Official website for humorist, Twitterist [it is so a word] and occasional fiction writer Benjamin Kissell.
Follow me on Twitter (praetor1983) for occasion daily bon mots.
DESPERATELY SEEKING ... ATTENTION [how many glasses of wine will it take to get this to happen or will I give up before it does]
Benjamin Kissell
Why yes, I assume that mocking Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey is a brilliant and oh-so-time-appropriate commentary. Right? I'm totally cutting edge, here ...
I've never made a secret of my intense, full-bodied disinterest in Twilight from the get-go [think of an oak-barrel aged Cabernet Sauvignon]. I made pithy, under-my-breath comments about it to its face like some mean girl bitching about 'that' skank in school; penning snark-fueled tweets like I was Taylor Swift after a break-up [pick one - I love the girl, she knows how to write some scathing ex-songs]. As an openly gay man who has a penchant for awesome hairdos, you would think I'd be right there with the rest of the world fawning over Robert Pattinson. But, you would be wrong. In short, I did not like Twilight, its author, most of its actors, its media saturation ... and truth be told, nor was I a fan of its odd effect on the populace.
That is ... except when it came to my paycheck.
When Twilight began baring its fangs with the herds of Twi-Hards (teens and moms) my store - the now, lamentably gone Borders Books Inc. - took note. We saw the rabid fans queueing up outside of the Young Adult bookshelves hunting for copies of Twilight, New Moon and their ilk as well as the as-many-as-possible and the are-you-kidding-me weird concoctions we tossed on the shelves to tie-in to the Twilight brand.
Hell, there are (somewhere) even photos of me in white-tinged make-up and glitter posing with customers (and their mothers) as I played ring-master in our Twilight parties. [Yes, I am aware how hipster it is of me to both mock them and yet partake in their excesses ... in my defense, I'm a narcissist who loves to have an audience (as evidenced by my article "Pavlovian Responses"). ] We all played a part - audience, readers, book-sellers and even detractors - in the media and hype that became the Twilight typhoon of popularity. [How Fraudian is my subconsious; I had to type 'popularity' three times there ... the first two times I misspelled it as 'poopularity'.]
I even tried to make my way through the movies a few years back; my ex-roommates decided we should have a 2-day Twilight-a-thon in honor of the series ending. Between distracting myself with texting my friend John - who would go on to be my boyfriend fiance - and the nigh-criminal levels of wine I chugged to make it through the first 3 films ... well, you'd think I was at Gitmo the way I whined, bitched and moaned. Of course, by the second bottle (and end of the first movie) I was actually - dare we say it - enjoying the movies. I found myself texting John little gems like "drunkety juice makes plot holes disappear" as I got progressively more shit-faced and enjoying the hyper-over-acting and piss-poor rip-off writing [seriously; read Romeo & Juliet, watch Roswell and then compare them to Twilight ... you're welcome]. Of course, I woke up the day-after with cotton mouth and a sense of shame on-par with being dumped by a Kardashian.
Why no, I didn't crash and burn ... or wake up wondering if I might be Rosanna Arquette. Eventually I HAD to make a reference to the movie whose title I'm homaging for this article.
[Random Twilight Reference: If you want a good laugh, check out the wickedly-witty Jen Lancaster's twisted takes on Twilight reenactments (with toys! pets! snark!) on her original site,Jennsylvania]
Twilight is, oh-so-grudgingly-admitted, a cultural phenomenon [of course, so were the Taco Bell Chihuahua and Crazy Town ... so we're not talking the best-of here] and, like any true cultural phenomenon, it spawned everything from spoof books (National Lampoon did it right) to rip-offs and prolific fan fiction. In the rare instance of genuine talent trumping subject matter authors like Cassandra Clare shot into the spotlight - and bestsellers list - when their Twilight Fan Fic writing found its way onto various literary agents' screens [I so heart Cassie - such a sweetheart; I've yet to hear anyone speak an ill word of her].
Of course, just as soon as I'm about to forgive and forget with Twilight and its hellspawn, we're gifted with the oh-so-what-the-f#@k-ness of Fifty Shades of Grey (the ultimate BDSM fan fic of Twilight) and its omnipresent popularity.
