August 12, 2012
-
and still bound
I venture out, taking the new me out into the world. I meet friends at the bar. I consider going to the art gallery on a weekend. Do I want to go alone or do I want to share it with the kids? I toy with the idea of dining out alone and it intrigues me. Will it feel lonely and odd? Will I look as confident and at peace as I feel? Will I appear stand-offish and unapproachable?
One of my colleagues laughs, “You will be fine. People want to talk to you because you are friendly. You never shut people out.”
I go meet friends at the bar. We’ve known each other for 35 years. The majority of the women sitting at the table are reminiscing about their days twirling batons and the boys they made out with. They chatter about who dated who. We catch each other up on where this one is now, who married who. I’m the only divorcee. I was also too awkward to have been one of their cohorts then. I smile and nod, laugh when the stories get funny. Their past is not my own, but they pull me in anyway. They remember me as a smart girl who blossomed in high school. Different because I chose my own path and seemed comfortable in my own skin. Funny and silly, though not irreverent. One of the popular people.
I wasn’t though. I walked tall but felt like I never fit in. I dabbled in this scene and that, pursued friendships in a variety of cliques because I fit in every one, pledged allegiance to no one or nothing. I liked different music, read different books, held different beliefs. Those very things that made me different were the very things that drew people to me. I held them at arm’s length. Never trusting.
I feel rather like an imposter while I sit at the bar. We all take turns talking about our lives, our careers. They all married young, had children, stayed married. None of them went to college. All of them told me that they made poor marks in school. I changed the subject when my turn arrived. There was too much to be said. How would I explain my life to them without sounding like I was grandstanding? I suggested that we order some food. That would give me time to soften my tale, paint it pink, and make it seem less dramatic than it seemed. I didn’t feel like I needed to alter my story for my friend who was visiting from Brazil, but for the rest, I would. They were soft, sweet homebodies, loving mothers, still somewhat wrapped up in appearance, but nice women to hang out with. The guys were easier. Happy with themselves. They drank beer and joked and laughed and told their own tales.
I relaxed a bit. When it came back to me, I delivered an abbreviated version of my history. J listened and nodded, aware of what I was doing, but unwilling to push me to disclose more.
Then the classmate seated to my right leaned over and asked, “So, how’s D doing these days?”
I couldn’t hide the astonishment on my face and I stared at him for a long moment before I became interested in my mojito, “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. He removed me from his contacts.” My former classmate raised his brows and leaned in, “Why?” My face grew warm, “Probably something I said. He doesn’t like it and then he deletes. Who knows with him?” He continued to study me, but I had no more to say.
Angel me leaned in and whispered, “Fuck! Did that asshole tell EVERY ONE of his friends about you?” I turn away and look at her and say nothing. Obviously, that is exactly what he did. Why, I’ll never know.
I’ve never been the story. I’m not comfortable with it. I suppose I can assume that he’s told everyone. I imagine he’s likely lied to our mutual friends. I know he lied to C and J, painting me in an unfavorable light.
He’s probably said the same to anyone who would listen.
I sigh, but I don’t look at my classmate any more. I busy myself with listening to others talk about their kids. After I drop off J at his house I drive home on deserted streets that are slick with rain.
Angel me pats my arm, “He doesn’t know all of your friends.” I nod, “He knows enough. I have no idea what damage he’s done. A lot of these people don’t know me anymore, if they ever did. Now I look bad to them.” Angel me shakes her head, “You don’t know what they think.” I nod. I wish I could disappear.
My weekend grows more surreal when H calls. He makes small talk for awhile before turning the conversation to dating. He’s not keen on it anymore. He’s not good at it. He reminds me that it’s even worse for women. Then he asks is we could go out sometime. I’m speechless. On a date? Yes. I say that it’s possible, but only to placate him. I remind myself that he’s unstable and alcoholic and abusive. I also remind myself that he’s drunk. He’ll forget it when he’s sober.
The frantic text arrives from my oldest a few hours later. He’s talking about it to the kids.
I key in damage control. Hating myself. Wishing so much that the earth would just open up and swallow me up whole. What the fuck is wrong with me? Angel me turns me around, “You just said the wrong thing. It doesn’t matter. You apologize and say you were mistaken.”
My phone just hummed with an incoming text. H texts: I miss u an sorry i cant get over you.
I shut off my phone. My life just got way too complicated.
