Stop giving me that look. I know, I vanished for a couple of weeks, but in my defence, work is crazy hectic right now, and the only time I have to sit and type anything is, well, right now. That’s right, I’ve skived work for you, that’s how much I love you. No? Not buying it? 10 to 1 I will get an email tukanaing me over my ‘alleged’ reasons for my absence, but that is my story and I’m sticking to it, so there! That was for OGAO, who is currently reading this with one eye, not believing a bloody word I say (I’m right, aren’t I madam?) and for the outspoken leader of the legion of 36, also reading this with one eye and muttering, ‘she’d better have a good story to tell me, or else…’ Folks, I do in fact have a story to tell you. Its more wrap-up than story, it’s the end of a story I started a year ago, and it has…wait for it…a happy ending. No really, it does.
Just so you know, it also has some girly TMI, so walk away if you’re too macho for emotions and shit.
Remember the guy whose baggage I was carrying, beginning of last year? I called him Mr ‘the feelings are gone’, because that was the line he gave me when we broke up, and by broke up I mean he dumped my ass. In a most cruel manner. How did he do it? First he avoided me for several months, in person and to a lesser extent telephonically (is that even a real word?). And when he would occasionally resurface, having been forced to do so by my relentless stalking, he would be quite nasty to me; abrupt, dismissive, downright hostile, mean, snarky (that’s polite for bitchy), moody…you name it, he did it. Goes without saying that there was no sex. Then one day he seemed different, better I thought. He was almost nice, even though you could see the strain on his face when he tried to smile, but hey, at least he wasn’t being nasty, right? Wrong. That night, after a tense morning, we met up for drinks in the evening.
Slight detour, the person who told men that a bar is a good place to have a serious discussion with your woman is an idiot. When I find said idiot, I will shoot them in their silly mouth. Back to the ill-fated drinks.
Over the course of a couple of cocktails, or whatever I was drinking that night… Hang on, that’s a lie, I remember what I was drinking, what I was wearing, where I was sitting, how I was sitting, I even remember guy sitting next to me (Paco, my original reason for being in the bar after work, but that’s a whole other story, one I’ve already told). So yes, I was drinking whiskey. We, soon to be ex and I, began talking about how off he had been (his words) and how something was definitely wrong (my words). He told me, and don’t laugh, “I’m not what you’re looking for, you’re looking for a man to marry.” I don’t think I’ve paraphrased, but I have been known to have a very selective memory, so perhaps that’s not entirely accurate, but you get the gist. I told the man that I was not looking to get married, not in the near future anyhow, what with a fledgling business struggling to get off the ground and a bank balance so far below zero it was approaching negative infinity (still is come to think of it, shame man!). I reassured the man that if that was his only concern, then we had no problems, we were nowhere near marriage. Oh how right I was.
After much more talking, more waffling on his part, more reassuring on my part, he announced that it was time to go home, because he wanted to fuck me, or was it he wanted to get fucked? Yes, there is a difference. I was elated, I thought we were back on course. Until he kissed me half an hour later, and something was very, very wrong. I mean revolting wrong. I have never been one to buy into that ‘his touch was different’ bullshit, but his kiss was different. I pulled away, and asked what was wrong, and that’s when I got the now famous line. All together now…’the feelings are gone’.
I burst into tears. I cried like I never had before, or have since. I cried like a fucking child. You know that ugly crying, the one of the howling like a wounded creature, snot running down into your mouth, tears dripping off your chin, shoulders heaving, the works? I cried like a mother (and by that I mean mofo, not mother of child, mother of child would make no sense in this context, no?). Please note, this is not after the fact, the bugger was sitting right there, frozen. Poor bastard couldn’t walk away, what kind of callous bastard walks away when a woman starts crying, right? But you know he wanted to make like Kemboi and high tail it out of there. Luckily for him, the tears didn’t last that long, I think my pride kicked in, and I went home. Strange thing is, I didn’t cry when I got home. In retrospect, I’ve decided that the crying was part grief and part release, it was the culmination of months of uncertainty and fear, and the relief that it was finally over. I know it sounds odd, but it felt like I was shedding something (explains the howling, no? Don’t laugh, it was real howling, given that I sound kidogo growly on normal days…). I didn’t cry again until two days after, in the car, in traffic, out of the blue. Same horrible crying, and it must have looked as horrible as it felt, because the guy in the next lane looked scared for his life. Even with two layers of metal and glass between us, men still get scared by tears, useless buggers. That was the second to last good cry I had over that man.
Life continued after that break up, as life tends to. I worked, I slept, I partied like a fool, drank more than I should have, crushed on a couple of unfortunate men, shagged a couple other unfortunate men, mended my friendship with my heartbreaking ex as best I could, slowly but surely mended myself. I’m skimming, of course, because I see little purpose in taking you through the depths to which I sunk.
Wait, I’ve already told you about my crying, don’t think there’s much of any face left to be saved, is there?
