Category Archive

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.

It all started innocently enough.  J sent me an e-mail late yesterday, asking if I’d want to have a “date night” tonight.  What a wonderful idea, I thought; just what I need 

We agreed to meet in Chinatown at 6.  Because I’ve been totally in the zone with train timing this week, I arrived at 5.54.  Perfect.  Predictably, he was late.  Did I pass the time by going to starbucks, having a nice drink and doing my reading? Writing? Anything?  No.  Did I go into Ann Taylor Loft and see a lot of cute, cute spring clothes? Yes.  Did I feel like I had time to try on “just this top”?  Yes.  Did I buy “just this top”?  No.  Oh no.  Ann Taylor was a twenty-minute death trap.  I bought the top, plus the suit the mannequin was modeling with it.  The full suit.  It’s adorable, but seriously? Also, because I was getting a suit, I figured hey, I could use another nice button-down shirt, too.  And charge it, please!

J still hadn’t been in touch after the friendly cashier was done assaulting my platinum visa.  He was stuck at union station; the trains just weren’t moving, apparently.  He asked me to just come to him; we’d have date night around there instead, he said.

The moment I walk onto the union station platform, the opposite train comes.  “We can still make it,” J says.  So back on I go.

I should point out here that I dislike commuting by train immensely.  The shorter the better.  Hence, I was in a rather foul mood when I was deposited back in Chinatown, squished and jostled with nothing to show for it.

Finally breathing real outside air once more, J asks: “so, where should we go?”  No plan.  The man had no plan, no reason for dragging me on a commute-time metrorail scavenger hunt for nothing across greater DC.  I think it goes without saying that conversations from this point forward were strained.

I sullenly ate my dinner; he berated me for “being so angry.”  “It wasn’t my fault,” he said; “it’s not about fault, it’s about attitude,” I responded.  Yeah.  Really cool.

We spilt off towards home the way angry siblings happily abandon the cramped backseat after a long car ride.  I spent the evening mostly wanting to kick him in the shins and laugh; he probably wanted to pull my hair and pinch me.  Thank freaking goodness we don’t live together yet. Coming home alone has really helped me chill the heck out. 

He’s just called to say we’re on for a do-over Saturday.  I’m not crossing my fingers, but I’ll give it a fair shot.  Eh, whatever.  The platinum visa, however, may find itself on temporary assignment to the freezer.  Or somewhere else where it will stay out of trouble. 

I tried to break up with J last night.  In fact, I told him we were over, that my resolution was to have no boyfriend, that I was fantastically unhappy and needed out.  Not entirely true.

It was the culmination of several bad months, and while I know I shouldn’t have let it get so out of hand, in a lot of ways I think it was necessary.  I won’t get into the specifics, as they require more back knowledge than these pithy writings and entries provide. It was mostly about our differences, and how I’ve been reading them as larger signs of Why We Won’t Work.  I’m intuiting flashing neon arrows and warning signs when maybe all I should see is Slow: Curve, or Roads Slippery When Wet.  It was about our mentalities: he’s success-driven, and I’m not.  Our families: mine’s close-knit and very Christian, and his is hard-nosed and quasi-Jewish.  Our careers: I’m happy to have a job that’s stable and constant, and he’s all over the board.  Example1. When we met, J was a bigtime attorney in a bigtime firm, with insane hours but a routine.  I appreciate routine.  He left that job after a year though, which made sense because, um, it was miserable.  Even for me.  He’s dissatisfied again, however, and is thinking now—and seriously pursuing—wildly varied ideas involving business and the outdoors and global marketing.  His training?  Not really in any of these disciplines.

On its face, it’s easy for me to pin my fears on this uncertainty, but that isn’t really fair.  In truth, I’m scared that we’ve come all this way and he doesn’t even know me.  The way we relate is dissimilar, and being abstracted from our home environment makes even the smallest specks seem life-threatening. I feel a lot like he’s stepped into the role of parent, correcting me and challenging me.  He’s been challenging me a lot, come to think of it, since we started dating.  Challenge is good.  But I’m tired of feeling like I have to live up to expectation in order to be loved.  I think this may be all in my mind.  Still, though, I—like most anyone, I imagine—do not like feeling this way.

He’s sitting next to me now at the kitchen table of my parents’ house, high up in the mountains where our DC life is ages, and hours, away.  I am happy.  But I’m scared.  It’s getting to the point where people are asking me when we’re going to “make it official.”  An alarming number of people asked me if I thought a ring would come over new years.  Maybe this was just my way of making sure it wouldn’t.  Hi, I’m magda, and self-sabotage is my middle name.

I didn’t mean to tell him it was over, and thankfully he wasn’t too keen to let it stick. We spent about an hour in the sauna hashing it out, which—for the record—is not advisable.  I’m going to be drinking gatorade for about a week.  We revisited it this morning, and again after skiing this afternoon, and I think we’re in a better place now.  I have been unhappy, that much is true. It isn’t all his fault, though.  And I think we’re going to make it work.  I ate my back-eyed peas and pulled a wishbone anyway; keep your fingers crossed for good measure, though, okay? 

J and I are leaving for New Orleans in, oh, twenty minutes. He comes over after work. He decides that he has to take a shower RIGHT NOW, and proceeds to unpack his clothes, strip down, and waltz around like there’s no problem. Oh yeah, and he barely says hello to me. (Pardon me while I vent; it’ll be short-lived).

Okay, so I get stressed when I travel. This has always been true. But this? Gaaah! Also: I can hear him in the shower. He’s angry. “Do not fucking rush me,” he says to the tile. “I can’t believe this shit.” Well, J, that makes two of us. What the hell.

He can vent by cursing out my bathroom; meanwhile, I’ll write, and take slow sips of wine. Mmmm.

Notwithstanding this blip, there is so much that I’m grateful for this year. Especially him; really, he tops the list. If we miss the flight; well, that might call for a reassessment. And if he keeps this tone, I might lose it. But still.