I’m Guessing the Phrase “Wait for It” Was Invented For These Very Circumstances

After our meeting last Friday, I was wondering if I should be providing some sort of direction to Neighbor Guy regarding our next non-date date. He was a spectacular planner for Outing #1, but is the ball in my court now? I almost sent him an email on Monday (after Exams 3 and 4, respectively), but having had no productive direction or dinner ideas, I thought better of it. As it turns out, good things do indeed come to those who wait.

Red Stethoscope,

Thought I'd drop you a line and say hello. How are the exams going? Only one more day until the exam block is over, right? Bet you're really looking forward to that happy hour tomorrow.

[Blah blah about his work…deleted here for privacy reasons.]

Hey, I wanted to ask if you'd be interested in doing dinner this weekend at this place –

[Link to restaurant, raving about how he loves said restaurant, casual suggestion for a walk afterwards in vicinity of restaurant.]

Let me know if that works for you.

Hope you're doing well.

-Neighbor Guy

Celebrating Me, Apparently

After Neighbor Guy’s sweet email to check up on me this week, I was sort of hoping that our paths wouldn’t cross at the Metro tonight. He mentioned being busy with work this week, and having had to work late a few nights. Since I had intentionally taken a train to coincide with the last building shuttle of the evening, I was worried that he might have worked later than usual and have been waiting at the Metro too.

--

When I noticed the shuttle ready to pull out as I emerged from the Metro station, I had to run full speed for it—with books, sweater, coffee carafe, and school bag in hand. Before this…friendliness…with Neighbor Guy began a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have cared if he was on the shuttle or even in the vicinity. Now, having just returned home from my first day of exams, I was concerned about him noticing my relative resemblance to a vagabond. A tired, droopy-eyed, sprinting vagabond with glasses and frizzy hair. Thankfully, Neighbor Guy was nowhere to be seen.

Until I walked into the mailroom of the building a few minutes later.

There he was, in his pressed Polo dress shirt and jeans—checking his mail. Superficial chit-chat ensued and he mentioned that he was on his way out.

“Dinner plans?,” I asked.

“Yeah,” he caught himself. “I’m meeting a…friend.”

His grin wavered into a mixed look of shame and guilt and I had to suppress my laughter. I wouldn’t expect for him not to be going out on a Friday night, so his attempt at concealing his actions was amusing. Still, he seemed nervous.

Perhaps prompted by false guilt, he walked with me to the elevators (in the opposite direction of the building’s exit) and continued to talk.

“Hey, so we’re still on for next weekend, right?” he said, as the elevator doors opened in front of me.

“Of course…did you have something in mind, or do you want me to think of something fun to do?”

“Well, we’re going to be celebrating you.”

“Umm…celebrating ‘me’?”

“Yeah!,” he said enthusiastically. He quickly followed up with, “And the end of your exam block, of course..."

This time, I did not conceal the laughter. I bid him goodnight as I stepped into the elevator, having realized--gratefully--that looking like a vagabond is clearly not the only precursor for social awkwardness during random meetings.

Definitively, Straight

I was relieved to see the clutter when he swung open the door to his apartment.

"Sorry, I'm the phone," he said. "But come on in, sit down."

After obsessing for a large part of the day about what Neighbor Guy's intentions were, I reverted to my actual relationship advisor skills and did what I thought was best. On my way home from school, I called him in the car. He answered on the third ring and after a brief recap of our weekends and a second request to stop by my apartment "to say hello" this week, I determined that if my face was what he wanted to see, tonight would have to be the night. I have exams this week and I'm not very well going to let myself feel guilty for blowing him off all week, or worse, risk distracting myself by seeing him too close to my exams.

I called his bluff and asked him if he wanted me to stop by when I got home.

"Umm, sure," he hesitated. "But my place is kind of...messy. I wasn't expecting visitors."

Ha! As if I was expecting visitors when he invited himself over to my apartment like some college co-ed living in the same dorm.

