Maybe it was seeing all the happy couples at the mall shopping hand in hand as they sought out the perfect gift for one another. Maybe it was the jewelry commercials that play over and over this time of year showing happy couples staring into each other's eyes in front of the tree as he says I love you with the perfect and everlasting gift of diamonds. Or maybe it was because I had to get out the old 6-foot aluminum ladder with sunshine yellow trim and hang my own damn Christmas lights and struggle to get the gigundous tree out of my truck and into the house by myself, all the while using language that would make a sailor blush.
I'm not sure exactly what it was, but something happened this holiday season that made me think it would be a good idea to pick up the phone and call Todd, my ex-boyfriend.
Here's the shot: He'd been calling me, relentlessly. Every few days he'd call to say that he couldn't stop thinking about me, that he was afraid he'd made a big mistake, that he missed me terribly. When I'd ask if that meant that he wanted to get back together, he'd give me the same frustrating answer that my 7-year-old daughter does when she's backed up against the wall: I don't know.
"Well," I'd ask him, "what do you want?"
"I don't know," he'd answer.
"Then why do you keep calling me?"
To which he would reply, yup, you guessed it, "I don't know."
But his phone calls and e-mails, as confusing and heartbreaking as they were, were my life line. They gave me hope. They made me think that if one of us could just be the bigger person, could stop being so stubborn that we could stop the madness and get back together just in time to be sitting in front of a roaring fire on Christmas morning, sipping on eggnog and staring into each other's eyes.
So I called him. For the first time since our breakup a month and a half ago. (All right, not the first time, but all of the times I'd called from my blocked number just to hear his voice and then hung up didn't count.) Somehow, I thought that by being the one to call, I'd be showing him that I was willing to swallow my foolish pride and discuss the possibility of a reconcilliation. And it worked. He agreed to meet me. Of course, I had to bribe him saying that I'd bought him a little gift, which I had to stop and shop for on the way to our designated meeting spot, but he agreed nonetheless.
When I pulled into the parking lot of the Road Runner Saloon, the place where we'd met for the very first time almost nine months ago, my stomach was in knots. He was waiting for me in his truck. I pulled alongside him and jumped out of my car, blaring the new Three Doors Down CD, which was strategically playing our song. Without saying one word, he came to me and he kissed me so passionately that I melted like butta. The entire world disappeared, and the only thing that mattered was that I was with him, in his arms, kissing his soft lips, and I didn't ever want to stop.
Oh. My. God. We'd been such fools. How could we possibly think that we weren't made for each other? My heart was so full that I wanted to blurt out at the top of my lungs that I was so sorry and that I didn't think I could spend even one more second on this Earth without him in my life, but I was crying, as usual, and felt sure that I wouldn't be able to form coherent sentences. So, instead, I handed him a card. A card so perfect that I didn't even really need to add to its sentiment. But I did. I signed it, "I love you, Sonja."
As he read it, our song was playing in the background: "... but you're still with me in my dreams, and tonight girl, it's only you and me ..." When he finished reading it, he looked deep into my eyes and smiled. "Say something sweet," I said.
"I've missed you?" he asked.
"No, not what I had in mind," I said mischievously.
"I've missed you a lot?" he asked.
Why are men so dense?
"No. Say that you love me, too, silly," I said playfully.
Once, in the eighth grade, I was standing in the on-deck circle awaiting my turn at the plate when the batter connected with a fast ball and hurled her bat—directly at my face. I remember hearing the crack as my nose broke. It was the most excruciating pain I'd ever experienced. I fell to the ground, writhing in agony, praying that I would just pass out.
This was worse.
Todd's beautiful baby blue eyes dropped my gaze, he shook his head and stared down at his feet. "No. I can't say that. I don't love you, Sonja."
I heard the crack as my heart broke.
The air slowly drained from my lungs, and I could hear the blood rushing to my head. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't stop those damn tears from streaming down my cheeks as snot bubbles popped from my nostrils. I prayed that I would just pass out.
I didn't pass out. I just nodded my head numbly as I got back into my truck and drove away.
Later that night, as I sat in front of a roaring fire sipping eggnog alone, I realized that Todd only wanted me when he thought he couldn't have me. He kept calling because I asked him not to, and he probably only missed me because he felt sure I was never coming back. Oh, the games people play. Well, I learned two very important lessons this holiday season:
1. Todd and I are never going to get back together, because you can't go backwards hoping to go forward.
2. I hate eggnog.