Goodbye 2010

Unsurprisingly, my meeting with Alejandro did not go as planned. When I walked into the bar, there he sat with a vodka and coke, in a light blue button down with those bright blue eyes and his dark wavy hair at just the length I liked. The knot in my stomach grew as I took a deep breath and pulled up a bar stool next to him. We held the old obligatory cordial conversation routine of how have you beens and what’s news that were required to be asked, but in reality, the questions’ answers were immaterial. I didn’t care that he had scored a hat-trick at soccer on Tuesday night and my story of falling on a patch of black ice outside of Mad River after a few too many glasses of wine at trivia night was completely irrelevant as to why we were now uncomfortably sitting at a bar with a bag of my belongings between us.

The conversation quickly turned when Alejandro addressed our break, “I’ve really missed you, Bacchus. But when I said I needed a break, some time to sort things out, I didn’t mean a full on break up as you so eloquently wrote about.”

“Well I don’t do breaks, Alejandro. You’re either with me or you’re not,” I replied with my voice cracking, willing the tears that had welled up in my eyes to magically evaporate just as quickly as they had sprung.

“Why does everything have to be so black and white with you? There’s never any room for a little bit of grey. I just needed some time.” Ironically, Pearl Jam’s “Better Man” was playing in the background.

I excused myself and went into the bathroom before a public emotional breakdown could ensue. I wasn’t about to be that sad, pathetic girl crying in her beer, slightly hyperventilating with snot running out her nose—that move was so 2009.

I looked in the mirror and took a few deep breaths, wondering when this rollercoaster ride of love with Alejandro would end—or would it? Maybe he was right, maybe a little grey now and then was ok. But I had never been one for grey.

I returned to my seat and faced him, unsure of what to say next. Alejandro grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes, “You know I care about you, Bacchus.”

I held his hand tight and didn’t want to let go. Our hand holding turned into a hug, the hug into a kiss, and the kiss into another, and another, and another. One thing that was for certain is that I was grey about whether all of this was wrong or right—it felt so right in the moment, but any outsider looking in would have said, what a fool that girl is, she better be blind drunk with an IV of Jameson straight to her liver.

Before I knew it, we were heading out the door and south on Third Avenue, Alejandro’s one hand carrying my bag of belongings, his other squeezing my hand tight, leading me back to his apartment, back to where this whole ride of ups, downs, and spinning around and around had started. And if you’re confused about what happened next, I hope you’re extremely high on salvia.

As I spent a week in Ohio for the holidays, everyone wanted to know if I had in fact gotten my stuff back from Alejandro, were we still together? I smiled and nodded, telling my grandmother, my uncle, Cakes, Chico, La Bamba, Rulalenska, St. Nick, and hell, even the waitress at Coccia House that everything was great. But deep down I knew it was still a situation of grey—except it was a shade of grey I was now willing to accept, whether right, wrong, un-black, un-white, or just plain foolish.

When my flight back to New York was cancelled due to the Blizzard of 2010, I was forced to rent a car and drive back to the city unless I wanted to stay in Ohio until March of 2011 (not an option as much as I love sledding off the back of a tractor and drinking Jack Daniels before noon). So it was me, a white 2010 Nissan Versa, 479.2 miles of open road, and eight hours of country music to reflect on the past year. So thank you Kenny, Tim, Taylor, Carrie, and even you too, you oldster Reba—you’ve soothed my soul with all the twang an Ohio girl could ask for under severe highway hypnosis.

And what a year 2010 has been in love, hangovers, and that brief quarter life crisis. So goodbye 2010 and goodbye to the bullshit of Billy Blue; goodbye to drooling, farting, snoring Jason who wanted to be “held like a baby” and left behind his sweaty socks as a parting gift; goodbye to Yankee Jim who so gracelessly tried to recreate the hallway scene from Unfaithful; goodbye to Guitar Jim who may or may not have cheated on his girlfriend had he had one more shot of chilled Stoli O; and lastly, goodbye to Jimmy Bats (sigh), the one who got away—ok, the one I could never have. And as for Alejandro, it wasn’t quite time to say adios just yet.

Who knows what 2011 will bring in all things love, but here’s to a new year of sex and hangovers on the Upper East Side!