"Great!," I responded smugly. "I'll be there in 20 minutes."

And, in 20 minutes, I was sitting on the futon in his sparsely furnished, kind of messy, very straight bachelor pad. I was so relieved.*

I posed my pre-planned follow-up question about his last relationship and got the answer I had been seeking. He is definitely straight, just extremely nerdy. I think his enthusiasm for life (and really funny, geeky topics) can be mistaken for flamboyance, but the "10 minute study break" was really an hour worth of relationship queries that was well worth my time. He's totally straight, slightly insecure about being 32 and not married, and definitely trying very hard to find "the one."

Also, we had a non-awkward hug before I left. Definitely progress...and now I can concentrate without obsessing about my gay-straight man I'm sort of, not, maybe dating. (Straight man...not dating, for the record.) I love clarity.

*Relieved that I had what I perceived to be an obvious sign, not relieved that he was straight. As mentioned, I adore him and would continue to love spending time with him, regardless of his sexuality.

Setting Boundaries, Or At Least Putting Up a Good Fight Trying

“Say no! Push him away!”

My lab partner, Erik, was giving me instructions on the neighbor situation yet again. This time, it was because the following email had been received only hours before:

Red Stethoscope,

How's it going? Hope you've been having a good week. Mine has been okay -- getting over a slight cold.
It was fun doing dinner after so many shuttle conversations -- we definitely have to do it again in a few weeks after the exam block is over. Hey, I wanted to ask if you might be free for a 10 minute study break this weekend. Thought I might stop over at your place to say hello, since we do live in the same building after all. Let me know if you might have a few minutes for me to stop by.

Best,
Neighbor Guy

After adding Neighbor Guy to my LinkedIn profile after our dinner last Sunday night, he had accepted and sent an email on Monday morning, saying that he had a good time. I responded with a similar good-natured sentiment and told him that I’d be busy for the next three weeks because of my upcoming exam block. I hadn’t heard from him all week, until the above email arrived on Friday morning.

“Trust me,” Erik assured me. “Say no and push him away! He’s going to come back.”

“OK, but when should I send a response email?”

“How long did you wait to send the first one?”

“I’m not sure…I think a day or so.”

“OK good,” Erik continued. “Wait until really late tonight to email him back. That way, he won’t see it until tomorrow morning. Just say that you’ll give him a raincheck. Guys will buy that, because it’s not a rejection. I mean, unless you want to see him..."

In actuality, I need to study and this is just a distraction. I know that. Neighbor Guy knows that. Also, as Erik pointed out, what kind of arbitrary and unrealistic number is 10 minutes? Is he really going to come to my apartment for the first time ever and stay for 10 minutes? Doubtful.

So, at 11:18 p.m. on Friday night, I sent an email to my neighbor telling him that I was busy all weekend, but that I would, in fact, give him a raincheck. As per Erik’s suggestion, I tried to be cute and witty about it—suggesting that he may get a 15 minute study break from me, instead of 10, as compensation for such an inconvenience.

I have not yet received a response and quite honestly, I’m not very good at playing these games. Thank goodness for Erik—relationship advisor to the relationship advisor. I can’t even tell if this man is straight (Although probably, right? Why else would want to see me for 10 minutes this weekend?), much less how I’m supposed to be responding to him.

The State of My Psyche

I finally have my appetite back today. This is a positive thing, considering I haven’t been eating consistently since talking to Rich on Friday. (Dinner with my neighbor on Sunday was the only meal I had that day.) It’s interesting how my body copes with stress. Mild worries (e.g. exam studying) and I’m a compulsive over-eater, with an undiagnosed oral fixation. Major psychological trauma (e.g. talking to Rich) and I can’t eat for five days. It was probably a good thing that I didn’t try to contact Rich on Sunday, like I said I would, to get dry cleaning of mine that he apparently has. (And after I tried so hard to get every last item out of that condo…ugh).

