After receiving Alejandro’s message stating his refusal to see or speak with me after my somewhat dramatic, or if spun by a Euro, “ridiculous” outburst via BBM the night prior, I was in no mood for Halloween tricks or treats. Thankfully, the mental health gods were looking upon me as I already had an appointment with my shrink on the books for that afternoon. As I trudged up Second Avenue on that gloomy fall day, dodging dog dung and construction workers’ cat calls all the way to 91st Street, I replayed the chain of events in my head—just how “ridiculous” had I been with Alejandro last night?
I had called Alejandro after my bartending shift around 1:00am to see if I should meet him at either his apartment or a bar. After my phone call went unanswered and unreturned, I sent over a quick, two-line BBM inquiring about his whereabouts. Thanks to the modern day technologies of BlackBerry Messenger, I was then able to see that my message to Alejandro was not only successfully delivered to his phone, but also read by the phone’s owner (a.k.a. Alejandro for anyone who isn’t following this simple rundown of “ridiculousness”). It was then that it became apparent that my boyfriend of six months was quite simply ignoring me.
I found this behavior unacceptable and unsettling--and this wasn't the first red flag to be raised recently. Two nights prior I had taken him out for a fabulous birthday dinner at Flex Mussels and was denied “dessert” when we got home due to too much wine and the old “I’m tired” excuse. Hell, The Realtor and Jeremy were well over thirty and I had never heard any hackneyed horseshit from them in love affairs past. So in between the denial of sex and blatantly being ignored, as well as a few other of life's factors, I was upset, suspicious, and downright pissed. Hence, the string of "ridiculous" BBM's that followed.
I plopped down into Dr. Zemkoff’s chair and poured out my heart, a few tears, and a buck seventy-five. An empty wallet, a few Kleenex, and two new prescriptions later, I found myself on the M15 to Murray Hill. Alejandro's and my relationship was suddenly staring the porcelain gods in the face and I was latrine-bent on giving it my all before it flushed itself down the toilet and into the Hudson River. I picked up a dozen yellow roses, a package of Reese’s Cups, and scribbled an apology note. “Ridiculous” behavior fixed.
A few hours later Alejandro called to thank me for the flowers. I was all smiles as he went on and on about how thoughtful I was and how he appreciated my efforts to apologize. But my smile quickly vanished when Alejandro said, “I think we should take a break.”
Tears sprung to my eyes for the second time that day. “Wait, what?” I stammered with confusion as my heart sank and my stomach tied itself into a knot.
“Just for like two weeks . I think we just need to take a step back,” Alejandro explained with that English accent that suddenly wasn’t so charming. Wanker!
I was no foolish girl who pumped herself full of fables and falsehoods in an effort to avert the negative thoughts of lying, cheating, and/or scumbag boyfriends. I was a jaded New Yorker who had played (and lost) this dating game a few too many times and I had received Alejandro’s message loud and clear.
“But I really do think we can make this work,” he droned on. “Let’s sit down tomorrow and talk face to face.”
Translation: I don’t feel like dealing with girl drama tonight. I’d rather go out and drink with my friends.
“I don’t think there’s really anything to discuss at this point.” I snidely replied while trying to muffle a sniffle. “If you really wanted to talk about it, you would talk to me tonight.”
As Alejandro retorted to my somewhat cutting commentary, I slipped on my jacket, grabbed my keys and purse, and slammed my door behind me. I found myself in front of Bailey’s Corner Pub. I said goodbye to Alejandro and walked into the bar with mascara running down my face.
“Jameson and ginger, please.” I ordered. In an uncertain world full of assholes and Englishmen, it’s good to know that you can always count on an Irishman…