The Un-Perfect Match

Chilled Stoli O shots paired with Ricky Roche’s live music at Tin Lizzie the night prior had left me less than calm, cool, and collected as I prepared for my “neutral” meeting with Alejandro. Rather, I was experiencing the next-day-shakes as I sweated out vodka and tried to cover up the bags under my eyes with my two-year-old Chantecaille concealer. I was less than prepared and could have used at least ninety minutes more sleep, but it was time to end this Alejandro love rollercoaster once and for all.

Before heading out the door, I sat down at the island in my kitchen to have a cup of much-needed detoxifying green tea and do a little Facebook stalking in an effort to calm my nerves. As I was perusing my 1,351 “Friends'” most recent status updates, a glint of something black and shiny caught my eye. In the middle of my pile of junk mail and irrelevant documents (including my Social Security statement which would be null and void thirty years from now) was my black patent Claire’s Boutique wallet from high school that my Dad had come across in our basement when digging out the Christmas decorations over Thanksgiving.

Aside from the Subway Club card, the only other interesting thing of note in my old wallet was my high school boyfriend’s senior picture. Even more noteworthy than the fact that he looked about fourteen (which, in turn, made me feel like somewhat of a pedophile) was the note he had written on the back of the photo.

My clumsy, ticklish, cute, cuddly Bacchus. I’ll never forget our first date at Jenny’s house where I puked and passed out, yet you still wanted to go out with me.

Christ, I knew how to pick ‘em even back then. Well, at least I’m consistent, I thought to myself as I read on.

How could I ever say no to you, considering you are the perfect match for me. I’ll never forget you or the million memories we have. Love, Jameson

I smiled to myself as I put the photo back into my wallet. How easy dating was back then. You told your friends who you had a crush on, then they told your crush’s friends, then your crush’s friends told your crush, and before you knew it, you were skipping school to lose your virginity in a less-than-romantic setting with a more-than-awkward sequence of fumbling, grabbing, grasping, and heavy breathing that lasted, at most, twenty-five seconds.

For a good two years Jameson and I were the perfect match for each other, in a world where your biggest concern was making sure your hair was perfectly curled for the Friday night football game and who’s parents would be out of town for Homecoming weekend. Thoughts and stress of work, renewing apartment leases, health insurance, and 401k’s never crossed our minds—how could they with the impending stress of prom, college applications, and getting caught drinking the weekend before summer began?

The simple words on the back of a picture, written almost ten years ago, put into perspective the lack of perfect matches in my life. If Alejandro had been the perfect match for me, I wouldn’t be heading to The Black Sheep in Murray Hill, our “neutral” location, to have our final talk. I suddenly had a knot in my stomach, in addition to the nausea I had had since waking up that morning.

As I got out of the cab, lost in my thoughts of how to make this talk as quick and painless as possible, I was suddenly jarred to the present as a passerby going in the opposite direction rammed directly into my left shoulder.

Jesus, people’s sidewalk manners in this neighborhood are atrocious, I thought to myself as I made a vow to not come back to Murray Hill until 2011.

“Oh, excuse me,” the passerby mumbled as he turned around to acknowledge that we were simply walking down a sidewalk rather than engaging in a game of rugby in the middle of Third Avenue. I bit my tongue to hold back the rude remark I would have loved to fire back at the violent sidewalk walker. I looked up as I went to formulate a more socially acceptable response to find The Realtor grinning at me, ear to ear.

“You asshole. Learn how to walk.” I replied as I punched him in his left shoulder. I was completely unsurprised that of all days, of all neighborhoods, in front of all the bars in Manhattan, I would run into this ex-lover as I was on my way to meet an ex-boyfriend. If this was a sign from God, I supposed that I better take it.

“What are you doing down here, anyways?” he asked. I looked back and forth, hoping Alejandro was already inside, as I really didn’t need to be making any awkward introductions in my hungover, emotionally vulnerable state.

“Oh, I know why you’re here,” The Realtor replied knowingly before I could answer. “I forgot he lived in this neighborhood.”

“I’m just getting the rest of my stuff,” I justified and turned to walk into the bar.

“I expect a call later tonight—unless of course, he conveniently forgets to bring your stuff,” he laughed in jest as I gave him the finger and opened the door to the bar. One non-perfect match down for the night, one more to go…