Strange Times.

The blog totally saved my hide today. This is unusual, since it generally proves itself to be the Greatest Work Distraction Known to Man.

I’d drafted out some thoughts last night in Word that I wanted to work on later in the day, but I realized as I was leaving—after I’d already put on my shoes and I had exactly two minutes till take-off—that they were just languishing there on my desktop. I fired up the macbook and emailed them off to myself, but not before seeing a message from my idiot boss in my personal email account.

He needed me to be at a conference. At 9.30. Downtown. Timestamped? 11.44pm. I’m flattered (maybe?) that he thinks I’m the kind of girl who’s online till all kinds of crazy hours. A lot of times, yes, this is true. But not today. So I jetted off, and squeaked in just in time.

The funny thing is, it was a technology conference. I analyze technology law all day long. And yet? No blackberry. No corporate cell. No tech-age appropriate way to get in touch with your staff after hours when, say, you’ve decided they need to go to a conference. We’re so behind the times it’s a positive embarrassment.

But moving on. What I intended to write follows, with apologies for the long-winded introduction.

There’s a dinner I’m dreading tonight. My immediate ex-boyfriend, Mr. Quiet, is in town for the week. I’ve written about this character before (here), and it really is a rather unfortunate saga.

The cliff’s notes version: Magda is in her last year of law school, and is coming off the high of two back-to-back implosions of relationships. Mr. Quiet appears on the scene. He’s low-maintenance, very smart, quiet, and unobtrusive. Just what she needs to get her morale/confidence/groove back. [Ed. note: never, ever use a man for these purposes. Read on]. She never takes him wholly seriously as a potential mate. He, meanwhile, falls madly in love. Magda moves to the other side of the country after graduation. He stays put. Magda puts them “on a break.” Magda meets J, and terminates the break, and the relationship. Mr. Quiet goes haywire, tries to become Mr. Perfect, embarrasses himself and makes Magda feel miserable.

There. Now you should be just about caught up. Oh, you know, except for the fact that now he’s here. In DC. He’s staying with “a friend” (who I suspect is the “friend” who called me at 2.30 am last Thanksgiving, from JAIL in BALTIMORE where he was supremely intoxicated and I, like a sucker, went to pick him up. Long story. Later post. But anyway).

Mr. Quiet wants to hang out basically every night and over the weekend. Endearing, yes. But no. We narrowed it down to Wednesday. And the Oscar for best actress in a dramatic delay-tactics scene goes to …

I don’t even know what I’m worried about, exactly, though I’m sure whatever comes of it, I’m going to have to look across the table, into the eyes I once hurt, on my home turf. Difficult. Made more so by circumstances, it would seem.

J and had an “altercation” last night. (And before you say, incredulously, “again?” let me remind you that relationships are hard, y’all). It was, predictably, ridiculous.

The Scene: Magda and J are sitting on Magda’s sofa, watching a movie. Magda, extricating herself from J’s embrace, heads to the kitchen.

Magda: I’m getting another muffin, you want one? [Ed. note: still warm from the oven, and so delicious]

J: Um, I’m good, thanks.

[pause]

J: Hey, before you reach in there, let’s do some sit-ups.

Magda: Score one for me! Did those already [and lo, she speaks the truth].

J: Yeeah, but you cheat. Let’s do my sit-ups. You’ve got to do them, blahdity blah, you’ve got to stay in shape, etc. etc., yattity yah I don’t want you to get chubby.

Hold your racing horses just one minute. Did I hear this correctly? He doesn’t want me to “get chubby?” Let’s just get this out there. I am a SIZE TWO (2). Okay, sometimes a four, and yes, there are parts of me that are more squashy than I’d really like, and no, hardly any of me is toned. I’m not really in danger of getting “chubby,” though I will concede that I need to get in shape; however, this misses the point. The point isn’t who was right or why, as really, that’s water under the bridge. The point is, I haven’t had a chance to truly talk to J since then; he’s said he’s sorry, and I know he means it, but still, it’s there. It’s just hovering there, waving its little finger in my mind and saying “see, you were right all along, you’re never going to be good enough for him.”

The voice says this, and I can’t shut it up. And I’m going to dinner with a man who sees me as a goddess who can do no wrong. Mr. Quiet would happily feed me cheetos and chocolate cake all day long if I said it would make me happy, and he would never see any chub that came of it. The major flaw here is that I just don’t love him. I don’t believe I ever really did, or ever really will.

Recipe for a fun night? Ha. Ahahaha. We’ll see.