In the first six months after that break up I was a mess. Literally. I looked like shit, I felt like shit, and if it wasn’t for perfume I suspect I would have smelt like shit too (not literally, I did remember to keep clean most days). I would work all week, as fate would have it I had just landed the biggest project my biashara had ever handled, and then I would drink all weekend. Halfway through, on a warm Easter evening, I even funga’d a (seemingly willing) man, thrilled to have a man looking down my shirt, any man at that point. Thrilled, that is, until he got up off his chair and didn’t really get much taller. Ladies, here’s a piece of free advice. If you happen to meet a man sitting down, reserve your advances until he stands up. Why? Male and female torsos are approximately similar lengths, for people of average build the difference in height is because of the different length of legs. What I’m saying is, you can’t tell how tall a man is until he stands up (and stands up, you know?). The man I funga’d? He wasn’t a midget, but let’s just say I was glad I was in flats, it made the difference less troubling, but only slightly less. Whenever I need to remember just how bad things got, I remember that night, not because I shagged a man shorter than me, but because when he stood up I no longer wanted to shag him, in part because he was, and I assume still is, short (there’s more to it, but it’s a long and convoluted tale), but I did it anyway. I was too shy, and too desperate, to change my mind and walk away. And because I know there are a couple of short men looking at me badly right now, let me just point out that despite my misgivings, that little bastard had game. Yes, I woke up somewhat revolted, but at myself, not at him. Him I smiled at, and then ran away, never to see him again. True, and embarrassing, story.
In case you haven’t picked up on what’s going on, today I’m laying all my shit out. Well, not all, just the bit concerning this one old relationship. Don’t worry, the happy ending is coming. Patience grasshoppers…
It took the better part of a year, but eventually I got better, almost my old self, if somewhat more jaded. The ex and I were almost BFF’s again, almost, both of us trying to date and/or shag other people. And each other, but that’s also another story I have told you before. The tipping point in my recovery, our recovery (as much as I am loath to admit it, there were two wounded parties in this scenario), came many months after the end, possibly a year later, I don’t recall exactly, oddly enough. We were having after work drinks (yes, I see how often drinks come up in reference to this man, and yes, I know that makes both of us look like complete lushes, but that’s just they way it goes, we have drinks every so often, that was, and continues, to be our thing. I’m starting to see why it didn’t work out…), and we got to talking about this girl, his pet obsession back then, she that had haunted our relationship, she that continued to haunt him. In talking about her, it finally hit me that I was never that chick to him, and nothing I could have said or done would ever have changed that fact (this is how I knew what I was seeing with Mr D, remember?). The relief was surprisingly exhilarating. After spending God only knows how much time beating myself up over my alleged failure, I was finally off the hook. It wasn’t my fault. I cried. Again. Yes, I was kinda weepy around this bugger, but at least that time it was more of a quick silent sob in the ladies, not the mucus one of before. And that is the last time I cried over that man.
He has pissed me off some, since then, done several jackass things (he does has a gift), even woken me up in the wee hours for an ill-timed booty call (yes, that was him). The reason he was still making the odd (no longer) conjugal visit, long after the cessation of conjugal rights? This man was my TGB, he was my first HD experience and you know what they say about HD, once you go HD your D is never the same. That may be the crassest, yet cleverest, thing I’ve said all day… I was saying, the man has been an ass on several occasions, as have I, but somehow we’ve managed to remain good friends, disturbingly good friends, despite all our dramas. These days, we’re just friends, without any attendant benefits, have been for over a year now. And in that year of no comfort sex, he finally went out and got himself a woman. Yes, I am saying that the lack of an emergency shag was the push he needed to start looking seriously, men only look when they are without. Have I lied, gentlemen? Didn’t think so.
The man has found a woman. Not a girl mind you, those ones he had, silly bastard (the day he gives me permission, I must tell you about the one he locked in his house. Its a very good story, yet troubling on very many levels…). The man has got himself a real grown ass woman.
Which brings us back to the beginning and the happy ending I promised.
The man is in love. My ex is in love. Not simple ‘I really like you and the shag is good’ love. Love love. ‘I wanna have babies with you’ love. ‘I’m taking you home to meet my mother’ love. ‘I keep talking about you all night long in the bar instead of being a normal man and ogling small girls’ love. It’s disgusting! But in a good way.
What’s that? You don’t see how this could be a good thing? Well, this is a man who has previously only known various shades of love, the ‘I love hanging out with you’ love, and the ‘damn, you cook a mean stew’ love, the ‘I love that you blow me when we get home drunk’ love. Wait, scratch the last one, that’s not love, that’s love of own dick. Point is, this man knew some love, but now he claims to know all love. That’s right, the man says he is in love. His fluffy words, not mine.
And I’m happy for him. Worse, I keep telling him not to fuck it up.
I’m the idiot listening to his stories of how good everything is, how excited he is, and how scared he is, and smiling. I’m the fucking cheerleader, pushing him down that aisle he’s eyeing (the man is talking nuptials, for real). I’m the idiot backing off family functions, his family not mine, because I know how hard it is to meet his clan (I love them dearly, but they are six kinds of special, and they don’t seem to understand the whole ‘your brother dumped me’ story, God bless ’em). I’m the friend who knew he was in love with her, and her him, before the two idiots put it together for themselves (or so they claim. Say it with me…really?). I’m the woman who will be taking happy pictures at the wedding, scratch that, the woman in the happy pictures at that wedding, because I am no longer heartbroken. This is disgusting! But in a good way.
The title of the post is off the soundtrack, Wilson Phillips’ ‘You’re in love’. I shall not talk about it, because it’s one of those songs no black person from Africa should acknowledge loving (kinda like Michael Bolton), and I will deny its addictive three part harmony till the day I die, but dammit it’s just so lovely…
Open the door and come in
I’m so glad to see you my friend
Don’t know how long it has been
Having those feelings again.
And now I see that you’re so happy
And ooh, it just sets me free
And I’d like to see
Us as good of friends
As we used to be…
It’s such a fluffy song, it makes me wanna cry. I mock myself.
And so ends the tale of Mr ‘the feelings are gone’, long may he prosper! He is a good man for being the source of many tales on this here blog. By the way, he doesn’t really know about all this, so if you could keep it to yourself, I’d be most appreciative. Cheers.