Party’s Over
November, 1998
“Outta my way, I gotta pee so bad! I had to do three laps around the block before I finally found a parking spot!”
As I whiz past her, she yells out, “If you plan on staying here for the long haul, you might want to pay for a parking permit!”
From the comfort of the toilet seat, I yell back, “You’re right, I should’ve just bought one in August, but I never thought in a million years I’d be sleeping on your couch three months later!”
It’s nice here. I get to do things like pee with the door open and have girl talk.
“You stay as long as you want, hunny, I enjoy the company.”
Slutty Co-worker opened up her home to me after my surprise party meltdown. Actually, to call it a meltdown is an understatement. The events that occurred that night are still a blur…that’s how crazy I was. After Leo hung up on me, I curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor and laid there in a state of panic the likes of which I hadn’t felt since my “I FEEL DEAD INSIDE, I FEEL DEAD INSIDE” night ten months earlier. After an indefinite amount of time passed, Kurt got tired of banging on the door, so he broke it down. I lifted my head to find a large amount of people staring at me with shish-ka-bobs and beers in tow. Almost immediately, an argument ensued between my friends and Kurt, something about them wanting to take care of the situation and Kurt thinking he should. I got up, put on a shoe that had fallen off, and headed for the front door. On my way there, things became very quiet, or maybe it was just quiet in my head, but I do remember Kurt grabbing my hand and asking me where the hell I was going. I think I said, “to meet my co-workers like I originally planned,” and then I left. I vaguely remember my friends telling Kurt to let me go but I’m not really sure, because I haven’t spoken to any of them since that night to substantiate anything. I got in my car and drove straight to the restaurant where I was supposed to meet Leo. I thought there might be a chance I’d find him drinking his troubles away at the bar, but not so. The hostess told me Leo punched a waiter for grabbing his jacket in an attempt to force him to leave the restaurant, and after that she wasn’t sure where he went. She was just glad he was gone. I almost punched her. I got back in my car and went to the next logical place I might find him: his apartment in Moraga. But, if he was there, he didn’t answer his door. After knocking for what seemed like forever, I left a note and a message on his answering machine. They both said the same thing.
I have something really important to tell you, and it will explain everything.
I’m parked on the street, and I’ll wait for you till morning. I’m sorry.
He never showed up, and he never called. The next morning, cold and tired, I drove home to face the inevitable. The TV was on ESPN, but on mute. Dishes were still scattered everywhere, and Kurt was asleep on the couch. I tiptoed to the bedroom and got to work. Just as I was finishing packing up my second suitcase, he came in with two cups of coffee and handed one to me. I felt so horrible about everything I had done to him that I probably would’ve eaten eggs if he offered them to me.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
I shake my head.
“That’s okay, I think I already figured it out.”
Plop goes my journal right onto the middle of our bed. My legs collapse beneath me and I land Indian style on the ground. Busted.
“What, you didn’t think I’d go searching for answers?”
I say nothing.
“Who’s Leo?”
Leo’s name coming out of Kurt’s mouth made my skin crawl.
“He’s a…he’s a guy who works for one of our corporate vendors.” My God, I marvel at my ability to pull a lie outta my ass.
“What’s going on with him?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You wrote a f*cking novel about him!”
“All right, I can explain. I met him at a work function. He’s having some trouble in his marriage, and we’re having trouble in ours, and we just started talking. He makes me feel… sane.”
And I’m sorry, Kurt, but I’m in love with him, and I can’t be married to you anymore.
“What I read in that book of yours makes me think you’re in love with him or something.”
“I enjoy talking to him, Kurt, he makes me think about things.”
You know…things like finding true love.
“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
You never did.
“Seriously Chrissy, how would you feel if I did this to you?”
Relieved that I didn’t have to be the bad guy.
“Aren’t you gonna say something?”
There’s too much to say. You wouldn’t understand. You won’t let me go.
“Don’t talk to him anymore. I mean it. If I find out you’re still talking to him, we’re gonna have some trouble.”
My gaze shifts from my journal to his face. On what planet does he think those kinds of demands are acceptable and furthermore…doesn’t he realize we’re already in deep trouble? I hired a therapist, filled up a journal with thoughts of another man, bailed on my surprise party. We’re in all kinds of trouble!
“What are you packing for?”
“I’m moving into my friend’s place in the city.”
“I TOLD YOU THAT’S NOT HOW WE’RE GONNA SOLVE OUR PROBLEMS!”
“They’re not getting solved with me here’ Kurt!”
“Well judging by the crap in that journal, you’re not even trying!”
“You’re right, I’m not’ and that’s why I have to go.”
On the way to Slutty Co-worker’s apartment that day, I wondered how the hell Kurt could even want me to stay after reading the filth in my journal. It struck me as really odd, almost inconceivable, so I pulled over and whipped it out. To my surprise, I found that most of the inflammatory pages had been torn out. The only explanation I can think of is that after I left the surprise party, my friends must’ve rummaged around my room looking for evidence of my sins to protect me from further pain and embarrassment. They found the journal and hid my secrets. But even though three months have passed, I’m still too horrified to talk to any of them to confirm my assumption.
