Monday night I was walking home in my neighborhood, fresh from
a gym sesh when I saw my ex-fling’s best friend/roommate/potential life partner
coming out of our laundry mat. I haven’t
seen my ex-whatever in a while and haven’t spoken to him in just as long, but
when you live in the same neighborhood as one of these blasts from the past,
you tend to be subconsciously on alert for any sign of them. For example, I thought I saw the fling himself today on the
subway platform and my body immediately prepared itself to kick the doppelganger
in the calves and take off running for the exit. I had no idea my innate response would include
both fight AND flight. You can be emotionally
healed from a relationship and happy and
moved on and dating a Ryan Gosling look-alike…hell you could be dating Ryan
Gosling himself, but you still don’t know how you might react at the first
sighting of a man who did done you wrong.
Seeing the best friend of my ex-guy didn’t provide a kick in the gut or a
wave of depression. Oh no. I immediately yelled his name before I could
stop myself and was running over to him before he even looked up to recognize
where the ambush was coming from. My very first
instinct upon approaching was to hug him. I started
walking toward him with my arms out while my brain screamed “STOPPPPP”. I kept advancing. I honestly don’t even know if this guy knows
my full name. I know his last name sounds like a wet
sneeze, but that’s all I got. I couldn’t
even add him on Facebook if I wanted to, but I still felt it necessary in some
corner of my being to gift him with an intimate hug. Did I mention I was at this point in time
drowning in my own sweat from my work out and the humid July night? His hesitation only perpetuated my hug, and I
wondered if at heart I am a truly perverse individual. After partaking in the grossest, and quite
possibly most intrusive, embrace of this dude’s 25 years on Earth, my mind went
blank. Not even another peep from my
misguided intuition – even that would have been better than pulling away from a
near stranger you just had in your sweaty death grip with absolutely nothing to
say.
I apologized for sweating.
He returned the sentiment. He
asked me how I was doing and I said, “sweaty” – a topic we most certainly
covered .5 seconds prior. In retrospect,
when the best friend of your former fling asks how you’re doing you should
probably tell him of all the amazingness you’re accomplishing. Even if you’re often found in deep discussions with your roommate's cat, Rosie – tell him you’ve just
been scouted for America’s Next Top Model from Tyra herself while brunching at
PerSay. Tell him you’re planning a trip
to Peru for a month with your investment banker with a heart of gold boyfriend. I don’t care!
Just use this opportunity to appear pulled together and every bit the
amazing woman you are. Instead I was
wearing a field hockey t-shirt from high school with neon running shorts I
bought for $3 at Walmart and the largest glasses I own which I had to
constantly adjust from the aforementioned (and mentioned and mentioned) sweat
pouring down my face.
After covering all topics relating to sweat - including a brief discussion on the inappropriateness of sweating in
the dead of winter - he finally mounted his bike to put us both out of our
misery. As he rode away, we exchanged a
long series of assorted versions of “bye” and I vowed to erase this encounter from my memory. When I got home I gave
myself a good look in the mirror to assess what the friend might report back to the ex. I saw my frizzy hair, drenched shirt, stubbly legs, and melting mascara... and I thought - "Damn. My teeth are
WHITE." Suck on that, Elliot. This chick has still got it.
