This old universe of ours certainly has a peculiar little cadence, doesn't it. And try as we might to make sense of it and predict some of its twists and turns, in the end, we are all pretty helpless.
My on-again-off-again was happily on. Despite 3,000 miles between us, we had regular plans to see each other and were generally happy and in love, my room covered in post-its she left with sweet nothings of encouragement ("you're pretty talented and you're going to make it," a playful take on what I had requested, which was "you're pretty, talented and you're going to make it," may we never underestimate the importance of punctuation.) She, adorned with a bracelet that bearing the engravement "future wife." Sure, highs and lows abound, but as far as either of us were concerned, this was a relationship of matrimonial caliber. We met family, friends, and referred to each other with the rather uncreative moniker "wife."
On Saturday I was feeling particularly lovesick, still adjusting to a new life in Los Angeles, missing my friends and, on that day in particular, my wife.
iPhone, please play back the transcript:
"Miss you too babe. No sad, life is great," she said. "See you in 10 days."
"19 days," I corrected.
Followed by "Oops. Right. Damn."
And then a series of four un-recriprocated texts sent by me over the course of the next 36 hours ranging from exciting news about a show I've been working on, to an advisory that my feelings were being seriously affected by this radio silence.
Nothing.
Then an apology, she'd been partying all weekend and was, thus, unable to text me. Then a brief phone call, where she whispered she was unable to speak, as she had friends over.
Then emails sent from each of us simultaneously (within a minute) explaining all the reasons we should just be friends.
So, to recap, "I love you, I miss you," 36 hours of silence, and a break up.
Certainly not the series of events I had hoped for. What followed was a teary phone call to my mother who immediately agreed that no one should be mean to me like that, that she was not the woman for me, that mama loves me always, always, and to never be afraid of crying.
Then a commercial audition for Dish TV, where I was chipper and professional--I told you, the universe is a bitch.
A walk to the liquor store for a mediocre bottle of wine, which I am drinking with ice in it, because I am a lady.
A couple of short, confusing, emails, a friend sending me a link to an apartment in his building that would be perfect for my girlfriend and I because he knows we've been looking for a two bedroom and how much she loves Santa Monica, a perfunctory look at match.com, just in case, and a cold CocaCola, which always somehow seems to cure what ails me.
My manager called me when I found out to make sure I was ok, if I needed popcorn and a movie, but I have a show tonight, and if there is one lesson with which the universe and I are in perfect accord, it is that the show must go on.
On Saturday, I missed my girlfriend terribly. On Sunday, my girlfriend was terrible, and today, the sky is a perfect pathetic fallacy of the tears falling down my face. I will never pretend that I understand the way the world works. I continue to wonder at what point my ex decided it was over, and at what point I, too, resigned that it was. Certainly, there must have been a place before those 36 hours of silence where one of us knew we were approaching a point of no return--that a refusal to send a "busy, love! Talk tomorrow!" was becoming a matter of la grande vie and le petit mort.
And now here I am, wine in hand, Pandora carefully curated to walk me through this crisis. It may be rainy and sad today, but let it not go unnoticed that I live in a world where nine days out of ten there is sun: metaphorically, that world is a lot of meditation, journaling and positive thinking. Literally, it is Los Angeles.
My roommate offered an unsolicited and entirely unhelpful opinion, and surely there will be more of those to come, but that's life. Timing is everything.
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