East Bound and Out

I took my first trip back east to visit since leaving NJ to seek out new horizons eight months ago. My life has been full of endless changes and adventures. I managed to completely avoid one of the worst east coast winters in years and experience an El Niño winter in southern California. I left New Jersey trailing behind a California surfer that I met in Cabo with a vocabulary of approximately 50 words total, all of which are related to shape and size of waves. I returned to NJ with a new sense of priorities and self, as well as a bald aging lover just days after moving into his downtown condo. My summer tan faded into a sickly pale tone begging for the sun I moved in search of three seasons ago. I packed on a few pounds, more than likely due to my fondness of burritos paired with my new proximity to their origin. Much has changed, but unfortunately my employment status remains relatively intact.

Under the false hopes that I would get a real job and have to work, I put off travel until mid-April when my boyfriend was scheduled to run the Boston Marathon. I had been looking forward to this from the time when I met him, given that training occupied so much of his time and dedication to going out for late night adventures with me. Bobby hasn’t been crazy about training, but there’s nothing that makes me feel like more of a fat ass than him going for a 20-mile run while I sit in front of the TV watching Glee reruns contemplating if noon is too early to start drinking before calling my favorite San Diego girlfriend only to find out that she is on her third mimosa. Coincidentally, she is also a Jersey native. I knew her from high school and besides approving of her fondness of carrying straws in her bag at all times in case the bar will not give her one for drinking her own pitcher of beer, I also love the lack of irony that the person I share the most in common with in Southern California is the one who isn’t from here at all. She is my taste of home away from home, as well as my voice of reason, whatever that means.

Anyway, the trip east was a big deal for me and my man. Bobby was running the famous marathon, but he was also about to be subjected to my entire whack pack family for the first time and then have to introduce me to his own parents while closely watching to make sure I kept it appropriate. I also needed to try and figure out how I was going to fit in the time and make enough space in my stomach to eat at all of my favorite restaurants in a span of less than a week. I knew that this would be a time of challenges that I wasn’t fully prepared to face and to further the pressure, Bobby’s ex-girlfriend was running Boston too. With my luck, I knew I was destined to run into her. More likely she would be running into me since she runs marathons and I don’t run unless being chased. Nevertheless, the thought of seeing the girl that Bobby dumped when he met me made me slightly uneasy.

I don’t hate ex-girlfriends, per say. Not anymore than I hate the far right, Nazi's, or face tattoos anyway. The truth is that they usually aren’t all that bad. I’m obviously always prettier, smarter, and better in bed than them, so I don’t need to feel insecure around them. The further in the past an ex is, the less I care about them and the more likely I am to add them as a Facebook friend rather than just stalking them via the same avenue. The most recent ones do have a tendency to get under my skin though. I don’t like the idea that I may be sleeping in the same bed they once scrumped my man in or that I may come across some of their things that they left lying around. Case in point, when Bobby and I first started dating he had just recently moved into his new place and in unpacked boxes I found framed photos of them. This wasn’t terrible, especially since I met him when he hadn’t fully dumped her. The shitty part was when I generously decided to pick up his clothes off the ground and fold them when he was at work only to discover his ex’s rank thong mixed in the pile. I can’t get mad over this because I didn’t know him when the gross underwear had been left there and he certainly didn’t realize they were in the pile. He’s not an idiot (most of the time) and didn’t do it on purpose. I used this situation to my advantage to get him to allow me to take pictures of him wearing a fanny pack and Speedo that I had also found in the pile. This supplied me with endless ammo and a source for future blackmail if necessary. I like to be prepared and am always looking for ways to entertain myself. Needless to say, I will never again put away his clothes and he will never ask me to repeat the favor.

This particular ex-girlfriend, who we will refer to as K2 for the rest of this blog, moved to Paris for work and was living there at the time Bobby and I met. She was more of a fake girlfriend, since he rarely saw her and when he did it was on vacation. K2 was supposed to return to the US in the January, but had extended her stay indefinitely. When I stepped into the picture and rocked his world, Bobby immediately ended the long distance ridiculousness via Skype.

note: You can laugh; I still do when I picture this debauchery of a break-up. I once asked Bobby if things had gotten more serious between them, did he plan to mail an engagement ring and propose via Skype? Romance story of the 21st century; a girl can dream. This isn't too far off considering she thought that she could just return to Bobby after a lengthy European stay and he would have hidden under a rock for those years to avoid potentially meeting anyone. The reality is that I can't take anyone seriously that thinks the concept of sushi is "gross" based on it being raw fish. She would make a terrible lesbian. Bobby sees the whole situation as relatively absurd too, but isn't jumping to admit it since the whole thing makes his Johnny Jackass nickname even more appropriate.

K2 visited San Diego a few weeks later on a trip she had booked months before and, though he would have much rather avoided seeing her completely, I insisted that Bobby give her closure by meeting her for coffee. I prefer to keep exes in my Roladex, as I consider dating to be a valuable networking technique. I figured she could just go through the general rollercoaster of emotions she missed on out while overseas. Instead of yelling and crying to him like a typical break-up, she had let a single tear drop after a dramatic sigh, whilst casually smoking cigarettes and drinking wine as she stared off at the Eiffel Tower in the distance. I’m sure she was wearing a beret too. At least this is what I imagined she did when he broke the news that his new girlfriend was from NJ.

Even though Boston expected a half a million people to swarm the city for the marathon, I still needed to be prepared should I run into K2. For the weeks leading up to my trip I had run through a million situations in my head of how the encounter would go. I narrowed my introduction down to a few options of wording. I pictured bumping into her accidentally in the convention center when Bobby and I went to pick up his race bib and bag. She would clumsily stumble and he would reach to help her up as she stuttered hello with embarrassment. Bobby would introduce her, “Mya, this is K2. K2, this is my girlfriend Mya.” I would extend my hand and flash a confident smile. “Oh, it’s nice to finally meet you K2. I’ve heard so much about you. I think it is great that you have so much time to run and train for a marathon. I wish I had the time, but I’m too busy being Bobby’s smarter, prettier, and more desirable girlfriend.” My other option was, “It’s great to finally meet you. I wish I had time to run, but I’m too busy walking. On runways, that is, since I’m a model.” Then I would toss my hair and strike a pose. This alternative was later vetoed on account of the bad haircut I got the day I left for my trip, as well as the previously noted extra pounds I was toting in my hips. My shaggy mullet and roots made me look more like Brett Michaels than Heidi Klum. There was always the option of a cheap shot at her great aspiration to be French, despite her true Italian-American heritage. I’d keep that idea in my back pocket in case I looked particularly bloated or my skin broke out the day I met her.

As it turned out, karma was on my side and a volcano erupted in Iceland delaying all flights from Paris from arriving in Boston. Too bad. I’m not sure if I was being rewarded by the gods for my virtuous attitude towards finding the panties or Bobby was being rewarded for putting up with my incessant remarks making fun of him dating someone who actually thought a ten hour time difference was reasonable in a functional relationship. Either way, K2 was the real winner since she completely avoided me and didn’t have to run 26.2 miles after all. Bobby survived my father busting out a butcher knife at the dinner table to measure him, just to make sure he was aware how much taller my family is than him. He also survived the marathon, which was impressive since I don’t think most people prepare for the race with a hangover from meeting their new girlfriend’s family. We returned to San Diego setting sail on the new journey of living together. I doubt we will ever run into K2 in San Diego, but if we do at least my hair will have grown out from this ridiculous ‘do and I will be able to just subtly point out to her that we need to get home to our condo, with our dog, where we live together, happily, ever since he dumped her after meeting me.