argh
W: time to turn on the telly
J: I want to get in my pajamas, but as soon as I do she'll call

(Isn’t that the way it always goes?)

At 10:00 I mixed myself a drink –- SoCo and cranberry juice. At 10:15, I added more SoCo, not as much juice. At 10:30, Courtney called. “We’re all here! Come on over!” We? “Just me and a few friends from work.” Friends from work? What happened to gloom, cynicism, straight-up vodkas?

(Wait...it gets better/worse, but I’m off to Sewanee in celebration of Mom’s birthday. See you in ‘06! TBC.)