Can I just ...
Uhm ...
I mean it's ...
Yeah, no. The tampon thing? Eww. I'll just be over here waiting until the furor over the novel/movie/everything-else-associated-with-it dies down. Go on, entertain yourselves with it - I have a good book and I learned how to wait years ago. [Of course, if wine is involved while I wait, lawdd knows what shitty things I may begin to stop hating ... perhaps even Kanye West? Nah. The amount of sweet, sweet Moscato needed to make that happen would kill me first.]
You know, come to think of it, the rampant narcissist in me keeps wondering if I should start writing Twilight Fan Fic in a get-rich/famous-quick scheme. I mean, I've no qualms admitting that I want massive attention called to my writing - even when I don't always have something deep to say. Ooh! Perhaps, I could call it 'Middle of the Day' and make it about a struggling artist and her creep-tastic stalker-esque anger-management-needing agent-turned-lover ...
The following article is infused with geek-commentary and stems from my undying love for (almost) all-things Storm. [Despite immense respect and love for Halle Berry, we shall just gloss right over the X-Men movies - okay? And I’ll admit up front, there are years-long gaps in my massive X-books comic collection.]
Storm, leader of the often outlaw band of misfits known as the X-Men, is not only a fantastic icon of strength, power and leadership - but one badass mother f#@ker fashion-plate unafraid to buck convention. Topping off her decades of awesomeness, with the impending Death of Wolverine in September, Storm looks to be the central-focus figure for the X-books (what with Cyclops still remembered as 'the guy who killed Professor X') [sorry for the spoiler non X-Fans ... whoops].
Debuting in the Giant Size All-New All-Different X-Men of May 1975, Storm was a key figure from the get-go and a standout as the first African-American female co-lead in one of Marvel's main titles (X-Men returned that fall with issue 94 after years of reprint issues 67-93). Under Chris Claremont this new team centered around the complex relationships between a new team of young adults who had already survived everything from being the misfit to the maligned to the revered and how each adapted to this brave new world and all the peoples in it. Ororo Munroe was one of Claremont's first characters fully-fleshed out with an established back-story and firmly defined personality which helped catapult her into the center ring from the get-go ...
Quick Backstory Bio:
Born to David and N'Dare Munroe (a photojournalist and African Princess in-exile) in Brooklyn, Ororo spent her formative years in Cairo until a falling plane [depends on the era of the telling, sometimes it's the Six Day War, the Sinai invasion or simply a border skirmish] crashed into their apartment killing her parents and burying the 6 year old (or 5, depending on writer) Ororo in the rubble next to her mother's corpse (which incited her life-long claustrophobia). From here, she was raised in the back-alleys and streets of Cairo as a street urchin and pick pocket par-excellence until her heart called out and she began a months-long trek from the Nile Delta through the heart of Africa into Kenya. Here, as a young woman, she manifested her mutant ability to psionically manipulate the weather and was hailed as a goddess to the local tribes - it was during this time period that Professor Charles Xavier found her and recruited her (in the aforementioned Giant Size X-Men).
Come on, how could you NOT want to read about a character with this kind of backstory? Worshipped as a goddess? Awe-inspiring power? Capable of picking locks AND a super hero? From the first page of my first X-Men comic I was hooked. Storm had everything my nine year old self didn't: control. Control of self and through her leadership and powers, control of things around her.
Promo-poster detailing various Storm incarnations: original (1975-1983), Punk (1983-88), her Asgardian garb (New Mutants Annual 1, X-Men Annual 9), iconic 1990's look (1991-96) and her modern era variant (2007-2013)
In the first Uncanny X-Men issue - a copy nabbed from Mum's comic book stash (she built it up over the years, including when she worked at Walden Books [you remember them, right?]) – I was absolutely enthralled. Despite the cover featuring some doof topped in a blond mullet (Longshot) the title splash page was all Storm. Black leather costume. Wild 80's mane of white hair. Lightning bolt across her chest. Thigh-high boots over a form-fitting, mildly-shoulder-padded costume. I was in love. She matched perfectly the uber-cool LIGHT UP [ERMHEHLERDD SHE LIGHTS UP!!!!] Storm action figure which stood on my Mum's desk at work. After reading and re-reading the issue, I “accidentally” nicked said action figure. [Mum then bought a new one for me so that hers would reappear and thus started off a life-long obsession for Storm action figures and a 7 year Toy Biz buying frenzy of X-Men toys.] Marc Silvestri's art hooked my eyes and Claremont's writing ("'Twas the Night", issue #230) took my 9 year old mind for a ride.
