So when I met this man named Eric at Rumba, he was devastatingly charming. "And you're single? I don't want to step on any toes here..." I asked him as we salsa-ed on the dance floor. A relationship with a woman was something for which he lacked time... though I wonder if he ever felt lonely in London?
Hundreds of e-mails, MSNMessenger chats, webcam video calls, international text messages, $25 calling cards later, we were on our way to a euphoric long-distance relationship.
His most romantic e-mail ended with these lines:
"If you keep bringing down theses barricades I’ve set up all around, you may eventually find me. I’m waiting for you there."
Ahh, lovely...almost as if he was some sort of sacrificial oyster containing a serious pearl, just waiting to be discovered, taking a big risk in that tumultuous sea called love.
He visited three weeks later, not only to run the Chicago Marathon, but to spend time with me. Days of blissful interaction followed. I immediately broke my piggy bank to visit him in London one month later over the four day Thanksgiving break.
"You're going so far in such a short time," upbraided my mother.
But he's taking me to Paris, I retorted. In fact, he's booking the train tickets right now. It's only $90 and 2 hours away from London.
Paris failed - "The tickets are $300 for that weekend! Can you believe it?" - he sighed into the phone. Oh. Ok. Instead, I showed up at Heathrow on a Thursday morning and we took two trains and a bus to Chelsea Manor Street, apartment 14. Everything went fine until Friday night.
A prior engagement with a business school friend on Friday night just could not be moved. He told me he'd be home by ten; when he didn't arrive by midnight and didn't call, I started dialing contacts from his land line. "Hello? Are you there? I'm Eric's friend. Do you know him?" Laily, who, at first, I thought was his sister, was on the line. "Oh right, well, sorry to bother but do you know where Eric might be right now? No. Well could you call him for me? Um, ok. Do you have his cell? No. Well, here. Have him call me at the house, I'm very worried about him. He said he'd be home two hours ago."
Laily, it turns out, was his girlfriend of a year. Who, incidentally, showed up outside his apartment door the next morning with a thermos of coffee, a plastic bag of food, and a female friend of Indian descent, all to keep her company during the camp-out. Sad, but can you blame her?
Turns out, there was another woman in Eric's life. On the day I arrived, he had texted her with a message saying he was unavailable for the weekend. When I told Eric that I made a desparate phone call for help last night, and that I had spoke with a woman named Laily, he paled. "Oh, that's why she's here.
He disappeared with her for the next two hours. Upon his return, I had showered, packed my bags, zipped up my boots and coat, and was making 1-800 phone calls to United Airlines. "It will cost you $1,610 if you leave tonight, ma'am. Your booking requires a Saturday night stay." Dear God.
He apologized, cried, lamented, complained. In short, he acted like a big baby: "I don't want to talk about it anymore." Excuse me? You've just had a woman show up claiming to be your girlfriend and you don't want to talk about it? Scum.
He tried to make it up to me. Took me to dinner at a cozy coffee house. Escorted me to a Brazilian lounge. Initiated a "talk" with me about our relationship, which conversely, if it ended well, would coax me into sleeping with him. I headed for the floor with a pillow and my coat. When I asked for a blanket, he grumbled underneath his, "Are you stupid?" I opted for the colder alternative.
During the night, I got up, toileted, and decided to make sure I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but I needed some evidence to confirm. I'll admit that I accessed some very personal information. His cell phone text messages to her dated back to before we met. "I miss you, too," "I can make you come in five minutes," and, "In Paris, France. I'll call you later," (which occurred while I was using his bathroom) are shining stars. But top honors go to the missive sent to her the day he landed home after visiting me in Chicago, stating, "Landed!" - 9 hours after saying good-bye to me.
Damn.
Honorable Mention goes to one more devastating episode: My dating game appearance. That's right. I was a contestant on a dating game with The Social Network. It's where "Chicago Professionals Get Connected!" Read: if you're over 35 and still single, you have a desperate interest in this club. I was lucky to find 4 other people who were 34 1/2.
I sat on stage with two other women, put on a blindfold, and answered goofy questions like, "If you were a cheese, what kind would you be?" or "Have you ever gone home with anyone on the first date?" and "If you were a car, what sound would you make when I start your engine?" Thankfully, I wasn't chosen. Thankfully, I didn't have to humor a "free date" with him. Thankfully, I left after twenty mortifying minutes.
So, in reference to Gibran, I plant my pain in the field of patience. And then, after a certain amount of time deemed appropriate to God, happiness prevails. Right?
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