I Guess What Happened Could Be Considered a Date, But Only if Awkward and Ambiguous Fall Under That Description

He was already waiting for me in the lobby when I arrived. I was a few minutes late and still had damp hair from a quick post-shower blow-dry. He smiled when he saw me, though, and reached out for a hug. The awkwardness began sooner than expected.

Hugging has never been a part of our routine, so I was caught a little off guard. Still, I’m usually a hugger and I did want to reciprocate. Except, I was still walking towards him a little bit, so I ended up kind of walking into his side and bracing my collision with my arms, which I hope landed around his waist or neck. I’m not sure. It happened quickly and the poor execution was definitely my fault. As per my previous feelings about this, I just wasn’t prepared. I think it showed.

He offered to drive and as we walked to his car, conversation (thankfully) took off. Then again, engaging banter has never been a struggle for us.

He took me to a Szechuan Hot Pot restaurant in the next town and we both followed instructions from at least three waiters who did not speak English well and wanted to rush us in our choices of items in which to place in said Hot Pot. It was evident from conversation that he’s a foodie and this was not his first time trying Hot Pot. He mostly did the cooking (you cook raw meats and veggies at your table), asking what I wanted next, before cooking and plating it for me. (In retrospect, I did not ever offer to cook anything for him or put it on his plate. Ack, courtesy failure! )

He was sweet and date-like in other ways, as well. There were doors opened for me, compliments about my dress, and the slowest walking I have ever experienced with him--I presume to prolong the time between car and restaurant, etc. All of this was new and delightful, just unexpected. I mean, I can recall at least one incident where I could see the train from afar at the Metro and I turned to him and said, “Do you want to run for it?” With all of our things in rush hour chaos, we have bolted to the train before it pulled out of the station. I know he walks faster than that.

He spoke of his religion, upbringing, and disdain for pretentious, elitist people who go attend schools like Johns Hopkins, Georgetown, and UVA (which, by the way, we have both attended). Suddenly, a lot of what used to happen over the previous year made sense. For a while, every time I would see him, all that he ever wanted to talk about was school. He made frequent references to my medical school career, and I would try to redirect conversations elsewhere by talking about life things like the condo that Rich and I were buying or FICA mortgage rates. I wonder now if he was gauging whether or not I fit the prep-school stereotype.

--

It wasn’t until we were poking at our spicy lamb and enoki mushrooms with chopsticks, though, that I realized he never knew that I was a writer. His eyebrows rose in surprise and his smile showed that he was pleased at such a revelation. He asked what I wrote about, which led to a discussion of marriage norms, pre-nuptial agreements, and our feelings about both. He asked specifically if I wanted a pre-nup (I don’t), but as a preface to my answer, I told him about my parents’ messy divorce (I mean, if ever there was a reason to justify a pre-nup!) and about me having to turn down my acceptance at Harvard when my father refused to pay my tuition.

I wish that I could say that I was the epitome of a lovely, perfect date aside from my scary life revelations, but remember that verbal altercation with Rich on Friday night? It was still fresh. I am aware that a couple of times, a jab directed towards Rich (or New York bankers, in general) slipped out. Once, when he was talking about the stuck up, elitist folks who shop in the very expensive town where we live, he said,

“The men wear these sockless loafer kind of shoes with their popped collars and shorts…I don’t even know if they have a specific name.”

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out the answer like an eager Jeopardy finalist.

“Sperry Topsiders,” I said. “Those shoes are called Sperry Topsiders. I know this because that look was basically Rich’s uniform.”

He was mostly a good sport about it, although during our conversation about religion, he did ask me if Rich had been Adventist (which led to a verbal tirade, but was productive as he shared similar struggles he has dating Catholics).

Two hours later, he signed for the bill (which he did not allow me to pay half of) and said,

“You’ve told me so much about yourself and I love that you’re just so sanguine about life.”

“I love that you know how to use ‘sanguine’ in its appropriate context,” I teased.

