T.O.W.F.U.E.
We're going to Minneapolis in a few weeks for a work thing for the Hubs. This has got me thinking... How big is Minneapolis? Because I have an ex-boyfriend who lives there now, and I really don't want to have to slap anyone in front of my child. He's too young to understand, "He deserved it, sweetheart."
In college I heard a comedian say, "before you meet The One, you will meet The One Who F's Up Everything." Minneapolis guy is T.O.W.F.U.E. Although I haven't seen him in almost eight years, just the idea of accidentally running into him gives me anxiety. My stomach starts to knot, I break out in a cold sweat, and my head gets a little swimmy. I get this fear frequently when I'm in airports, because you just never know who you might run into at an airport. One time a friend of ours was stared at malevolently by Michael Keaton at Pittsburgh International Airport. He was drinking whiskey by himself. Because 1989 Batman can do whatever the hell he wants, that's why.
I am especially concerned I might see T.O.W.F.U.E. at one of the restaurants where we're scheduled to dine while in Minneapolis. I'd like to think it would happen like this: I see his familiar, stupid face across the crowded room full of my husband's loud co-workers. He's with his family: his wife is reminiscent of Quasimodo and his son bears a striking resemblance to Eddie Munster with buck teeth. He is, of course, taken aback by this group of attractive and fun-loving people who have run ramshod over his city for a few days. And he's jealous. Seethingly, unquenchably jealous of how they are carpe-diem-ing and being their own futures and guiding everyone home safely and a bunch of other cliches. I, having immediately lost my appetite because my stomach is clenched like a fist and my head feels like it's under water, order a rum and Coke. Make it a double. Because that's what you need during an anxiety attack -- booze. And then I set about an Emmy-winning performance of Woman Having the Best Night Ever. I'm laughing at everyone's jokes, and everyone is roaring at mine. I'm smothering my ridiculously handsome child -- who is also enviably well-behaved and immaculately dressed without even one speck of food on his shirt or in his hair -- with love and kisses and praise. Random strangers are bringing me flowers and certificates of appreciation. Pope Francis himself shows up and wants to shake my hand, even though I'm not Catholic. T.O.W.F.U.E. sees that I am the center of everyone's admiration and attention -- let's be honest, it would be hard to ignore -- and recognizes that I am The One Who Got Away. Regret stabs him to the core. He feels as though he is being smothered with a heavy wet blanket of guilt for the awful way he treated me. He is choked by a year's worth of dysfunction drowned in hurt and tears (all of them mine). He staggers out to his 2007 Kia Rio in silence, his family in tow, and never speaks of this moment of comeuppance again.
In reality, though, he may or may not even recognize me or care. And if he does, he would probably walk over with conceit and condescension (real or inferred), offer a light, non-committal hug, and tell me how wonderful it is to see me. And I would freeze, mumble something like "f you" that sounds a lot more like "you too," and spend the next 48 hours thinking of every clever and cutting thing I should have said.
The truth is it's not just about forgiving him, though he has plenty to be sorry for. Even if I forgive him, it's much harder to forgive myself for allowing him treat me so poorly for so long. For not having the fortitude to really believe that I could do better, and walk away long before the hurts became deep enough to scar. I wish I could go back to 25-year-old me and warn her how very not-worth-it this relationship is going to be. Instead, I'm just angry at her stupidity and naivete and neediness. Even now, all these years later and miles away.
We all have a tendency to look at yesterday's pictures through today's lens. Mostly it's nostalgia, which I've heard adds sparkly bits to all your memories. Sometimes it's resentment and anger, which are often excellent cover emotions for fear. In my case, fear of ever being weak and vulnerable and open to the wrong person again.
Maybe the one I need to slap is me. As in, Let it go already, when you knew better you did better. That's all you can do. Now let's go visit the Mall of America.
In college I heard a comedian say, "before you meet The One, you will meet The One Who F's Up Everything." Minneapolis guy is T.O.W.F.U.E. Although I haven't seen him in almost eight years, just the idea of accidentally running into him gives me anxiety. My stomach starts to knot, I break out in a cold sweat, and my head gets a little swimmy. I get this fear frequently when I'm in airports, because you just never know who you might run into at an airport. One time a friend of ours was stared at malevolently by Michael Keaton at Pittsburgh International Airport. He was drinking whiskey by himself. Because 1989 Batman can do whatever the hell he wants, that's why.
I am especially concerned I might see T.O.W.F.U.E. at one of the restaurants where we're scheduled to dine while in Minneapolis. I'd like to think it would happen like this: I see his familiar, stupid face across the crowded room full of my husband's loud co-workers. He's with his family: his wife is reminiscent of Quasimodo and his son bears a striking resemblance to Eddie Munster with buck teeth. He is, of course, taken aback by this group of attractive and fun-loving people who have run ramshod over his city for a few days. And he's jealous. Seethingly, unquenchably jealous of how they are carpe-diem-ing and being their own futures and guiding everyone home safely and a bunch of other cliches. I, having immediately lost my appetite because my stomach is clenched like a fist and my head feels like it's under water, order a rum and Coke. Make it a double. Because that's what you need during an anxiety attack -- booze. And then I set about an Emmy-winning performance of Woman Having the Best Night Ever. I'm laughing at everyone's jokes, and everyone is roaring at mine. I'm smothering my ridiculously handsome child -- who is also enviably well-behaved and immaculately dressed without even one speck of food on his shirt or in his hair -- with love and kisses and praise. Random strangers are bringing me flowers and certificates of appreciation. Pope Francis himself shows up and wants to shake my hand, even though I'm not Catholic. T.O.W.F.U.E. sees that I am the center of everyone's admiration and attention -- let's be honest, it would be hard to ignore -- and recognizes that I am The One Who Got Away. Regret stabs him to the core. He feels as though he is being smothered with a heavy wet blanket of guilt for the awful way he treated me. He is choked by a year's worth of dysfunction drowned in hurt and tears (all of them mine). He staggers out to his 2007 Kia Rio in silence, his family in tow, and never speaks of this moment of comeuppance again.
In reality, though, he may or may not even recognize me or care. And if he does, he would probably walk over with conceit and condescension (real or inferred), offer a light, non-committal hug, and tell me how wonderful it is to see me. And I would freeze, mumble something like "f you" that sounds a lot more like "you too," and spend the next 48 hours thinking of every clever and cutting thing I should have said.
We all have a tendency to look at yesterday's pictures through today's lens. Mostly it's nostalgia, which I've heard adds sparkly bits to all your memories. Sometimes it's resentment and anger, which are often excellent cover emotions for fear. In my case, fear of ever being weak and vulnerable and open to the wrong person again.
Maybe the one I need to slap is me. As in, Let it go already, when you knew better you did better. That's all you can do. Now let's go visit the Mall of America.
I think nearly every woman has one of these. He's the one Broke me. I simultaneously hate him and thank him. Without him, I would have been so much happier in the end. Without him, I wouldn't know the happiness that I have.
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