Kurt and I talk every couple of days, and essentially nothing between us has changed other than I live somewhere else. And Dr. Maria was right; he continues to be just fine. I begged him to tell his family what’s going on, but he says everything’s my fault, so it’s my responsibility to tell them. Dr. Maria encouraged me to do just that as a first step to freedom, but I can’t. Even after everything that’s happened, I’m still not ready to be the bad guy.
Leo’s back in Moraga, and it sounds like school’s going well for him. He’s not working at the rock yard anymore. He got a paid internship with some small financial institution, and he’s making pretty good money. Probably enough to finally buy a pretty girl a drink at a bar. The Ho-Bag moved out and he’s living alone, and as far as I can tell, he’s not seeing anyone. I know all this because I’m still a masochistic freak and listen to his voicemail. Since the surprise party, there’s only been one message that mentioned my name and it was from Taddeo. It said, “Told you so, buddy. F*ck her.”
I really was gonna tell Leo I was married that night when I waited for him in my car at his apartment. I had no choice. During that phone call in my bathroom, I could hear the damage my surreptitious lifestyle was doing to him, and protecting my identity no longer seemed as important as his knowledge of it. It no longer seemed as important as his sanity. The rage that exploded from his body when I told him I was in Kurt’s presence was frightening. There was a huge disconnect between what I was saying and what I was doing, and I could hear in his voice that he was trying to piece together the reality of the situation. Things weren’t adding up. But the love he wanted to believe existed between us made it impossible to do that, so he went nuts. It made me sad and scared and so desperately wanting to end the charade. So yes, I really, really was gonna tell Leo I was married that night.
I remember a long time ago when Dr. Maria suggested my secret affair was probably making Kurt insane. But she was wrong. My secret marriage was making Leo insane. I’d like to think I’d still tell Leo the truth, clear things up for him, if he’d give me the chance, but the surprise party was the line in the sand, and I never heard from him again. And so for the last three months, Slutty Co-worker’s done everything she can to mend my broken heart. Night after night, she tries to convince me to hit the town with her, but I insist on staying in with my Thai take-out and sad Sarah McLachlan music. Sometimes I venture down to Union Street to take my mind off things, but usually I’m reminded of why it’s a bad idea. Seeing all the cute couples walking hand in hand with their groceries and fresh flowers and watching the singles whoop it up at the hip restaurants makes me want to jump in front of a cable car. Everything I see and do makes me crave therapy! But Dr. Maria thought our sessions had become redundant, and she suggested I take a little time off to think on my own. Either she’s the most honorable therapist on the face of the earth to pass on my money or she got just as tired of talking about my problems as me. Four weeks ago, at my last session before my hiatus, I asked if Kurt had ever shown up for an appointment and, of course, he hadn’t. She asked me if I had spoken to Leo and, of course, I hadn’t. I walked out of her office feeling just as dejected as the first day I walked into it.
Immediately after Dr. Maria kicked me to the curb, I scrambled to find help elsewhere. No, not another therapist! Puleez, I may cheat on my husband but I would never cheat on Dr. Maria! I bought all the best-selling self-help books I could find. Did they help me? Of course not, but what happened when I was looking for the books did.
Before I tell you what happened, let me explain something to all of you needy mother-f*ckers out there. The self-help section at your local book store is the place people go who either don’t have enough money for a therapist or simply don’t want the frank assessment a good one can provide. Self-help books are jam packed with lively case studies of the moronic and doomed and filled with lists of easier said than done positive steps for improvement, all of which make for a convenient diversion from what self-help book readers really need: therapy. You see, self-help book readers are needy bastards who loooooooove identifying with the folks in the case studies; it makes them feel like they’re not alone and psycho. Take me for instance. I found bits and pieces of myself in every emotionally abused adulteress I read about. Each one of those sluts made me feel like I wasn’t alone! But whenever it came to the part of the book that told me how to heal myself, I’d skip pages or throw the damn thing on the coffee table. Let’s be honest, most people want validation for their f*ckedupness, not a cure for it. Cures are boring and take work. And so we go back to the bookstore the next day to look for more validation and case studies, only to remain forever f*cked up. I know, because I slipped into this dangerous territory for a while. Now onto how my search for the stupid self-help books helped me…
If you’re a self-help book virgin, no need to ask the bookstore clerk for assistance locating them, just follow the weeping and moaning sounds. It doesn’t matter what bookstore you’re in, you round the corner to the self-help section and the entire area is littered with Sad Frumpy Ladies. They’re either crying, deliriously laughing or visibly traumatized to the point that their entire bodies are shaking, and every single one of them will look up at you and give you a needy smile and a nod of the head that says, “Hi fellow f*cked up person, come on in, you’re safe here.” The first time I encountered the emotional carnage sitting on the floor of the self-help book section, my first instinct was to turn and run, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have the heart to cause those haggard faces and tattered hearts additional damage by rejecting them, so I entered into their bizarre world. And once you’re inside those walls, it’s very hard to leave, especially for a narcissistic person like myself who likes to read about people who have committed similar acts of cruelty and who are now bestselling authors of books called, ‘How I Committed Adultery, Survived, Wrote A Book, And Got Rich.’