When we got home, I wondered how such an evening would end. We got into the same elevator, but since I live on a higher floor than him, it was inevitable that he would have to get out first.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he said. “I hope that we can do this again really soon.”

I agreed and as the elevator doors opened on his floor, he ended with, “Maybe I’ll see you on the shuttle this week.”

Umm...what? What a way to end the night! I wanted to remind him, “We don’t have to wait for accidental meetings on the shuttle anymore because now we're hanging out! We ate from a Hot Pot and shared germs on our chopsticks and talked about life! Remember?” Also, where was my awkward hug? Were we not going to do that again?

When I gave the rundown to my gross anatomy lab group on Monday, the male of the group, Erik, assured me that men are rather stupid and that he probably just wasn’t thinking about that last comment.

In many respects, he was a great dinner date. Yet, in a conversation about music, he talked about a karaoke incident with a male co-worker that involved singing inappropriate lyrics to a Michael Jackson song. I know he was intending this to be funny, but it just didn’t come out…right. I’d be totally sure of his sexuality, had he not shared this little tidbit with me. He also had to ask my last name when we got home from the date (ha!). I asked his too, then made him spell it out loud, and spelled it back to him. Verification of spelling was, of course, vital for the Google stalk. I did that later that night (which revealed nothing useful, unfortunately).

Verdict: Ambiguous, on multiple levels.

I Believe This Is What Is Commonly Known as “Trying to Do the Right Thing”

As soon as the car door slammed behind me, I realized my mistake. A cursory glance through the driver’s side window revealed what has never happened to me before: I had just locked my keys in the car.

I was at a new health club, located two miles from my apartment, and they were closing in 45 minutes. I had wanted to get in “one quick workout” before they closed on Friday night. Instead, I would be forgoing the workout to find a locksmith. The manager didn’t have the number for one, though, and instead, directed me to a sales desk with a computer and phone. After making several calls and getting price quotes ranging from $60-$100, I realized that I was two miles from home. Wouldn’t it be cheaper to call a cab, go home, have the concierge let me into my apartment, and then get the spare?

Ten minutes later, the gym manager came to check on me and I confidently informed him that a cab was on its way. When he asked if I got the address right, I told him that I sent the cab to the address on my membership card. Which, it turns out, was the wrong one.

I called another cab, but as I waited, I realized that it may not make it before the gym closed. Envisioning standing outside alone in a dark parking lot with no keys or cell phone, I did the inevitable. Rich’s phone number is the only one I have memorized and since my cell phone was locked in the car as well (intentionally), I took a deep breath and called.

Rich didn’t answer, but I left a rather bright message asking him to please call the gym if he was in town, or come to get me. I tried not to think about how many people in his family would be gossping about his stupid ex-fiance who locked her keys in her car and had to call him out of desperation.

--

When he called back, it was nearly 11 p.m.

“The gym is closed,” he said.

“I know, I’m at home. Are you…outside of the gym…?”

“Yeah, I drove over here to get you,” he said.

The conversation was superficial and unnaturally cordial. He asked me about my mom, the roommate search (how does he know about that?), and the reunion that occurred among my family in Florida, during the weekend that we should have been getting married. Finally, I couldn’t ignore the pink elephant any longer.

“We should talk at some point about "us." I really want us to be able to be civil and to be OK,” I said.

He started asking about my exam schedule and saying something about how busy I am. Realizing his intentions and not wanting to share a meal or outing with him again EVER, I took a breath and decided right then was as good of a moment as any.

“Why did you feel like you had to leave the way you did?,” I asked. “And, why didn’t you try to communicate with me all summer?”

I was intentionally even-tempered and calm as I spoke.

“The reason I didn’t call you this summer was because you didn’t want to talk to me.”

Of course, he was blaming me. Although his statement was true, how would he have known that I didn’t want to talk if he never tried? He continued, and it was evident that he was not ready to be having this conversation.

“I took all of the blame in this relationship!,” he screamed. “You never apologized to me for anything that you did to me!”

