The Point System

Friday, I recommitted to trying harder. The quest to be normal. The quest to be healthy and give up the ghost.

I’m like a toddler learning to walk, it seems. On my ass constantly, bruised beyond all recognition, just trying to get up and move forward. Not seeming to make much progress, but hoping my muscles and rote memory are on the verge of some kind of breakthrough.

So I put myself on a point system, just for the weekend, and it goes like this: I get a point every time I make a choice that is NOT my ex (we’ll call him The Engineer…because what I’d really like to call him will get me censored). I kept a date to run with my friend Adam on Saturday morning. One point! And when we returned to his apartment, his new roommate Eric was there. Eric, I can only assume, was sent by God to flirt with me. I flirted back and even accepted an invitation to go for drinks later. Two points before 10 AM! On a roll!

As the exhaustion and a whopping hangover set in, so did worry that my willpower would take a nosedive. I make a point of keeping my plans to meet Heather and Alex for coffee in Santa Monica…two points in one sitting. Well done. By the end of an hour though, I’m tired, cranky, and antsy. I agree to go back to Heather’s (really, all I want to do at this point is call The Engineer – CODE ORANGE) to see her place and chat. Here’s where the backslide begins. It started innocently enough…Heather and I bonded…and as a less harmful alternative to calling The Engineer, I inundated her with a tortuous dissection of my situation. Ooops. I’ve given The Engineer an audible presence. Minus one-half of a point. Hey, I can afford that if I’m up 4, right?

We fall asleep mid-conversation on the bed in her ridiculously hot apartment. The electric fan is on and it’s remarkably relaxing. We wake up and continue where we left off. Heather is impossibly wise, caring, and fair. She’s also a lesbian. I find myself distracted by the thought that she might hit on me, then I scold myself for being such an arrogant, homophobic idiot. Of course, I’m not hearing a word that comes out of her mouth. She touches my leg at one point while speaking, but she certainly doesn’t hit on me.

I hate my brain sometimes.

Once I get past my own hubris, I leave Heather’s in a hurry to get home, planning to bail on plans with my old friend Nate and my grandparents for the evening. I have to get home and clear my head. I’ll have to give up two, possibly three points if I execute my current bail-out plan, and that’s not even counting the notion I might try to see him. In the car, I argue with myself out loud. This, my friends, is the portrait of crazy.

But good crazy because I somehow manage to talk myself into turning the van around and pointing it in the direction of Nate and my grandparents. I figure I’ll let the drive take care of itself. I’ll just try to be where I’m supposed to and let God handle the rest.

I visit the grandparents, soothing my guilty conscience, and I talk to my old friend Nate. So far, I haven’t burst into flames or died of sadness, so that’s a plus. Nate & Co. have decided to go to an LA club tonight. Go figure. Right back where I came from.

I’m game though. After all, it is closer to The Engineer’s house. Yeah, I know, minus another point. I’m subtracting it already…

I get as cute as possible, deciding that tonight could turn out to be fun and I could be really glad I went with Nate instead of giving in to The Force. I choose an outfit and sign up for the Optimist’s Special by hitting Starbucks for an espresso…let’s at least be prepared for a long night, right?! Yeah, I want that damn point back now.

I meet Nate and one of his friends for an amusing dinner. Turns out, nothing has changed with us. We get along swimmingly and there’s no awkwardness. Well, I take that back. We’re both awkward, but not with each other. Case in point: I went flying across the (significantly overly-polished) wooden floor like a graceless hippo on our way out of the restaurant. You can wear the nicest Calvin Klein heels on the planet, but that shit just won’t matter when you’re splayed across a wooden floor in the middle of a busy restaurant. Without missing a beat though, and with both of us laughing hysterically, Nate helped collect my wallet, my keys, and my clumsy body up off the floor. We then enjoy a hysterical ride to L.A., exchanging life narratives and generous helpings of sarcasm in my Mom’s mini-van.

‘Cause that’s how we roll.

At the club, valet is $10. I’m poor. I do not like this. This club is also in the ghetto. I do not like that either. But I valet my mini-van for ten freaking dollars, and we make it in the door at 11:30. The cover is $20. Did I mention, I’m poor? The club is full of remarkably short, Asian teens, and it's dimly lit. Nate’s friends are total strangers to me. Good lord, what am I doing here? This place looks like the seedy opium den you see in almost every Steven Segal film. It’s called The Little Temple, for crying out loud. As we push our way in, I check each closed door for streams of blood trickling out beneath. The dance floor is sweaty and the lights make me want to stroke out. I look at my watch.

The three girls with us are sweet, but they’re all teeny and bouncing around like popcorn. All our little girls have rhythm, and as luck would have it, zero inhibition. I feel like I don’t belong here. Oh no, here comes that feeling…

Must…shove…it…back…down.

I check my watch again. Ten to midnight. I'm flying back to Texas tomorrow, and I haven’t seen The Engineer. I flew across the country, and soon I won’t be able to see him even if I want to. I’m sitting here in a strange, over-priced, uncomfortable, ghetto club. Nate’s Irish ass is attempting to dance and I’m trying hard to look comfortable perched on my stool. Neither of us are succeeding.

Okay that’s it. I’m not wasting this night here. I’m not wasting my cute clothes on this seedy opium den.

I take a deep breath and make a very sudden, very vague excuse to Nate & Co. I’m exhausted and need to catch an early flight, I say. They clearly don’t buy it, but are polite enough to pretend as if they do. Honestly, I really don’t care at this point. I need to get OUT. I figure I’m operating at a 50-point deficit now anyway, so what the hell does it matter?

The two things I cannot do quickly enough at the moment are:
1. Get in my damn car
2. Send a text message to The Engineer

He replies immediately that he’s still up. I call him, and the drink I had makes it easier to ask. Can I drop by? I’m not tired and his place is on my way back to Orange County. It would be good to see his face. Sure, he says. He almost sounds as if he’s okay with it. Almost.

Valet is too slow. Minivans are too slow. Jets are too slow. How long is this fucking freeway, anyhow?? What if he calls and changes his mind before I get there?

The phone rings. FUCK. I’m not going to look at the display…except I do. And it’s Heather. Oh, thank you God!

She does her best to be open-minded and trusting, but is seriously concerned about my decision-making at this point. Ha. Can’t imagine why. I’m just driving like a bat-out-of-hell, in a minivan, slightly drunk, toward my ex’s house at midnight. Heather’s worried this is the movie where I get my heart broken, not the one where I get the guy. She doesn’t know for sure though, because she’s missed most of the film, and because she likes to root for the underdog. She hopes for the best, and this is why I love her. I also love her because she knows how to accept the things she cannot change, like the fact that my steering wheel is locked. I’m a fucking minivan missile.

I hit some traffic and reprimand myself for not investing in teleportation technology years ago.

Finally, I’m here. A light is on. I see his red Honda in the driveway. Relief washes over me. Now I’m safe to ease into the driveway slowly. He’s here, right in front of me, and he’s not going to disappear. My heart slows down and I breathe for the first time in what seems like hours. Days. Weeks. I imagine this is the way a heroin addict feels, the same relief, when sliding a needle into their arm.

Love is a terrifying thing, no?