In the spaciousness of everything, in all the time and all the things I've yet to know about the Cappo Comedy Writer, to say I didn't expect this was an understatement. I'd deliberately employed a careful cocktail of nonchalance, terribly low expectations and detachment to this endeavor. In fact, I'd even hesitate to call it that as if naming it would bring the Furies upon me. Is it ironic it gets the same treatment as Voldemort? Oh yeah, this whole thing is That Which Shall Not Be Named.
"Oh, boy, are you still mad at me?," he wrote again one day. I ignored it.
"Hi, really, are you ok?," he asked again the next day. I ignored it.
"Ok, so I really wasn't just saying hi back then," he admitted the day after that. I ignored it.
"I'm really sorry. Please stop being mad, please. I think about you all the time and I didn't know what I was doing. I don't think of you that way at all. Don't be mad anymore. Please?," he pleaded again. "And yeah, I get you're into someone else now," he finally added.
"I'm sorry," I practically choked in disbelief, "But are you actually ANGRY that I'm free? This, this is what you're mad about now?"
"Kind of, yeah. I won't be able to stop myself from pestering you," he sounded seriously miffed at this revelation while I gawped at how the conversation had turned.
I'd lied this far, I might as well stay consistent. "This really doesn't change anything. I'm IN LOVE with someone else, you are too, things could change with her, it could be a ploy you know that. Besides, it's been years. You've ignored me for YEARS."
"I kept all your messages," he said quietly. "Every one of them since 2009. Should I delete them?" I hated him instantly for telling me that, then realized this was precisely how he felt. "No," I sighed tiredly,"it's your history, I've no right to tell you what to do with it. Besides, I kept yours too. And I wrote you stupid messages I never sent." This was misery. I stared at my phone willing it to burst into flames.
This time around, I read his annual apology with unfettered irritation. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for everything and how I behaved. Please don't feel like you should respond - I just hope you get this and know that I still think about you and feel awful for what I did," he wrote and after a few minutes of my silence, sent another message adding,"I wanted to say my behavior isn't because I'm this sort of person but other reasons. I'm sorry."
fifty shades of chicken: a parody in cookbook
Every year since 2010, he had returned with an apology. Normally it was a solitary email that never went anywhere. There are many ways to say sorry, but only a few to prove one means it. He never lingered after each one, never when I responded with kindness or some attempt at coaxing him beyond the minimum of contact he allowed himself. Never with an explanation.
I'd surmised after all this time that it was a lot like Lent and penance, all I had to do was watch him flog himself in guilt. Be silent like the wailing wall. Maybe this was really a conversation he was having with himself and I was nothing but a construct he could direct things to.
I waited to be amused, but there was something patently unfunny about it. In fact, I was angry. Terribly so. At myself for having even cared in the first place, though that couldn't be helped now could it? But mostly at him for disturbing my peace.
Beyond his "ghost-bolting" as the Golden Venus would term it, why after all this time, was I angry? I could feel the heat creeping up my cheeks, my hair curling at the flushed warmth. I believed as always that the mystique men inadvertently employ is something women undeservedly bestow them. There is no mystery. At all.
Here was a man who couldn't leave well enough alone, for every selfish reason I could think of. He had sent me the message 4 days before my birthday, right as I was resolutely planning the birthday dinner to end all birthday dinners, right when I all wanted to do was to celebrate pulling through certain even yet unfinished chapters in my life. And now this?
As most of you who read this know, this blog is almost two years old. When I think about it now, it seems surprising that I've managed to fill it with so many juicy details, it's pretty moist all around - with thoughts, tears, sex and emotion. Writing that makes me think I should have a bit of a harder time lifting my laptop for all the imagined weight of its content. Or that WOW, I really did get around in the last few years.
I started writing this post back in July, yes that's right JULY. So it's a bit funny to pick up where my summer self left off, specially now in the after-sigh of Christmas. I hadn't meant to disappear, I never do. It's always for the usual reasons, the bread, the butter and everything in between. So I come back always a little surprised at finding myself again. I imagine the words creak on. I've been writing alright, at work and mainly in the language of lawyers and rules and science. In words so concrete and heavy, they squash all the other softer things I'd have to say.
FA on feathers, fangs, furies and all sorts of folly, yes, even the serious kind.
content copyright 2011
Yep, my life, my insanity, my copyright. If you like what you read, let me know :)
Did I use your image & attribute it incorrectly? Sorry! Let me know and I'll take it down. "Sssshhhh" image on blog header by Deborah Azzopardi. It's an amazing print now available thru Ikea.