Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

by Lynda Curnyn

  “They won’t allow us to burn incense in the office, unfortunately.”

  “Oh, Emma, you don’t have to—” She stopped, probably realizing she was going to get nowhere with me, as usual. “Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

  “I’m sorry, I—” Then I caught sight of the ring, a large deep blue stone that sparkled magnificently on her left hand. “Oh, is that it? I mean, is that the ring Clark gave you?”

  She beamed and held out her hand. “Isn’t it absolutely perfect? We decided to stay away from diamonds after— Well, you know, I’m starting to think they’re bad luck after the first two… Anyway, when Clark gave me this sapphire, he told me that the ancients believed it to be the truest blue in the world, a reflection of the heavens above. He wanted me to have it as a symbol of his faith, his sincerity.” Then she blushed. “You know Clark. Always thinking like a poet.”

  The look on my mother’s face was positively beatific. I began to suspect that maybe this was the real thing. Until her next words.

  “Clark and I have decided to take a vow of celibacy.”

  “What?” Now my mother’s sex life, or lack thereof, was a subject I strictly avoided. But I couldn’t help asking, “Forever?”

  “Oh, no. Of course not!” Then she glanced around and leaned close, confiding, “It’s only been a week, and Clark’s having a hard enough time as it is. Just the other night—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, interrupting her, not wanting her to get into any details I couldn’t bear hearing. Over the years, my mother’s intermittent single status often put me in the position of confidante, given that I was the only other close female in her life for long periods. But despite that, there were some lines mother and daughter could never cross. “Let me guess. Until the wedding night?”

  “Yes! So you’ve heard of couples doing this?”

  “Yeah. I think we did a story on it once in Bridal Best. Something about recapturing the romance of an old-fashioned wedding night.”

  “Exactly. I knew you would have heard of it. Clark thought I was crazy at first, but you know how agreeable he is.”

  “Can I bring you ladies something to drink as a starter?” the waiter said, when he finally showed up at our table.

  My mother looked up and beamed him such a smile he almost blushed. “We’re ready to order our meals, I think,” she told him. Then looking over at me, she asked, “Have you decided, Emma?”

  No, but that wasn’t about to stop my mother, who’s had this thing for time-efficient behavior ever since she read Twelve Time-Saving Strategies That Might Just Lengthen Your Life. “You order first. I’ll be ready in a minute,” I said, my eyes roaming frantically over the menu.

  “I’ll have the grilled chicken salad, dressing on the side and a sparkling water,” she said. Then, looking up at me, she continued, “The salads here are really good, Emma.”

  Now this is the kind of statement my mother makes that immediately sends me into paranoid speculation. Clearly I had gained weight, and my mother was subtly guiding me back from the brink of bulging midsections and mornings spent obsessing in front of my closet in search of an outfit to disguise my sudden change of dress size. If there was one thing I could count on my mother for, it was a careful monitoring of weight fluctuation. If I relied on my own eyes, which tended to deceive me during periods of my life when I felt a pressing need to gorge myself at any opportunity, I worried I would wake up one day requiring a crane to get me out of bed. “I’ll have the Cobb salad and an iced tea,” I said, handing my menu to the waiter, who gave a quick nod and scurried off.

  “So have you told Derrick about the wedding yet?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” I said, then quickly moving on, “Told Jade, too. She’s thrilled to pieces for you.”

  My mother stopped, staring at me hard for a moment. “And you aren’t so thrilled, I take it?”

  Here it comes. Confession time. “It’s not that I’m not happy…” I began.

  “You don’t trust it,” my mother said. “I was worried about this happening.”

  Whew. I was actually going to be saved by psychobabble. I felt my mother about to take over from here, explaining away her reasons for running to the altar for the third time.

  “I know for much of my life I’ve looked like I’ve had my head in the sand, and in truth I probably have,” she acknowledged.

  She was looking at me in earnest now, and I saw a burning need in her eyes to make things make sense to me. “It hasn’t been so bad for you…” I said, attempting to erase whatever anxieties she might still be having about the zigzagging course her life had taken thus far.