I was dumbfounded. Anything that I did to him? Would that be in-between his false accusations about how bad I was? Or, after I started having academic difficulties for the first time in my life because of how much I was giving to the relationship?

“Well, I’m not entirely sure what you’re talking about,” I said. “But, if there were things that I did wrong, please tell me and I will apologize.”

He had no response and started yelling, “I’m the one who had to change! I’m the one who was making all the compromises!”

I pressed his original accusation. “Tell me what I did wrong, Rich! I’m not a mind-reader! Tell me what you want an apology for!”

Things were quickly escalating and I brought up that it was in fact, me, who was criticized by him. When he asked for examples, I blurted out the first one that came to mind—that he said my family is “poor” and refused to stay with them on our next visit to St. Vincent.

“I never said that!,” he barked. “That’s just another one of the lies you are making up to make me look bad! That’s one of several lies that you’ve made up tonight!”

Umm…what? It was he who started a conversation this past spring with, “Wow, your grandfather is really poor. I mean, when did he even get electricity?” (For the record, about 10 years earlier than Rich’s parents got electricity.) And, what motivation would I have to make up lies to make him look bad? He's already doing a pretty good job of looking bad on his own--without my intervention.

“Do you remember the conversation in which you asked when my grandfather got electricity?,” I screamed.

He refused to answer, and I continued to yell over him (sorry, neighbors) until he answered.

“Yes! I remember the conversation! “

“Why did you ask that, if you weren't asking if they were poor!,” I shouted.

“Because I just wanted to make a comparison. I just wanted to know because my mother grew up without electricity!”

Riiight, because now he wants to acknowledge that his parents weren’t always multi-millionaires.

I moved on to another example, one of the many weddings in which Rich forgot that I was with him (as in, forgot for 4-5 hours and did his own thing while I entertained myself and multiple family members of his asked why I was alone for so long).

“You’ve never forgiven me! You’ve never forgiven me for things that happened a year and a half ago! Even now, you still don’t have forgiveness in your heart.”

That last comment pushed me over the edge and I screamed back, “Are you God? Because I thought God was the only one who could judge people and read hearts!”

I wanted to punch Rich in his stupid, hypocritical face. Still, shouting had given way to crying and I was shaking with anger and shock.

I took a few deep breaths and asked Rich to do the same.

“I am NOT taking deep breaths!!!,” Rich screamed.

On the other end of the phone, I stopped talking to keep breathing and to calm myself down. I knew I had to de-escalate the situation.

A few second later, I said very quietly,

“Rich, listen to me. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to fight with you and I don’t want to rehash what went wrong in our relationship. I want us to be able to get along and to be OK.”

And then, the inevitable.

“I’m sorry about the way that things ended between us and I’m sorry for anything that I might have done during our relationship that hurt you.”

On the other end of the phone, Rich started crying.

“I don’t want to fight either. I want to be civil,” he said.

Yet, Rich did not apologize. Instead, he continued to try and bring up situations which he believed proved that all of the problems in the relationship were because of me. He said that I told my mother a month before we broke up that I didn't want to marry him (not true, and how would he have known if I did?). When I countered this argument with the fact that I own two wedding dresses now (one for a separate reception in St. Vincent), he said that the only reason I had to go through with my dresses was because I had already paid in full. Not only is this not true, but it just doesn't make sense. Why would I have gone through the hassle of planning a wedding, in its (financial and emotional) entirety, if I didn't really intend to marry him? I wish Rich could hear how outlandish and bizarre his accusations about this situation sound.

I spent several hours after we hung up being torn between pity that Rich actually believes that he was wronged in such a profound way and anger that he is so clearly disconnected from reality.

Regardless of his reaction, I learned a long time ago that the only person’s behavior I’m responsible for is my own. It’s ironic that I am the one accused of not having a forgiving heart, but it’s of no consequence. I did what I believe God would want me to do and I have a tremendous amount of peace about that.

