Independence Day
July 4, 2010
Everything changed from the time I arrived in Chicago nine days ago to arriving home in Cleveland today.
Early morning two Fridays ago I was showing off my newly planted garden to my boyfriend Vincent*. On advice of a feng-shui expert and with the guidance of my next-door neighbors, I planted purple and gold flowers in my wealth corner and pink and white ones in my love corner. Holding hands with Vincent and looking at this beautiful and lovely nature blooming gave me great hope of both my garden and the man grasping my hand. We kissed each other good-bye in my backyard.
“So, we’ll talk every night,” I repeated our agreed-upon plan.
“Yes,” he replied as we walked past my now-loaded with heavy luggage car and towards his sporty and manly SUV.
After giving our final hugs, he got into his car and drove off while I went back inside the house to take a pre-road trip shower.
Vincent and I just weathered a major storm in our relationship and I was so looking forward to attending my 20-year high school reunion in Chicago, knowing that I had my wonderful man to come back to later. In fact, the night of the reunion, while everyone was genuinely happy to see each other, I escaped to the balcony to quickly call Vince after receiving a text from him.
“I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
I was also looking forward to the second weekend of July. This would be a time where he wouldn’t have all his time dedicated to his important priorities: his kids (3 teenagers) or softball (coaches his younger daughter’s game) or his work pager (which earns him extra money). The second weekend of July was important to me because the 2-month softball season would finally be over. That weekend was going to be our weekend. Our time together. Our staycation. The last time we spent that kind of quality time together was months ago, a few weeks after we met.
To think that it’s all over, no more our, just me – it beguiles me. As this story so-far is being written “Momento”-style, I’ll now flash you back to the beginning.
On Friday, April 9, 2010, I had my first date with Vincent. I met him at The Harp, an old-school Irish pub on Cleveland’s near west side. We communicated via eHarmony and something about our emails conveyed a realized, smart, with-it kind of man. I knew he had three kids and I knew he was a hands-on dad. It’s what made him so attractive to me: a man who sticks to commitments and values real priorities. He had been divorced 10 years, and in that decade, turned his whole life around to be a healthy adult and a good provider for his family.
So when I walked into the Harp, dressed in my best black, complete with my “Matrix”-like long black leather coat, and running fifteen minutes late, I saw him – blue jeans, beige wafer long sleeved shirt and running shoes. At first I didn’t react. But then, we started to talk. I have no idea what we talked about, but we kept talking. And then I noticed his eyes – piercing blue, like the Mediterranean Sea. I also sensed that despite his frame – he wasn’t much taller than me – he had a very manly presence about him including a firm handshake and a deep voice. Suddenly, I found him sexy.
At 11:15pm, two hours (but what felt like two minutes) later, the bar tender asked for the last call. We were the only two left in the place. We headed out, mutually disappointed about the closing time as the conversation was getting deep and good. We said good-bye in the parking lot and both got into our individual cars.
On the drive home, I felt so happy. There were other guys I was going on casual dates with, as recent as five days prior, but as far as I was concerned, I didn’t need to see any of them again. I just wanted to get to know Vincent more. So as I took Clifton Blvd. to my house, I noticed that the new Clifton Martini was open and I made a U-turn, parked next to the curb and texted my new blue-eyed friend, who was heading back to Akron.
“Are you far?” I asked
“No, why?”
“There’s a martini bar that’s open. Would you like to join me?”
“Sure.”
And not even 20 minutes later, he showed up. We called it date 1.2. We talked and talked and talked and then one of us realized it 2:45am.
We got up, said our good-byes, again, and headed outside. I arrived home at 3am, only to get a text from him at 3:15.
“I had a great time. I’d like to see you, again.”
“Ok, when…call me.” I replied.
And he did. We spoke, and the next evening he drove to my place. We had dinner at The Lighthouse, another fabulous restaurant on Cleveland’s near west side. We agreed to split a steak dinner and a salmon dinner. Though the salmon dinner was bad, the conversation flowed. I told him about all the things you’re not supposed to tell a guy on a second date – what I’m really looking for and how I need a best friend who will support me in my dreams. Given that so many of my friends had just moved away, I finally realized how important it was to meet someone with whom I can trust my dreams with, share my concerns and lean on that person, and have him know that he could lean on me. His reply, looking me straight in the eye with those blue eyes of his was “Absolutely.”
After dinner, we got a couple of hot chocolates at the Clifton Starbuck’s and then came to my house, where we ended up watching “The Rocker,” which is, ironically, about Cleveland. We both cracked up the whole time. At a certain point, I took his hand. He then squeezed mine. Eventually, we kissed and the chemistry was off the charts.
