The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Unexcellent Adventure

I once thought that 'Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure' was funny.

I was young, I was easily impressed. I had a boyfriend at the time, too. Jason. Blonde, pierced ear, blue-eyed, smug, overly confident. I don't know why I was interested in him, to be frank. He wasn't my type, at all, but I accepted him after much pestering and sniffing about. He had memorized my entire wardrobe, something he was proud of, and instead of being appropriately creeped out by this admission, I took it as a sign of worship, of undying affection. How bad could he be if he'd studied me?

That movie was on this morning, and while I cleaned the kitchen I left it on for background noise. Just like in the movie, I was pulled back in time, without the time machine phone booth. I was brought back to 1989, when I wore orange lipstick and brown eyeliner, when I thought Tretorns were fancy footwear. I could smell the scent of Jason's cologne (he always wore too much of it. Polo, I think), the smell of spearmint gum on his breath, and could also hear his husky voice. I haven't heard that voice in so long, you'd think it would be permanently erased, but it isn't. Now that I've grown some, I've come to find him as ridiculous as the movie I used to think was comic genius.

We started out fine, with him calling me frequently, inviting me out, looking at me longingly whenever we worked together. I didn't think about him much, probably because a big part of me thought I was doing him a favour by deigning to see him. He was not my dream guy, was not even close to being the sort of person I could envision having sex with or alienating my friends for. He was available, and he'd memorized my wardrobe, so I decided to try dating him. I was arrogant about it, though, and I have to admit that I got a thrill in knowing that he worshipped me, so I abused the power, turning down invitations to go out when I could have, or politely avoiding heavy conversations about what we might do when school was finished. I had suddenly bloomed with self-confidence, and I wasn't worthy of it. Within a matter of months, the order of things changed. Instead of me letting the phone ring eight times before answering, I sat by it as it lay silent. I would curl up in my bed with a book and steal glances at the pink phone which never stirred, wondering where he was, falling deeper and deeper under the spell he seemed to be working. We'd make tentative plans to meet after work and then he'd call to say 'something has come up', if he bothered to call at all. With each slight, with every bit of dismissiveness, I obsessed more and more. I found myself longing for him, when he'd initially repulsed me. I began memorizing his work schedule so that I'd know where he was at all times. I started to lose my self-respect and my self-esteem, and it didn't occur to me at the time that I was wasting both on someone who had never really mattered.

Eventually, I found out that there was someone else. Surprisingly, this had never seemed a possibility to me even when the phone calls stopped and the absences began. I never considered myself a candidate for infidelity, mostly because we'd started out so well. He had told me he loved me, a few times actually, and I'd believed him, so his bizarre behaviour seemed to me to be about something like fear or personal problems, not lust for other females. When I found out the truth, I was actually more angry at myself for being so naive than I was with him. How could I have missed the signs? Why had I wasted so many nights waiting for him to call when it was obvious his love had passed its expiration date? Fickle teenaged boys can't love, I thought, and yet I'd allowed myself to believe him. And I cried for days and weeks because I was humiliated.

Once it was done, I pieced it all together: the pregnancy of a 'friend' he'd helped fund the abortion for, the brown-haired girl who used to glare at me in the mall when I'd walk by even though I didn't know her, the way he asked probing questions when I called about how I spent my day, the way his friends would look at me sympathetically before dissolving into laughter when one would whisper something to the other. On Valentine's Day, his friends all sent me flowers, which I'd been surprised by, and he showed up two hours late, holding a wilted red rose. Now that I knew the truth, I started to see all the clues in vivid colour and I was livid. He had convinced me that I was special to him, and after months of carefully orchestrated manipulation, I thought I was beginning to care about him. Why, I wondered, had he just not left me alone to carry on with my life? I was far happier longing for phantom boyfriends than I was when involved with him. How many weekend nights had I sat in a dark room willing the phone to ring? How many times had I readied myself for an evening out only to be stood up and later placated with a flimsy excuse? I even tried to believe him when he said the bruise on his neck was the result of an attack with a vacuum cleaner hose, but beneath the surface, I knew the truth and refused to accept it. My first official boyfriend was a jerk.

