Tales from the dating front II: The Ex

As in letters, so in life:
Before there was K, there was J.

J and I dated not long after I first moved to DC, up until I moved to Thailand. We've remained friends, and there've been brief subsequent relationship reprises -- he's a good interstitial sort of boyfriend. Until Friday night, however, we hadn't actually seen each other for several years.

If you believe in triangular sorts of relationship theories, and I find them convenient, even if I'm not sure I buy Sternberg's, then: I've had purely physical attractions, sure; who hasn't? And I've felt the tug of emotional and intellectual compatibility in the absence of raging physical infatuation -- that'd be K, actually. And emotional and physical bonding without intellectual communion? Yup, as in every military officer (both an occupational hazard and a weakness) I've been out with who made it to a second date. But I think J may be the only boyfriend who ever offered an intellectual and physical match without a shred of emotional simpatico.

He's a smart guy. Working in an allied field to mine, he's a damn sight better at it than me. His repartee is witty; he's read the right things, has the correct politics (more or less), sparkles at parties (which, unlike me, he actually enjoys), and so charmed my mother that she was obsessed with proving his Hellenic good looks were actually Semitic. (Mom: "Maybe he doesn't know. Sometimes parents don't tell their children." Esquiver: "Mom, I'm begging you, please don't make me share why I'm absolutely positive J isn't Jewish.") We loved the same playwrights, liked the same foreign directors, both enjoyed getting dressed up (and this was back when gorgeous stuff fit me), and we looked terrific together -- strangers on the street used to stop and tell us so. And yet, about six months into the relationship, I realized I was in no danger of ever falling in love with J.

Why? I suppose what immediately springs to mind is that J's fierce and only passion is....J. There are other reasons, too, but they'd seem mean, and, hey, the truth is I like J. But that's all it could ever be.

And there're benefits to that. For one, it was, hands-down, the most amicable breakup I've ever had.
E: "So. Um, I guess I'll be moving to Thailand now."
J: "Ok. I guess that's it, then."
E: "Uh-huh. It was fun, y'know?"
J: "Yup. Oh -- hey, did you need a ride to the airport?"

In retrospect, I feel a little embarrassed by the relationship, in the sense that it was total playacting. But, the thing is, when you've just moved to a new city and started a new career and are a little overwhelmed, and you're given the chance to play the girlfriend role to someone who's really mastered the simulacrum of being a boyfriend, and all your lines are familiar and easy...well, it feels comfortable.

And nice.

The same could be said for when you're in the midst of a confusing breakup, and, annoyingly, still facing career issues: the staginess can still be a soothing balm. And so I was looking forward to our terribly ambiguous little meeting, even if its undefinedness made dressing for it something of a pain. Eventual solution: a nonchalant black T ("we're just two old friends having a drink") but an impertinent little skirt ("...aren't we?").

We were in trouble from the moment J arrived -- 20 minutes late -- and ostentatiously set his cell phone on the table, where it remained and bugged me for the entire evening (if you aren't a medical doctor and you're not otherwise on call for professional reasons, put it away).

I saw him size me up with surprise and disappointment, searching my face for the hot chyck he once knew -- I recognized it, because I see the same look in the mirror sometimes -- and then his attention settled on a pretty waitress.

His conversational style, lots of rapid-fire questions, hadn't changed, and unnerved me, as I struggled to finish one answer before the next question arrived, until I realized he really wan't listening anyway, and was, in fact, distracted by an attractive woman who'd just arrived. The conversation didn't have pauses, awkward or otherwise, thanks to J's indifferent interrogation, but the whole evening was a long, painful instance of Not Clicking.

He'd changed, too. Neither as gray nor fat as I, nonetheless his roguish effervescence was now a tired flatness around his eyes. Mischievous geniality; a middle-aged dyspepsia. And were his teeth always like that? (Lest you think I'm being brutal, I gave my own smile a frank inspection later that night, and immediately went out and bought Crest's Night Effects.)

After the obligatory catchup, we launched into the weighty issues of the day, on which J gave me the benefit of all his wisdom. We talked about relationships, too, in a sociological sort of way. I opined that Americans -- I'm entitled to talk like that now -- put too much pressure on their Significant Others, putting them in the impossible position of being not only soulmates, but a match for every interest, and responsible for all their emotional needs. Oh, true, J interrupted. A guy should really just rely on his male buddies for friendship.

O-kayyyy. Not quite what I meant.

We both grew palpably bored. The bill came, we split it, exchanged pleasantries, and promised to get together again soon, with neither of us meaning it.

I'll admit, I came home and phoned K -- we've been talking now and then, his ultimatum notwithstanding. We chatted about nothing: movies we'd seen recently, plans for the weekend, a cute thing the cats did recently...and, well, it felt comfortable. And nice.

And real.