I confessed
my fascination with the blogosphere last winter and it certainly hasn't diminished. One of the new blogs on my list this year is
The Frisky, a professional blog edited and written by a series of NYC-based women ranging from more-or-less my age into their 30s and a few men who contribute from time to time. Their tagline is "Love. Life. Stars. Style." and their posts run the gamut from the plight of women in Africa and political prisoners to who wore what on which reality show and all the things guys do that drive women crazy (and vice versa - they're very equal opportunity!).
CNN occasionally features their posts, which is how I first found them, but I keep going back because reading The Frisky is basically like having a perpetual coffee break or happy hour with friends. They have a devoted following of readers who are all very vocal and comment like crazy.
My love of the site aside, a post this morning by Frisky Editor Amelia McDonnell-Parry - "
What Do You Remember About Your Worst Breakup?" - really struck a chord with me because it ties in with something I've been thinking a lot about lately. It's an interesting question in a society that's more concerned with "moving on" and catching up to what could be than reflecting on what has been.
My two worst breakups to this point have been the first (of course!) and the most recent. I can laugh about the first now, both because hindsight lets me appreciate all the melodrama of high school and because the other person involved remains a very good friend. It was lunchtime on a Wednesday and he told me "something just didn't feel right anymore." (Yes, I remember. Yes, you will always be in trouble for the fact that it was the middle of the day in the middle of the week!) I managed to find Gina before collapsing at her feet - literally; I have a crystal clear, cringe-worthy memory of wrapping my arms around her legs while she patted my head - and bursting into tears.
The oddest thing about the memory is that I remember exactly what he was wearing and what people said to me in fifth period afterward, but my
self - that fifteen-year-old me, as I remember her - is oddly blank. I remember everything I felt but very little of what I thought or said.
The most recent is a different story. I remember leaving the gym that morning and practically humming on my way to his favorite coffee shop, then across the street to bring him breakfast - a ham and cheese croissant and coffee, black. I knew he was stressed about finals and got up early so that I'd have time to swing by with a quick pick-me-up on the way (more or less) to work. I remember the look on his face when he opened the door - completely stunned. In the memory, his expression is tinged with unhappiness, but at the time I put it down to studying-induced insomnia.
I stayed maybe all of five minutes, gave him a quick kiss goodbye and headed to work with a spring in my step. It was Friday, and the first weekend in at least a month that we'd be able to spend some uninterrupted time together was less than twelve hours away. It had been a rough spring for us, between stress, busy schedules and trips, and I couldn't wait to to put it all behind us. I'd missed him.
He got to my apartment as I was debating cooking or ordering dinner that night, and I skipped over to hug him hello. I didn't notice until he said those dreaded words, "We need to talk," (or it might have been "You should sit down," now that I think about it) that he hadn't brought anything with him. I remember him sitting next to me on the floor and holding my hand while I cried. I can't remember whether or not I ate dinner after he left.
The next morning, I woke up with eyes so puffy I could hardly open them. As I held a wet washcloth to my face, the thought crossed my mind that I'd never had any reason to think about the term "cold compress" outside of literature before. I thought about blowing off the 10K I was supposed to run and wallowing in bed instead, but decided I was absolutely not going to be
that girl, who let a guy change what she wanted to do. So I went, arriving an hour early and standing under an overhang near the start, shivering in the rain. I remember being vaguely glad that the weather fit my mood. Running I could handle; the sun, mocking me by shining? Not so much.
I doubt I'll ever laugh at that most recent breakup, but what's occurred to me in the past few months is what that day, and everything that led up to it, must have been like for him. It's disconcerting, as I'm looking back, to have a flash of insight about what he might have been thinking or feeling at certain moments pierce the haze of my remembered emotions. Sort of like a particularly rough change in camera angle - perspective, the film buffs call it - during a movie.
And relationships have a lot to do with perspective. We each take centerstage in our own, of course, because we're the omniscient narrator of our own experiences. But there are a lot of other omniscient narrators around us and miscommunication, in its many forms ("Oh, we're just friends. He said we were dating?!", "What do you mean, the way she looks at me? Honey, I've known her for years, I'd know if she felt that way.", "You're blind-siding me with this
now??"), stems from those differences in perspective.
Hopefully we glean enough from those other omniscient narrators to have some idea of the big picture and what our monologues sound like from the outside. If we're smart, we learn what we can from the rough spots before leaving them on the cutting room floor, then keep the lessons and - most of all - the good times to play back whenever we need them. In matters of the heart, the next scene may rarely be what we expect but as long as we're paying attention, it will always be interesting.
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