Wanted: Blog Psychiatrist November 1, 2008

…Drugs are illegal, but ATM machines are open 24 hours a day. Twenty-four hours a day. For who? Have you ever taken out $300 at 4 o’clock in the morning for something positive? When you press that machine at 4 o’clock in the morning I think a psychiatrist should pop up on the screen and go ‘C’mon man!’

—Chris Rock, Never Scared

Same for my blog.

I need a lady in fuchsia wool suit and tight teacher’s bun to pop up on my screen. I need her to shake her head from side to side, gently remove rimless spectacles and let them dangle on an authentic mother of pearl leash. I need her, with a swoosh of grandeur and accusation, to plant her thumb and forefinger on either side of her chin and release in a breath, “C’mon, Jenn. Is it really a good idea to fume and blog? Close the computer and go for a run. Get your fat ass off that couch and move. We’ll revisit this topic when you return. Now go. Go! I can still see you sitting there, idiot. I. Said. Go!”

Why?

Because I remembered why I hate the Internet.

You look great in the photo! You better remember me- it hasn’t been that long! How are you? How is married life? Kids? Work? Going on five years of marriage for me. Going through the process to adopt a second child at the moment. I would love to connect with you catch up on things.

A Case of An Ex. You’ve been around my blog long enough to not be surprised that I have absolutely no desire to be friends with an ex. Any ex. Ever. Because I am the girl that hangs in a relationship long beyond it’s expiration date. By the time it gets to the point where I’ve avoided being a train wreck casualty, I’m done. I don’t want to sit in a café and reminisce over cappuccinos and truffles. You’ve seen me naked, touched my lady bits, and saw me do things I’d never want on camera, so you must vanish. Poof. Be gone. Because I’m that girl. The one that deletes you from the contact list. Who throws away photos. Stuffed animals. Clothes. CDs. Who forgets your name and face. Until you reappear in my Inbox.

He’s the one I called The Commitmentphobe. The one I met through a personal ad and agreed to meet because I’m a sucker for a Boston accent. He told me he’d be easy to spot because he looked like a celebrity. Hmmm, well that guy has muscles like Vin Diesel. If I close one eye that guy looks like Corey Haim. That could be Jim Carey’s older brother. Maybe. I get tapped on the shoulder by a wide-eyed screech.

“Who do I look like?”

Not Taye Diggs.

“I dunno…Jim Breuer?”

“Niles! I look like freaking Niles!!”

Oh, yeah.

Awesome.

But it was a weird time in my life. I’d just completed graduate school, started my first real grown-up gig that wasn’t my first choice, and wasn’t sure how to maneuver being a professional on my own. I didn’t have a happy hour network, wasn’t on the receiving end of a ‘Going to Vegas, pack your bags!’ text, and was a veritable Girls Night Out virgin. Before the lady scaping. Before the waxing, manicuring, MACing, shaving, cleavaging, high heeling. Before I learned the dating rules. The ones that told me More Than Words was the frat boy muscian’s anthem to getting it on with virgins. The ones directing me to be interesting, to propose ideas for shared events, and to leave a little to the imagination. To contribute, not to wait to be led. Instead, I ended up making out on the beach 2 hours later, removing sand from my thong a little after that, but ultimately excited to be in my new grown-up relationship.

Only I wasn’t.

I was hanging out with a guy who never invited me to his place, who never stayed the night at mine. Who didn’t call to ask how my week was, to tell me my job would get better, or to hug me when I fought with my only friend in town. Instead, I had a guy who occasionally made me Chicken Parmesean and made sure my drink was full. Who decided we were better off as friends, then invited me for weekend trip to Santa Barbara. A disastrous weekend that was totally void of any sort of connection outside of the hotel room. Who invited me to the Norman Rockwell exhibit then said “Don’t get all worked up” when I stood infront of The Problem We All Live With. After not speaking for months, he invited me to a Duncan Sheik concert. Then I went without hearing from him for several more months before materializing in my Inbox, detailing his move back home and his engagement.

I take tons of responsibility for being a not very interesting person to date. I wasn’t a stimulating conversationalist. Wasn’t doing anything impressive or interesting. Didn’t have friends or events to invite him to so he can learn a bit more about me. I get it. I am over the fact that he just wasn’t that into me. What I don’t get is why the fuck he is still trying to keep in touch with me. What’s the point? It’s not like we were friends who laughed at just how plantonic our kisses were. No quirky anectdotes likening us to Jerry and Elaine. Brandon and Kelly. Ross and Rachel.

I should be the bigger person. I should be able to look at pictures of his wife and kids, and be pleased that he has gotten the family he craved. I have every confidence that he is a great dad. That his kids will thrive with his family nearby. That they’ll grow up in an environment that’s fun, full of childhood obesity-free athletics, and committed to helping others. But why do I have to hear about it? What does my knowing do to anything? Why can’t he just vanish in a puff of smoke like a magician’s dove who discreetly flies away while the audience is distracted by the sequined-encrusted assistant?

Right about now my Blog Psychiatrist should pop up and tell me to chill the fuck out. That no one can have too many friends. That there is a chance he will read this blog and be hurt. That I should think before I hit that “Publish” button.

But the little devil on my shoulder pees on her head and hits the button for me.

What can I say?

The little guy is impulsive and curious.