  “It has been bad at times. And I think it was because I simply refused to see what was in front in me. But I look at Clark and I see everything. His warmth. His compassion. His kind, kind heart.” Her eyes misted. “But I also see his flaws. For example, I know he sometimes gets so wrapped up with his work or with his students that he tunes out my needs. And he sometimes has a hard time adjusting to change—and you know my life is nothing but change, it seems.” Then she smiled. “And he snores. Loud.”

  “You snore, too, Mom.”

  “Oh, Em, I’m quiet compared to him.” She laughed before growing serious again. “But the one thing I know for sure is that I love him in a way I’ve never loved anyone else. I would do anything for him. Go anywhere to be by his side. Tend to him if he were ill, God forbid. And I know—this time I know for sure—that he would do the same for me.”

  Her words rang through me, clanging in ways I wasn’t ready to hear. The question rose, unbidden, of whether Derrick and I were really the soulmates I dreamed we were if we were so unwilling to give even a little of our lives to each other. But I quickly swallowed this doubt down around the lump in my throat. And, fortunately, the waiter took that moment to come by with our salads.

  Once he was gone, Mom said, “Does any of this make sense to you?”

  I saw in her face how much she needed my acceptance of this latest turn of events in her life, and though for various reasons I wasn’t ready to swallow it whole, I was ready to start seeing her hopes and dreams in a more sympathetic light. “I understand. And I’m happy for you, Mom. In fact, I’ve got a stack of ideas with me on just how we can make wedding number three the charm.” Then I laughed, not able to end things without some kind of ironic touch. “Because you know as well as I do, Mom, it isn’t really about who you marry. It’s how you marry.”

  And with that, we dug into lunch, as well as the stack of wedding-day dreams I had packed into my tote bag. Things were pretty much on an even keel after that, which is why I didn’t understand the lump of emotion that emerged once our salad plates had been cleared away and we sat poring over the last few pictures of brides gazing thoughtfully into the camera as they stepped beneath various archways and gazebos that could be rented and transported to the location of your choice.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt something inside of me go slack. And before I knew what I was saying, I had told my mother everything. About Derrick’s disastrous departure and my newfound misery. And after we shed some tears and angsted together over the “whys” behind the breakup—my mother is especially good at this type of relationship analysis, having submerged herself in self-help books as each relationship ended in her own life—we indulged in giant slices of Mad Mocha Mud Cake for dessert. Even ate it with heaping clumps of vanilla ice cream on the side.

  “You know what you really need,” Mom said, when we’d finally emerged from our dessert dishes. I stared at her, sensing some significant bit of wisdom would be forthcoming.

  “Highlights.”

  Confession: There are some ailments only good hair can cure.

  Though agreeing with my mother is not my strong suit, I had to admit, she was right—I had relationship hair. Long brown locks that spoke of Saturday nights at home, wrapped in Derrick’s sweatshirt and boxers while we watched videos and stuffed ourselves full of whatever goodies we had managed to fin
d at the bodega on the corner. In order to remedy the situation, I did what I had done in the Pre-Derrick Period when dye jobs were a regular part of my regiment. That night I called Sebastian, my erstwhile hairdresser.

  “Emma, what a surprise!” he said, a hint of censure in his tone, when I got him on the phone. This is the problem when you first befriend the person who ultimately becomes responsible for your hair. They expect you to adhere to the boundaries of friendship, even when all you need is a few blond streaks. And since I hadn’t spoken to Sebastian in more than six months, I had to smooth things over by inviting him out for drinks.

  “Oh, I don’t drink anymore, Emma. Tea, perhaps?” he said, naming some veggie joint on West 3rd Street and suggesting we meet there the following evening.

