Luck of the Irish

So far, I’ve only been on one date since the breakup. This makes a grand total of four first dates in my life time. Wow.

I met Mark at a brewery on St. Patty’s Day. I wasn’t really looking for a guy at this point, but I wasn’t not looking. Anyway, this brewery is not really a place to meet people, but it was a good place to go watch the game and drink green beer with my girlfriends.

I noticed that a guy kept smiling at me from the next table, so I started smiling back (I just learned last week that this is referred to as “eye fucking.” I’ve been told I need to practice). He finally started talking to me, and I gave him my number at the end of the night. He called me in the parking lot before I had even gotten into the car. Is that cute, or creepy? I need help deciphering these things.

We had boring text conversations for about a week. I’m not kidding, his texts were awful. He always sent good morning texts, but they consistently looked like this: “goodmorning.” He would also send text messages that said, “Hi……” I mean, how many dots do you need? Three make an ellipsis, but six? Six make you an idiot…or a twelve-year-old.

I teach language arts. Poor grammar is a major turn off. Looking back, his texts should have been a deal breaker; but I was horny and feeling guilty about sleeping with Max so my standards were lower than they should have been.

The “Date”

I agreed to have dinner with him on Friday, and we made plans to meet at one of the fanciest, most expensive restaurants in town. I decided that I misjudged the guy. I mean, not everyone teaches language arts.

I was driving home from work on Friday when I got a text from Mark explaining that he had a meeting in the next town over so he may not be able to make our date, but he would let me know closer to seven. Seriously? We were supposed to meet at the freaking Chop House. I was going to shower, do my hair, do my nails, and shave my legs for goodness sake. I didn’t want to go through all that trouble for a maybe. I told him that we would just reschedule, but secretly I wasn’t planning on talking to this guy again in my life.

In the Breakup War, I’m Winning

The following day I had plans to see The Hunger Games with a friend. In the middle of the movie, I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. It turns out with was The Ex’s brother calling to say he was in my area and he wanted to pick up the TV. Needless to say, I was slightly pissed. I had broken up with The Ex six weeks earlier, and if he wanted to take the TV he should have done so when he moved out.

I decided to let The Brother take the TV without a fight, but I did go out and buy a newer, better TV before relinquishing the old one. I also made The Brother carry my new TV into my apartment for me before he carried the old TV out. It felt great.

I think I agreed to meet Mark for drinks that night because I wanted to prove that I was winning the post-breakup up competition. I was also very nervous to start dating, and since I didn’t really care if things worked out with Mark one way or the other he would be a good gateway date.

Hi, I’m An Alcoholic

I was supposed to meet Mark at the bar at 8:30, but I was about fifteen minutes late (it was totally worth it, but that’ll have to be a different post). As I leaned in to hug him, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He flagged down the server and ordered another cherry vodka and Red Bull, but the glass was about ¾ full of vodka with only a splash of Red Bull. He had about four of these over the course of our date, and he admitted to drinking before coming to the bar too. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me, but he had to have his brother drop him off at the bar. Needless to say, the date was awful.

Mark invited me to drive him back to his house to play pool, so I sent a 911 text to my friend, and she called me with a crisis. I was very grateful to crawl into my bed when I got home. Poor, clueless Mark called me twice and sent me about five more texts over the next two weeks before he finally got the hint.

I don’t know about this dating thing right now…casual sex sounds much more fun.

Good Ol’ Max

As you already know, I was with The Ex for eight years. When you spend eight years of your life with someone, you end up with quite a few mutual friends post-breakup. Max is one of those mutual friends. In fact, Max is The Ex’s best friend and he is also one of my best friends. Before I jump into the Max story, however, you need to understand the gravity of the situation, so sit back for a little background information.

 Here are some basic facts about Max:

• Max was married when we met him.
• His ex-wife, CDog, and I used to be good friends, until she lost her mind and became psychotic.
• Max and CDog have two beautiful little girls together, and I love these little girls more than anything.
• Max is the singer in The Ex’s band.
• Max was a combat medic for the Coast Guard, and has served tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan.
• Max was the only survivor in a helicopter crash while fighting overseas, and he is now considered a “disabled war veteran” but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him.
• Max is amazing.

Max: My Breakup Hero

The night I broke up with The Ex, I packed a bag and went to spend the night at a friend’s apartment in the same complex. Keep in mind that Valentine’s Day was on a Tuesday this year, so I had to teach the next day. In my emotional frenzy, I forgot to pack half of my over-night necessities, and the last thing I wanted to do was go back to my apartment to get the rest of my toiletries while The Ex blubbered over my shoulder.

As I pondered this dilemma, Max called to check on me. I think his intention was to talk me out of breaking up with The Ex, but after I half sobbed half yelled my extensive list of reasons for the breakup into his ear, Max said, “I can’t disagree with anything you just said.” I was shocked. He then asked if there was anything he could do to help me through the transition, and I explained that I needed The Ex to leave our apartment for the night so I could sleep in my bed and function at work the next day. Five minutes later The Ex knocked on the door to tell me that he was going to his parents’ house for the night. I went home, toiletry problem solved.

