Sunday, April 30, 2006

My own personal preapocalyptic vision Like it's not bad enough that Fox has plastered the town with all those creepy "6+6+06" signs for the remake of "The Omen", now I'm having my own version of the four horsemen.  In the past, every time my life was about to take some important turn (moving in with the H, marrying the H stand out; you'll see why in a moment) ex-boyfriends from around the globe would resurface.  Random phone calls, for no particular reason, just to check in.  I wish I could say that I am one of those women (people) who maintains friendships with her exes.  I'm not.  There's usually a reason they're ex.  And as much I believe in taking the high road and every other cliche that really just means smug superiority, when it comes to exes, boyfriend or lesser involvements, mostly I don't. And mostly when I get in touch with them (mostly, not always) it's to work out some misplaced nostalgic romantic longing, or, more frequently, to prove (to them, or, more likely, to me) how great my life is now.  It is pathetic and sad, to quote the inimitable Judd Nelson (in one of the greatest movies ever made, "The Breakfast Club") that I have done this. But I have, though really, almost never any more.  The last time I saw an old boyfriend was at an impossibly sad funeral, and he wasn't even a boyfriend, just a serial date fling from graduate school, and though it was utterly inappropriate given the horrible circumstances, I did take pleasure in the fact that he was pudgy, single and had just moved to Texas (from San Francisco--how far can you fall, really?) and I was pregnant with the Babe and just starting to show and was glowy and wearing really high heels.  So take that. In any case, as you may have gleaned from some recent prior posts, the world is feeling pretty hairy to me right now. It does seem that our darling president is bent on speeding things along, End of Time-wise, and so, when two significant exes called this week, it gave me the heebie jeebies. The first I've been playing phone tag with. We'll see if we ever speak. He was my high-school-into-college boyfriend, an amateur drug dealer, would-be Dead Head, very smart, very screwed up guy who cheated on me repeatedly while I pretty much begged for more.  He's the boyfriend who has made my mother grateful for every other man I've been involved with.  He's now married, with three kids, and some kind of investment banker.  Why do the crazy creative one always go into finance? Methinks the money.  The second--also a banker-- placed a random call knowing full well that he'd have no time to see me while he was in town. Ah.  He was a doozy--another serial date fling, with whom I had the good sense (for once in my pathetic dating life) not to sleep.  I remember so clearly lying on his couch after seeing Mike Leigh's film "Naked" (emphatically NOT a date movie) and telling him I was going home, because he was (and oh, he was) "way too ambivalent about me."  He at least had the decency not to attempt to argue with me.  It couldn't have been truer.  But that night, as I was happily, happily tucked into my own bed, the Northridge earthquake hit: the house I shared with my two roommates felt as though it was picked up and chucked back down again by an angry, drunk giant.  I was so glad to be alone, with them, instead of alone with him. Since I think my marriage is actually pretty stable these days, I'm waiting to see what ill wind these phone calls portend.  And in response to them, I sent an email off to the only ex I actually wish I were still friends with; he's not replied.  Maybe he has more sense than I do... 8:46:03 PM     comment [] trackback []