I decided then and there that I? Was an X-Men fan for life.
Seriously - is this not a wall of awesomeness? People don't seem to believe we have walls full of toys ... heh. Whoops? Check out the shelf in the center featuring no less than 13 Storms and the X-Men's blackbird.
Whether reading her as the naive-about-American-body-image ingenue (circa Classic X-Men #2 and #4), the in-your-face-stabbing-Callisto-in-the-chest-'cos-Storm-is-the-baddest-ass-amongst-a-team-of-badasses (Uncanny X-Men #170) [okay, yes, on the cartoon it was all cute and they were light sticks and whatnot but let's be real ... Storm has NO compunction with a blade and this issue? Showed that brilliantly] or even dithering over trusting a man again with her heart (Uncanny X-Men Annual #1, 2006), Storm has always been an amazing character.
Beginning with the ‘borrowed’ – [seriously, I’m sorry] – comics I nabbed from my Mum’s stash, I started amassing a veritable collection of Storm-centric issues and soon found myself doodling my own iterations of the X-Men and wannabe comics [what started, when I was 9, as the X-Kids soon became the X-Teens and evolved into X-Strike … who knows, maybe one day I’ll get to write an X-book *le sigh*]. Despite my liking Jean Grey (even loving her as the Phoenix) no other character connected with me in quite the same way – I’d draw Storm in doodles when I should have been paying attention to my teacher, but let’s be honest: who would you rather focus on, an awesome literary character who sparked your imagination or a teacher who took your Tootsie Rolls because she didn’t believe they were your lunch that day.
[Grudge still held, 21 years later.]
Thought so.
My collection began to grow as I quickly found myself on a first-name basis with each of the comic guys in the various stores in-town (bonus points for having a Mum who was as big of a comic nerd as I was); they practically salivated when we’d walk into their stores. They knew that all they would have to do is mention Storm was a “key player” or had some great art in an issue or trade paperback and it would be in my greedy little hands and I wouldn’t let it go until it was paid for. A prime example would be when I walked out the door of Penguin Comics with Classic X-Men #34 (prelude to the Dark Phoenix Saga) and the 1993 Fatal Attractions poster ostensibly as 10th birthday presents because both had lovely art of Storm front and center. [You say I wheedled my uncle into paying for them with his meager allowance, I say they were birthday gifts … poh-tay-toe, poh-tah-toe.]
....................……………………………………….
True, I loved her lengthy tresses – after all, Storm with billowing white hair is how I first encountered her – but it wasn’t long into my collection that I discovered the mid-80’s issues (1983-88) where she had embraced the conflict within and eschewed the ‘gentle goddess’ image in lieu of the most 80’s of 80’s looks – Punk. Leather and mohawk. To say that my mind was blown would be an understatement. To admit that my ridiculously long hair received a trim that summer which may or may not have been longer in the center and short on the sides miiiiiiiiiight be admitting too much. What shall be admitted is that I loved it and my insecure, picked on self knew that here was truly an icon of inner strength and self-awareness.
[Sidenote: my Mum has ALWAYS been my personal hero in these regards, but sometimes you need to just have a super hero y’know?]
Tough and beautiful; Storm was able to make a popular 'everyday' look of the time into an iconic costume *le sigh*
This self-awareness and possession were catnip to the kid most likely to have to hide in a tree during recess to avoid the verbal (and literal) slings and arrows.