Even if our relationship had not ended badly, it would be foolish to assume that either person had not borne some fault for the mistakes and fights that occurred. The sooner that Rich learns how to say, “I’m sorry” and admit his mistakes, the better. Not just for me, but for him too.

"What happened to us?
I heard that it's me we should blame.
What happened to us?
Why didn't you stop me from turning out this way?
And know that I don't hate you;
And know that I don't want to fight you;
And know that I'll always love you,
But right now I just don't."
-"Which to Bury, Us or the Hatchet?" -Relient K

On Top of Everything Else, I'm Now Going Out With a Man Whose Last Name I Don't Know

It noticed him sometime after I moved into my apartment last year. We seemed to be on the same schedule most days and finally, after waiting for the building shuttle side-by-side at home or at the Metro in the evenings, I introduced myself. He was friendly, Indian, and gay. I thought.

We became friends and although at some point, he gave me his business card, I lost it and I never called. Our conversations were limited to the 10-15 minutes at our shared Metro stop—me with my blue backpack and jeans, him in his crisp business slacks, with laptop bag in hand.

Two weeks ago, however, I returned from an emotionally hard day at school to find him waiting for the shuttle at the Metro. I playfully smacked his hand with the notes I had been reading, as I approached.

“Well, hey you!,” I greeted him. I hadn’t seen him all summer.

“Hey! Wait…aren’t you married by now? Why are you….”

“Umm…yeah. We called it off, we broke up….”

“So you're still living in your apartment?”

“Thank God I had not given up my apartment! Besides, you know how I love our apartment building.”

“As do I…,” he smiled.

And, in thirty seconds flat, we were back. Him telling me about his exciting new job offer that turned out to be a bust that came with a 22% pay cut and me promising to distract him from his bad day by regaling him with what had to have been my much worse summer. So engrossed were we in conversation that we actually missed the approach and departure of our building's shuttle. It was he who looked up in time to see it pulling away, both of us laughing out loud, as we watched it fade from view.

When we arrived home (on the next shuttle), I mused,

“You know, you once gave me your business card, but I have to admit that I lost it. Do you want to hang out sometime, though?”

“Yeah! I would love that!,” he said, before pulling out his phone in the lobby.

--

I was planning on calling, but there were medical school events, orientation, and the proposition by a friend of a friend that my "awesome gay neighbor" might not actually be gay. What would happen then?

Tonight, I sent a text asking if he was free for dinner on Sunday. He called back within minutes, but seemed...nervous. He was asking me questions about school that I thought I had already answered. Yet, he was clearly prepared for this moment, offering several date-like options for dinner before asking if there was a specific time on Sunday that I wanted to meet. I wasn't ready for this.

I had envisioned our first non-shuttle related moment as a casual meeting at a time in which we both were mutually hungry. I would offer to drive, or he could too, to the mall two miles away for Cheesecake Factory or Maggiano's. I saw us meeting downstairs, in jeans, after a quick text sent a few minutes before. I was not prepared for what was obviously a very straight man planning a very real date.

Before we hung up, he said, "Wait, I just have to tell you one more thing."

"Umm...yeah, OK," I tried to sound cheerful (to conceal my growing surprise).

"Every time I think about you..."

I zoned out momentarily because...every time he thinks about me? How often is he thinking about me? I was trying to listen, but I was not prepared. NOT PREPARED.

He went on to tell me about a commercial that used to play in Southern California, when he lived there 10 years ago, in which my name (and the exact spelling) were used. He had never met anyone with my name and spelling and was intrigued.

So, on Sunday, I have a date with a straight man who I adore, but who for the past year, I assumed was gay.* On the upside, he's cute and has an impressive mastery of the English language.

*To be fair, I was also dating Rich (who also lived in our building before buying the condo...ha! This story is so twisted...) for the duration of our friendship. Does being off-limits influence how a man interacts with you? I think so.

