Leftovers

Last night I had a dream that my ex was pregnant with our baby.

I don’t mean this in that new-age, If These Walls Could talk 2, sperm-donor, kind of way that I will eventually have to deal with (not with her) as a modern day child-loving lesbian; but the good ol’ fashioned: I did this to her, I done knocked the bitch up, she carryin’ my baby—kind of way. Weird. Of all the anxieties that could surround my psyche, my subconscious chose to freak out on the impossible. What’s worse, I didn’t want the baby, neither did she, we both knew she wouldn’t give birth, and the last few hours of rest I had this morning were spent crying in my sleep, apologizing for what I had (supernaturally?) done to her. I was knee-deep in an Emotional Shit-Storm before my feet even hit the floor. Worse than a hangover, the ESS inspires the kind of poor-judgment that a drunken evening does. But it’s 8am, so there’s no excuse for a needless text to a certain taboo someone buried among the long list of contacts in my cell-phone by the bed. Damn you technology. Damn you straight to hell.

“What!” She replied via text. “Damn! I was trying to start this week happy-go-lucky. Thanks a lot.”

Now, I eventually convinced her that pregnancy in a dream is a sign of good-luck, and according to several dream-interpreters it is, so I recovered much more quickly than one does in a drunk-text gone awry; but the impetus was the same. I was in a mess and I needed a lifeline. Note to self: That’s what friends are for—avoid all contact with ex’s when inebriated or drunk with emotion upon waking from a nightmare.

I stopped drinking January 4th, 2007 after a week-long bender culminating in a long night of fighting with another ex. Following this, I spent a year in dating retirement, one by one, placing the pieces of my life back in order, stepping slowly out of the darkness, finding gainful employment, and escaping many a destructive relationship, allowing those bruises to fade and wounds to heal. I’ve been back in the game just over a month, and already covered in those cuts I once blamed on Jack Daniels.

Great Great 2008! Great apartment, great roomie, great job, great friends—all relationships are peacefully existing in their proper place, all things quiet on the Lez-stern front. Except for the typical stress of an appetite that exceeds my belt size and taste that far exceeds my bank balance, life is sweet. Quiet, but sweet.

Enter The Ex.

Why is it that when things are coming together, the universe tends to drop a problem right in one’s lap, occasionally a problem seemingly solved years prior with no foreseeable reason for revisiting?

My horoscope the day after the Ex-encounter: “You’re revisiting an old relationship. You have not yet learned what needs to be learned here.” I shit you not, this is some crazy ooga-booga. “NO!” I cried out on the train that morning. After several other commuters looked at me shiftily, I buried my head in the World Affairs section of the paper and pretended to be outraged at the situation in the Middle East…or maybe it was the Sports section, I’m not really sure.

This is no ordinary ex—none of them are ordinary, but this is the one that caused the tail-spin leading up to a week of binge drinking and screaming at the other ex, exorcising those demons that swear to leave you if you’ll simply dump them on someone else, preferably someone who claimed to love you at some point. No, this Ex that I tried to smother emotionally (that’s my usual method of relationship destruction), wouldn’t let me. This one wouldn’t let me vomit my love all over, thus making it impossible for me to blame her for stealing it without vomiting an equal amount in return, thus causing our relationship to deteriorate upon its own, with nothing to clean up, and no one to blame. What could be worse?

At the end of each relationship, there needs to be a good-guy and a bad-guy. Sometimes you’re the victim, sometimes you’re the ass-hole. That’s just the way it is. But when things are seemingly fine, and you separate because your personalities aren’t well-suited for one another, the consequence is disastrous. You end up thinking: what’s wrong with me? Why couldn’t I make that work? So-and-so is a lovely person, I’m a lovely person, and yet, I’ve just left her apartment screaming “How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?” because she hates Michael Bolton and I need a high-note to go out on. I need a story I can tell my friends. I need drama. I need something to write about!

So what’s the lesson? What’s the metaphor? Our entire relationship was an abortion. It was something we never brought fully to term. She and I weren’t cut out to be girlfriends. It ended two years ago. She has moved on, I have moved on, we both have better lives now. Why the renewal of contact? Why the lingering attraction? Perhaps the abortion metaphor is for this recent streak of “friendship” perhaps we’ve started something that we know we can’t finish.

Either way, I’m wearing a condom in all my dreams from now on. And I’m keeping my cell phone in the kitchen. At least I’ll be forced to get the blood flowing to my brain before making any cellular decisions. Lesson learned: Wrap that shit up and put on top of the fridge.