A valentine's day confession: My fall from "cool girl" to self help

Here's the thing: I went through a heavy-duty breakup last summer.

It was the classic college romance, and I was uncharacteristically idiotic from the start: We met the first day of my freshman year, he blew me away by absolutely not noticing me at all (I told you, idiotic), I thought he was mysterious and interesting for a couple years but he never called so I dated other people who DID ask me out (only smart move I made), and finally, because we were the only two people left on campus for summer school one year, we got together. But let me be clear: he didn't really pursue me, and I most certainly didn't pursue him.

I was the standard "cool girl" in college: I cared about the NCAA championship games. I could keep up with the rigorous alcoholism training: drink malt liquour every day in the summer, (literally 10 am through 2 am) even through work and classes, while maintaining good grades and helping my friends with papers and finals. I was non-clingy, high-energy, a little feisty, totally un-skanky and up for anything. This was an idiotic and unrealistic way to live, but goddamn was it fun.

Ultimately, one day he and I just sorta ended up watching a movie exclusively with each other, sans the rest of the crew, and that was it. We, for lack of a better word, spontaneously morphed into a couple.

Fast forward: It lasted a long time. Perhaps this was because we were living in the alternate universe called "college", where dysfunction comes standard, a solid relationship is as unlikely as sobriety on a Saturday night, and turbulence abounds. Good times with him were ephemeral, but sincere and passionately good. Though not typically idiotic, I was (and still confess to being) a bit naieve, very forgiving, and far too hopeful that people are equal to or greater than what they seem, which is rarely the case.

I won't get into the details, as much to spare you as protect the guilty, but after about 5 years (3 in college, almost two out) and a few months of living together, it finally ended. It ended quietly, unlike the many intense arguments and hideous and suprising betrayals leading up to that point. I'd call the split loving, even. Without a fuss, he took the computer, I took the couches. He took the dog, I the cat. He the bed, both TV's and the microwave, I... well, I got to sleep on an air mattress for a month and haven't eaten popcorn since August, but that's really not the point.

The point is that after the split I went and did It. The cardinal sin that no "cool" girl should ever confess to. Yes. I read a self-help book.

Well, really, it's more of a runaway pop-culture hit with critical acclaim but with self-help undertones.

What?

OK, it's a self help book, written by "striped shirt guy" (see Pat's Manity scale). And I actually read not one, but two of them. (Full disclosure, Liz. Good girl.)

That's right, I read He's Just Not That Into You AND It's Called A Breakup Because It's Broken. But in my defense, my boss bought me the latter, and a girlfriend gave me the former, so I figured they must be trying to tell me something. Because they love me dearly. And it would be rude not to read and report back to them, since that's what they were hoping for. So really only out of duty, I read them.

Voraciously.
Cover to cover, both in the same day.

And I gotta say, the guy's on to something.

He may have hideous hair, dress like a 19 year old frat dick and clearly be either gay or insanely egotistical (in spite of the wife), but he's right:

Early mistakes in a relationship almost always indicate there will be more -- increasing in seriousness -- from that point forward. If he doesn't appear to aggressively pursue you, he's unlikely to aggressively anything you in the future. (Romance you, defend you, compliment you, converse with you or... well, you know...).

His theory is that relationship mistakes don't happen. Everything is pretty much controllable. Unless you are in a hospital bed with two broken hands and laryngitis, there's really no excuse not to call. Cheating isn't an accident, getting drunk isn't like "oops!!", and as far as I'm concerned, failing to laugh at my jokes may as well be premeditated splitsville.

And he makes the good point that if you're thinking maybe you should break up, or you find him in bed with someone else, or you recieve flowers "from" him that are actually from a friend of his who is better at romancing you than he, or he tells you you're not fabulous -- ever -- you probably should trust your instinct and listen to what he's clearly trying to say by being an asshole. And pop him in the schnoz, knee him in the groin and walk away forever. Early. Before you get attached.

Because once you get knee-deep it's like quicksand. The more you struggle, the deeper you sink into a distinctly unsatisfactory situation. Nobody likes to aspirate on sand. It's not fun, it doesn't feel lovely. But when you're deep in it, it's easy to at least be relieved you're pulling something into your lungs - sand, water or air makes no difference. The absence of something is almost as painful as the suffocation on something not quite right that you really really wish WAS right.

So here's to you, Greg Behrendt. I really believe your new show may bomb faster than the goodyear blimp in a lightning storm (because who wants to be caught watching it? that's worse than a girl having 5 cats and living in a studio apartment!), but I wish you all the best of luck. You may prey on stupid, optimistic, idealistic women in varying states of woe, but you've got a good (if late) message and one hell of a business acumen. We LOVE retail therapy and/or ice cream (cliche but true) when we're in the throes of heartache, after all.

And I didn't feel quite as guilty after reading you as I might have had I gone for the Ben&Jerry's. Not quite.

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This Valentine's day, I am happily without any expectations.

I may be a little melancholy somewhere deep down, and I might be furtively listening to a few (read: LOTS) more sappy songs than usual, but this is for no specific reason other than the fact that it's sometimes nice to find a familiar arm thrown across you in the morning. Or to wake up for comfort after a bad dream (or, in my case, homoerotic dreams about Connie Chung and/or irrational panic attacks). Or to fall asleep on the couch with in front of that Sundance Film you swore you'd both like but that turned out to be worse than a Keanu Reeves variety show.

All this means that this Valentine's day, as I have no expectations, I more than likely won't be dissapointed. And the confession is that that's a sincere relief.
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Now in my iPod: Squarepusher's "Iambic Nine"