What stood out about his writing of Storm, and her fellow outlaw misfits, is that Claremont plots - he plots well and has far-sighted story-arcs for characters allowing their personalities to grow; he writes one-shots with as much depth as the storylines which pay off several years down the road AND YET would NOT regularly drag a simple story out over 4-6 issues making you feel like a bloody stooge for sitting there waiting for SOMETHING TO JUST FINALLY HAPPEN ALREADY! [Perhaps this is me just venting here, but who else is tired of comic book story-arcs taking for-freaking-ever to tell even a simple story anymore? Cross-promotion books tying in to tell the tale? I get it, you up sales but ... um ... when you can't even tell a simple self-contained story in a solo issue I take umbridge, guys. I do. ]
As my collection grew, so too did the character of Storm who developed into someone who questioned not only actions (her own as well as others') but their results. She questioned and she pushed - she exemplified what made an 80's super hero to me: someone who strove towards the ideal of good but was acutely aware of the shades of grey that fill in the space between black and white and how her actions could fall within them. For example:
Stab Callisto in the heart to stop the battle between the X-Men and Morlocks gaining their leadership and thus saving her team? (1983) Check.
Defend the decision to keep Wolverine on the team because of his capacity for good despite his berserker nature, violent streak and rather hard-headed attitude which pushed away teammates like Angel? (1981) Check.
Let the world (including friends, family, ex-teammates) think the X-Men were dead because it allowed them to strike out at their enemies without entangling their loved ones (i.e. the fall-out from the Mutant Massacre) like The New Mutants and their civilian families from a base in the Australian Outback which they took from homicidal cyborg thieves? (1988) Cha-check.
Kick major ass and kill various demonic-versions of said Marauders and their ilk while battling to save the life of an X-Man-turned-villain while New York raged in a demonic inferno ... all while sporting a seriously fierce hairdo AND shredded costume? (1989) Mother fucking check.
Yes, mistakes were made, but her journey (and that of her fellow X-Men) was one that the reader couldn't help but be drawn into. Come what may, the family that Storm was a part of was one that I wanted to be included in.
Despite never-enough Storm-heavy episodes there were a few during the 5 season run of the X-Men Animated series … which may or may not have influenced my childhood weird accents.
[Cute story: there is THANKFULLY no photographic evidence of me as a nine-to-ten year old playing in my backyard with my friend Jeffrey at “X-Men”. Why thankfully? Well, we weren't always content to play with our action figures and let them have all the fun. No. We'd take around-the-house items and dress up as our favorite mutants. Jeffrey would alternate between Wolverine and Cyclops and I? Was, well. DERH. I would tie my black and white Free Willy towel - a gift from Video World, thank you very much - to my wrists and pull my longer-than-average hair back to become Storm. See why I said, thankfully there's no photographic evidence? I mean, a Free Willy towel as my cape? ICK. My grown-up aesthetics are gagging as I type this. And yet, I can't help but mention that it still beats the hell out of the majority of the costumes worn in the first three X-films ... ]
Awesome print, fun team and a great adaptation of her mid-90's costume mess. (seriously, could even two artists agree how it was drawn? )
Over the years, as I grew from outcast kid to still-pretty-awkward teen, I watched artists I was ambivalent towards leave the X-books [sorry world, I am not now nor will I ever be in love with Jim Lee] and artists I adored come along [I <3 Madureira, Pacheco and Bachalo]. Storm led her gold strike force through each of the summer blockbuster cross-overs and I still held Storm and the X-Men in my heart (and my mother's pocketbook). By 1998 with the return of Nightcrawler and Shadowcat from across the pond [Excalibur was one weird but fun run - I don't regret collecting a single issue] [also? What's up with taking her codename away now? Seriously, half the women on the teams these days go by their names; Emma Frost, Kitty Pryde, Jean Grey ... GAH!] and the return of Pacheco art I was firmly entrenched in back-log collecting and keeping up with the rambunctious and ever-expanding family of X-Men ... as long as each story or character somehow/someway tied back to Storm. I was set. I was golden.
What can I say? I had my priorities.
That is, until I didn't. Until 2000 and the release of the X-Men movie.
Now, as a polite – and hoping to avoid libel suits – writer, the less said, the better about the 2000-2006 X-books, tv series, movies and universe as a whole.
Skipping ahead.
Of course, by late 2006 I had already fallen back on the wagon and was buying the new X-books featuring Storm with renewed gusto and collecting the graphic novels compiling my favorite weather goddess' adventures. The fact that from 2007-2011 I worked in a bookstore and had a discount on them didn't hurt this, either. [Also? Full circle there - Mum had begun my X-Men obsession with books she'd brought home when working in a bookstore.]