  The nondrinking stance should have forewarned me, but I was so focused on my forthcoming transformation, I missed the signs. So as I headed down to West 3rd Street after work the next day, I looked forward to catching up with Sebastian and swapping zany stories of New York men and other strange creatures. When Sebastian and I first met, he was dating a college friend of mine, Keith. And though Keith and Sebastian lasted no longer than a semester, it was enough to seal the bond between Sebastian and me. I held his hand through the breakup, downed some serious drinks with him and bitched about the sad state of the male species, excluding Sebastian, of course. And when all was said and done, Sebastian started dyeing my hair.

  It was a difficult relationship from the start, though my hair never suffered. Sebastian took me through every shade of blond, a few hues of red, and even a rich chocolate-brown—which, coming from his magic hands, even seemed a bit dangerous and exciting. He was an artist, but like all artists, he was temperamental. He insisted his friends didn’t have to pay, then complained he was being taken advantage of. It got to the point where I was forced to surreptitiously leave money on his countertop as I left his apartment after a color session, like a lover leaving secret gifts for his inamorata. And he was alternatively open, then secretive, about his love life, so I never knew when it was a good time to ask how things were going between him and whatever luscious boy—and they were always gorgeous—he had in his life.

  “Emma,” he called, waving lazily at me as I detangled myself from the velvet drape hanging between the juice bar and the dining area where Sebastian sat, presiding over his surroundings like the queen that he was. Somehow Sebastian had managed to find a place that matched his unique look—a mixture of wholesomeness and exoticism. Amid gilt-framed pictures of various plants and herbs and swaths of rich fabric hanging from the windows and walls, Sebastian, with his lush golden curls and Asian eyes set in a cherub’s face, looked at home.

  Once I reached his table, he enfolded me in a hug—a departure from the practice of kissing both cheeks he had instituted the last few times I saw him.

  “Sit, sit! Isn’t this place fabulous?” Sebastian insisted, studying my face with a mixture of reverence and concern. Whenever I was with Sebastian, the same insecurities came over me that I felt when ever I was in the presence of a beautiful woman—that my eyebrows needed shaping, my lipstick updating. In short, I felt woefully sub-par in the femininity department.

  “How are you?” he asked once we were sitting across from each other, giant scarlet menus—in some textured fabric that was clearly impractical for a food environment—before us.

  “Good, good. How are you?” I said, peering at him over the top of the menu. “You look…relaxed.”

  “Do I? Oh! I have so much to tell you.”

  “Can I take your order?”

  Turning away from my menu, I was confronted with a pierced belly button and low-slung jeans. The waitress, a lanky girl whose bored expression spoke of her utter indifference to our needs, stood beside our table poised and waiting. She looked exhausted and I noticed a faded ink stamp on the back of her hand, probably from some East Village club. Had it not been for her softly spoken question, I might have thought she was going to lie down on the bench beside us.

  “Darjeeling for me,” Sebastian said, naming some substance I assume was tea.

  Noticing a woeful lack of caffeinated beverages on the menu, I ordered chamomile, deciding that if I wasn’t going to get a jolt, I might as well go to the other extreme.

  “So, tell me, tell me, tell me. How’re things? Derrick?” Sebastian asked, settling into the cushions surrounding his seat.

  “Things are fine. Derrick’s…gone.”

  “Gone? As in…?”

  “Got a job offer, moved to the West Coast.”

  “Oh, dear.” Sebastian’s pretty little nose scrunched up in sympathy.

  “Yeah, well, I guess you can’t say he didn’t warn me.”

  “That’s the trouble with ambitious, creative, gorgeous men. They’ve always got something better to do than you.”

  Picking up my glass of water, I clinked it into Sebastian’s. “Here’s to slackers.”

  “Slackers with trust funds,” Sebastian replied, picking up his glass to drink. “Men without money are no fun.”

  “It’s true,” I agreed. “I’ve been thinking of going upscale in the man department. I’ve got the boobs, all I need is the dye job. What do you say, Sebastian? Are you up for it?” I laughed, trying not to sound too desperate. I needed to be blonder, and Sebastian was the only one I trusted to take me to that next level.