But fortunately for me, the experience ended almost as quickly as it started. On my third visit back to the self-help book section, I was thumbing through a book that could’ve easily been titled, ‘If You Think You’re Lost Now, Just Wait A Year And Buy The Follow Up To This Book’ when a clearly emotionally challenged woman said, “Oh you’ll like that one, it really helped me.”
To which I replied, “Oh yeah, then why are you still sitting in the self-help book section?” I got the hell outta there and hid amongst the magazines until I was sure all those crazies had cried themselves to sleep.
I settled into a chair and found refuge with the very best periodical of all time, US magazine. Nothing like a celebrity scandal to make your own indignities feel completely manageable. But no, it was not the US magazine that helped me learn how to brush off Kurt’s insensibilities and it wasn’t US that helped me to cope with the loss of Leo. It was what I read on the cover of Fitness magazine as I was putting US away that helped me heal. Right there on the cover of Fitness it said: “Therapy’s great, but it’s nothing compared to what long walks and yoga can do for your mind…and your body.”
Well that just cracked me up! Lazy people walk, and granola’s do yoga! People with energy and money join gyms and get a therapist, that’s just the way things are done! I didn’t want to read the article, but the chick on the cover had a great ass, so I decided to flip through to see how she got it.
Without warning I got sucked in like…kinda like I was reading a case study in a self-help book! The article mentioned wonderful things like creating peace of mind and balance, revitalizing the body and soul, and tension relief. I thought…shit, my gym hasn’t done any of that stuff for me! The article said a spastic personality can only become lucid via quiet physical activity. I thought…shit, I can use some lucidity! It also said yoga and walking helps one to gather their thoughts for the next stage in life and aids in the recovery of “life’s accidents.” I thought…shit, I definitely have some accidents I need to recover from! I bought the damn magazine, and on my way back to Slutty Co-worker’s, I stopped off at Nordstrom’s to buy a solid pair of walking shoes and the exact same yoga outfit the girl on the cover was wearing.
The next day I joined Slutty Co-workers gym where she told me she secretly teaches a weekend yoga class. The woman shaves her armpits and votes republican! Who’d a thought?! She jumped for joy when I told her I was interested in giving yoga a try, and she’s been an enthusiastic and motivating instructor to me. Seriously, you should see her inner thighs!
For my walking, I picked the reservoir that Leo used to hang out at because I hoped to run into him. I got all glammed up in my trendy work out gear and walked around the damn thing for hours searching for him. I never found him and that’s okay, because what happened was even better. I found myself, and I did it by studying other women. I watched all of them. The ones who walk in well groomed packs with all of their gossip and bitching about their ungrateful husbands. Those ones band together real tight. Misery loves company, I guess. Then there are the disheveled ones who walk while pushing their loud and dirty baby strollers. They usually talk about the life they used to have and not very many of them seem thrilled about giving it up. Then there are the really old ones. They seem pretty content with life, or maybe it’s that they’re glad it’s almost over. Never could figure it out really. But what I did figure out is that the common topic of conversation amongst all of the women I studied is that they enjoy talking about how much they suffer. And they’re not talking about ending their suffering either; they just enjoy bitching about it. I never hear them take responsibility for their unhappiness and not one woman has a plan to correct it. They walk and bitch, and they made me realize there’s a very fine line between who I am at this moment and who they are. One wrong move and I’m in a pack of sad angry women…a pack of modern day Francesca’s! They’re alive, and they exist everywhere, and they scare the crap out of me.
Once I became focused on the women around me and my almost certain unhappy place amongst them, it seemed like all of the Kurt and Leo crap that used to clutter my head just disappeared. Don’t get me wrong, I still mourn the loss of what I wanted with the both of them, but until I make my life about me, no man will fit into it, and the crazy women circling the reservoir every single day are proof of that. It’s clear to me now that a therapist can ask you questions but until you ask them of yourself and give yourself time and space to think about the answers, you’re not really making any progress. I remember painfully trying to find answers in Leo’s quiet apartment when he lived in Monterey, but failed. Too many of my thoughts were about other people, none of them were about me.
Eventually I blocked the crazy reservoir women out of my mind because, frankly, they made me sick. I started thinking about things like my career and the creative projects I’ve put on hold because of it. I’d love to learn how to play the guitar, plant a garden, take cooking classes. Shoot, I’ve always wanted to own my own business. I thought about trivial things like how I would decorate my own place if I had it and what kind of car I would buy if the choice were mine and mine alone. Inspiring and completely attainable lists started to fill my head, and soon my trendy work out gear turned into ripped sweat pants and dirty sweatshirts because I couldn’t wait to get on that walking path, breathe in the clean air, and think about all the great things that are within my grasp. All of those huge thoughts I used to have about having babies, getting a divorce, and telling secret lovers about secret husbands kept me paralyzed, unable to see the things in life that could make me happy. But I see them now, and I think I’m officially ready to go after some happiness.