A few weeks ago I received a text from a phone number that was like a ghost whispering in my ear, “Remember me? Thought you’d quite forgotten?”

The strangest thing about this particular text is that I managed to recognize the long-deleted number from the guy who stopped calling me and blew me off when I was sick with whooping cough one January THREE YEARS AGO.

Happiness that you deserve, he says. How nice. How quaint. How flimsy and pointlessly offered. Why this? Why now?

Please don’t misinterpret my annoyance and disgust for conceit. The thing is, it’d be one thing if it was a fluke, but it’s not. His unnecessary text is not unique.

At 31 years old, I find that one of the most insulting things about dating has been the “after-the-fact” one-two punch of many an ex-boyfriend/ dalliance. Months later. Years later. After no contact whatsoever. No friendship. No nothing.

Why is it that my worth, my “value,” to these men is only evident once I’m in their rearview mirror? Why can’t they see what they have when I’m sitting in the car beside them? Ex after ex after ex after ex…they find their way back and want….what? What do they want?

The truth is, I have nothing more to give them. They’ve gotten the best of me already, had their chance, and I warned them. Be sure you’re done before you say it. This is the last of me you will have.

There is no more going back. And yet. There are texts, emails, Linked In invites, Facebook requests, and tweets cluttering personal and work inboxes left and right. Clawing at my eyes, my consciousness. More requests. More demands. They cling to my legs as I wade through the present. How do I go forward when I’m dragging around so many yesterdays? Where can I go, where can I look, that they have not yet papered with their inquires?

I have nothing for these men who used to know me. There is no piece of me that remains that they would be content to have. My heart is tired. My will to converse with them silenced. My unkissed lips have gone cold. My insatiate desire waned. I am no longer the woman they knew. “DIDN’T YOU TAKE ENOUGH OF ME LAST TIME!” I want to scream.

It occurs to me that I have not burned enough bridges. I have not been a bad enough girl to release these former somethings from their attempts at rekindled knowing. Rather than lash out or maim with words or deed, I retreat within myself and do not respond.

Happiness that you deserve, he says. Happiness. You. Deserve. I deserve.

What happiness might that be? Surely none that any ex-whatever can give me.

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Confused? Yeah, me too.

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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We had some good times, you and I, during office lunch breaks and coworker birthday celebrations. Whether in the lunch room or at my desk, we ate many a waffle, pasta salad, and guilt-laced cake. Oh the cakes! Remember the cakes? And all those times the time we absolutely destroyed that can of Spaghetti O’s with meatballs?

Those were the days! When we carried on with abandon, never questioning, never realizing how good we had it, nor how soon we would be parted. With trust in my heart, I tucked you away in the office kitchen’s dishwasher. I took care. But then I set my out of office notification and left for Bloggers in Sin City. It was days- DAYS, I know- before I returned. And in that time…

I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t know, didn’t think it would come to this! By the time I came back, someone had secreted you away. You, with your shiny silver tines and simple three-line decorative handle, were absconded from the erroneous safety of the dishwasher.

I’ve looked for you each and every work day for three weeks, all to no avail. Where could you be? Whose hand now holds you? Are they washing you? Have you been accidentally tossed into a desk drawer? Or worse, the trash? No. No, I won’t even suggest it.

How could they do this to you? What inadequate foods are you now being pressed into service for? Limp, flaccid noodles? Soggy lettuces and other sundry greens? Perhaps even a vegetarian burrito? Actually, that kind of sounds awesome. For your sake, I hope it’s a veggie burrito (although we both know it’d be better with chorizo).

Who knows if we’ll ever see each other again, if we’ll ever partake in another meal; hand to fork. You were my one, my only. And now, your replacement is a plastic spork. A spork! A pale shade of your industriousness, your fortitude, your food-rigging capabilities. I miss you! Come back to me! STAB the perpetrator next time you are in their employ and drop to the floor with a clatter. I’ll find you and we’ll eat cakes together once more!

Until then, I vow to devoutly pen many a passive aggressive note in your honor until the culprit is found, at which time I will ruthlessly force them fork it over!

Yours truly,

Nic

P.S. The butter knife and teaspoon miss you too (the steak knife, of course, could care less…but then we both know he’s always been a bit of a serrated fuckwad who can’t even cut for shit anymore)!

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We’ve reached that point in our relationship where we’re more friends than anything else. Friends who supposedly still love each other and want to be together, but friends nonetheless. Neither of us is content with the development, yet neither of us for all our communicating about it seems to be able to do anything about it either. We’re kind of stuck and we’re not deluded enough to believe that moving in together will change that, although it certainly would be nice if it did! The fear is that we’ll simply become roommates. Heavy sigh.