  “Oh, Emma. I’ve discovered that hair color—even good color—can’t solve all your problems.”

  Now this is where I began to realize that Sebastian had changed in some elemental way. Fear began to invade me. “Do tell,” I replied, trying for a light tone.

  “Remember John? Impossible John?”

  “Are you guys back together?” I asked with disbelief. John was the man who had tormented Sebastian for the better part of three years. A struggling actor, John was notorious for pledging his undying love to Sebastian just moments before he ran off with some buff production assistant or wardrobe boy from whatever set he was currently working on.

  “No, no. Never, in fact,” he said, puckering his lips as the waitress placed our tea before us and slithered away once more. “John has been permanently replaced.” He began fishing around in the shiny tote he had with him. Pulling out his wallet, he flipped to the photo section and handed it to me.

  I was shocked to find myself looking at a photo of an Indian woman dressed in traditional robes, a bindi firmly in place on her forehead, a gentle smile on her lips. Not only was she female—an unimaginable possibility as a new partner for Sebastian—but she was alarmingly unfettered by the kind of female things that normally gave Sebastian pleasure—like lipstick, cleavage and a well-groomed brow.

  “Meet the woman who saved my life,” he said, smiling.

  I stared at him, perplexed. “I don’t get it.”

  “Emma, I have undergone the most amazing transformation.”

  “You haven’t gone straight, have you?”

  “God forbid!” he cried, shaking his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. This is my guru!”

  “Guru?”

  He smiled pleasantly, as one might at a small child in serious need of enlightenment. “Let me start at the beginning. I ran into John a couple of months ago, and you would not believe what he looked like. Completely bald, for one thing.”

  “John?” I said, remembering how much he had always treasured his long dark locks.

  “I know, I know,” Sebastian said, looking sad for a moment, as if the loss of that beautiful head of hair might still hurt, despite whatever revelations about life he had recently been given. Getting hold of himself once more, he continued, “He had this look of serenity about him. It had almost changed his face—he was even more gorgeous, if you can imagine that!” His eyes widened at the thought. “I asked him how he’d been, and he began telling me that he was following a new path in his life. When I questioned him further, he told me he was practicing a form of Hinduism—and was training to be a healer.”

  “Wow
. Who would have thought,” I said, gulping chamomile and suddenly wishing it were something else…like a martini. I had a sinking feeling about my hair prospects, especially when I suddenly noticed that Sebastian had let his eyebrows grow in. Not a good sign in a man I once worshiped for his beauty regime.

  “Next thing you know, he was inviting me to a meeting,” Sebastian said, lifting his teacup and holding it between his hands in front of him. “I will confess that when I first agreed to attend, I had sex on the brain. You know that no matter what happened between John and me, we never had trouble in that department. But from the moment I stepped through the doors of the Holistic Center for Life Healing, I was a new man. Within weeks, I was on the path, and now I’m close to being certified as a healer myself. I’ve even planned a trip to India in the fall, to meet the guru. I can’t wait to go.”

  I felt contrite. He did look happy. Who was I to mar his happiness with my own selfish desires? “That’s wonderful, Sebastian.”

  “I knew you’d understand, Emma. In fact, I’ve been meaning to call you and invite you to a meeting. I think you, especially, could really benefit from it.” He put down his tea, then reached across and grabbed both my hands in his.

  I will admit, I felt something like a soothing strength in those fingers. Of course, unable to acknowledge such things, I made one last halfhearted, half-humorous, plea.

  “So I guess this means a few ash-blond highlights are out of the question, huh?”

  “Oh, Emma,” he smiled beatifically at me, releasing my hands. “That world seems so removed from me now.” Then he winked. “Besides, you know I always saw you as a golden blonde.”

  Confession: I get in touch with my inner career woman—and discover she is out to lunch.

  The next day as I was poring over some old notes in an attempt to put together a piece on current trends in floral arrangements, Marcy Keller, the production assistant and resident office gossip, slipped into my cubicle.