Revelation

After a long standing love affair with diet Coke, I have realized that consuming caffeine is giving me headaches and muscle spasms (eye twitch, anyone?). I can't express in words how disappointing this discovery has been. RIP diet Coke, you will be missed.

Central to the Story (a.k.a. The "Breakup" Story)

It was perhaps our third conversation about it. There had been so many, I can’t be sure.

It was a Friday night and for the first time in a long time, cooking for Sabbath was not on the agenda. Instead, I was sitting on the living room couch—hair still wet from a post-gym shower. I had just hung up the phone with my sister when he knocked on the front door.

He looked as if he had been crying and his voice was shaky.

When he sat down on the couch, it was on the opposite end—far from me. It was obvious that I was in a better emotional place than he was.

“I woke up this morning thinking that maybe I am pressuring you into marrying me,” he started. “Do you feel like I’m making you do this?,” he asked.

“You’re not pressuring me into doing anything,” I reassured him.

What happened next was less expected.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about how you want a postponement and I just feel very strongly that… postponing the wedding is the same thing as calling it off.”

“I don’t agree...” I started to respond.

He was already rubbing his forehead and running his fingers backwards through his hair.

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he said.

The “again” of which he spoke, was of course, a reference to his first ex-fiance. A year and a half before meeting me, he flew her to Italy to propose to her. She said yes—sort of—then returned the ring to him 15 minutes later at the hotel. From what he told me about what happened, I had judged her unfairly and convinced him that she led him on for the four years of their relationship and never really loved him. Now, I finally understood.

For the duration of their relationship, she had refused to move from California (where she lived) to New York (where he lived) because that’s where the circus (a.k.a. his family) lived. At that time, he was the sole financial support to his brother and sister (both in their mid-twenties) and they lived with him. Even without his brother or sister in the picture, the thought of moving to New York terrified me too. If I had no control over how often they were visiting us in Virginia (I lost track, but 8-9 weeks straight at times...maybe 20 times a year?), what would happen when we lived in New York?

I had pressed Rich about it once and asked what would actually happen if we followed through with a tentative plan to move back to New York when I finished medical school.

"Am I going to come home after a 36 hour shift in residency and find people in my house?," I asked.

"Well, it's not like I'm asking you to cook or clean for them," was his response.

It wasn't exactly what I was hoping to hear.

--

“Where’s your ring?,” he asked, noticing its absence from my hand.

“In my bedroom. Why?”

“When was the last time you wore it?,” he accused.

“I don’t know. Yesterday? What’s the point of wearing it if I’m just in the house?,” I reminded him. I knew that he was implying that my refusal to wear the ring meant that I didn’t love him and wasn’t invested in the relationship.

In reality, the ring was this:



A 2.8 carat flawless combination of diamonds worth $36,000. Not exactly what you put on to scrub the toilets. Or, to dissect cadavers in medical school. Or, to touch babies who vomit and cough on you as you examine them at your clinical internship.

It wasn’t what I asked for, but Rich had done what Rich always did—what he wanted to do.* When I explained my reasons for wanting a more practical ring, he said that the ring he gave me had “better resale value.” I accepted that, as a jeweler's son, he knew more about these things than I did, but when I told my friend, Cara, her response was,

“Resale value? Does he plan on you pawning your ring on the street? Besides, it’s your ring!”

Neither thought had even occurred to me as a basis for argument.

--

Before I knew it, he was off of the couch and making his way down the hallway to my bedroom. When he returned a few seconds later, he was bearing the small, gray felt box in which the ring had been presented. He stopped at the dining room table—where my keys had been carelessly discarded after the gym—and picked up the bunch. He started to remove keys which I could not identify, but which I presumed to be the keys to his condo.

My stoic façade began to crumble.

“What are you doing!,” I asked, startled.

“I gave you these things when we were engaged. Now we’re not engaged anymore, so I’m taking them back” he responded coldly.

On the couch, I started to cry. I didn't get up to resist him, because I knew that my efforts would be futile. He walked over to the couch, reached down to me in a half-hug and said,

“I wanted to marry you. You’re the one who is doing this. I wanted to get married to you.”