In the meantime, the days pass by and I do not pack a single sweater, fork, or towel. Instead, from my perch on the couch that is still mine, I look at all the books and pictures and pillows and candles- all the things I’ve acquired over the past six years in my apartment- and wonder what I will do with them now. As imperfect as my apartment is, I find that it is still difficult to give up.

For six years, it’s been my home. While everything around me seemed to change- jobs, friends, boyfriends- it’s been my comfort, my safe place, my sole source of stability. And now that stability is going away. As much as I’m choosing it, the decision is unsettling to me.  What if it’s a mistake? What if I’m not really ready to give up living alone? When will I feel like I have a home again?

As for my boyfriend’s take on my moving in, I can’t quite articulate his misgivings for you here. I worry about raking him over the coals or misrepresenting his perspective. The easiest thing for me to do is say, on the one hand, he agrees we might as well live together, that it could be 10 years down the road and he’d still have misgivings about it. On the other hand, he is vocal about all the ways in which he feels this is a bad idea, all the ways in which he believes he’ll be responsible for everything, and how ultimately it isn’t going to be a positive experience for either of us. In the end, we retreat to our corners, to the silence and space of our separate residences, each thinking how we’ll miss the ability to do so in the coming months.

Given these realizations and confessions, one would begin to wonder why we’re moving in together at all. Why indeed. Is it shamefully inadequate to say deep down it’s what we both want in the long run? That it’s where we’re headed eventually anyway? And that with my lease ending now and his ending in December, now is the time to do so? Not exactly the most romantic decision, in fact, it’s pretty tactical more than anything, but it’s all I’ve got. Regardless, it’s also perhaps why I’ve been feeling disappointment about how this is all playing out.

For my part, maybe I’m mistaken. I genuinely wonder how it’s supposed to feel when you’re on the cusp of moving in together, when you’re taking the next step in your relationship. I’ve never been here, have never lived with a boyfriend. I guess I sort of thought it would be a good thing, that it might involve excitement or happy anticipatory conversations about putting the bookcase here and hanging this picture there, planning meals together, and talking about what it will be like to come home to each other each and every day. No?

I may not know what it’s supposed to feel like, but I’m moving in with him in two weeks’ time. Somehow though, I still feel like I’ve never been in a relationship with someone who wanted to live with me.

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See, the couple sitting next to me turned out to be one of THOSE couples: an Icky Couple. And they were proving to be your quintessential Icky Couple. You know, the kind that can’t seem to walk down the street without grasping hands and kissing at each red light, the kind who can’t eat an otherwise perfectly acceptable meal without rubbing each other’s backs, necks or legs (BARF!), or the kind who has to stick their tongues down each other’s throats before parting each morning like one of them is being sent off to war or something. Dude, it’s nine or ten hours apart. I think you’ll make it.

As for this particular Icky Couple, they were making quite a show of it, acting like a bunch of janky ass fifteen year olds, holding hands, kissing each other’s cheeks, practically crawling into each other’s laps, laying their heads on one another’s shoulders à la “oh-my-god-we’re-so-sleepy-because-we-presumably-were-up-all-night-hahahahahahaha,” and talking in a tone louder than a whisper. Can you imagine?

If they were “just kids,” maybe I could have kept my disdain from growing into the seething fire breathing rage dinosaur it has become, but they weren’t. No. The Icky Couple consisted of two otherwise professional-looking adults, dressed for a day at the office where presumably they hold actual, grown up, professional jobs. So I have to wonder…who’s all this ickiness for anyway? Is it really necessary demonstrater your “love” amidst your fellow CTA bus riders? And is the 15-25 minute bus ride the right place and time to properly display said love? The way I see it, romance isn’t about being an Icky Couple to everyone around you. It’s about genuine and PRIVATE moments that don’t result in PDAs on the #135 route into the Loop before 8 am on a Tuesday.

Which brings to mind the day my own boyfriend and I accidentally wound up on the same bus route downtown. Strolling up to the bus stop that morning, I decided it would be best to throw my hip into him from behind, then wait for him to turn around all surly and shit. Which he totally did, except “Hi! It’s just me! Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Good morning!”