Wine + Whiskey + Max = Oops…

About a month after breaking up with The Ex, Max came over with wine and whiskey. This wasn’t anything out of the ordinary; he usually came over with wine and whiskey pre-breakup too. We had a great time catching up with each other. He told me about his conquests, and I told him about the sexy teacher at school I had been flirting with for the past couple of months (I’ll tell you more about him later). We took shots of whiskey between glasses of wine, and even thought it was a Sunday night I decided to be reckless and drink far too much. I justified this behavior by reminding myself that the next day was library day, so I wouldn’t have to teach, just monitor.

The unfortunate thing about whiskey and wine is that there is a tipping point when all inhibitions come crashing down around you; but perhaps this happens with other alcoholic beverages too. Everybody has their spirit to stay away from. For most it is tequila, for many it is whiskey, for some it is rum. I suppose it is easier to blame the alcohol for your bad decisions than to blame yourself. It is much easier to say, “Well the whiskey made me do it” than to say, “I drank too much and made a bad decision.” I prefer to say that the whiskey made me do it.

Max and I reached the tipping point of intoxication around midnight. We were sitting on my couch which is really a love seat, and Max started to tell me how amazing I am, how much he’s loved me since he first met me, how he never thought that The Ex and I would break up. I’ll admit that I had always had a mini-crush on Max too, but I never thought I would have the opportunity or the carelessness to act on it.

He moved in to kiss me and in my foggy state of mind I was open to the idea, but he stopped just before making contact and asked if we were really going to do this.

We did. Twice.

The whiskey made me do it.

The Breakup

I’m the girl who was with her high school boyfriend for eight years because she was too lazy to break up with him for the last three. I’m also the girl who broke up with the guy on Valentine’s Day. What a bitch, right?

Long story short, I am a teacher and he has been delivering pizzas for the past eight years. I am very happy with my life, and he drowns himself in beer, my wine, and whatever hard liquor he can find in the house, pretty much every night. He is lost, and I couldn’t afford to follow him around aimlessly for another eight years. I was no longer able to pretend to be someone I wasn’t.

And for the record, I’m not actually a bitch. Unless you ask The Ex or my students; then I’m Super Bitch. *Insert super hero music here*

The Gory Details

The catalyst for the breakup came the weekend before Valentine’s Day. I had plans to go out with the girls on Saturday night while The Ex was working. I had a bottle of rum left over from New Year’s Eve hidden in the closet (I had to hide my alcohol from him or else it would disappear while I slept), but I guess I hadn’t hidden it well enough because it had already been mostly consumed when I found the bottle. You couldn’t cover the bottom of a shot glass with what he had oh-so-considerately saved for me. The Ex, of course, didn’t see a problem with this minor detail.

After an explosive sprint of a fight I decided to ignore him for the rest of the night. In eight years, I had never ignored his calls or texts for longer than a couple of hours. I ended up closing the bar, and he slept on the couch. I think my night was much more enjoyable than his.

The next morning I went to a friend’s apartment before he woke up. I continued to ignore his calls, until I got hungry and decided to let him treat me to breakfast. Over breakfast I forgave him and we went on with our lives.

Enter St. Valentine…

By the time Valentine’s Day rolled around we had come to a silent agreement to forget about the fight. We had dinner at Chili’s (and it was delicious. I freakin’ love Chili’s). We had a perfectly enjoyable dinner and we were waiting for our dessert when it started: the beginning of the end.

The Ex brought up the events of Saturday night during our Valentine’s Day dinner. Who does that?

I won’t bore you with extensive dialogue, but after describing the complete fucked-up-ness of my behavior on Saturday night he told me to “take a good long hard look in the mirror” because I’m “not perfect either.” I agreed with him, I did need to reevaluate my life decisions. In the eight years we’ve been together, I’ve graduated from high school and college, found the job of my dreams, kick ass at it every day (I’m not a modest person. It is one of my faults.), I’ve been offered a second (awesome) job because of an education blog I write (not telling which one), and I was extremely happy with almost every aspect of my life. What the hell was I doing with this guy?

He stormed out of Chili’s after I paid for dinner with a gift card from work, and I broke up with him when we got home. The following day I packed up all of his crap because I’m nice like that, and he picked it up the next day. I am kind of surprised at how easy it was to end an eight year relationship.

I am also surprised at how much I love being single. First of all, living alone is amazing. If I clean the kitchen, it will still be clean when I get home!! What a concept! I can play my music as loud as I want to, leave my shoes in the living room when I’m too lazy to put them away, and I can hook up with inappropriate men at any time of day…but more about them later.

The clouds have parted, as have my legs, and I am having too much fun to not document it. When I’m an old lady I will know that I have lived. As for The Ex…he can drink shit. 🙂