“So, we are breaking up?,” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think we should at least think about it?"

“I guess. I was going to send a mass email tonight.”

I wished he was kidding, but I knew he wasn’t. His modus operandi was to involve as many people as possible—friends, family, co-workers—to prove what he always needed to hear: that he was right and I was wrong. Being with him was like dating 20 people simultaneously. If I told him something in confidence, I might as well have been telling everyone personally (how ironic, since I’m the one who is the blogger?).

“Could you at least wait until Sunday to talk to anybody?,” I entreated. “Could you at least do me the favor of waiting one day to tell people that the wedding is off?”

“OK.”

The next day, my mom called me to let me know that not only had Rich called her, but he had talked to his parents, his uncle, and his siblings. My uncle had already called her that morning to find out what happened.



*I understand that some people will be upset at my comments about what was obviously a very beautiful and expensive ring. My issue was that the ring was not representative of our station in life (I am going to graduate with almost $300K of debt and Rich made a handsome, but not ridiculous, salary). Moreover, it did not represent me (an extremely practical and cost-conscious person) and was not something that I could wear in my profession. It was overstated and pretentious--exactly what I didn't want.

Bracing for the Inevitable

Standing in line at Chipotle yesterday, it suddenly struck me that I was in dangerous territory. I attempted a non-awkward surveillance of my surroundings—in which Rich was nowhere to be seen. Still, it was lunchtime and I was standing in line at the Chipotle across the street from his condo.

It was the second time this week that I had suddenly realized that wait! Rich and I live 1.3 miles apart from each other on the same street. I may have been frigid silent about the flowers on my birthday, but seriously, what is going to happen when we run into each other in town? It’s really not a question of whether or not we will. We will, won’t we?

But….then what?

Part of me envisions a diatribe of the saltiest language I can muster. But then, I’ll watch five minutes of the Real Housewives of NJ and realize that cursing people out is dumb and makes you look stupid. So then, I end up spending 60 minutes on the crosstrainer in the gym thinking of all the actual things that I want to tell him—that he treated me disrespectfully, that his family is doing him no favors by painting him as the prince of the family, that he was a terrible partner and may never have a successful relationship. Only, being one of the most direct people I know, I have told him all of these things already (in kinder words, of course). He would parrot back words that I used, but completely misunderstand my context.

Example:

Me: “I need more time to think about being married because I’m overwhelmed. My whole world is falling apart and I’m facing the biggest career struggle I probably ever will. My life is a mess.”

Him: “So, you’re saying that I overwhelm you. You’re blaming me for your career struggles.”

Me: “I didn’t say anything about you. Again, I need more time because I am overwhelmed and my life is falling apart. This is my fault .”

Him: “I can’t do anything else to show you that I love you. You’re never going to think that I’m good enough for you.”

And, two hours later, we’d be back to square one. Rich moping about how I said that he overwhelmed me and me screaming about the fact that he is hearing words, but not listening.

This week has been hard, as I sit through classes I’ve already taken—daydreaming from boredom, then catching myself only long enough to tune back in and make a meaningful comment. Then, I’m back to thinking about what I’m going to have for lunch, whether or not the meter has enough change, how I need a new pair of knee-high boots for the fall…

I feel the loneliest I’ve felt in a while, partially because I’m having so much trouble dealing with this school situation, but partially because now that I don’t have Rich to talk to, I feel like I don’t have anyone. (I still have plenty of friends at school, but they're now on a different schedule than I am.) I wish I knew that he was thinking and concerned about me. I wish that we had an actual friendship that would have superceded this breakup and that would provide the emotional support that I desperately need right now. Instead, I’m back to crying over the state of my life and realizing that the only person I have to blame is myself.

"Back then, I swore I was going to marry him someday, but I realized some bigger dreams of mine...Don't forget to look before you fall." -Taylor Swift, Fifteen