After the initial “Oh, it’s you” moment, we go on standing there all aloof and junk until the bus comes and then we sit down side by side, barely touching. And- this is key- for the short 15 minute ride downtown we don’t talk because 1) we don’t have to, and 2) it’s fucking annoying when people do that on public transportation in the morning. Seriously. Just don’t do it. Whether you know someone riding the bus with you or you dare to use your cell phone. DON’T. And, no, there’s no “texting loophole” either- unless you have your phone on silent and don’t make Icky Couple faces while sexting or whatever the fuck else it is that you’re doing. 

Anyway, to cap off the bus ride with my boyfriend that morning, we parted ways with a blasé eyebrow raise and head nod (from me) and a “peace out” punch to the arm (from him). You know, totally normal stuff really and, most importantly, no one’s morning was stymied in the process.

In closing, all you Icky Couple toolbags out there take note and keep it in your pants. No one wants to witness your “love” on public transportation, in the gluten free aisle at the Jewel, while you’re dropping off your dry cleaning, or you know, like ever (unless it’s your wedding, in which case, fine…I guess).

Shut it down, fuckers. Shut. It. Down.

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For real. It was that bad.

Alone and scared, I was up for five hours on the floor of my tiny bathroom that night. I was nauseous and sweating in places I didn’t even know could sweat. If I weren’t in such pain, the no sleep thing alone would have made me homicidal. Ultimately, I toughed it out and went to my doctor the next morning where I got a prescription and optimistically thought I’d feel better by the next day.

Nope! I couldn’t even stay at work that afternoon. And that night, I woke up and again debated a trip to the emergency room. The following morning-  three days into this new mystery illness- I was twisting and turning, unable to find any position for comfort while trying to rest on the couch at home when I suddenly overheard on the TV: “Imagine being pregnant for 60 years…it’s true and it happened in China. Coming up next.”

Ummm….weird medical sci-fi shit? Sold! 

This is also precisely when my mind- in its severly ILLNESS-CLOUDED AND SLEEP DEPRIVED state- began to question Google’s results for “extreme side pain.”

Sixty years…holy hell…how horrible…what does that even mean…seriously, that doesn’t even make any sense…damn I have to pee again…but I already tried…again…I wish I could sleep…but seriously, maybe I’m pregnant…or was and and, like, didn’t know it…yeah, maybe that’s what’s going on…ugh…what the hell.

By the time the show came back from commercial and the premise of the 60 year pregnancy was explained, I was doing leg lifts, actual leg lifts, in an attempt to “work out whatever kink” I may have somehow gotten my lower back into. Then, as I contorted my body into painful angles such as laying flat on my back and standing up straight, I learned that the poor woman being chronicled on the show actually knew she was pregnant all those years ago, but when her baby “went to sleep” before being born, she just went on with her life. Okay…

Pondering the likelihood of my own odd medical state, I took a break from stretching and moved onto lunges, alternating reps with guzzling water from a jug in an effort to combat the UN-FUCKING-CEASING urge to pee and my inability to successfully do so. Too much? Just wait.

By the end of the TV show, I had placed a call into my doctor and was laying in bed on my stomach sans pillow, phone in hand. When they finally called me back HOURS LATER, I was told to get there in 40 minutes or go to the ER. Cause that’s super affordable.

So I rushed to my doctor, who in turn sent me to the hospital for a CT scan, where I was diagnosed with a kidney stone. Immediately, I felt vindicated for the pain I was in and accepted everyone’s effusive sympathy rather than the scorn I felt sure to receive for overreacting. I was given vicodin and a sieve to strain my pee (i.e. drugs and “entertainment”). I can’t tell you how many times I Googled “what does a kidney stone look like” in order to know what I should be looking for- I won’t go into the details, but suffice to say there was some other nasty stuff showing up.

Five days after my ordeal began, I was pain-free at last and no longer “panning for gold.” I can hardly convey the absolute elation I felt when I passed that damn thing except to say I wanted to celebrate with champagne. I felt actual pride in myself for toughing it out and successfully passing a sizable stone. Coral-like and spiky (“agony” in the picture above is a dead ringer), I placed it in a plastic snack bag and studied it (I was asked by the doctor to save it just in case they needed to analyze it- apparently I’m now 75% more likely to get another one!). Sadly, while it seemed massive at first,  I swear the ornery bastard has steadily shrunk ever since.  

For such a small thing, it proved incredibly costly. All told, my kidney stone set me back $897 after insurance (which luckily covered the other $2687 due), as well as three of my five sick days. Given that it is now one of the most expensive things I own, I keep it on my microwave. A physically and financially painful daily reminder to drink more water.

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