I may have turned my back on the X-Men for a few years, but between working in Borders and stepping into my new local comic shop I vowed I would never do so again.
In fact, in 2012, the first time I hung out with my not-yet-then boyfriend fiance one of the first things we did was peruse the new issues at said comic shop together. By the time we began dating in 2013 our connection over Storm and the X-Men [and as mentioned in previous articles, He-Man and She-Ra] was one of the things which firmly cemented that we were each dating ourselves and perfect for one another.
Cover to the debut issue of Storm. >SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!<
The culmination of a life-long [okay, just 20+ years ... give or take, okay?] obsession/love/adoration/other less creepy sounding words comes this summer with the release of Greg Pak and Victor Ibanez' beginning of the amazing ... the ultimate ... the stupendous ... (and hopefully long-running) Storm solo series. Just in time for my 31st birthday (in case you needed any prompting).
CARRIE BRADSHAW AIN'T THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN [a.k.a. that article I trot out every few years to show I'm not a knock-off Sex And the City writer; proving it when I toss you a purposefully SATC article to show you the difference in my voice, tone and ... man, this is a long title, isn't it?]
Benjamin Kissell
"I don't know about you girls, but I can't fathom what I was thinking looking back at those outfits from seasons 1-4." "Yeah you do - we were being paid to be walking mannequins, Kim."
In my early 20's, there wasn't a cheap fad, fashionably chic course or retro neuveau tack I didn't try to stay ahead of and yet, it somehow wasn't UNTIL my very early 20's that I finally landed on the bandwagon that the ENTIRE FREAKING WORLD had been latched onto [like a hipster in skinny jeans latches onto his organically-grown coffee] - I found my love for Sex and the City and became one of the herd. And it was fun.
Don't get me wrong, I'd heard about it before then - its popularity had been as ubiquitous as the heretofore mentioned hipsters in skinny jeans are now [seriously, walk down a sidewalk or through your local mall and count them up ... you'll thank me - or be so depressed you down half a box of wine (white, not red you heathen)], however, despite its popularity I hadn't discovered how SATC related to me. True, I was a mildly-fashion-conscious gay man living in a large small-town (or a small large-town, whichever you prefer), but whenever Sarah Jessica Parker and her emaciated frame showed up on my television screen shilling for HBO's newest season of bobbleheads I took a 'Not me' stance.
That is, until I made the fateful mistake that haunted my mother for weeks afterward ... I caught the first mini-marathon when TBS began airing it [I may have subjected her to a viewing of the entire first season when I ran out and bought it on dvd the next day ... 8+ years later and I'm not sure if she's forgiven me yet].
By 2008 and the release of the first SATC movie, I already owned 5 out of 6 seasons, had a myriad of pink and high heel-themed accoutrements and had discovered a love of all things chick lit [of course, for the last part I really can lay that at the feet of Jen Lancaster, but that's another article]. I was a gay man hooked. I had a sickness and I had also discovered my love of writing in the similar dating vein as the fictional Bradshaw and her real-life counterpart (and creator) Candace Bushnell.
My humor posts about my dating life (the ups and downs) on various pages [okay, mostly my rotating Myspace pages ... don't judge me, 'twas 2005-8 when it was still slightly popular] had garnered me a slew of fans and, of course, more than the occasional comparison to Bradshaw and Bushnell. In an effort to show how different my voice was from the SATC vibe, and in celebration of the release of the film, I penned an article where I took on the role of Carrie Bradshaw in my own little community.
That article is what follows, please enjoy ... and if you don't? Well, who forced you to read it?! Oh, I did? Well, still. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride anyways.
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"If I pose awkwardly in designer couture, no one will be able to tell I've been starving the entire production and would happily gnaw off the knee of the nearest Grip. Right?"
Cue the “dah, dah dah, dah dahdahdah dah …"
Fredericksburg
is a moderate city, in the picturesque riverside of the Rappahannock,
and in that city, there are thousands and thousands of single people,
all colliding in an attempt to find themselves and that “special one” they can call their own.
