Because when one door closes...

As some of you already know, things with Trainer have - rather predictably - crashed and burned. Actually, ‘crashed and burned’ gives what happened far too much credit and weight: I’m not exactly sure what happened.

I’m not going to go into many details, mostly because I don’t have any, and to say that this week was dramatic would be unfair – it was only dramatic in my head. It’s not like I never saw that there was going to be an end. Indeed, from the very beginning I think we all knew there would be an end. I suppose the timing and the method is what caught me off guard.

Here’s the thing: I put up with a lot of crap. I’m known for it. Most of you have sat through a multitude of stories, shaking your heads, wondering why the hell I put up with the crap that I do. Thank you for listening and keeping me in your life. I suspect that a healthy, normal life (or relationship) might end up feeling boring, but I’ll deal with that if I ever get there.

Now allow me to preface what I’m about to say by reminding you that in my current location, alcohol is forbidden, so clearly any references to liquor is strictly a work of fiction.

So Trainer and I are both in town. We’ve been talking being in the same place at the same time again for a while now, and saw each other just after he arrived. But then that was it.

The thing is, I’m really sensitive to lacking information, and being ignored. And that’s pretty much what was going on, and I didn’t understand it.

So one night I sat with some friends and we showed a couple of bottles of whiskey who was boss. Then I put on my Crazy Girl hat and went to his house.

My friends tried to tell me that they thought it was a bad idea. I told them I knew it was a bad idea. But was doing it anyways. His house was like, right there. How could I not?

I stopped short of actually knocking, but I did call. And then again. A perhaps a couple more times (maybe his phone is broken? Maybe he’s sleeping and I can wake him up and he can tell me that he had a terrible accident and has been in the hospital without his phone for the last couple of days but has just returned home and is so glad that I woke him up to chat?)

(then maybe I sent a text. Or two. Perhaps.)

(yes, all while standing on his door step)

(ya, ya, I know.)

In response I got a text. A wholly unsatisfying text. That in some ways was very clear, but in other ways brought me no closer to understanding what was going on. Every girl reading this gets that. The only thing that was blindingly obvious to me was that I’m certainly not the problem (whiskey and Crazy Girl hat aside).

So I went home, scorned, confused, unsatisfied and reeking of eau de Crazy Girl and the stray dog that kept trying to lick my face as I sat waiting for the driver to come pick me up. 

Then the whiskey told me that it would be clever and funny to pull up an old post about Trainer, cross out everything except the line where I said that “my mom calls him The Asshole” and then add a line at the end saying “my mom was right”.

In the morning my hangover told me that I should reconsider the post, but also congratulated me for showing restraint and not whipping out an exceedingly drunken, bitter diatribe explaining every detail at length. And in Capitals. With lots of exclamation marks. And sarcasm.  Perhaps it’s a sign of maturity?

Anyways, I took it down, but some of you had already seen it, so this is my attempt at explanation.

In other news, the guy who was pouring my cocktails, whom I had just met earlier that evening and had spent the better part of the night bitching with/to/at about men (Kenyans in particular, of which he happens to be one) - with increasing intensity as each round was served- called as I arrived home to see if I was ok and invite me over for a final drink. And I declined. Because knowingly making one bad decision per night is my limit these days. (Also quite mature, no?)