Objects in the Rear View Mirror

I thought I loved him. I was excited. To meet his parents, to go shopping with his mom, to be immersed in the family activities. More acutely enjoyed, I expect, since my own family was so far away. It was nice, it felt real.

But there were problems, just like any relationship. There was the criticism for one. The constant comments about my diet, the nagging to eat better, the reminders to not order that second glass of wine, the disapproving looks if I were to partake in any form of carbohydrate. After all, HE was the professional athlete. He knew best.

Then came the fights. The temper. They were my fault, of course. Everything was always my fault. It was exhausting, living on the edge, not knowing what would set him off, doing my best not to make him mad. But these problems were, in my mind, no different from any other relationship. He told me he loved me, so he must. And when it ended after nine months, I was sad. And I was hurt when he told me the reason: because I wasn’t “motivated”. Because I wasn’t 12% body fat. Because I wasn't working hard enough to get there. Because I spent too much time with my friends.

I cried. I cried for not being enough. I cried for not trying harder. I cried for loneliness, for yet another failed relationship. For being 25 and still single! But alas, after the tears had stopped falling I did what so many women who have found themselves tossed and tumbled on the side of the relationship highway have done and will continue to do. I dusted myself off, touched up my makeup and moved on with life.

He wasn’t one of those ex’s with whom we stay in contact. A casual text, a brief phone call, a drunken hook up. No – this relationship was deader than a morgue resident with a toe tag accessory. Never to be heard from again. Fast forward 5 years to last month when eHarmony and their 27 degrees of crazy…er, compatibility – posted none other than Footballer up on my “New Matches” list! What’s more, he “requested communication”. I was confuse. Slightly amused. Contemplating only two possible scenarios for this sudden outreach from a man I now considered to be of little more significance than a well learned lesson in controlling relationship behavior.

Douchebag Scenario #1: He had no idea who I was. Didn’t remember us dating. Just saw the red hair (a weakness) and put no more thought into the communications request. This would just make him an idiot.

Douchebag Scenario #2: He knew exactly who I was. In which case he was playing a game. Instead of just sending me an email to say, “Hi, Scarlett, it’s been a long time, how are you? Etc. etc.” he’s playing a warped, immature game of “getting to know you”.

It turned out we had encountered Douchebag Scenario #2. I don’t know why I decided to meet him for lunch. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? He looked the same. Still cute. Still built. But he was flattering. He was amorous. Complimentary even. It was absolution, pure and simple.

If any bit of my psyche still remained scarred, if any shred of my self-esteem was still bruised, if there was any hint of uncertainty left over from the misfortune of dating a man who dumped me because of my weight…it was now vindicated and then some. Because, unlike the woman who dusted herself off, moved on and continued to excel at life, this man had definitely stalled along life’s highway and was forever staring into the rear view mirror.

Forced into the ranks of the NFL-injured, he had early retirement thrust upon him and had little to no desire to move forward. And after the waitress screwed up his lunch order, I realized, he was still the poster boy for anger management, entitlement issues. Still annoyingly particular about everything. Still the ever suffering hypochondriac. Still the “my way or the highway”, “take me or leave me”, “its obviously your problem and not mine”, “my mother thinks I’m perfect so everyone else should fall in line”, “by the way, let me tell you how to live YOUR life” touting prima donna has been that he was circa 2005!

The only thing different at that lunch table was me. Not a change in weight that tipped the scales, but a massive shift in both self confidence, self worth and self awareness that I found so dramatic.

Frankly, it was so incredibly satisfying.

Hardball

Dear Fuckhead:

So its come to this. It's sad really, but apparently necessary given the fact that you obviously can't respect my repeated requests to leave me the fuck alone! 

You're the one who chose to take yourself out of my life. For once in your underachieving, maturity stunted, drug laced life – own the decision you made and kindly leave me be.

I’ve asked you nicely, I've asked your forcefully to stay out of my life and off my blog. Sadly, you have chosen, in your characteristically narcissistic and selfish manner, to ignore my requests. This begs the question - why?

The only conclusion I can reach is that in your mind, your visits are some twisted sort of compassionate, altruistic attempt to insure that your absence hasn’t yet led to a ritualistic slitting of my wrists. Please do not confuse me with your mentally unstable ex-wife. I am beyond fine and also, unlike your ex-wife, I do not and never will want you back. (Damn it feels good to say that and TRULY mean it).

This is the last time I will ask you – stay out of my life - stay off my blog. My thoughts and my life should no longer be of any interest to you. If you choose to continue to ignore this request, simply put: there will be consequences. I know you're somewhat unfamiliar with that concept, so put down your bong and pay close attention:

If I see you trolling my site again, the next email I send will be to your girlfriend asking her to please tell her boyfriend to stop harassing me. I'm sure she'd love to know with what a regular interest you take in your ex-girlfriend’s life. I know I would. Let's get her opinion on this, shall we?

I will then post her name along with photos and proceed to conduct a worldwide poll of my readers as to whether or not she does, indeed look like a man.  I’m predicting a favorable outcome. 

So, Fuckhead please wave one last goodbye as I hope to never see you here again. And even though the knowledge that you more likely than not, will choose to continue to violate my privacy, I hope whatever feelings you have for the current "love of your life" (ya know, its truly amazing how generic you really are) will make you think twice. 

If you do not, in fact, know me well enough not to doubt my sincerity I have three little words for you: Just try me.

Goodbye,

Fabulous Annoyance

Thank you all for your "welcome back" posts and messages! Too cute! Also a call for more posting - here's the problem, kids:

Right now, while I AM, in fact on a complete upswing and life high (and wearing the most BEAUTIFUL silver and black lace skirt about to set off on a holiday party tour, what I want to do is to bitch and moan and rant and rave (via keypad). But I'm trying to restrain myself! I'm trying to stay composed and to keep smiling and pour myself another glass of champaign in the middle of the afternoon (they're office parties) - and take a deep breath and let it go. Because #1, bitter and resentful is ultimately, unattractive. #2 I am anything BUT un-attractive :) and #3. I'm determined to continue the aforementioned upswing and be happy!

With that in mind, I will say the following, potentially unattractive lines with georgous hair, flawless makeup, a beautiful smile and shoes that could literally kill (or at least cause a signifcant amount of pain if strategically hurled in the right direction):

Fuckhead: If you have something to say to me, feel free to say it (my phone number remains unchanged). Is there something you'd like to know about me? To discuss? Subjects to chat about? If so, I'm all ears!

If not, why don't you take the time you spend reading and checking my blog and thumbing through the archives and instead, recycle it into additional quality time with your oh so "beautiful" girlfriend (I'm all about energy conservation these days)!? You took yourself out of my life a year ago, so please do me (and her) a favor and truly TAKE YOURSELF OUT!? But, now that I think about it, follow through was never your strong suit. Merry Christmas!

Frankly,