On
any given day, there are several hundred thousand stories going on in The City which sometimes dozes in the sun, but here we'll focus on 4 friends; 4 single ‘girls’ who just want to
make it through the day and have some fun – because girls do just wanna
have fun.
Today is a Tuesday evening and a light rain is falling
upon The City, but this doesn’t deter any of the twig-like
overly-made-up and designer-dressed girls and their friends from speeding around the area,
walking in knock-off labels and shopping the high-end stores while they totter on stalactite heels which promise future crippling.
It's on this kind of evening that these 4 friends – me and mine – decide to
meet up at our favorite restaurant and around the table our day’s
events are re-capped and gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Where we have
no qualms about our ‘kiss and tell’ stories.
.........................
Outside of
downtown lives and works Sarah, who speeds past obstacles and itinerant drivers in her stylized green sedan:
confident, stylish, a sexy brunette, she works by day in the financial
district doing banking work. Recently 21, she is the kind of confident and curvy woman that men throw themselves at and many female
co-workers eye with envy. She lives with her best friend and close
confidant, Johnny, but still finds time for her work, close
“girlfriends” and yet, more time to work her way through college while shopping like there's no tomorrow.
Past downtown, in the western suburbs we find Christany winding her way in her black pick-up truck: vivacious, energetic, larger than life, Christany is the sort of
petite blonde bombshell not seen since the days of Marilyn and Mansfield. She
may be the youngest of our group, at 19, but, don't let that fool you,
she is full of spitfire energy and wisdom, her firm convictions lend
themselves to her stalwart character and a bright future. She works in
the private sector, in her family-held company. Many have mistakenly
assumed that the earnestness and baby-blue sweetness of Christany means
she is lacking in worldly knowledge – a big mistake. Just because she
lives by the credo “a ring and a priest” doesn’t mean, she is naïve.
While
across and from uptown, Nate drives by in his smart and sensible blue compact car:
smart, kind, caring, long-minded and stalwart, at 22 he is the most
successful of our group, working deep in the corporate sector. Tall, at
6’2, his dirty blond locks, short-cut of course, are accented by his
deep blue eye, he gains and garners appreciative looks from men like a
Park Avenue Socialite collects shoes. Much like Christany, he has enough
confidence in him to light up the city, allowing others to bask in his
brilliance. Quick witted, Nate has often been the comic center of
whatever group he is in, and if there isn’t one, he draws it to him.
And
then, there’s me, Benjamin, driving from the outlying northern 'burbs to the chic bistro in my classic clunker – a powdery blue
sub-compact: at 24, almost 25, I am the oldest of our group, having seen
a sometimes-too-much of the world and yet remaining so sheltered that I almost naively
hold onto optimism (an oft-dangerous quality, or at least a
get-me-into-a-bad-situation trait). In the 7+ years I’ve been dating, I've seen so much; yet, it’s but a drop in the bucket to the drama and man-troubles available to us. At almost 5’11
(a solid 6 foot with gelled hair and couture shoes) I attract a
moderate amount of attention from men … some good, some bad, and many just plain funny.
We meet up, I arrive last, at
our usual dining spot. Having just missed Sarah (I wave at her as she
drives past me in the parking lot, called back to work without a cocktail to sooth her), I sit next to Nate in the booth.
Sidling in, I reach for the drink menu as a new and different waitress
leans in and joins our conversation in a welcome manner, enjoying the
banter. Giving her my ID, I decide to order a Cosmo, in honor of the
day, and I lean in for the commentary from my girls.
Christany,
it seems, is in-between assignations with the company, having finished a
job earlier in the evening, she is waiting for the call to head to the
next. Like is often the case, she and Nate engage each other in fierce
(but non-combative) conversation, debating everything from the case of
“nature vs. nurture” to religion. Tonight isn’t any different.
The
waitress arrives with my heavily vodka-laced pink drink, which burns pleasantly on the way down giving me a warm glow on this rain-drippy evening.
Realizing I don’t want to drive drunk – well, mildly intoxicated – I
decided to pick up an entree of “loaded potato skins” to help stave off
the effects.
