I am off to spend the day with Buzz, Leta, and Liam, but before I go, I thought I'd tell you one more time why the devil* is a busy man and God is having a grand old knee-slapper of a time presenting me with material for spiritual growth. Could work both ways, actually.
Let me tell y'all a little about how I behave after a break up. Once a relationship is over, it is for me, finished. There is no need to try to be friends. There is no need to send cards and notes and letters, and there is certainly no reason for the subject to call, IM, or email me ever again. I move on. I expect the subject to do the same.
Remember MHH? You know, the part-girl boyfriend I had all those years ago? The married one who "can't forget about me"?
MHH has caused me, in the last twelve hours, to rethink the only habit of my post-break up policy that might look like holding on. I do not delete people's phone numbers from my cell phone. My reason is that if the subject calls, I want to be sure to recognize the number so I don't pick up. (I do listen to voice mail and I will call back if there is a good reason to. And no, MHH, "it's raining and I am in Seattle and I can't stop thinking abou you" does not rise to the level of "good reason." Just saying).
So last night, I was out with my darling Sri, and we visited two bars, both crowded with drunk, lonely people. (It was much more fun than it sounds). We were having such a good time reviewing the results of my latest mammogram, talking trash about Headologist Bootstraps, and making fun of Larry and his bad teeth that the time just flew right on by. Before we knew it, it was 2am. Shocking.
On our way out, I was having some coordination problems - not - I hasten to add, with "walking" part of the exit, but with the "stuff your wallet, keys and cell phone back into your bag" part. So unweildy was this project, as I struggled into my coat and pushed the door open, that I found I needed and extra hand. So I put my cell phone, ever so gently, between my teeth until I could get out onto the sidewalk. When I took it out of my mouth, it was lit up and dialing MHH. That's right, people. Apparently my bite pattern is arranged such that incisor A hits the address book, cutter B hits, M, cutter C hits H, and incisor B hits call. All in perfect sequence.
Reader, against my will, I was calling MHH. At two in the morning.
I hit "end" before he could pick up. But apparently, he saved my number too, because he saw my call this morning and has been trying to call me back. Repeatedly.
If MHH calls me one more time, I might just pick up and tell him how much Thou Shalt Not he is committing by calling me. And you know what? From there, it's just a slippery slope that ends in us meeting in the park at 4 in the morning to make out.
Reader, I must never, ever answer that phone. Ever.
The life lessons one might glean from this experience are many. I don't know which ones apply, since I have parted ways with all sanity. You tell me. What should I learn from this debacle?
Don't date guys whose genes are scrambled?
Delete all old phone numbers?
Don't put your cell phone in your mouth?**
Stop having so much to say to Sri and be home by midnight?
Two drinks is quite enough, dumbass?
So, Happy Aftermath. I hope your tryptophan coma is mild and you can give me some good advice.
* God gets a capital letter and the devil does not. Good over evil. Etc.
**I am definitely going with this one. That was pure dumbassery.