Almost a year ago (God, only a year?), I experienced my first break-up. Okay, I'd had break-ups in high school, but high school doesn't count, as they involve the emotional level of, well, high-schoolers. You tend to get over them by the time you're over your next pimple.
This guy and I spent four years together, had been each other's first love, each other's first everything. We were best friends and had even discussed marriage. Our families loved each other, my friends were already planning their drunken toasts at our nuptials, and I dreamed of the day when our baseball teams would play each other in the American League Playoff Series and we would have a competitive yet adorable rivalry in our household.
Sadly, it wasn't to be. We met each other the first day of college, and, as is to be expected, we changed a lot from freshman year to our 2001 graduation. Due to geography and poor planning, we also spent so much time apart that out of the four years, we probably only had about two years of face time. After graduation, he went abroad and then attended that relationship poisoner, Law School, as I settled into the typical 9-to-5 job and expanded my horizons as a freelance writer. There was barely enough time to talk, let alone spend hours getting all gushy, staring into each other's eyes.
The long, frustrating and quiet march towards break-up was a fairly natural progression, with some regret and some annoyance thrown in, I suppose, but our over-the-phone break-up was pretty much without fireworks. It was mutual, polite and agreeable. I shed a few tears, but it was one of those "I'll always love you and want you in my life"-type dealies. Very mature, very modern.
Very boring.
As I'm not a Drama Queen by nature, I was happy with the state of the break-up. I guess. It felt neat and clean, and my mascara pretty much stayed where it was on or around the eye area. I could listen to love songs with a steely resolve. I could listen to my friends talk about their happy relationships without punching them in the face.
However, some part of me wished he had caught me in bed with some lothario, or that he was a troglodyte who couldn't handle my Independence-With-A-Capital-I, or that he had suddenly joined some religious cult, so we could have that knock-down, drag-out, crockery-throwing, screaming-at-the-top-of-our-lungs fight. Then I would have a reason to excuse myself, hike to the local tavern, climb into a bottle of gin, smoke a carton of cigarettes and miserably warble break-up songs to myself.
Instead, when people asked me how I was doing, I shrugged, raised my eyebrows, sighed, put on that "What are you gonna do?" smile, and said, "Well, it sucks, but I know it's for the best, and I'm doing okay. How are you?" The polite break-up also requires a polite aftermath. I couldn't get away with calling in to work, being a shitty roommate or not paying my bills, because that would be like exhibiting a touch of a head cold while claiming you have the plague. I tried getting old friends I hadn't talked to in a while back in communiqué with news of the break-up, but I'm sure they were saying, "Why, there aren't that many exclamation points, Marianne Faithfull song lyrics or frowny emotions in this e-mail; I'm sure she's doing okay."
I feel like calling up my ex (sigh..."ex") and saying, "Congratulations...we had a very good break-up...
...asshole."
No, he wasn't an asshole. That's what made the break-up so hard: the impossibility of conjuring up negative thoughts about the other person makes you realize that you, yes you, must have done something bad, as well, to drag the relationship down. And no matter how "good" the break-up is, it's still a break-up, and there are bound to be bad feelings, sadness, anger, the desire to eat four boxes of macaroni in one sitting. But when you're putting on the face of the okay break-up like I was, those feelings get squelched, and yet reveal themselves in weird ways. For instance, he said he'd call the weekend after the break-up. He didn't. Now, had we had an "impolite" break-up, I could have said at the time, "Well, we've exhibited lately that we're not so good at calling people when we say we will, haven't we? So are you sure you're going to call, or is that just more bullshit?" Instead I snuffled, said okay, and hung up the phone. Then, when he didn't call, I could have dealt with it smoothly, instead of raging inside like Medea, involving lots of words that have "mother" and "son of a" attached to them.
It might have been better to act out, stop being so nice and Midwestern about it, trying not to make trouble for everybody. There's a reason why most sinister movie thrillers involve uptight, WASP-y type families instead of crazy trailer-park people...it's the folks who have all their emotions bottled up in the most unhealthy way that act the most psycho in the end. While I was congratulating myself on a job well done in the relationship-ending department, I had to double check to make sure I wasn't subconsciously sharpening any knives. Basically, I may have shortchanged myself out of the emotional release of a messier break-up, and I fear the bottom might fall out at some inopportune time, like during a job interview ("Well, I'm a go-getter, and I work well with others, and I--aieee!!! I'll kill him! I hate this! Waaah!").
I knew I'd be fine and as I look back on this, I'm amazed that the possibility of hurt fading turned into a reality. But it still hurt, much the same way when you fall down in public and have the dual hurts of your scraped knee and your scraped pride. The pride always comes first.
The ex and I have made strides toward becoming the much-fantasized and talked about "friends" (but not without many bumps and a whole lot of awkwardness). If we ever get to the point where we have a conversation without any forcedness, awkward pauses or second-guessing of true meaning, that would be a real kick in the pants. While I'm not planning on breaking up with anybody again in the near future, next time I might do a bit more kicking and screaming, drinking and hollerin', and, afterward, I'll feel a whole lot better.
After all, nobody is giving me any points for a polite break-up. I'm sure even Miss Manners has called her exes bad names, too.