Now, all these years and loves later, I am still mildly annoyed with myself for how I allowed it to happen. I see our time together as a black mark in my past, a case of doing something I'd always known was a waste of time. I had allowed myself to be owned by my ego then, becoming consumed with the need to be wanted and needed. Did I actually love him? No. Did I even like him? In retrospect, not really. If he'd dated one of my friends I would have thought he was a substandard do-nothing, and I'd have been right. But, when it was happening, when I learned about the other girl, what did I do? I searched myself for all the mistakes. What had I done to make him stop caring for me? Was I too fat? Too smart? Too cold? If only I'd tried harder, worked at keeping his adoration then none of it would have happened. If I'd shared that joint with him, if I'd slept with him, if I'd partied until sunrise like he'd wanted instead of insisting on going home by curfew, then he'd still worship me, surely. What was so much better about her?

I am ashamed to admit that I wondered about this for far too long. When they officially became an item, and she brazenly flaunted it by coming to our workplace every night and shooting vicious looks at me from where she stood, I wanted to hurt her, not him. When I would go to the mall with my friends and pass by where she worked, she would stand with her hands on her hips, challenging me with her cow eyes, and despite my basic indifference to her, I found myself glaring right back. But, over what? What was it all about? A guy with a bad haircut and a fake leather jacket? A guy who said big words like 'love' and 'beautiful' when he didn't actually know what they meant? I had given in to him before but I refused to let it go further.

Eventually, he came around again. Whatever had aroused his interest in me initially had apparently not abated, and one day at work he made his intentions clear. Maybe it was the challenge of reeling me in once more, pinning me under his thumb so that I was there whenever he wanted me to be. Maybe his ego needed another hunt and kill. Whatever it was, something in me woke up and took control. I remember sneering at him, ridiculing him, telling him that he was not enough of a man for one woman much less two. He had backed up then, wounded as though he'd been shot in the chest, and he went to sit down on a cardboard box which was on the floor behind him. When he sat, the top of the box gave way and he fell into it, his feet sticking up and over the edge, his hands waving for help.

'Looks good on you,' I snickered before turning and leaving the room. I don't know how long he was stuck in there or who helped him out, but the next time I saw him he had his adoring face back on. It ceased to make any impression on me, though. I was officially done.

I don't know what became of him. I remember being told that he'd freaked out on acid and fell through a plate glass window and nearly died as a result, but he didn't, and eventually he carried on. The girl he'd cheated on me with continued to hate me despite their unavoidable parting, still glaring at me when we were in our twenties when we happened to be in the same club at the same time. I wanted to pat her on the head and explain to her that none of it had really mattered, that neither of us had benefitted from being coupled with him, and that maybe she needed a hobby of some sort because holding on to a teenaged grudge was kind of sad. I didn't, though. I took a long drink of my vodka and orange and pretended I was fabulous, laughing at nothing jokes and swinging my hair back and forth. At the end of the day, I'm still just a girl, like the rest of them.

What I learned from that experience is that it is almost always a mistake to go against your instincts when it comes to love. There is no real point to being with someone who doesn't want or need you, often choosing other people, other activities to spend time with rather than choosing to be with you. I have also learned that love is something we tend to confuse with general likability or novelty. Real love will bring you to your knees and is always mutual, leaving little doubt or room for debate. You just know when it's there, and you don't hurt when you're in it. While there is nothing wrong with trying people out, spending time getting to know someone who might present himself at a time when there isn't anything more promising going on, it is generally a lapse of good judgment to continue sifting through the wreckage of a relationship that crashed on take off. Let it burn. Let it turn to ash and blow away. Eventually, all that will be left is a black mark on the ground and that's okay because it will be there to remind you of you felt when you fell, and how it hurt to hit the bottom.

I suppose I learned something from him after all. I have to say that I very seldom ever think about him now, that though his voice is in my ears, his face is no longer accessible to me, just like the touch of his hands is gone forever. I'm glad for this. He never deserved to be a part of things. He's gone for good and it feels right.

Never underestimate the power of a bad '80's movie.