While we talk and gab, Nate and Christany
trading quips and smart barbs, I fill them in on my day at work,
mentioning that after leaving retail-hell, I met up with my other friend
(the gorgeous brunette, Christine) at the movies, where we shared
popcorn, soda, and a love for the girls of “Sex and the City” (me,
appropriately decked out in pink and chic). As we chat, we also keep an
eye on the inhabitants of the bar, and even note a well-muscled young
man who brushed past us as he made his way back to the bathroom and
returned to the bar. Christany, as the least subtle of us (a feat Nate
closely follows her in and I am fast gaining on), has made mention of
his “gawgeous ass”, to which I reply in a not-too-hushed “mmm”, while I
bend my head in his direction.
Men-watching, intense
conversation, drinks and fun are our norm, and with the weather turning
mildly on us, we are not surprised when Christany receives the call to
head to her next job. Getting the checks, we pay and turn to leave.
And that is when Fredericksburg’s innate sense of humor comes to pass.
I
hug Christany, and as I turn to walk past – in my pink and grey finery, my hair not-quite-as-coiffed as I'd like –
I notice a familiar face dipped forward in conversation, one eye on
me, the other on his dinner partner. Like his hand.
My own most recent mistake. My Mr. Big.
It’s
been months - almost a year - since I cut him out of my life. Over nine
months since last I saw him. Apparently, The City decided I had a ticket for unclaimed emotional baggage that it wanted me to pick up.
Especially if I'm not having a good hair-day, asshole!
In shock, I said the first thing which came to mind: “Mother-fucking cocksucker”.
Hoping to slip away before I'm noticed, I turned to breeze past, tossing a goodbye wave to Christany and Nate. All hopes to gracefully exit the
restaurant before I caused a scene fled when I had to shove the doors open which caused the wind to catch my jacket and flip it open and into my face as my currently no-longer-gel-held hair whipped into something reminiscent of Something About Mary. Flushed with embarrassment, I realize that I'd shoved my feelings about
what had happened out of the way - zipping them closed in a Louis Vuitton suitcase which I'd been doing my best to forget where it'd been left - instead of dealing with and then getting past them.
Nate
calls these moments, 'Toldja So's' – because he usually has.
When I get home, I slough my finery in lieu of comfort-clothes and a knitted cap over the fly-away hair in my bedroom and soon find myself at my desk, staring blankly at the laptop
screen when I begin to wonder …
When we end something with someone, is
it really over? Or do they have to end it with you, too?
Can you present your ticket and release your emotional baggage with someone? Or do you both have to pick up your luggage to let it go? Does the unclaimed
emotional baggage just trail behind you; eventually
going unnoticed until it’s just a regular part of you
Deciding
not to let these questions go unanswered, I unblock Big’s screenname from
my Instant Messanger long enough to see that he was online. Hemming and hawing, I take a swig of my coffee and begin to type a direct and simple message.
Of course, he immediately responds.
Politely
engaging him in conversation for a few minutes from there I realize he
hasn’t changed at all: he's still a selfish and petty, self-centered
little boy in a grown man's body. He tells me all about the cute new guy he's been
seeing (the slim, effeminate boy with cashmere and express jeans he had
his hand on at dinner) - whether he thinks this will bond us or brag, I don't care to know.
It's clear that the baggage has been picked up and discarded on his end.
Deciding that the healthiest thing I can do is to end all contact between us on a clean and honest note, I decide to be blunt and tell him that I
know all about his cheating and the lying that he thought he'd hidden from me and that he needs to be more selective in his
trysts. And then I hit the 'Block' button and lean back in my desk chair.
As I sit there, my knees at my chin and my
computer screen glowing in front of me, I begin to glow in turn. Smiling
to myself, I feel the cold weight of the anger I’d been carrying around
since the end of me and Big lift off. My smile is genuine, for the
first time since his caustic words at the end of us I don’t
hate him.
I don’t want to avoid him, forget him or hate him. I just want to move past him.
Of course, this means Nate was right. Again.
In the end, though, we have to claim the emotional baggage - whether to keep it with us, or to hopefully let it go on its merry way and our part in packing it so heavily. Sometimes all we need is a little self-confidence and the temerity to go through with finding the answers.
That ... and some really good friends with cocktails.
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