Today is my ex-boyfriend from years ago’s birthday. He’s a nice guy so I have no qualms about wishing him a happy birthday. We’ve only talked once since we attempted the post-relationship friendship but ended up falling out over him accusing me of accusing him of stealing my pot (trust me, this accusation came out of left field and I did no such thing).
The conversation happened because I kept leaving messages on his best friend Dave’s answering machine about editing work, thinking I was leaving messages for Dave, my editor. I just assumed that the name “Dave” programmed into my phone would be the same creative cohort that I talk to on a constant basis. Unfortunately, his friend Dave is also an editor, making these messages even more confusing. I didn’t realize my mistake until he picked up one day and I figured out that months worth of messages had landed on the wrong answering machine. I asked him how Drew was and Drew ended up on the phone. It was friendly without any past resentments. No mention of the weird pot-stealing fallout. End of story.
I saw Drew again last year at Bed Bath and Beyond, the night of my breakup with a stupid guy not worth naming. He had on a wedding band and was with a girl wearing a ring, and her parents. I’m assuming they were preparing the registry. Seeing as this would be an awkward moment to say hi, I left. Maybe he saw me lurking. I hope not.
Fast forward to three weeks ago when I’m at Sonny MacLean’s for a birthday party. I know that last I talked to him, he bartended here. I asked the bartender if Drew still worked here. She said there was someone by that name. I said, blond, from England. She said, he’s from Connecticut. I remember that he got here by way of Conn, so I say, he’s married, has a little dog. She realizes that we’re talking about the same guy so she says, “A good-looking guy? Yeah, he works during the days. He’ll be working tomorrow.” What is it about hearing someone say that an ex is good-looking that just rubs you the wrong way? It’s an ego thing. You don’t want to think that there’s life after you. You want to think their life is a dry, ravaged landscape ala post-Armageddon, and they’ve fallen to pieces ever since you took your rays of sunshine away. But I digress. I say that I’m an old friend who just wanted to say hi, take my drink and leave.
The next day, I can’t find my credit card. Having been at this bar seems to have been completely wiped out from my mind. I report it lost and a whole week goes by before I remember that the last place I used it was at the bar. Part of me knows that I should go and reclaim it, but part of me hates the fact that Drew probably came in, saw my card, and thought that I was still an idiot, leaving my tab open and forgetting my card. (but then again, there is really no argument here since this is the second time within months that I’ve done that). But more importantly, I was too lazy to make that 10 minute drive to reclaim my card since they’d already charged me and I’d already cancelled it.
So anyway, in summary, happy birthday to a man who brings out the idiot in me. Remember that time when we got together a bunch of people and hotboxed my apartment, but then the police came for a noise complaint and I wouldn’t open the door, so we had a standoff and finally they just left? Good times.