For the next four weeks, we spent so much time together – quality time. It literally didn’t matter what we did, so whether it was elevating our blood pressure watching the Cavs in the playoffs, laughing at stupid jokes or being engrossed in a 2 ½ hour European film with subtitles (“The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” after which we stayed up another 2 ½ hours discussing the story,) whatever Vincent and I did, we simply enjoyed each other’s company. He’d cook for me, I’d cook for him. I’d ask him about his work and his kids and he’d offer wise advice for my business. He loved that I was a writer and kept reminding me of how cool that was.
I felt such a strong emotional, intellectual and physical connection with him and he did the same with me. He’d call me every night, just to tell me how, in previous relationships he’d want to run, but with me, it was easy to be together and how natural and fun and good everything feels. Every weeknight, it was 2am before we’d realize how late it’d gotten.
After one that one month, we had the exclusivity conversation and considered each other boyfriend / girlfriend.
I remember that he shared some critical information upfront, like “I wish I’d met you after softball.” I didn’t really understand it. Never dated a softball player or coach.
The Friday before Mother’s Day weekend, he came over since the following afternoon I was preoccupied picking my Mom up from the airport who was staying at my place for the weekend. (Given we only dated for a month, neither of us found it appropriate to divulge our relationship to our parents.) We were watching tv in my basement and suddenly, it felt like machine guns were attacking my roof – and then there was a blackout. A severe storm was in the area. Instead of panic or concern we just smiled naughtily, grabbed some candles, went upstairs and took advantage of the weather.
Who knew that the storm served as our relationship metaphor for the next two months?
Softball then began, and with it, nightly practices and weekend games. He’s the head coach of his daughter’s team and since it was way inappropriate for me to meet the kids, I could never physically be there to show support. We still saw each other, but each time we did, Vincent was more and more tired and I suddenly felt emotionally disconnected from him. About two weeks later he texted me and broke off plans. First time that ever happened. His reason: everything was getting to him and he couldn’t do this unless it was a “weekend” relationship.
The night he broke off plans, by chance, while flipping channels, I caught one of Wayne Dyer’s specials where he discusses “the full cup” as a metaphor for the priorities of our lives. This resonated. This was Vincent’s life. A cup already full before my arrival.
Later, I prayed to G-d, asking me to handle this situation with peace, kindness and, most importantly, self-respect. I had recently worked through some major life-long anger issues and this was my first test of reaction to an unpleasant situation. And then Vince called. I was convinced he’d wanted to break up, and never having handled break ups well before, I needed to show strength and honesty.
So we talked, and we talked, and we talked. And I shared the full cup theory I just learned, then I asked him why was he getting in his own way, given that, on our first date he told me about his three big-life dreams (which also turned out to be mine): fiscal security, having a place in the south and finding a special person to enjoy all this with. He admitted, “You’re right, I am getting in my own way.” Suddenly, he calmed down, and I felt reconnected with him.
“Listen Vincent, what we have is special.”
“It is, Alex, this is why all of this is so hard. You don’t think I realize our connection?”
“So I can wait through softball. It’s just over a month.”
And so we agreed. We had a plan: dates on Thursdays and Sundays, weekends when possible and I asked him about two specific June dates when I wanted to be with him. Also, we’d talk every night, but from 11 to 12, which seemed reasonable to me.
Every night, true to his word, he called and we spent most of those nights discussing softball. As someone who has almost never played the game, I felt I could coach it after the eight-week, play-by-play I got from Vince every night. But we also talked about my work, my writing and one night, at his place, I even read one of my published stories to him, which he really enjoyed.
As happy as I was to work out a plan and spend some time with him, I could still tell he was pulling back. How? Normal actions faded. My emails would go unanswered. Sometimes so would my texts. Exhaustion substituted casualness and the joy was gone.
A few weeks later I felt ready to break up with him. I needed more. The way things were going, I was beginning to lose that lovin’ feeling. He called one night and I asked “Are you happy?” And he, being smart, stayed up till 2am that night convincing me to stay, to be patient, not to run, and to be there when the season was over. He liked me so much and he’s trying so hard. And how he’s willing to stay up all night to have this conversation, because it’s important. I gave in.
He did show up for the two dates in June, meeting my childhood friends from Chicago and, for the first time, my local friends here in Cleveland. When I thanked him, he said “I wanted to be there. I’m glad I was there.”
By the time Thursday before my trip to Chicago rolled around, we agreed upon seeing each other on July 4th after my return, and spending the following weekend going to the movies, out to dinner, to a local art gallery and other fun events in town. We were looking forward to being together and sleeping in late.
He called or texted me every night I was in Chicago and one night I called him as he fell asleep. On Thursday night, one week after we saw each other and only three days before I’d be returning home, he motioned that he’d be going out with his work friends, something he’d never done since we met. He was very defensive about not drinking, even though I never once commented on his drinking since I’ve only seen him consume alcohol twice in the nearly three months we were together. Something about the defensive tone of his story made me queasy. “Tell you what,” I said, “since you’ll be out with your friends and I’ll be downtown with mine and it’ll be Friday night, why don’t we skip the Friday night talk as we’ll talk Saturday and see each other Sunday?”
“No, no, at the latest I’ll be home by 11 and I want to talk to you.” That was the last time we spoke.
When there was no call on Friday night, I started to have an upset stomach. No call Saturday morning, and I couldn’t eat a thing. And no reply to my calls. I had to lie down. Three different people comforted me saying, “Oh, he probably just went out drinking with his friends, had too much and is recovering.”
But I knew better. I knew him. I knew I should have called things off three weeks ago, when my soul needed more. I left him a voicemail “Whatever it is, I can take it. Do the right thing here.”
On Sunday morning, my sis and her awesome boyfriend walked me out the door and he then helped me pack my car. I prayed to G-d for one thing: “Please let my stomach be ok and let me get home safely to Cleveland. Whatever is the news from Vince, I don’t want to hear from him until I get home safely. Please don’t have him call me while I’m in the car.”
I did get home swiftly and safely, and the traffic, road, weather and cop gods were with me. I sent Vince a brief text after I got back and unpacked my car. “I’m home. What’s the plan?” A bit later he sent me the following email (verbatim):
Alex,
I a sorry but I am not able to do this right now between us. I thought a lot about what you said “my cup being full” and bottom line is that you’re right. I wanted to let you in and be together but I don’t leave room for anyone to get in. I am truly sorry its all my fault and you deserve so much better!
Vincent
Sent from my Verizon Wireless Phone
When I replied asking him to call me back, he wouldn’t. I later contacted Anita in Chicago so she had an idea what kind of mood she’d have to deal with for the next few days. Her response: capture the moment and the emotion, while you’re in it. It’s 1:37 am and I am typing this fresh, and raw per Anita’s suggestion. Capturing the moment and the emotion. How do I feel? Let’s see: my stomach churns up and my head expounds heat every time I think about what could have taken place on Friday. That he may have hooked up with someone else. I think that someone else is now benefiting from his free schedule, specifically the second weekend of July that I waited for and, in my own emotional bank, felt I earned and deserved.
And still, though he didn’t respond to my request to talk about his phone generated e-mail break up, I did send him a very polite reply. It was the kind that took every ounce of strength to withhold the unkindness that wanted to spew out of me toward him. But I wasn’t that woman anymore. What I did, instead, was ask him to not put another woman through something similar.
I logged onto the starting point of our relationship, eHarmony. I reread his profile today and saw that he’d made a critical change to it at some point during our relationship – removing the “wanting to integrate that special woman into my life” and replacing it with “wanting to have fun.” I hated to read that. I also hate that after three months of refusing to friend me on Facebook, since he “never goes on it,” I saw today that he accepted a dozen new friends, men and women. I hate knowing that one day he’s going to use the “Sexy Mothah F***er” mix cd that I made especially for us, and our intimacy, on someone else. I hate that every time I drive on Clifton and pass that stupid Martini bar, I’ll think of that amazing first date. I hate that there’s so many damn Pavlovian reminders of all our dates, because we covered so much in such a short time frame, because it all felt so amazing. I hate that sometime this week I’m going to have to go to Barnes & Noble at Crocker Park and return his birthday gift, a large coffee table book of Italy that I got him while in Chicago – because he is Sicilian and always talked about going there one day. I hate being in this place, this post break-up place where I’m the dumpee and not the dumper. I hate that I didn’t trust myself to have walked out of this relationship a month ago.
I don’t regret this relationship and I certainly don’t think he’s an a**hole. The way he handled the break up, yes, but not his entire character. I once asked him why he even bothered to join eHarmony if he doesn’t have time to date and he then replied, “Because I just wanted to meet women and date casually, but you were the first one I met and we clicked so well together.”
I know in my heart that he did me a favor by calling things off after three months vs. three years. I know that I gave it my all in this relationship. I also know three additional things that will have to keep me warm when I go to bed tonight: 1. My instinct is always right. 2. Relationships are work, but to be this complicated, this early, is a warning sign. 3. The man who will value me – beyond the initial month and for a lifetime – exists, and, if hasn’t already, is making the room in his life for that special woman.
In my head I know all these things, but my heart right now needs tending to. It’s ironic that all this occurred on the 4th of July.
Perhaps it is all a gift.
Perhaps Independence Day isn’t about the fireworks of life, but about the battles we face for our soul’s freedom.
“Independence Day” is part of a series of stories to be featured in “The Dating GPS: Guys, Pricks and Sweethearts™” co-authored with Anita Myers. It is also the starting point of “Diary of the Dumped: 30 Days from Break Up to Breakthrough™.”
